We are grieved at the earthly instincts of the German—A superb view, but no restaurant—Continental opinion of the Englishman—That he does not know enough to come in out of the rain—There comes a weary traveller with a brick—The hurting of the dog—An family residence—A fruitful region—A merry old soul comes up the hill—George, alarmed at the lateness of the hour, hastens down the other side—Harris follows him, to show him the way—I hate being alone, and follow Harris—Pronunciation designed for use of foreigners.  
A thing that much the high-class Anglo-Saxon soul is the earthly instinct prompting the German to fix a restaurant at the goal of every excursion.  On mountain summit, in fairy glen, on lonely pass, by waterfall or stream, stands ever the busy Wirtschaft.  How can one rhapsodise over a view when surrounded by beer-stained tables?  How lose one’s self in historical reverie amid the odour of roast and ?
 
One day, on elevating thoughts intent, we climbed through woods.
 
“And at the top,” said Harris, bitterly, as we paused to breathe a space and pull our belts a hole tighter, “there will be a restaurant, where people will be beefsteaks and plum and drinking white wine.”
 
“Do you think so?” said George.
 
“Sure to be,” answered Harris; “you know their way.  Not one will they consent to dedicate to and contemplation; not one height will they leave to the lover of nature unpolluted by the gross and the material.”
 
“I calculate,” I remarked, “that we shall be there a little before one o’clock, provided we don’t .”
 
“The ‘mittagstisch’ will be just ready,” Harris, “with possibly some of those little blue they catch about here.  In Germany one never seems able to get away from food and drink.  It is maddening!”
 
We pushed on, and in the beauty of the walk forgot our indignation.  My estimate proved to be correct.
 
At a quarter to one, said Harris, who was leading:
 
“Here we are; I can see the summit.”
 
“Any sign of that restaurant?” said George.
 
“I don’t notice it,” replied Harris; “but it’s there, you may be sure; confound it!”
 
Five minutes later we stood upon the top.  We looked north, south, east and west; then we looked at one another.
 
“Grand view, isn’t it?” said Harris.
 
“Magnificent,” I agreed.
 
“Superb,” remarked George.
 
“They have had the good sense for once,” said Harris, “to put that restaurant out of sight.”
 
“They do seem to have hidden it,” said George.  “One doesn’t mind the thing so much when it is not forced under one’s nose,” said Harris.
 
“Of course, in its place,” I observed, “a restaurant is right enough.”
 
“I should like to know where they have put it,” said George.
 
“Suppose we look for it?” said Harris, with inspiration.
 
It seemed a good idea.  I felt curious myself.  We agreed to explore in different directions, returning to the summit to report progress.  In half an hour we stood together once again.  There was no need for words.  The face of one and all of us announced plainly that at last we had discovered a of German nature untarnished by the suggestion of food or drink.
 
“I should never have believed it possible,” said Harris: “would you?”
 
“I should say,” I replied, “that this is the only square quarter of a mile in the entire Fatherland unprovided with one.”
 
“And we three strangers have struck it,” said George, “without an effort.”
 
“True,” I observed.  “By pure good fortune we are now enabled to feast our finer senses undisturbed by appeal to our lower nature.  Observe the light upon those distant peaks; is it not ravishing?”
 
“Talking of nature,” said George, “which should you say was the nearest way down?”
 
“The road to the left,” I replied, after consulting the guide book, “takes us to Sonnensteig—where, by-the-by, I observe the ‘Goldener Adler’ is well spoken of—in about two hours.  The road to the right, though somewhat longer, commands more extensive .”
 
“One ,” said Harris, “is very much like another prospect; don’t you think so?”
 
“Personally,” said George, “I am going by the left-hand road.”  And Harris and I went after him.
 
But we were not to get down so soon as we had anticipated.  Storms come quickly in these regions, and before we had walked for quarter of an hour it became a question of seeking shelter or living for the rest of the day in soaked clothes.  We on the former alternative, and selected a tree that, under ordinary circumstances, should have been ample protection.  But a Black Forest thunderstorm is not an ordinary circumstance.  We consoled ourselves at first by telling each other that at such a rate it could not last long.  Next, we endeavoured to comfort ourselves with the reflection that if it did we should soon be too wet to fear getting wetter.
 
“As it turned out,” said Harris, “I should have been almost glad if there had been a restaurant up here.”
 
“I see no advantage in being both wet and hungry,” said George.  “I shall give it another five minutes, then I am going on.”
 
“These mountain solitudes,” I remarked, “are very attractive in fine weather.  On a rainy day, especially if you happen to be past the age when—”
 
At this point there hailed us a voice, from a gentleman, who stood some fifty feet away from us under a big umbrella.
 
“Won’t you come inside?” asked the stout gentleman.
 
“Inside where?” I called back.  I thought at first he was one of those fools that will try to be funny when there is nothing to be funny about.
 
“Inside the restaurant,” he answered.
 
We left our shelter and made for him.  We wished for further information about this thing.
 
“I did call to you from the window,” said the stout gentleman, as we drew near to him, “but I suppose you did not hear me.  This storm may last for another hour; you will get so wet.”
 
He was a old gentleman; he seemed quite anxious about us.
 
I said: “It is very kind of you to have come out.  We are not lunatics.  We have not been under that tree for the last half-hour knowing all the time there was a restaurant, hidden by the trees, within twenty yards of us.  We had no idea we were anywhere near a restaurant.”
 
“I thought maybe you hadn’t,” said the old gentleman; “that is why I came.”
 
