The air is clear and dry, so that at each turn in the road a wonderful view is afforded. Across the valley are seen well cultivated farms, with men and women hard at work in the harvest fields. Further down is a grove, the green foliage standing out in bold relief from the golden fields of grain that surround it, while above towers an old ruined church, its cold, gray color softened and subdued by the ivy that nearly covers it. There is an exhilaration as we mount higher and higher. All thoughts of worldly cares are thrown to the winds and we revel in the delights of this new and wonderful experience. We almost envy the Swiss peasant as he cuts the sweet-smelling grass high up the mountain side. We are tempted to stop and visit some of these ugly chalets, with their stone-anchored roofs, which looked like miniature bee-hives from the valley below. We want to do almost anything to give vent to the superabundant supply of animal spirits this clear and bracing air produces. [Sidenote: A WOEFUL LACK.] We were subjected, however, to many grievous disappointments. We expected the moment we struck the Alps to see the graceful chamois, leaping from crag to crag, the Alpine hunter, dressed in knee breeches, with a peaked hat and particolored ribbons wound around his stockings. We kept sharp lookout for the Swiss maidens with their broad-brimmed hats and picturesque short dresses, and above all we hungered for a sight of a Swiss chalet, one of those delightfully beautiful and picturesque houses, all angles and gables, and things of that nature, which we all have admired at Long Branch and other watering places in America. [Illustration: THE CHAMOIS.] We saw no chamois, either leaping from crag to crag, or in any other business. If there are any chamois they manage to keep themselves in very strict seclusion. [Illustration: TAKING THE CATTLE TO THE MOUNTAINS.] There being no chamois, it follows, as a matter of course, that there are no Alpine hunters after them, for the Alpine Swiss don't go about posing in picturesque garments for the benefit of tourists. Not he. He keeps himself busy in his shop, making carvings of wood, which he sells to the tourists, and he isn't picturesque either. He wears shocking bad clothes, just about the same that poor people wear the world over, and poverty is scarcely ever picturesque. The smiling Swiss maiden is also a myth. Those we met on the roads were anything but pretty, anything but smiling, and anything but pleasant to look at. They were, as a rule, short, dumpy young ladies, with either bare feet or feet in wooden shoes, carrying enormous loads, their mothers following them, also carrying a heavy load of grass or wood, and she and the mother were generally ornamented with immense goitres which hung down from their necks in particularly disagreeable prominence.