SWISS FAIRY TALES

                                   By

                         WILLIAM ELLIOT GRIFFIS

       Author of “The Firefly’s Lovers,” “The Unmannerly Tiger,”
            “Dutch Fairy Tales,” “Belgian Fairy Tales,” etc.


                                NEW YORK
                       THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY
                               PUBLISHERS








                               DEDICATED
                          IN RADIANT MEMORIES
                     OF MY SWISS MATERNAL ANCESTRY
                           NEAR VALLEY FORGE
                FROM WHOSE LIPS I FIRST HEARD STORIES OF
                     WASHINGTON, LAFAYETTE, STEUBEN
                           AND OF SWITZERLAND
                       THE LAND OF THE EDELWEISS








CONTENTS


    CHAPTER                                           PAGE

    I.      How Swiss Fairy Tales Came to America        1
    II.     The Swiss Home Near Valley Forge            16
    III.    The Wonderful Alpine Horn                   28
    IV.     The Whimsical Avalanche                     39
    V.      The Mountain Giants                         48
    VI.     The Dwarf and His Confectionery             56
    VII.    Two Good Natured Dragons                    66
    VIII.   The Frost Giants and the Sunbeam Fairies    77
    IX.     The Fairy in the Cuckoo Clock               91
    X.      The Castle of the Hawk                     101
    XI.     The Yodel Carillon of the Cows             110
    XII.    The Tailor and the Giant                   118
    XIII.   The Dwarf’s Secret                         132
    XIV.    The Fairy of the Edelweiss                 144
    XV.     The Avalanche That Was Peace Maker         157
    XVI.    The Fairies and Their Playground           168
    XVII.   The Kangaroo Poa                           181
    XVIII.  The Swiss Fairies in Town Meeting          191
    XIX.    The Palace Under the Waves                 201
    XX.     The Alpine Hunter and His Fairy Guardian   209
    XXI.    The Fairies’ Palace Car                    221
    XXII.   The White Chamois                          235
    XXIII.  The Siren of the Rhine                     241
    XXIV.   The Ass That Saw the Angel                 250








SWISS FAIRY TALES


I

HOW SWISS FAIRY TALES CAME TO AMERICA


Let us pretend that we are sitting on a stool, a hassock, a rug, or the
floor, around the chair of grandmother Hess, to which place all young
folks are hereby invited. We shall go with her, in fancy, to the home
of the Swiss family Harby, for that was her maiden name, at Barren
Hill, in what the Swiss folks called “the Pennsylvanias.” For they
loved the forests and they knew that the name meant the groves or woods
of Penn. They kept always, in their minds, the idea of trees. It was
there that some of these fairy and other tales were first told.

It was long ago, during the Revolutionary war, when Washington, and
Lafayette, and Steuben, were comrades at Valley Forge. This place was
only a few miles away, and the great men rode often past the house and
farm of John Harby, who was grandma’s father.

When, in 1778, the Hessians and red coats could not capture Lafayette,
with his Continental soldiers, they stole the bread out of the oven and
drank up the milk from the spring house.

The little girls, Sarah, Hannah and Margaret, often heard from their
grandfather and grandmother about Switzerland, whence, following
William Penn, they had come. Their kinsfolk still lived in the old land
across the sea. When the Revolutionary war was over, their father, John
Harby, came to the Quaker City, and kept a hotel. There, when
Philadelphia was the national capital, he entertained members of
Congress and the refugee French noblemen.

When the story teller heard the once little maids talk about things
Swiss, and Hessian, and British, and Pennsylvanian, these three, two of
whom the Hessians had once scared into the garret, were dear old
ladies. Sitting up in bed, or in her chair, as straight as her
rheumatism and her bent fingers would allow, grandmother told us many a
tale of Swiss ancestral and Revolutionary times.

To the end of the years of her life, which lasted from 1770 to 1866,
her sister Hannah, our maiden aunt, sang the songs, played on the piano
the ditties, and danced the minuets and waltzes, which the French
officers and noblemen had taught her when the Quaker city, from 1790 to
1800, was the national capital.

