This last summer, when I was on my way back to Vienna from the
Appetite-Cure in the mountains, I fell over a cliff in the
twilight, and broke some arms and legs and one thing or another,
and by good luck was found by some peasants who had lost an ass,
and they carried me to the nearest habitation, which was one of
those large, low, thatch-roofed farm-houses, with apartments in the
garret for the family, and a cunning little porch under the deep
gable decorated with boxes of bright colored flowers and cats; on
the ground floor a large and light sitting-room, separated from the
milch-cattle apartment by a partition; and in the front yard rose
stately and fine the wealth and pride of the house, the
manure-pile. That sentence is Germanic, and shows that I am
acquiring that sort of mastery of the art and spirit of the
language which enables a man to travel all day in one sentence
without changing cars. There was a village a mile away, and a horse
doctor lived there, but there was no surgeon. It seemed a bad
outlook; mine was distinctly a surgery case. Then it was remembered
that a lady from Boston was summering in that village, and she was
a Christian Science doctor and could cure anything. So she was sent
for. It was night by this time, and she could not conveniently
come, but sent word that it was no matter, there was no hurry, she
would give me "absent treatment" now, and come in the morning;
meantime she begged me to make myself tranquil and comfor-table and
remember that there was nothing the matter with me. I thought there
must be some mistake.
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