We are down again, thank heaven ; lapped in the
easeful atmosphere of it albergo at twilight, while three strolling musicians make the orchestra for an impromptu peasant dance within. Three comical little men, they came up the valley this afternoon with a violin, a guitar, and a flute ; now they are blind drunk and as happy as lords, and to-morrow they will stagger away southwards to the lakes, earning their nights' rest as they go. Well, they can play ! Their airs are as sweet and elusive as the varied music of the pine-forests. But alas ! where are their little feathered caps ? Strolling players in Homburgs and gent's lounge suitings ? Never mind. The night is hilarious and full of entertainment. And to-morrow we shall be waking to the tink-tonk of cow-bells, remembering again the honey-pot, saluting again Madonna of the Little Bees.
H. M.
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