The Grand Canal Did Not Stir Me As It Has Stirred Some - So Far
Back As '84 I Could Remember When Jefferson Street At Home Looked
Almost Exactly Like That.
Going through the Austrian Tyrol, between Vienna and Venice, I met
two old and dear friends in their native haunts - the plush hat and
the hot dog.
When such a thing as this happens away over on the
other side of the globe it helps us to realize how small a place
this world is after all, and how closely all peoples are knitted
together in common bonds of love and affection. The hot dog, as
found here, is just as we know him throughout the length and breadth
of our own land - a dropsical Wienerwurst entombed in the depths
of a rye-bread sandwich, with a dab of horse-radish above him to
mark his grave; price, creation over, five cents the copy.
The woolly plush hat shows no change either, except that if anything
it is slightly woollier in the Alps than among us. As transplanted,
the dinky little bow at the back is an affectation purely - but in
these parts it is logical and serves a practical and a utilitarian
purpose, because the mountain byways twist and turn and double, and
the local beverages are potent brews; and the weary mountaineer,
homeward-bound afoot at the close of a market day, may by the simple
expedient of reaching up and fingering his bow tell instantly whether
he is going or coming.
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