We children, even when big girls and boys, and ready for college,
enjoyed the fun, the music, and the stories. It was from these dear old
ladies that the story teller learned to love the mountains, and to
climb them, in America and Japan, and, for weeks at a time, to tramp
among them in glorious Switzerland.

The ancestral Swiss home was in a valley of the Bernese Oberland, under
the shadow of a high mountain. In winter, which usually lasted seven
months or more, the people, the boys, and the girls, the cows, goats,
donkeys, horses, chickens, and all living things were shut in by heavy
snows. Quite often in winter, daddy and the boys had to climb out the
windows onto the snows that were piled, or drifted, many feet high
against the door. Even on May day, spoiling fun outdoors, there might
come a storm which left six or eight feet of snow.

Yet when the sun got up early in the morning, and the south wind blew
with a quiet force that did more in a day’s work than a million steam
shovels, the snow melted, and soon the green meadows were spangled with
red and blue, yellow and white flowers.

When June came, the big boys got ready, with their fathers and hired
men, to leave their village home, and go up to spend the whole summer
on the spicy pastures, that is, the Alps, high up on the mountains, to
stay until near October. There the bees would gather honey from the
nectar in the blossoms, and cows would feed on the sweet juices of the
grass. It was at this season that the milk, cream, butter and cheese,
were the very best of the year. Many a growing boy, counting on his
fingers the days, looked forward for months to life outdoors, on the
highlands, among the birds, the butterflies and the wild animals. As
for the cattle, they could sniff the sweet aroma of the flowery fields
and grasses at a distance and long before men could.

The day of the great cow parade, when the other four-footed animals,
dogs, goats, pigs, horses and donkeys, joining in, was the greatest of
the year. Then the leading cow, named Lady, or Queenie, or Cleopatra,
often carrying the milking stool on her head, between her horns, led
the procession. The girls were all out in their best clothes to deck
the hats of the daddies with wreaths and blossoms, and to say and wave
good-byes. Pretty nearly every one was decorated with flowers.

Then the music and the yodel songs, and the blowing of the pine wood
horns began. These awoke the echoes of the distant mountains. Then the
sounds, returning, seemed as sweet as the singing by a choir of the
heavenly host. No Swiss boy or girl, even when grown up, living in the
cities, or in a foreign land, ever forgot the yodel songs, or the hymns
his mother used to sing.

The Swiss chateau, home of the Harbys, before the year 1710, except the
first story, which was of stone, was entirely of wood. In winter, the
fireplace of brick roared with logs of fir, birch or oak. The great
white porcelain stove, eight feet high, banded with shining brass, in
which peat, or coal, was the fuel, stood at one end of the main room.

To get into the house, the door, in the front centre, opened into the
basement, but there were two stairways on the outside, which took one
up into the bedrooms. To let the heavy snow slide off easily, to the
ground, the eaves projected from the roof six feet beyond and over the
walls. Within the projecting front gable, between the sloping roof and
the second story, there was a balcony.

The whole front of the house was nearly hidden by vines and flowers
that invited the bees and birds, though there were hives and dovecotes
in the yard space, fronting the house. Cut into the corner columns, or
through the gable boards, was this Scripture sentence: “As for me and
my house, we will serve the Lord.”

Not far away was the barn and yard for the cows and chickens, ducks and
geese. Near by, the purling of a running brook, fed from the mountain
with water, cold, and clear as crystal, was like the singing of a sweet
song. As neat as a new pin was this Spring House. Here upon shelves,
only a little higher than the stream, and on the stone surbase that ran
across one side of the low room, or floating in the cold water, were
shallow pans for the milk. In a corner stood the big jar, to hold the
cream, which was daily skimmed from the milk in the pans. The caldron
and utensils for cheesemaking were kept in another corner. It was from
cheese chiefly that the family lived, especially in winter.

