IT is just in the midst of the hay harvest, and men, women and children are all cutting, raking and carrying from the mountain side to the vale below.

All this work is done by hand. There can be no such thing as a team on these mountains—one would as soon think of driving a team up the side of a wall.

The Swiss woman takes an active part in the duties of the field, and an immense amount of work she is capable of. While the men are cutting the grass, she fills a huge sheet with that which has dried, forming a bundle about eight feet square and two or three feet high. This she balances upon her head and carries it down the steep mountain side to their curiously constructed barns, which have the side of the hill for one end.

Women in this region do the most of the outdoor work, and do every kind. The Swiss maid or matron isn’t lolling about parlors or spending her time over her dressing bureau. She plows, or rather digs, for on these steep mountain sides plowing is an impossibility, for so steep are they that should the team be plowing transversely the upper horse would fall and crush his mate on the lower side. They dig up the ground with a heavy mattock, a tool heavier than I would care to wield, and the women are just as expert at it as the men. Muscular parties are these Swiss women, and their lives are anything but easy. In such a country every one must labor to procure the common necessaries of life—men, women and children. It is a good thing, however, to have so much that is kindly in nature as to make a living sure if those wanting the living are willing to work for it.

Tibbitts observed these stout, sturdy women as they came zig-zagging down the mountain, carrying these enormous burdens as patiently as mules and quite as surely. There was a lapse of five minutes, during which time he never spoke a word, which was something so unusual as to cause remark.

“I was thinking,” said Tibbitts, “that could polygamy be

introduced into Switzerland, I should emigrate to this country and become a William Tell. I should secure a large tract of this land and go into a general marrying business. I should take to my bosom say fifty of these maidens—nay I wouldn’t object to widows, not even those with goitres, for I have noticed that the goitre, no matter how large, does not interfere with an elderly woman’s capacity for carrying hay down the mountain. Indeed, a goitre, skillfully managed, may be helpful. For if arranged so as to hang on the upper side of the woman it would assist materially in preserving her equilibrium. With fifty of these wives the labor problem is solved. I should wake them up early in the morning cheerily with an Alpine horn (after taking one myself), and after the frugal meal of black bread and cheese, I should have them skip merrily up the mountains and cut the sweet smelling grass, and rake it and turn it, like so many Maud Mullers, and tie it up in bundles and carry it down to the modest chalet, where I would be to see that other wives stored it safely away for use in the long Alpine Winter.

“I should at once purchase cows, with the dowry of my fifty wives, and establish a cheese factory, making the fragrant Limberger for the Germans in America, and the smooth Neuchatel for more delicate appetites, and all the other varieties. To carry on the business successfully would take me much to Geneva, and, in pursuit of a better market, to Paris, where, as the proprietors of the Jardin Mabille are large consumers of the products of the Swiss dairies, I should be thrown largely into society that would prevent life from becoming too monotonous.

“And while I was away, my fifty wives would rise early in the gladsome morn and labor cheerily, singing the while the simple carols of their native mountains till dewy eve, and sleep sweetly, gaining strength for a larger day’s work on the morrow.

“There is some sense in marrying a Swiss woman, for she can do something toward supporting you. An American woman expects to be supported; she expects to have luxurious surroundings, and all that sort of thing, which the man labors for. I like this scheme the best. But, unfortunately, one is not sufficient to support a man, and, as polygamy is unlawful, I shall not marry in Switzerland. One could not be made useful, and when I marry for ornament, I shall require something more ornamental.”

And Tibbitts relapsed into moody silence, disgusted with life because the Swiss government would not permit him to marry enough women to insure him a comfortable living.

At Geneva we took a courier. A courier is a man who professes to speak seven languages, but in reality speaks one well, generally the German, and two, English and French, very badly. He is invariably the champion liar of the universe. There isn’t a lying club on the Pacific coast of which the humblest and most recent courier would not at once be unanimously elected perpetual president. He lies, not from necessity growing out of his situation, but because to him it is a luxury. He revels in it, and is never so happy in it as when he has accomplished a gorgeous lie—one of those picturesque lies that the listener is compelled to accept, though he knows it to be false.

He approaches a lie with the feverish anxiety that always accompanies an expected pleasure; rapturizes over the performance, and is unhappy till he can bring forth another. He has been in all countries; he has been in the service of every notable on earth, from the Shah of Persia down; and he is with you at the absurd price of forty-five dollars a month only, because he has to wait a month for a Russian Prince, who would never take a step without him.

You feel from the beginning that you are under obligations to this gorgeous being; you are ashamed of yourself when you hand him the miserable pittance he condescends to accept for his services; and you would no more think of asking him to account for any moneys put into his hands than you would of offering a tip to the Queen of England.

The courier is a man who professes to know all the hotels, all the roads, all the manners and customs, everything of the country through which you pass; and he takes charge of a party for a stipulated price per month, pledging himself to use his wonderful gifts entirely for your benefit.

At the beginning, while you are engaging him, he warns you that to travel through any country is to expose yourself to swindles, and extortions and impositions of all kinds, from an exorbitant hotel bill up the whole gamut to the swindle in works of art—the only protection against which is a good courier.

