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.

It was during this walk from St. Nicholas, in the shadow of the majestic Alps, that we came across some little children amusing themselves in what seemed, at first, a most odd and original way—­but it wasn’t; it was in simply a natural and characteristic way.  They were roped together with a string, they had mimic alpenstocks and ice-axes, and were climbing a meek and lowly manure-pile with a most blood-curdling amount of care and caution.  The “guide” at the head of the line cut imaginary steps, in a laborious and painstaking way, and not a monkey budged till the step above was vacated.  If we had waited we should have witnessed an imaginary accident, no doubt; and we should have heard the intrepid band hurrah when they made the summit and looked around upon the “magnificent view,” and seen them throw themselves down in exhausted attitudes for a rest in that commanding situation.

In Nevada I used to see the children play at silver-mining.  Of course, the great thing was an accident in a mine, and there were two “star” parts; that of the man who fell down the mimic shaft, and that of the daring hero who was lowered into the depths to bring him up.  I knew one small chap who always insisted on playing both of these parts—­and he carried his point.  He would tumble into the shaft and die, and then come to the surface and go back after his own remains.

It is the smartest boy that gets the hero part everywhere; he is head guide in Switzerland, head miner in Nevada, head bull-fighter in Spain, etc.; but I knew a preacher’s son, seven years old, who once selected a part for himself compared to which those just mentioned are tame and unimpressive.  Jimmy’s father stopped him from driving imaginary horse-cars one Sunday—­stopped him from playing captain of an imaginary steamboat next Sunday—­stopped him from leading an imaginary army to battle the following Sunday—­and so on.  Finally the little fellow said: 

“I’ve tried everything, and they won’t any of them do.  What can I play?”