egs of mutton, and the sheep
went on three legs. But nothing could exceed the more than
human tenderness with which it regarded the chubby boy with the
crook.

We soon settled about the bed, and there remained only
the question of food. On this point also our host displayed
even an increase of airy confidence. What would signor? There
were sausage, ham of York, and eggs, the latter capable of
presentation in divers shapes.

This, it must be admitted, engendered a feeling of discouragement.
We had two days earlier tasted the sausage of the country when
served up in a first-class hotel as garnish to a dish of spinach.
It is apparently made of pieces of gristle, and when liberated from
the leather case that enshrines it, crumbles like a piece of old
wall. Sausage was clearly out of the question, and the ham of York
does not thrive out of its own country, acquiring a foreign flavour
of salted sawdust. Eggs are very well in their way, but man cannot
live on eggs alone.

Our host was a man full of resources. Why should we not bring the
materials for dinner from Lugano? He would undertake to cook them,
whatever they might be. This was a happy thought that clenched the
bargain. We undertook to arrive on the following day, bringing our
sheaves with us, in the shape of a supply of veal cutlets.

The ostensible object of spending a night on San Salvatore is to see
the sun set and rise. The mountain is not high, just touching three
thousand feet, an easy ascent of two hours. But it is a place
glorious in the early morning and solemn in the quiet evening.
Below lies the lake of Lugano, its full length visible. Straight
before you, looking east, is the long arm that stretches to Porlezza,
with its gentle curves where the mountains stand and cool their feet
in the blue water. To the west, beyond a cluster of small and
nameless lakes that lie on the plain, we see the other arm of the
lake, with Ponte Tresa nestling upon it, and still farther west the
sun gleams on the waters of Lago Maggiore. Above Porlezza is Monte
Legnone, and far away on the left glint the snow peaks of the Bernina.
High in the north, above the red tiles and white walls of the town of
Lugano are the two peaks of Monte Camoghe, flanked by something that
seems a dark cloud in the blue sky, but which our host says is the
ridge of St. Gothard. The sun sets behind the Alps of the Valais
among which towers the Matterhorn and gleam the everlasting snows of
Monte Ros