“Am I dot man? I vill not say. But ask the Prince Petrowski, the Duke of Magenta, the Earl of Strathcommon. Dose are my references.”

These personages being a long way off, you don’t ask them at all; but you engage him and flatter yourself that from this time on your pocket is safe and your comfort is assured.

The courier is your servant for one day, and your master all the rest of the time he is with you.

The second day he comes to you with a smile.

“I have you feexed goot. Dot rascal landlord knows me, and he vouldn’t dare try a schwindle mit any barty oof mine.”

“What do you pay for the rooms?”

“Ten francs—only ten francs!”

“But we had better rooms day before yesterday for six!”

“Not in dees blace. Het you pin alone you would hef baid feefteen.”

This was all a lie. The courier is known to all the landlords, and the landlords allow him a very snug commission on all parties he brings into their sheep fold to be sheared.

This matter of commission goes into everything you touch. Your courier will not permit you to purchase anything without him—he places himself between you and everything, from a picture to a tooth pick. He buys for you, the goods are sent to your hotel, you give the courier the money to pay it, which he does, bringing back a receipt for the money which he has really paid, less the commission, all of which was added to the price of the goods at the beginning.

In order that you may not escape him in material things, he reduces you to abject helplessness in things not material. He bears down upon you in such a way that you comprehend the fact that you can do nothing without him. For instance, you see a beautiful spring by the roadside; the water as pure and sweet as water can be, which actually invites you to drink. Now, should you ask the courier if that is good water, he doubtless would say yes; but should you spring from the carriage and attempt to drink without permission, he jumps also and holds you back.

“Dot vater ees boison,” he says. “I vill show you de vater vot you may trink mit safety.”

Likewise in the matter of wines. At one resting place on the mountains, Tibbitts was ferocious for a bottle of the delightful white wine you get everywhere, and called for a bottle without consulting the courier. Promptly the man countermanded the order.

“Mr. Teebbeets, de vine here ish pat mit de stomach. Ve vell vait till ve get to de next blace.”

Tibbitts was furious, for he was arid.

“Look here, my friend,” he said, “I am not carrying your stomach around with me. The one I am endangering I have had a proprietary interest in for twenty-six years, and if I don’t know its capacity, its powers of endurance, and all that, I don’t know who does. You take care of your stomach and let mine alone. Mademoiselle, apportez moi ze—that is—d—- n it—botteille—bottle—du vin—that is, fetch back that bottle and be mighty quick about it.”

And a minute later he was pouring it out, and as he swallowed it, he remarked to himself, “Injure the stomach, indeed! A man who has swallowed enough sod-corn whisky in Oshkosh to float the Great Eastern, to be afraid of this thin drink. If it were aquafortis now—”

The courier was mortally offended, and sulked all the afternoon. If Tibbitts could order a bottle of wine without his permission, he might possibly buy a Swiss carving in Chamonix when we arrived there, without consulting him, and then where would be the commission?

After the rest and the wine, and the bad bread and the tolerably bad cheese, we proceeded on our journey. From that time on it was a succession of wonderful views, a panorama sometimes beautiful, sometimes awesome, sometimes soothing, and sometimes frightful. But no matter which it was, it was never insipid. There was a positive character to each view, something that you must observe, whether or no, and something that seen left an impression that many years will not efface.

The Pass TÊte Noir is an experience that will last a life time.

We made a sharp turn in the road at one point, and a view burst upon us that was worth a journey across the Atlantic to see. We were hanging over a chasm full six thousand feet deep—that is, to the first impediment to a full and satisfactory fall. Should you go down that six thousand feet you would

strike upon a ledge and bound off a number of thousand feet more before you finally came to the bottom. Across this yawning gulf was a mountain, the twin of the one on whose sides we were hanging, covered with evergreen trees to a certain way up to the top, which was crowned with the pure white of the eternal snow and ice. There were a thousand shades of color as the eye commenced at the level we were on and traveled up to the top, all brought out gloriously by the sunlight of noon-day.

One of the party took in the whole view and very properly went into a rapture.

“Is there anything under heaven so magnificent as this combination of colors!” she exclaimed, holding her breath in an ecstacy.

Then up spoke the faro bankeress as she took it all in at a glance:

“What a dress it would make, could one only have them colors brought out in silk!”

The scenery, always grand and imposing, changes with every bend in the road, and always gives a view better than the preceding one. We are now at an altitude where the fragrant spruce lines the narrow roadway, and covers the hillside with everlasting green. Way over there, where the cold gray of the rocks is hidden under a mantle of green, on which the sun and clouds make ever-changing pictures, is a bright, flashing stream, dancing and sparkling in the sunlight, as it falls tumultuously from rock to rock, now losing itself in a chasm hundreds of feet deep, then springing out again further down, until at length it worries and frets itself over the crags and cliffs till it reaches the valley, and flows tranquilly and smoothly along to the lake. It typifies life, with its early struggles, its constant striving for the rest and quiet that comes at last.