It appeared that all the people in the inn had been watching us from the windows also, wondering why we stood there looking .  If it had not been for this nice old gentleman the fools would have remained watching us, I suppose, for the rest of the afternoon.  The landlord excused himself by saying he thought we looked like English.  It is no figure of speech.  On the Continent they do sincerely believe that every Englishman is mad.  They are as convinced of it as is every English peasant that Frenchmen live on frogs.  Even when one makes a direct personal effort to them of the impression one is not always successful.
 
It was a comfortable little restaurant, where they cooked well, while the Tischwein was really most passable.  We stopped there for a couple of hours, and dried ourselves and fed ourselves, and talked about the view; and just before we left an incident occurred that shows how much more stirring in this world are the influences of evil compared with those of good.
 
A traveller entered.  He seemed a man.  He carried a brick in his hand, tied to a piece of rope.  He entered and hurriedly, closed the door carefully behind him, saw to it that it was fastened, peered out of the window long and earnestly, and then, with a sigh of relief, laid his brick upon the bench beside him and called for food and drink.
 
There was something mysterious about the whole affair.  One wondered what he was going to do with the brick, why he had closed the door so carefully, why he had looked so anxiously from the window; but his aspect was too wretched to invite conversation, and we forbore, therefore, to ask him questions.  As he ate and drank he grew more cheerful, sighed less often.  Later he stretched his legs, lit an evil-smelling cigar, and in calm contentment.
 
Then it happened.  It happened too suddenly for any explanation of the thing to be possible.  I a Fräulein entering the room from the kitchen with a pan in her hand.  I saw her cross to the outer door.  The next moment the whole room was in an .  One was reminded of those pantomime scenes where, from among floating clouds, slow music, waving flowers, and reclining fairies, one is suddenly transported into the midst of shouting policemen tumbling yelling babies, fighting pantaloons, sausages and harlequins, buttered slides and clowns.  As the Fräulein of the pan touched the door it flew open, as though all the spirits of sin had been pressed against it, waiting.  Two pigs and a chicken rushed into the room; a cat that had been sleeping on a beer-barrel spluttered into life.  The Fräulein threw her pan into the air and lay down on the floor.  The gentleman with the brick sprang to his feet, upsetting the table before him with everything upon it.
 
One looked to see the cause of this disaster: one discovered it at once in the person of a mongrel terrier with ears and a squirrel’s tail.  The landlord rushed out from another door, and attempted to kick him out of the room.  Instead, he kicked one of the pigs, the fatter of the two.  It was a vigorous, well-planted kick, and the pig got the whole of it; none of it was wasted.  One felt sorry for the poor animal; but no amount of sorrow anyone else might feel for him could compare with the sorrow he felt for himself.  He stopped running about; he sat down in the middle of the room, and appealed to the solar system generally to observe this unjust thing that had come upon him.  They must have heard his complaint in the valleys round about, and have wondered what of nature was taking place among the hills.
 
As for the hen it , screaming, every way at once.  It was a marvellous bird: it seemed to be able to run up a straight wall quite easily; and it and the cat between them fetched down mostly everything that was not already on the floor.  In less than forty seconds there were nine people in that room, all trying to kick one dog.  Possibly, now and again, one or another may have succeeded, for occasionally the dog would stop barking in order to howl.  But it did not discourage him.  Everything has to be paid for, he evidently argued, even a pig and chicken hunt; and, on the whole, the game was worth it.
 
Besides, he had the satisfaction of observing that, for every kick he received, most other living things in the room got two.  As for the unfortunate pig—the one, the one that still sat in the centre of the room—he must have averaged a steady four.  Trying to kick this dog was like playing football with a ball that was never there—not when you went to kick it, but after you had started to kick it, and had gone too far to stop yourself, so that the kick had to go on in any case, your only hope being that your foot would find something or another solid to stop it, and so save you from sitting down on the floor noisily and completely.  When anybody did kick the dog it was by pure accident, when they were not expecting to kick him; and, generally speaking, this took them so unawares that, after kicking him, they fell over him.  And everybody, every half-minute, would be certain to fall over the pig the sitting pig, the one of getting out of anybody’s way.
 
How long the scrimmage might have lasted it is impossible to say.  It was ended by the of George.  For a while he had been seeking to catch, not the dog but the remaining pig, the one still capable of activity.  Cornering it at last, he persuaded it to cease running round and round the room, and instead to take a spin outside.  It shot through the door with one long .
 
We always desire the thing we have not.  One pig, a chicken, nine people, and a cat, were as nothing in that dog’s opinion compared with the that was disappearing.  Unwisely, he after it, and George closed the door upon him and shot the bolt.
 
Then the landlord stood up, and surveyed all the things that were lying on the floor.
 
“That’s a playful dog of yours,” said he to the man who had come in with the brick.
 
“He is not my dog,” replied the man .
 
“Whose dog is it then?” said the landlord.
 
“I don’t know whose dog it is,” answered the man.
 
“That won’t do for me, you know,” said the landlord, picking up a picture of the German Emperor, and wiping beer from it with his sleeve.
 
“I know it won’t,” replied the man; “I never expected it would.  I’m tired of telling people it isn’t my dog.  They none of them believe me.”
 
“What do you want to go about with him for, if he’s not your dog?” said the landlord.  “What’s the attraction about him?”
 
“I don’t go about with him,” replied the man; “he goes about with me.  He picked me up this morning at ten o’clock, and he won’t leave me.  I thought I had got rid of him when I came in here.  I left him busy a duck more th............