Now right below me is a field, where men are
literally working almost on a perpendicular wall, cutting hay; now we
are so high that the houses in the valley look like chips. Here we
stand in a place two thousand feet above the valley. There is no
shield or screen. The horse stands on the very edge; the guide stops,
lets go his bridle, and composedly commences an oration on the scene
below. "0, for mercy's sake, why do you stop here?" I say. "Pray go
on." He looks in my face, with innocent wonder, takes the bridle on
his arm, and goes on.
Now we have come to the little village of Wengern, whence the Wengern
Alps take their name. How beautiful! how like fairyland! Up here,
midway in air, is a green nook, with undulating dells, and shadowy,
breezy nests, where are the cottages of the haymakers. The Delectable
Mountains had no scene more lovely. Each house has its roof heavily
loaded with stones. "What is that for?" I ask. "The whirlwinds," says
my guide, with a significant turn of his hands. "This is the school
house," he adds, as we pass a building larger than the rest.
Now the path turns and slopes down a steep bank, covered with
haycocks, to a little nook below, likewise covered with new hay.
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