boat up stream beneath the shelter of the bank.

Perhaps I was wrong in not waiting to hear what M. Plumet had to tell
me. He is not the kind of man to gesticulate wildly without good reason.

ON THE LAKE.

The steamer is gaining the open water and Geneva already lies far
behind. Not a ripple on the blue water that shades into deep blue behind
us. Ahead the scene melts into a milky haze. A little boat, with idle
sails embroidered with sunlight, vanishes into it. On the right rise
the mountains of Savoy, dotted with forests, veiled in clouds which cast
their shadows on the broken slopes. The contrast is happy, and I can
not help admiring Leman's lovely smile at the foot of these rugged
mountains.

At the bend in the banks near St. Maurice-en-Valais, the wind catches
us, quite a squall. The lake becomes a sea. At the first roll an
Englishwoman becomes seasick. She casts an expiring glance upon Chillon,
the ancient towers of which are being lashed by the foam. Her husband
does not think it worth his while to cease reading his guide-book or
focusing his field-glass for so trifling a matter.

ON THE DILIGENCE

I am crossing the Simplon at daybreak, with rosepink glaciers on every
side. We are trotting down the Italian slope. How I have longed for the
sight of Italy! Hardly had the diligence put on the brake, and begun
bowling down the mountain-side, before I discovered a change on the
face of all things. The sky turned to a brighter blue. At the very first
glance I seemed to see the dust of long summers on the leaves of the
firs, six thousand feet above the sea, in the virgin atmosphere of the
mountain-tops: and I was very near taking the creaking of my loosely
fixed seat for the southern melody of the first grasshopper.

BAVENO

No one could be mistaken; this shaven, obsequious, suavely jovial
innkeeper is a Neapolitan. He takes his stand in his mosaic-paved
hall, and is at the service of all who wish for information about Lago
Maggiore, the list of its sights; in a word, the programme of the piece.

ISOLA BELLA, ISOLA MADRE.

Yes, they are scraped clean, carefully tended, pretty, all a-blowing and
a-growing; but unreal. The palm trees are unhomely, the tropical plants
seem to stand behind footlights. Restore them to their homes, or give me
back Lake Leman, so simply grand.

MENAGGIO.

After the sky-blue of