stood beside a huge boulder or on a patch of green grass. It was like sunlight on the hills, brightening the way like glistening banners embroidered in precious threads.

Little villages lie on our road, some

"WHITE, LIKE A DREAM CITY" times taking possession of both sides of the river, with arched stone bridges crossing high above the swift current, for now the ground rises rapidly and the stream rushes down hurriedly. At one spot the channel narrows into a rocky gorge, spanned by a slender, wooden bridge, beneath which the water plunges down the steep wall of stone, flashing like jewels in the sunlight, and then running sedately through the verdant fields.

We rattle through the single, narrow street of each hamlet, with barely room for our horses, passing the small hostelries and wine shops where the buxom women greet us with a friendly "Buon giorno," and smile as we respond. Evidently the "forestiere" excite their interest, for windows and doorways are full of smiling faces and

we feel as if we were making a royal progress.

The fine, old churches are out of all proportion to the apparent poverty of the community. One in particular, at Mollia, stands close upon the road with several stories above our heads, a stone balcony running along the front, carved and ornamented. It would be delightful to explore them all. Between the villages the broad Government road is well made and kept in excellent repair, each little settlement doing its share. Frequently a stone coping protects the side towards the river as it runs now on a level with us, now far below. Here and there a "torrente," as it is called, comes down from the mountain side across our way, a veritable torrent, undoubtedly, in time of heavy rain or melting snow, but at other seasons a dry bed, full of rounded stones brought down from above by the water and smoothed and polished in the journey. These occasional streams are not furnished with bridges, only a coping on the upper side to guide the flood into a definite. channel, so that passers-by are left to their own devices. Our driver recounted with evident enjoyment his experience of two days previous, when a family of Germans on their way to Alagna insisted on starting from Varallo just after a twelve-hour thunder storm, and while the rain was still falling. We had watched the party set forth from the courtyard of our inn, an unfortunate maid on the seat with the driver, father, mother, and children packed inside the landau, and had prognosticated a wet journey for them. The driver told us gleefully how they screamed at every jolt and turn, and how, when this especial "torrente" was reached, "full, very full and deep, Signora! but perfectly safe. with a good driver," straightening himself proudly, their alarm knew no bounds. The stream was forded to an accompaniment of cries and protestations while the horses slipped on the loose, wet pebbles, and the water even came into the carriage. "Such people should stay at home," he declared. "A

German is no mountaineer; he is not like the English," doubtless having, as he thought, discovered our nationality. Suddenly there hung before us in mid air a vision of snow fields and white peaks, and we had our first near glimpse of the glittering summits of Monte Rosa. Often concealed by a turn in the road, it would flash out again in beauty and beckon us ward. We passed a stream leaping down a wooded cleft in the hill side, crossed the river on a stout bridge, from which we could see far up the blue water, shining as it rushed swiftly along, skirted a height and came to the village of Riva Valdobbia, with the frescoed portals on the church overhanging the narrow street where stood the wooden houses. All our way the Sesia had kept us company, now close by our side with a merry song, now retreating behind a green field, where we could only catch a glimmer of the wavelets. Here it was farther away, but its place was filled by a lesser stream running by alder-fringed banks with a most enticing murmur. Past gardens and cultivated fields, past hill sides set with beech and chestnut and golden laburnum shining amid the green, past the copper mines of olden times, still worked in primitive fashion, we toiled up a long hill and then with much shouting and cracking of the whip, the horses galloped through the high-sounding Via Margherita and Corso Reale, the carriage swung round. the projecting apse of the church and was drawn up before the Albergo di Monte Rosa. We had reached Alagna.

First Impressions

My first walk at Alagna was late on the afternoon of our arrival, when the sun was still high enough to peer above the mountain mountain tops as we started out, and the air was warm and balmy, not always the case at an altitude of nearly four thousand feet. Turning abruptly by the corner of the inn, we picked our way past several little houses set almost athwart the path, and presently heard the roar of

water. A boisterous mountain brook came leaping down the hill side, evidently over a rocky bed, for it was all white and foaming as one sees a brook in springtime. This stream was always frothing and tumbling under the little bridge. It lay directly across my path every time I walked up the valley and I always stood still to watch the white water, to listen to its exultant song of joy in life and motion.

