Spring in Switzerland
THERE are places, it seems, where the earth, for all her aching load of time, cannot grow old, but retains her care-free spirit of unselfconscious youth. If one ii lying. at this time of year upon a green " alp," some three thousand feet above the RhOne Valley, it is idle to remind oneself that huninm life has probably existed on the planet fOr 400,000 years': the fact is neither credible nor important. This landscape, 'surely, has but just emerged, clean and sparkling, from its primal -chaos, a perfect thing, without a past, without traditions, without the sense of tears that -brims up so often out of ancientness. This sea of flowers, rushing into form and colour the moment the snow melts, foams over the grass for the first time. No one has seen them before, nor do they expect to be seen: The mind receives the overflowing beauty without a hint of the weariness that thoughts of the long; long past bring usually. Laughter, dance and song are the passwords here; not reflection.
As spring steals over this region between the valleys and the heights, there comes with her a light-heartedness that belongS only to youth. Switzerland belongs to the childhood of the world, and the man who. first called. it the Playground of Europe had a moment 'of inspiration. A playground can offer little to the sophisticated, but spring in' this, land of running water and abundant flowers earl- certainly _offer this magic 'touch of. earth when it was young. The toy. chalets, perched here and there as only a child, it seems, would perch them the profusion Of Christraai trees, balanced in ranks as. though set upon flat wooden pedestals ; the very cows emerging froth long winter seclusion in eonntless: picturesque arks, kicking and dancing as they taste the delicioua 1,Ower pastures—all these contribute to the conviction that one has stumbled upon some primal nursery, where the earth is at play, refusing to be serious. The air is full of the sound of bells. There is even the detail of the naughty cow, punished for wilful disobedience by being deprived of her bell, put in the corner thus, and sent to Coventry, before the rest of the herd.
Few, besides the natives, come to witness this annual exhibition of gay, care-free youthfulness. The winter tourists have gone home, the summer horde not yet arrived ; the larger hotels, lately packed with teeming life, are given over to a general-cleaning which makes -them look as if they could never be habitable again ; and the smaller inns, always open, attract no visitors as yet. Above four thousand feet; the snow still lies thick, and an occasional enthusiast, lingering on for wet-snow ski-ing, may still be seen, despite the uncomfortable heat of the sun, and although, in the valleys, the orchards are in bloom. He haunts the northern slopes, for the soul', ones that take the full sun are bright emerald green, held the million flowers, with countless rivulets that sing their, over the soaked grass. This mood of generous exubers, when spring brings her profusion at about three thousand4 is enjoyed every year by only a handful of adventurd residents, who know just where to look for it. .
A brief period, of course, but one of vivid, sharp refresh, it passes _gradually up the great mountain sides. To layer of a thousand feet, as summer threatens, and sp climbs higher, she brings the appropriate flowers ; al summer is established at a thousand feet, spring flits to I next thousand feet above, taking her primulas, her soldanell her anemones with her ; above seven thousand feet or so may be found even in the heats of August. The "reg d'en haut," as they call it, retains during April and MO happy air of careless youth, where the earth refuses to p old. Daring the late spring storms, and before the sums blaze begins, is the time to taste it.
-In so many places, and to so many minds, spring, with I hint of promises unfulfilled, conceals behind her gaiety a tot of sadness. The loveliest of old gardens has its wistfulnel the startling places, where emotions are deep and stro their melancholy. To Paestum, for instance, where Greek temples rise out of the forsaken plain, between the h sea and the yet bluer Calabrian Hills, where roses and viol bloom twice a year, spring brings no light-heartedness, I rather the reverse :
" 0 world, in very truth thou art too young ! When wilt thou learn to wear the garb of age ? World with thy covering of yellow flowers ! Hast thou fOrgot what generations sprung Out of thy loins, and loved thee, and are gone ? Hast thou no place in all their heritage Where thou dost only weep—that I may come, Nor fear the mockery of thy yellow flowers ? "
Here on this green alp above the Rhdne Valley, spr invokes a gayer song than this mournful utterance. Rene bering some great poet who " sang about thy prime," hears him singing still, entirely oblivious that " the wor had hardly left his tongue before thy nightingales were en again." If necessary to remember anything in partial it would be surely about " the cow jumped over the moo " dickory dickory dock." or else about " Little Boy lk come blow your horn." Nursery songs are here the app
priate note.
ALGERNON BLACKWOOD
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