And no monotony! You climb the inviting hills and woods day by day, week
after week, ever to find fresh enchantment. Not a bend of road or winding
mountain-path but discloses a new scene--here a fairy glen, with graceful
birch or alder breaking the expanse of dimpled green; there a spinny of
larch or of Scotch fir cresting a verdant monticule; now we come upon a
little Arcadian home nestled on the hill-side, the spinning-wheel hushed
whilst the housewife turns her hay or cuts her patch of rye or wheat
growing just outside her door. Now we follow the musical little river
Vologne as it tosses over its stony bed amid banks golden with yellow
loosestrife, or gently ripples amid fair stretches of pasture starred
with the grass of Parnassus. The perpetual music of rushing, tumbling,
trickling water is delightful, and even in hot weather, if it is ever
indeed hot here, the mossy banks and babbling streams must give a sense
of coolness. Deep down, entombed amid smiling green hills and frowning
forest peaks, lies the pearl of Gerardmer, its sweet lake, a sheet of
turquoise in early morn, silvery bright when the noon-day sun flashes
upon it, and on grey, sunless days gloomy as Acheron itself.

[Illustration: A VOSGIAN SCENE]

Travellers stinted for time cannot properly enjoy the pastoral scenes,
not the least charm of which is the frank, pleasant character of the
people. Wherever we go we make friends and hear confidences. To these
peasant folks, who live so secluded from the outer world, the annual
influx of visitors from July to September is a positive boon, moral as
well as material. The women are especially confidential, inviting us into
their homely yet not poverty-stricken kitchens, keeping us as long as
they can whilst they chat about their own lives or ask us questions. The
beauty, politeness, and clear direct speech of the children, are