I  LITTLE RUDY

LET us visit Switzerland，and wander through the glorious land of mountains， where the forests cling to the steep walls of rock；let us mount up to the dazzling snowfields， and then descend into the green valleys through which rivers and brooks are rushing，hurrying on as if they could not reach the sea and disappear there quickly enough．The sun looks hotly down upon the deep valley， and it glares likewise upon the heavy masses of snow， so that they harden in the course of centuries into gleaming blocks of ice， or form themselves into falling avalanches， or become piled up into glaciers．Two such glaciers lie in the broad rocky gorges under the “Schreckhorn” and the “Wetterhorn”， by the little mountain town of Grindelwald：they are wonderful  to behold， and therefore in the summertime many strangers come from all parts of the world to see them．The strangers come across the lofty snow－covered mountains， they come through the deep valleys and in this latter case they must climb for several hours， and， as they climb， the valley seems to be descending behind them，deeper and deeper，and they look down upon it as out of a balloon． Above them the clouds often hang like thick heavy veils of smoke over the mountain－tops，while a sunbeam still penetrates into the valley， through which the many brown wooden houses lie scattered，making one particular spot stand forth in shining transparent green． Down there the water hums and gushes，while above， it purls and ripples and looks like silver bands fluttering down the mountain．

On both sides of the road that leads uphill，stand wooden houses．Each has its potato patch；and this is a necessity， for there are many little mouths in those cottages—plenty of children are there， who can eat up their share right heartily．They peep forth everywhere，and gather round the traveller， whether he be on foot or in a carriage．All the children here carry on a trade：the little people offer carved houses for sale， models of those that are built here in the mountains．In rain or in sunshine，there are the children offering their wares．

About twenty years ago， a little boy might often be seen standing there， anxious to carry on his trade，but al-ways standing a short distance away from the rest． He would stand there with a very grave face， holding his little box with the carved toys so firmly in both hands that it seemed as if he would not let it go on any account．This appearance of earnestness， together with the fact of his being such a little fellow，often attracted the notice of strangers；so that he was very frequently beckoned forward，and relieved of a great part of his stock， without himself  knowing why this preference was shown him． A couple of miles away， in the mountains， lived his grandfather， who carved the pretty little houses；and in the old man's room stood a wooden cupboard filled with things of that kind—carved toys in abundance， nutcrackers， knives and forks，boxes adorned with carved leaves and with jumping chamois，all kinds of things that delight children's eyes；but the boy， Rudy was his name，looked with greater  longing at an old rifle that hung from the beam under the ceiling，for his grandfather had promised him that it should be his one day， when he should have grown tall and strong enough to manage it properly．