The face of the wine Horn is the profile of a beardless youth.  The face of the cow Horn is that of a mountain shepherd. solemn, and broom, with fierce black eyes, and a black beard.  Between them the great Horn, whose hair is of snow, has a high. beardless visage, as of carved bronze, like a male sphinx, serene, without cruelty.  Far down below the faces of the peaks. above the trough of darkness, are peeping out the four little heads of the flowers of edelweiss, and gentian, mountain dandelion, and ALPENROSE; on their heads are crowns made of their several flowers, all powdered with dewdrops; and when the flowers lift their child-faces little tinkling bells ring.

All around the peaks there is nothing but blue sky.

Edelweiss. [In a tiny voice] Would you?  Would you?  Would you? 
Ah! ha!

Gentian, M. Dandelion, ALPENROSE [With their bells ranging enviously] Oo-oo-oo!

          From behind the Cow Horn are heard the voices of Cowbells
          and mountain air: 

     “Clinkel-clink!  Clinkel-clink!”
     “Mountain air!  Mountain air!”

          From behind the wine Horn rise the rival voices Of view of
          Italy, Flume of steam, and things in books: 

     “I am Italy!  Italy!”

     “See me—­steam in the distance!”

     “O remember the things in books!”

          And all call out together, very softly, with the flowers
          ringing their bells.  Then far away like an echo comes a
          sighing: 

     “Mountain air!  Mountain air!”

          And suddenly the Peak of the cow Horn speaks in a voice as
          of one unaccustomed.

The cow Horn.  Amongst kine and my black-brown sheep I Live; I am silence, and monotony; I am the solemn hills.  I am fierceness, and the mountain wind; clean pasture, and wild rest.  Look in my eyes. love me alone!

Seelchen. [Breathless] The Cow Horn!  He is speaking for Felsman and the mountains.  It is the half of my heart!

          Theflowers laugh happily.

The cow Horn.  I stalk the eternal hills—­I drink the mountain snows.  My eyes are the colour of burned wine; in them lives melancholy.  The lowing of the kine, the wind, the sound of falling rocks, the running of the torrents; no other talk know I. Thoughts simple, and blood hot, strength huge—­the cloak of gravity.

Seelchen.  Yes. yes!  I want him.  He is strong!

          The voices of Cowbells and mountain air cry out together: