Knoxville Journal

A Swiss Washerwoman.

To a smoke-stained Londoner the exquisite purity of the homespun Swiss linen is a constant wonder and reproach. And yet scarcely a wonder if he chance to sit by the lakeside, say at Brienz, on a sunny morning, and watch the proceedings of the little Swiss maiden in a straw hat and black velvet bodice with the silver chains, who is plying her occupation of laundress. She has paddled her boat far out into the lake, and is letting it drift with the current. In the boat beside her is a pile of freshly-washed linen, glistening like snow in the sunlight. But its whiteness does not content her. As the boat moves lazily along, each separate piece of linen is thrown into the lake, and trailed slowly through the blue water, blue as ever painted. Still she is not quite satisfied. She takes, perhaps, three or four handkerchiefs in her hand at a time and literally throws them overboard, in such a manner that the spectator on the bank cannot but breathe a fervent hope that they may not be his own property. But before he has time to frame his wishes into words she has caught them again with a dexterous sort of legerdemain, and the process is repeated again and again. And all the while the black-velvet bodiced maiden, with the glittering silver chains and pins, snowy sleeves and round white arms, if she be a true Brienz maiden, is singing like a very nightingale.—Saturday Journal.