"But thou must tell me now what is that sunny country I saw beneath me when I was yonder, so near the skies? It was like a land all peace and beauty, sending from below to where I stood a message of hope and promise, luring me towards its fertile plains." "It is my country," said the peasant. "I know not if it is full of beauty and promise, but I know that I love the village in which I live, that dear to me is the small cottage where my mother sits and spins, the old well from which the girls fetch water at the hour when the sun goes down. I love the great plain where the corn waves in the heat of the summer, and the long roads that are straight and dusty, upon which the carts are always rumbling never in a hurry to reach the end. "It is a good country; and on feast days we dance in the villages, and the girls wear skirts of many colours. But from the time when the snow has melted I come to these lonely hills with my flocks, and here I quietly remain--as sole companions my dogs, and occasionally the visit of a shepherd like myself or that of a wandering monk--till the cold blasts of autumn drive me back to the plains. "I do not mind the solitude--I have my flute, and the dear songs of my country; and we love not overmuch to live in a hurry, or to move about with busy hands. "My mother weaves and spins, and my sisters embroider strange designs on the shirts they will wear on the day of their marriage. Oh, indeed I love this country of mine!" "Tell me more," begged Eric. "I love to hear thee talk. I feel then the peace of thy plains steal over my weary body that has come from so far." "There is not much to tell," answered the boy. "Our cottages are small and are covered with shaggy roofs of thatch and maize. Large sunflowers look in at the tiny windows, and when a stranger all hot and tired comes along the road the dogs rush out from every door and the air is filled with their barking and noise. "At the fall of night the herds come home raising clouds of dust as they pass. Each one knows the corner where it dwells, and stops of its own accord at its own gate, while the small boys run about bare-foot clacking their whips. In winter everything is deeply enveloped with snow, which lies like a cover of feathers, keeping the fields warm from the frost, and when the sun goes to bed it lights up the sky with flaming red that spreads over the snow as well; and then black troops of crows fly across the horizon, and settle like a dark cloud upon the white immensity, flat and endless, as far as the eye can reach. "And when spring comes the wind blows in storms and dries up the lakes made by the melting snow. Then the fields are a patchwork of black and white; timidly the little flowers push their heads through the dead leaves in the woods, and the children run out of the villages to gather them in bunches which they sell to the passers-by. Thou must remain with me and I shall tell thee more!"