At dinner I was introduced to the landamman and two other members of the council, and from them gathered brief notes with reference to the little democracy won, and held intact for so many years.  The dessert was hardly removed before they began to come:  first the old men in black coats and high hats, and women with white, pointed caps and wide ruffles; then the middle-aged, fathers and mothers, bringing little children, all with the same conscientious expression on their faces, the same “Happy Christmas,” while the pastor’s “God bless you,” was a benediction that carried happiness to the hearts of those who heard it.

Lastly came the youths; maidens with eyes full of a childlike innocence, the quick color coming and going as they greeted the pastor and his friends, and received his blessing in return.  Gretchen and her husband were with us, and Gretchen number two was my especial escort, leading me through the rooms, and introducing me in her naive manner, “Mamma’s friend, and papa’s, and uncle Euler’s.”

Christmas festivities were kept up during the week; and before that elapsed, I was won to add a month, and then another, it being quite impossible to slip away from the kind friends with whom I had so much in common; the fascination only the more potent as we listened to the beating winds, and looked out into the slippery paths leading down into the cantons beneath.

Spring had come when it was “fit to travel,” as Gretchen said.  The green of the landscape was brilliant and uniform; the turf sown with primrose, violet, anemone, veronica, and buttercups.  It was time for me to leave; neither could I be persuaded to stay till the meeting of the Landsgemeinde.  It was sad to leave them, and the little Gretchen was only pacified by my assurance that, if possible, I would return at no distant day.  My friend Spruner had business at Herisau, and spending one more evening together, our prayers mingling for the last time, we parted.

Our way led through the valley of the Sitter, a stream fed by the Sentis Alps, and spanned by a bridge hundreds of feet above the water.  The same smooth carpet of velvet green was spread everywhere.

“There is no greener land,” said Spruner; “the grass is so rich that the inhabitants cannot even spare enough for vegetable gardens.  Our tables are supplied from the lower vallies.”

“In our country we should not dream of making hay in the month of April,” I remarked, seeing several stout men already in the field.

“With suitable care they can mow the same field every six weeks,” responded my friend.  “And it is no doubt this peculiar process that gives such sweetness and splendor of color, seen nowhere else, not even between the hedgerows of England.”

The day proved to be neither clear nor rainy:  a steel blue sky brought out the broken peaks of Kasten, while the white shoulders of the Sentis were veiled with a thin, gray suit.