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THE MOMING PASS—ZERMATT.

July 10, Croz and I went to Sierra, in the Valais, viâ the Col de Balme, the Col de la Forclaz, and Martigny. The Swiss side of the Forclaz is not creditable to Switzerland. The path from Martigny to the summit has undergone successive improvements in these latter years; but mendicants permanently disfigure it.

We passed many tired pedestrians toiling up this oven, persecuted by trains of parasitic children. These children swarm there like maggots in a rotten cheese. They carry baskets of fruit with which to plague the weary tourist. They flit around him like flies; they thrust the fruit in his face; they pester him with their pertinacity. Beware of them!—taste, touch not their fruit. In the eyes of these children, each peach, each grape, is worth a prince's ransom. It is to no purpose to be angry; it is like flapping wasps—they only buzz the more. Whatever you do, or whatever you say, the end will be the same. "Give me something," is the alpha and omega of all their addresses. They learn the phrase, it is said, before they are taught the alphabet. It is in all their mouths. From the tiny toddler up to the maiden of sixteen, there is nothing heard but one universal chorus of—"Give me something; will you have the goodness to give me something?"

From Sierra we went up the Val d'Anniviers to Zinal, to join our former companions, Moore and Almer. Moore was ambitious to discover a shorter way from Zinal to Zermatt than the two