In Switzerland the farmer’s plow is a wide shovel, which scrapes up and turns over the thin earthy skin of his native rock—­and there the man of the plow is a hero.  Now here, by our St. Nicholas road, was a grave, and it had a tragic story.  A plowman was skinning his farm one morning—­not the steepest part of it, but still a steep part—­that is, he was not skinning the front of his farm, but the roof of it, near the eaves—­when he absent-mindedly let go of the plow-handles to moisten his hands, in the usual way; he lost his balance and fell out of his farm backward; poor fellow, he never touched anything till he struck bottom, fifteen hundred feet below. [1] We throw a halo of heroism around the life of the soldier and the sailor, because of the deadly dangers they are facing all the time.  But we are not used to looking upon farming as a heroic occupation.  This is because we have not lived in Switzerland.

1.  This was on a Sunday.—­M.T.

From St. Nicholas we struck out for Visp—­or Vispach—­on foot.  The rain-storms had been at work during several days, and had done a deal of damage in Switzerland and Savoy.  We came to one place where a stream had changed its course and plunged down a mountain in a new place, sweeping everything before it.  Two poor but precious farms by the roadside were ruined.  One was washed clear away, and the bed-rock exposed; the other was buried out of sight under a tumbled chaos of rocks, gravel, mud, and rubbish.  The resistless might of water was well exemplified.  Some saplings which had stood in the way were bent to the ground, stripped clean of their bark, and buried under rocky debris.  The road had been swept away, too.

In another place, where the road was high up on the mountain’s face, and its outside edge protected by flimsy masonry, we frequently came across spots where this masonry had carved off and left dangerous gaps for mules to get over; and with still more frequency we found the masonry slightly crumbled, and marked by mule-hoofs, thus showing that there had been danger of an accident to somebody.  When at last we came to a badly ruptured bit of masonry, with hoof-prints evidencing a desperate struggle to regain the lost foothold, I looked quite hopefully over the dizzy precipice.  But there was nobody down there.

They take exceedingly good care of their rivers in Switzerland and other portions of Europe.  They wall up both banks with slanting solid stone masonry—­so that from end to end of these rivers the banks look like the wharves at St. Louis and other towns on the Mississippi River.