scenes of Alpine desolation--or rather, the primitive elements of
Nature, "the naked bones of the earth waiting to be clothed."

The proprietor of this simple, but agreeable, auberge, is what Jeannie
Deans called her father, "a man of substance," and amongst other sources
of wealth possesses about three hundred goats, which contrive to pick
up their living from the scanty verdure of the surrounding hills.
Three times a-day they regularly assemble in front of the auberge to
be milked, affording the raw material for a considerable manufacture
of cheese. While we were lounging about before dinner, admiring the
beautiful shapes of the rocky peaks, which even in the beginning of
September were blanched with the previous night's snow, we were
pleasantly surprised by the sound of a cheerful bleating, which was
echoed on every side; and one after another the graceful creatures, as
small and playful as our kids, popped up amongst the fragments of rocks
from all quarters until the "gathering" was complete, and our meal was
enlivened by the treble of their voices as the milking proceeded. When
the operation was over, off they scampered again, "the _hills_
before them were to choose"--again to return in due season with their
bounteous store for the benefit of man. "This is not solitude." The milk
is rich, but tastes rather too strong of the goat to be agreeable to
every one at first, although probably we should soon have thought cow's
milk comparatively insipid. On the day's journey we had seen some of
these goats at a considerable distance from the auberge, and a young
man who carried our luggage, after giving chase to several, at length
caught one, and in spite of her remonstrances, milked her by main force
into the cup of a pocket flask, that we might enjoy a draught of the
beverage. Still holding the animal, he then filled the vessel more
than once for himself, and it was amusing to see the _gusto_ with
which he drank it off. We afterwards had the milk with coffee; indeed