A magnificent day in mid-September. The sky a delicate clear blue, the air fresh and crisp; the sun so strong that we did not miss the Italian brightness in which we had been wandering amongst the ripening vineyards for the last fortnight. On the previous day we had walked over the Simplon from Domo d’Ossola to Brieg—a long tramp with knapsacks; and were glad to take the diligence on to Sierre, where we would get our train to Geneva on the way home. The valley of the Rhone is here very beautiful at this time of the year, though in winter, when the river is flooded, it must be a wild and dangerous place. Between the road and where the summer-dwindled river ran was a belt of desolation which even the quick verdure of the Swiss summer was unable to cover up with more than an occasional patch of ineffectual green.