Leaving the noisy stream behind us, we kept beside the river for a short distance, then crossed it on a primitive bridge which swayed beneath us, and took our way up a steep path. Here was another small village, consisting of but few houses scattered on the slope. Each little group of houses up and down the mountain side is an independent community, or "paese," as

down to meet us, the dark, clear water offering a contrast to the brook we had just left, with a more familiar, homely tinkle 'round the stones. Turning aside from the path beside it which led to the alp, as a high mountain pasture is called, we went on through the fields deep in grass and flowers, scarlet poppies, swaying bluebells, a host of gay blossoms whose names and faces were new to us. We passed a farm house where an old woman sat in the doorway and the chickens were crowding for their supper, and sauntered on through the gathering dusk, full of fragrant odors and hum of insects. Below us was the Sesia, ready

to receive tribute from the frequent brooks running across our way, for the mountain side, on which the snow still lingered, gave birth to many a rivulet and clear, little rill.

A sharp descent brought us to the broad river itself, spanned by another rustic bridge. Here we stopped to lean over the wooden rail and listen to the melody of the running water.

It may sound all alike on paper, as I endeavor to picture to you these brooks and rivers which we meet on the hill sides or follow closely in our valley, but in reality how widely one brook differs from its neighbor, how full of music is each voice and yet the

song is ever new. The stream curves and bends, it leaps gaily from above, or runs straight and swift in its channel; the alders and willows droop over its bosom, the forest trees are reflected in its placid waters, the ferns grow on its very brim. Now it runs where the walls of rock shut it in, and shadows lie on the pools, or dividing its strength, it holds an island in its embrace. The swirling eddies are white around a boulder, the rapids run swiftly over the stones with their little backward curl, and again the meadows are broad and full of sunshine and the flowers stoop graciously to whisper to the little waves as they ripple softly by.

A river is always beautiful, but peculiarly so, I think, when it comes down from the high places, pure and undefiled, broken into a thousand gleams of light by the obstacles in its way; ever happy, ever eager to reach its appointed end, full of joy in life that springs from difficulties overcome, always remembering its birth out of stainlessness and solitude. The clouds and the sunlight, the ice and snow on the great mountain summits are its nurse and foster mother, the blue sky and the winds are its companions, and even though its waters come down to the dwellings of men, it can never quite forget its childhood and youth in the far-off, lonely, beautiful places. It tells us of these as we listen; it is one of the never-ceasing voices of Nature, whose melodies are infinite.

Our way home lay through the shady road overhung with trees, full and green and leafy; on the rocky wall beside us grew delicate ferns and Alpine blossoms exquisitely tinted. Sprays of the white spirea trembled above our heads like the foam on the river, great mountain buttercups opened their golden chalices, and clusters of the bright mountain pink, rosy red, blushed among the green. Directly on our path, where a tiny rill dripped into a mossy basin, stood one laburnum tree. I had seen them in abundance, earlier, on the far slopes of the hills; now this grew close at

hand. Equally beautiful whether near or far, the full, shining clusters hung amid the graceful foliage; the gold was living. For many days I watched its radiant loveliness, it was a landmark on my walk, the glorious color deepened and glowed when the sun kissed the flowers at noonday. Gradually the blossoms fell to the ground and floated on the surface of the mossy basin, but even then there was nothing unsightly in its fading, only the beauty was lessened.

Always following the Sesia where it ran beneath the trees or beat with its waves against a huge boulder half barring the way, on whose gray rock nestled beds of fern, soft cushions set close with bright flowers, and where a bush of glowing Alpenrosen stirred in the breeze, we came back to Alagna while the twilight fell softly. The white brook was still hurrying down to the river as we turned into the little, open square.