“Oh, yes.  I asked you that before, too.  But I always ask everybody what hotel they’re stopping at, and so I’ve got my head all mixed up with hotels.  But it makes talk, and I love to talk.  It refreshes me up so—­don’t it you—­on a trip like this?”

“Yes—­sometimes.”

“Well, it does me, too.  As long as I’m talking I never feel bored—­ain’t that the way with you?”

“Yes—­generally.  But there are exception to the rule.”

“Oh, of course. I don’t care to talk to everybody, myself.  If a person starts in to jabber-jabber-jabber about scenery, and history, and pictures, and all sorts of tiresome things, I get the fan-tods mighty soon.  I say ’Well, I must be going now—­hope I’ll see you again’—­and then I take a walk.  Where you from?”

“New Jersey.”

“Why, bother it all, I asked you that before, too. 
Have you seen the Lion of Lucerne?”

“Not yet.”

“Nor I, either.  But the man who told me about Mount Pilatus says it’s one of the things to see.  It’s twenty-eight feet long.  It don’t seem reasonable, but he said so, anyway.  He saw it yesterday; said it was dying, then, so I reckon it’s dead by this time.  But that ain’t any matter, of course they’ll stuff it.  Did you say the children are yours—­or hers?”

“Mine.”

“Oh, so you did.  Are you going up the ... no, I asked you that.  What ship ... no, I asked you that, too.  What hotel are you ... no, you told me that.  Let me see ... um ....  Oh, what kind of voy ... no, we’ve been over that ground, too.  Um ... um ... well, I believe that is all.  Bonjour—­I am very glad to have made your acquaintance, ladies.  GUTEN Tag.”

CHAPTER XXVIII [The Jodel and Its Native Wilds]

The Rigi-Kulm is an imposing Alpine mass, six thousand feet high, which stands by itself, and commands a mighty prospect of blue lakes, green valleys, and snowy mountains —­a compact and magnificent picture three hundred miles in circumference.  The ascent is made by rail, or horseback, or on foot, as one may prefer.  I and my agent panoplied ourselves in walking-costume, one bright morning, and started down the lake on the steamboat; we got ashore at the village of Waeggis; three-quarters of an hour distant from Lucerne.  This village is at the foot of the mountain.

We were soon tramping leisurely up the leafy mule-path, and then the talk began to flow, as usual.  It was twelve o’clock noon, and a breezy, cloudless day; the ascent was gradual, and the glimpses, from under the curtaining boughs, of blue water, and tiny sailboats, and beetling cliffs, were as charming as glimpses of dreamland.  All the circumstances were perfect—­and the anticipations, too, for we should soon be enjoying, for the first time, that wonderful spectacle, an Alpine sunrise—­the object of our journey.  There was (apparently)