After a while the path led us along a railed precipice, and we looked over—­far beneath us was the snug parlor again, the little Gasternthal, with its water jets spouting from the face of its rock walls.  We could have dropped a stone into it.  We had been finding the top of the world all along—­and always finding a still higher top stealing into view in a disappointing way just ahead; when we looked down into the Gasternthal we felt pretty sure that we had reached the genuine top at last, but it was not so; there were much higher altitudes to be scaled yet.  We were still in the pleasant shade of forest trees, we were still in a region which was cushioned with beautiful mosses and aglow with the many-tinted luster of innumerable wild flowers.

We found, indeed, more interest in the wild flowers than in anything else.  We gathered a specimen or two of every kind which we were unacquainted with; so we had sumptuous bouquets.  But one of the chief interests lay in chasing the seasons of the year up the mountain, and determining them by the presence of flowers and berries which we were acquainted with.  For instance, it was the end of August at the level of the sea; in the Kandersteg valley at the base of the pass, we found flowers which would not be due at the sea-level for two or three weeks; higher up, we entered October, and gathered fringed gentians.  I made no notes, and have forgotten the details, but the construction of the floral calendar was very entertaining while it lasted.

In the high regions we found rich store of the splendid red flower called the Alpine rose, but we did not find any examples of the ugly Swiss favorite called Edelweiss.  Its name seems to indicate that it is a noble flower and that it is white.  It may be noble enough, but it is not attractive, and it is not white.  The fuzzy blossom is the color of bad cigar ashes, and appears to be made of a cheap quality of gray plush.  It has a noble and distant way of confining itself to the high altitudes, but that is probably on account of its looks; it apparently has no monopoly of those upper altitudes, however, for they are sometimes intruded upon by some of the loveliest of the valley families of wild flowers.  Everybody in the Alps wears a sprig of Edelweiss in his hat.  It is the native’s pet, and also the tourist’s.

All the morning, as we loafed along, having a good time, other pedestrians went staving by us with vigorous strides, and with the intent and determined look of men who were walking for a wager.  These wore loose knee-breeches, long yarn stockings, and hobnailed high-laced walking-shoes.  They were gentlemen who would go home to England or Germany and tell how many miles they had beaten the guide-book every day.  But I doubted if they ever had much real fun, outside of the mere magnificent exhilaration of the tramp through the green valleys and the breezy heights; for they were almost always alone, and even the finest scenery loses incalculably when there is no one to enjoy it with.