On the walls of the sleeping chambers, parlor, and living room, besides
the well-mounted antlers of the wild mountain goat, and the chamois,
there were framed pictures of the great men of the Fatherland. Here
looked down the face of the holy saint Fridolin, or the reformer
Zwinglius, or the heroes, William Tell and Arnold von Winkelried. In
some houses, one could see a picture of Calvin, or a view of Geneva, or
the seal of the canton in which they lived. In a glass-covered case
were dried Alpine flowers, rock roses, violets and anemones, with their
colors kept wonderfully fresh, even in winter. When first plucked, they
were put in hot sand—not too hot—and covered for a time.

For breakfast, the Harbys had honey, bread, milk and eggs. On the wall,
resting on pegs, was the father’s gun, for hunting. It was a real
rifle, and few men in the world, except the Swiss and the Jäger, or
hunters, then knew of this wonderful weapon.

For dinner, they often had chamois or ibex, and, occasionally, bear
meat, for John Harby was a dead shot with the rifle. Beef, with greens,
was common, though the chief staple of food was cheese, or cream cooked
in many wonderful ways, with cheese-cake, or pie, though buttermilk was
in daily demand.

What the young folks liked, best of all, was the weekly treat of
“schnitzel.” This was made of boiled ham, dumplings of wheat flour,
dried apples and spices, and was served on the table with molasses.
When nicely cooked, and, as mother knew how to make it, nothing tasted
better. It was enjoyed until the waist belts of youngsters began to
tighten.

Every morning, the doors of the clock, set in a box or house on the
wall, flew open, and the cuckoo chirped its song and then retired
inside from view. The wooden bird thus gave notice that it was time to
get up and make ready for school.

At night, before the children went to sleep, Mother, and sometimes
Daddy, told them fairy or wonder tales, or of the heroes that had made
Switzerland free, or the Bible stories, till they knew these by heart,
and, when they grew up, told them to their children.

With the young men of the village, it was not always work—in winter
with the cows and goats, in the dairy at home; or, in summer the
driving of the flock up to the mountain pastures, with the cheesemaking
there. Tired of the monotony of country life, the sturdy lads welcomed
the advent of the soldiers, in bright, gay uniforms, with a band of
music, and the recruiting officer at their head.

With their flags and banners, these strangers came from the great world
outside, to enlist young men for military service, in France or
Germany, or for the Scotch Brigade in the Netherlands, or, to serve the
King of England, in America. All the village folk turned out and the
mothers and maidens were as eager as the fathers, to see how it was
done, before their sons, brothers and sweethearts marched away. Not
least among these Swiss, who gained fame, was General Henry Bouquet,
who, in the British service, and as comrade of Washington, won
Pittsburg for the King.

For these were the gala days of monarchs and of the soldier of fortune,
that is, of the brave young man, who left his home and country to fight
for any one who paid him well. He enlisted, more for love of adventure,
than for love of the ruler whose splendid uniform he wore. Yet his
loyalty and honor were steadfast. Faithful and brave, he lived in camps
and barracks, fought battles, and died in the hospital, or on the
field.

When the king’s officer raised his banner aloft, in the public square
of the Swiss village, the fifer and drummer, or trumpeter, sounded the
call. On one side of the broad table, well furnished, and with a
foaming pitcher and cups to drink the king’s health, sat the notary.
Then up came the stalwart young fellows, in their working clothes, to
have their names enrolled, to take the oath of allegiance, and to
exchange their pitchforks for muskets, bayonets and cartridge boxes.
Then they took their places with the others, and soon wore gay soldier
clothes, with shining buttons, and frontlets of brass on their helmets.

Often it was hard, not only for parents and sisters, but for the pet
dogs, to leave the dear masters. Many were the tears shed, and lively
the gossip among the women at and around the well curb, when the
village had again resumed its quiet life.

Greater yet was the glory, when the lad, who had left in peasant
homespun, returned, in the royal uniform, to tell of camps, and
battles, and sieges; yes, even of palaces and the splendor of the great
cities, far away. Buttons were a new fashion, then, and the Swiss
soldier came back home, in cocked hat, a coat very much dotted with
shining brass, and opened to show the vest and facings, and with
leggings reaching from ankle to knee. A high private, in those days,
looked as gay as a tropical bird, and as handsome as a prince.

