Through the frost-bleared windows of the St. Bernard hospice,* 8,000 feet up in the Great St. Bernard Pass between Switzerland and Italy, the Augustinian canons and their servants on duty there last week watched a train of sleds zigzag its way up the pass from the Swiss side. Snow was deep; wind blistering. None, remarked the canons, but Americans with their quaint inquisitiveness would make such a trip in such weather. Forthwith they sent servants to heat liquids. Other servants they dispatched to assemble the St. Bernard dogs, those great spaniels bred...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In