But on the slopes the sun pours in, the road winds down with its tail in
its mouth, always in endless loops returning on itself. The mules that
travel upward seem to be treading in a mill.
Emil took the narrow tracks, and, like the water, we cascaded down,
leaping from level to level, leaping, running, leaping, descending
headlong, only resting now and again when we came down on to another
level of the high-road.
Having begun, we could not help ourselves, we were like two stones
bouncing down. Emil was highly elated. He waved his thin, bare, white
arms as he leapt, his chest grew pink with the exercise. Now he felt he
was doing something that became a member of his Sportverein. Down we
went, jumping, running, britching.
It was wonderful on this south side, so sunny, with feathery trees and
deep black shadows. It reminded me of Goethe, of the romantic period:
_Kennst du das Land, wo die Citronen bluehen?_
So we went tumbling down into the south, very swiftly, along with the
tumbling stream. But it was very tiring. We went at a great pace down
the gully, between the sheer rocks.
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