When Jean-Claude Hullin went the next morning in his shirt-sleeves to open his shutters, he saw all the neighbouring mountains--the Jägerthal, the Grosmann, the Donon--covered with snow. There is always something striking in this first aspect of winter, come upon the earth in our sleep; the old firs, the moss-covered rocks, still decked in verdure the evening before, and now sparkling with hoar-frost, fill the soul with an indefinable feeling of sadness. "Another year gone," we say to ourselves; "another rough winter to go through, before the return of the flowers!" And people hasten to provide their winter clothing, and lay in their store of fuel. While your humble dwelling is pleasant inside with warmth and light, you hear out of doors, for the first time, the sparrows--the poor sparrows--chirruping mournfully, as they nestle, with ruffled plumage, under the thatch, "No breakfast this morning--no breakfast!" Hullin put on his strong iron-bound and doubled soled shoes, and his thick overcoat. He heard Louise walking about in her little room overhead. "Louise!" he called out; "I am off!" "What! are you going out again to-day?" "Yes, my child, I must: I have not finished my business." Then, having put on his large, slouched hat, he went halfway up the stairs, and said, in a low tone: "You will not expect me very soon, my child: I have a good distance to go, so do not be anxious about me. If anyone asks you where I am gone, you can say, 'To Cousin Mathias's, at Saverne.'" "Won't you have your breakfast before you go?" "No! I've put a crust of bread, and a little flask of brandy, in my pocket. Farewell, my child. Be happy. Dream of Gaspard." And, without waiting for fresh questions, he took his stick, and quitted the house, directing his steps towards the hill of the Bouleaux,[6] to the left of the village. After about a quarter of an hour's brisk walking, he had passed it, and gained the footpath of the Three Fountains, which winds round by Falkenstein, with which a low stone wall runs parallel. The first snows of winter, which are never long able to resist the damp of the valleys, were already beginning to melt away, and trickled slowly down the footpath. Hullin mounted the wall to make his footing surer, and as he chanced, by accident, to cast his eyes down on the village, at a distance of within two gun-shots, he saw the housewives busily engaged in sweeping the snow away from the front of their houses, whilst some old men, standing by, wished them good morning as they smoked their first pipe in their doorways. This profound calm, in presence of the thoughts that were stirring within him, moved him deeply; he continued on his way in a thoughtful mood, saying to himself: "How quietly and tranquilly their life flows on! They have no doubts and fears for the future; and yet, but a few days, and what clamour, what strife, may rend the air!"