The boys left their hoops, and the girls their dolls, to run and
welcome the returning hero. Old and young listened to his war stories,
and even the dogs and pigeons seemed to share in the joy. The
imagination of the youngsters was fired, and often maidens followed
their lovers to distant countries. Who has not read, in the pages of
Froissart, or Macaulay, of “Appenzell’s stout infantry,” or of the
valor and devotion of the Swiss Guard, in the Tuilleries at Paris, who
“died to defend their master.” In their everlasting honor, one sees at
Luzerne, sculptured out of the solid rock, the dying lion. This
splendid work of art symbolizes the loyalty and valor of the seven
hundred and eighty-six victims, of the French mob, in 1793.

While the young men had opportunity to see the great world, beyond the
mountains, most of the girls stayed at home in the valleys. Yet all the
time, they thought of their brothers, lovers and kinsmen. They, too,
longed to see a real prince, and to look on a military pageant, and
gaze on the splendor of courts and palaces. At times, it was hard to
restrain the maidens from roaming off, down the Rhine, to the rich and
gay city of Amsterdam, or to the brilliancy of Paris.

It was not alone in Europe that the absentees from the Swiss villages
started. Already, late in the eighteenth century, men of the Grisons
and Oberland were hearing of the “Pennsylvanias.” The William Penn
country was luring the stalwarts away, for reports came across seas, as
sweet in sound as yodel songs, or as Alpine echoes, of fertile soil,
which was dirt cheap. The kind ruler, of the Forests of Penn, hated war
and treated even the wild men, or Indians, kindly. He bought their land
and paid them for it, even though his King, Charles, called it his
own—which his friend Roger Williams denied.

Sometimes a Swiss mother, left a widow, because her husband had been
killed in some prince’s battle, resolved not to let her boy die for a
king. So she strapped her baby on her back, and skated down the Rhine
to Rotterdam, and reached America. One of these, well known, married
again, and in Philadelphia reared a fine family of splendid boys and
girls. Such a romantic incident happened more than once.

Hardly had the Harbys begun even to talk about Penn’s land, when a
terrible calamity befell them, which drove them out of their nest-like
home, even as the mother-eagle pushes out her fledgelings, while the
wonderful opportunity offered them, in Penn’s Groves, lured them to
even greater ease and comforts. Across the Atlantic, there would be
less of toil, than in their mountain home, with its long months of
winter and its short weeks of summer.

The story would take too much time to tell, if we tried to note every
detail. For a week previous, the snow had fallen continuously. It
darkened the air, and covered the earth with many feet of solid
whiteness. One old man was full of forebodings of calamity. On the edge
of a cliff, far up on the mountain side, mighty masses of snow piled
up, stood like a lofty tower, in terrible menace, likely soon to fall.
All were hoping for the Föhn, or south wind, to blow and “eat up” the
snow.

Unsuspecting a storm, a hunter had, some days before, gone among the
heights, taking his provisions and blanket, hoping to stalk an ibex, or
at least a chamois. Caught in the sudden, blinding, whirling snow, and
unable to find the path homeward, he built a rude shelter at the edge
of the forest. This was opposite an overhanging rock, under this snow
tower, which was steadily rising in height. Having enough rations in
his wallet to last him four days, he waited till sunshine should come,
hoping to see a troop of chamois, making their way down over the narrow
ledge of rock, in search of moss for food. Fortunately for him, but
calamitously for the village, his rifle shot brought down a fat buck.

Yet immediately upon that shock of the air, following the gunfire and
report, fell tons upon tons of snow and ice. The mass, rolling down
with lightning speed, increased in size at every yard. It fell on the
village, overwhelming houses, barns, stables and gardens. Where
yesterday were happy homes were now many human victims. Today, the
mouldering stones in the church yard witness to the awful catastrophe.
Pathetic is a similar record, made ten years later, in another village.
“Dear God! What sorrow! Eighty-eight in a single tomb.”

