The mist lies like wool in the valley, there has been heavy rain in the night, and remembering how water-falls are best seen after rain, one walks across the valley, and taking the shady path of pine and beech wood by the side of the Aa, one passes forward with the rushing ripple of the stream in one’s ears, wondering at the clearness of a river that must surely come from glaciers, yet marvelling that it should be so clear and yet so grey at the same time.  The ‘trollius’ is in full beauty by its side, and here and there among the alders the honey-scented tufts of lilac silk of one of the larger rues is seen in its beauty.  We enter an alder plantation; an avalanche has cast down a white load into the meadow just beyond, which will not pass away till the end of June.  We cross a bridge, and passing the modern ‘wirthshaft’ of Eienwäldchen, join the new road to Herren-Rüti.  We seem to have left the river, but its voice is heard among the alder beds, and as we pass the Stalden chalets and are in thought congratulating the Kurverein on having chosen the woodland to run the road through—for it is quite certain that an English surveyor would either have ordered all the trees on either side to be cut down or else run his road outside the wood—we see far off above the dark pines the milk-white flashing from the cliff of the Tätschbach waterfall that we have come to visit. (pp. 175-176)

Onward we press, and by the little roadside restaurant turn off the road through a woodland grove, and soon feel the fine dew of the waterfall upon our faces and are delighting in its sound.  This waterfall does not come from such a height as that it becomes silent water just before it touches the valley.  The best place to see the beauty of the fall is a hundred yards away along the road beyond the restaurant; from that point one can see with what a glorious spring the waterfall leaps out from the precipice, and if the sun shines out, as it does this moment, the angels of the torrent spread golden wings, and there is such joy in the downward leaping of that fairy multitude who have come with their gifts of flower and fruit to the valley that we are glad to be face to face with them and to feel the blessing of their coolness upon one’s brow.  I walked back homeward by the old path on the north side of the valley, thinking much how public-spirited the Swiss are, in contrast to our English owners of waterfalls.  In England one could hardly imagine a restaurant keeper not charging gate money to see such a waterfall as the Tätschbach.  In Switzerland, unless there are pathways to be made and kept up at expense, as in the case of Trümmelbach, one is as free as air to enjoy sight of these mountain torrents foaming from the heights. (pp. 176-178)

(Flower-Time at the Oberland, pp. 175-188)