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which still remains water forms the celebrated Lake of Geneva.

If now you look upon any map of Switzerland, you can easily find the Lake of Geneva, and you will see that it has the city of Geneva at its lower extremity, and the town of Villeneuve at the upper end. The route which Florence and John were pursuing would bring them to the lake at the upper end, that is at Villeneuve.

When the party came out from among the mountains to the end of the pass, and entered upon the smooth and level valley, the road was for many miles perfectly straight and level, and now that the excitement of the pass was over, John began to feel very tired, and Florence, to occupy his mind proposed that he should make a book, as she had done one day.


Well," said John, "I will. I will make a story book. Shall it be a true story or a fiction ?" "A fiction," replied Florence. "Mine was a true story, so let us have yours a fiction for variety. I will give you till we get to the next mile stone, to choose your subject, and make up your story, and then you shall begin."

The manner in which John acquitted himself of the task thus assigned him will be related in the next chapter.



As soon as John reached the second mile stone he was all ready for his book, and he began as follows.

"The Grateful Lammergeir,-or the Adventure of Little Gustave.' That's the title page

you understand."

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"Yes," said Florence, "I understand." "By John Morelle," continued John. "That's right," said Florence. "It is an excellent plan to put the author's name in the title page.'

666 'Preface,' "" said John. "Once upon a time when I was travelling with my sister, in Switzerland, we came to a long straight road of the kind the Swiss boys call a ribbon. To while away the time and amuse my sister while we were going over this road, I made up this story.'

"That's the preface," said John, looking up to Florence. "Will that do for a preface ?"

"I think it is a very excellent preface," said Florence.

"Chapter First,'" continued John. The Two Little Lammergeirs. Once upon a time a lammergeir had a nest on the brink of a precipice in the Alps. A hunter came out one day and saw the old lammergeir perched upon a pinnacle of rock near his nest. He climbed up slyly till he got near enough and then shot him.'

"After this, the two little lammergeirs waited and waited for their mother to come home, and at last, they became so hungry that they could not wait any longer, and so they climbed out of the nest, and began creeping about over the rocks to see if they could not find something to eat.



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They could not find anything to eat, but instead of that, they went too near the brink of the precipice, and so they both fell over, and down they went a thousand feet into a very deep valley.. End of the chapter.""

While Johnny had been reciting these words, he had maintained a very serious face, looking all the time straight forward into vacancy, as if considering how to frame his expressions. But as soon as he said end of the chapter, he turned and looked toward Florence with an expression of triumph and pleasure in his countenance, as

if feeling that he had accomplished the first portion of his work in a very satisfactory manner.

66 Dear me !" exclaimed Florence. "That is a very melancholy termination of a chapter."

"Yes," said John, "but it is not really so. melancholy as you may think. I thought I would frighten the people a little, and make them think that both the little lammergeirs were killed. Did not you think they were both killed ?"

"Certainly," said Florence.

"Well, they were not," said John. "But you will see that in the next chapter."

"Chapter Second. The Good Shepherd. The poor little birds fell a thousand feet into a rocky valley, where there was a torrent of water dashing along. One of them was killed on the spot. The other was the oldest, and so he had more strength, and he fluttered his wings as he came down through the air, and that partly kept him up, and when he reached the ground at last, he happened to fall upon a bed of moss. He was terribly frightened, and was a good deal hurt, but he was not killed.

"By and by, a shepherd came along that way, and saw the poor bird lying there.

"Ah!' says he. 'Here's a little hawk, or owl, or something, that has tumbled out of his

nest. I'll carry him home, and give him to my little Janette.' Janette was the name of his child.


So he made a nest of soft moss in his cap, and put the lammergier in, and carried him home to his cottage. His cottage was built on a shelving rock up the mountains. Little Janette was waiting for him at the door. 'Father,' says she, 'What have you got in your cap?' 'I've got a little eeboo for you,' said he. "A little what?" asked Florence. "A little eeboo," repeated John. "But you must not interrupt the story to ask questions. Everything will be explained as I go along. Note. This peasant lived in one of the French cantons of Switzerland, where the people speak French, and the French word for owl is hibou. But Janette, who could not speak very plain, pronounced it eeboo. In some of the cantons of Switzerland the people speak German, and those are called the German cantons.

"I thought," said John, interrupting himself and looking up to Florence, " that I would put some useful knowledge in my story, so that it might be instructive as well as entertaining."

"That is an excellent plan," said Florence. After an interval of a few minutes, John went on with his book. as follows:

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