“_And he said unto me, Son of man, can these bones live? And I answered, O Lord God, thou knowest._” EZEKIEL xxxvii. 3. It has rained ever since our arrival in this green Alpine village; rained not heavily but with a grim Scotch persistence--the kind of drizzle that will tempt some old Aberdonian, sitting unconcernedly in soaking grass by the wayside, to look up and remark: “The roads is something saft.” Are we going to have a month of _Landregen_, as they call it? No matter. Anything for fresh air; anything to escape from the pitiless blaze of the South, and from those stifling nights when your bedroom grows into a furnace, its walls exuding inwardly all the fiery beams they have sucked up…
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