Now we approach the summit of the mountains. All around, as far as the eye can reach, is nothing but a series of rough, jagged crags, the peaks of the irregular range of mountains. Not the forest-covered hills we have been riding through, but vast piles of everlasting snow, which even the fierce and angry sun is unable to make any impression upon.

But we were not permitted to take all the enjoyment possible out of the wondrous views. There never was a party that did not have a professor in it, who knows all about everything, and who considers it his mission to instruct everybody else. Add to this, a courier who knows all the stock show points, professionally, and life becomes a burden. Some peak would come to our view higher and grander than any we had encountered. And then the courier:

“Ladies unt shentlemen, dot ish—”

The Professor, who had charge of Tibbitts:

“Lemuel, particularly note that mountain peak. It is—”

“Of course it is,” said Tibbitts. “What am I here for, anyhow? What did I sail across the Atlantic, and come to Switzerland for? Why do you and that other weazened monkey interrupt me when I am contemplating nature, by calling my attention to it, and asking me to note it? Havn’t I got eyes? Don’t I know the difference between a Western prairie and an Alpine peak? And as for the names of the places, havn’t I got a guide book, and can’t I read? Am I a baby in my A B Abs? Curious you can’t let a fellow alone.”

The faro bankeress was asleep, she had been for many miles, and her husband was asking her why they charged a franc for a little bit of ice, at the last hotel, when the mountains were all covered with it.

The road, which, up to this time, had been comparatively pleasant, now assumed a more dangerous look to those who have only known wide paved streets. It winds along the very edge of precipices, where a single balk would send us all tumbling down three or four thousand feet. At places it is cut out of the side of the hill, so that on one side there is a solid wall of rock rising high above our heads, while on the other is a sheer descent of thousands of feet. As we rattle around the sharp curves there is an involuntary clutching at the seats, for it seems certain that the carriage cannot keep the road. But the Swiss voiturier is an expert driver, and his horses are sure footed, so there is not the slightest danger, perilous though it may seem.

After a brief rest at the summit, the brakes are put on, one of the three horses is taken from the front, and down we go on the other side of the mountain it took us all day to ascend.

If the journey so far was attended with any danger, fancied or real, the fact was driven out of our minds by the nature of the road we were descending. It was frightful. From the carriage we could look down into a valley miles and miles away, and the road was so narrow that the slightest slip would have sent us into that valley in short order. The view was grand but the ride was fearful. We were all charmed when we reached the valley and were enabled to look up at the dizzy heights that had given us such a scare.

From this on to the hotel at TÊte Noir, there was a constant succession of tunnels, high bridges over deep crevasses, and sharp curves around jutting crags that almost blocked the road.

At the “half-way house,” as it is called, the view is beautiful; three or four waterfalls tumbling down the mountain sides, and falling into the mad stream that goes careering wildly over the rocks and bowlders.

Then another long ride through a rough and barren country, indicating the approach to the glacier region, and then at a sudden turn in the road, Mont Blanc looms up high above the great peaks by which it is surrounded. We speed rapidly over the floor-like road, and at six o’clock in the evening, after having been on the road since seven in the morning, we are in Chamonix, the little village at the foot of Mt. Blanc, that lives entirely on tourists.

Of course the great point of interest is Mt. Blanc, the highest point of the central chain of the Swiss and Italian High Alps.

There it is—fifteen thousand seven hundred and thirty-one feet high, covered with a great mass of ice and snow that has been accumulating for ages.

There stands the patriarch of the Alps, crowned with the centuries, and still smiling grimly at Time.

It stands alone in its fearful beauty. Of all the European mountains, it impresses the mind with the power of the forces, the source of which are hidden to man, and which it is not given to man to comprehend. One feels his own insignificance as he gazes on this wonderful peak, and, no matter what his creed, feels a profound reverence for whatever power he believes created it.

Around it are other peaks that elsewhere would be considered very high, but compared with this giant they are pigmies. Mt. Blanc is not to be described. Descriptions and pictures can convey no idea of it. One must stand under the shadow of that eternal snow, must feel the presence of the grand old mountain, to fully appreciate it.

From the streets of Chamonix the sides seem to be as smooth as a frozen pond, as the sun glistens on the ice and snow; but viewed through the powerful telescope great crags are seen. Wide chasms, no one knows how deep, yawn on every side. Blank, inaccessible walls shoot straight up in the air, hundreds of feet. There are impassible glaciers and great gullies where, centuries ago, a great landslide occurred. All this can be seen through the telescope, but not till one attempts the ascent can he realize the nature of Mt. Blanc’s formation. Then he finds his path beset with dangers he never dreamed of. He sees the glaciers, which by the glass seemed only rough places, are full of deep crevices hundreds of feet wide. He hears the rumbling of wild streams of water far down in the ice, as they swirl and swish round and round in the cavities formed by the everlasting action of the water against the flinty ice. He comes upon solid mountains of ice, around or over which it is next to impossible to go. He finds bridges of ice, where one misstep would launch him down a crevice, so far that his body could never be recovered. In short, he finds that Mt. Blanc is only smooth and safe and pleasant when seen at a distance through a telescope.