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WITHOUT PICTURES.
99
TWENTY-SECOND EVENING.
I looked into the Tyrol,—said the Moon,—I caused the dark fir-trees to cast strong shadows upon the rocks. I saw the holy Christopher, with the child Jesus upon his shoulder, as he stood there against the wall of the houses, colossal in size from the foundation to the gable. The holy Florian carries water to the burning house, and Christ hangs bleeding upon the great cross by the wayside. These are old pictures for the new generation: I have, nevertheless, seen them depart one after another.
Aloft, in the projection of the mountains, a solitary nunnery hangs like a swallow’s nest. Two sisters stood up in the tower, and rung the bell. They were both young, and there-