Happily the Harby home, being on the edge of the avalanche’s track,
though flattened out, like a sheet of mussed-up paper, had no human
dead within its walls; though in the barn every living animal was
smothered by the weight of white.

Digging out a few necessary things, including the trusty rifle,
unharmed, they packed them up, because they would be very necessary in
the new home, or because they were linked with affectionate memories.
They were happy in finding the stocking full of coin, which had been
hidden behind a loose stone in the fireplace. Then the family made its
way to Basle, on the Rhine. There they took boat, down the river to
Rotterdam; where, with hundreds of other Swiss folks, they were
sheltered, helped and kindly treated by the Dutch ministers and people.

Getting on board the ship “Arms of Rotterdam,” under the tricolor flag,
red, white and blue of the Republic, they crossed the Atlantic and in
Penn’s “Holy Experiment,” where thousands of Swiss folk had arrived
before them, they reached safely the city of Brotherly Love. It was
then little larger than a village. When the people from Wales, England,
Holland and Germany first came and were building their houses, they had
lived in caves, on the banks of the Delaware river, where now is Front
Street; but when Harbys arrived there were hundreds of completed
houses, some in brick, or stone, but mostly in wood. Yet even from the
beginning, the land was properly surveyed, and laid out in squares,
and, with four large parks, and planted with trees, while some of the
streets were paved. In truth, for order, and beauty, and liberal ideas,
this was the queen city of America.








II

THE SWISS HOME NEAR VALLEY FORGE


Only a few days did the Harbys abide on the banks of the Delaware, in
the little city of Brotherly Love, where lived a few hundred people,
mostly Friends, in drab clothes. Then, from one of William Penn’s land
agents—the ancestor of American bishops—John Harby bought a farm. It
lay on a piece of high ground, at Barren Hill, which was part of a
ridge near the Schuylkill river. It was named after the bears that were
still numerous in the forests that then clothed the land. It is known
as Lafayette Hill and we shall soon see why. The neighborhood afforded
good hunting, for any young man, that had brought his chamois rifle
with him. One of the active fellows, who was reckoned a sure shot, was
Harby’s nephew, of whom we shall hear later. He shot many deer and the
family had venison often. Not far away was White Marsh. Over in another
direction, was Fox Chase, where they had hounds and hunted foxes.

Only a few miles distant, across the Hidden Stream, or Schuylkill, as
the Dutch had named the river, was the valley forge, where the farmers
in the region around had their tools made and mended.

Not far away, on the hill, was soon built Saint Peter’s Lutheran
church. In Switzerland, the Harbys had been members of the Reformed
church, but all the people of the neighborhood now worshipped together.

The Harbys made their house first of logs of wood, notched at the
corners. Trees were plentiful, and the forest was near at hand. Many
things were about them to remind them of their old home, though there
were no glaciers, or avalanches, or high mountains, with snow lying on
them all the year round, and all was as yet rough, in the new country.

When the barn had been built, the cows, pigs and fowls made things look
friendly and sociable. They had no cuckoo clock any more, but it was
really homelike to hear the cocks crow at sunrise. This sound was
certainly much pleasanter, indeed, than to hear the howling of the
wolves at night. Occasionally, early in the morning, the Harbys would
see a bear in the barnyard, and they had to keep the chickens locked up
in the chicken house, for foxes were plentiful, and always on the watch
for a poultry dinner. Wild turkeys—a new sort of bird for them—and wild
pigeons were plentiful. Benjamin Franklin, who was then a little boy in
Boston, the oldest in a family of seventeen children, when a grown man,
wanted to make the wild turkey, which gives food to man, the national
emblem, instead of the eagle, that lives on flesh and kills little
birds.

Inside the house, there were wide seats at the chimney side, and puss
purred in front of the great hearth fire. Outside, the dogs kept watch
and ward, and often had a lively tussle with wolves and young bears.

When spring time came, the girls went blossom hunting. One very common
flower, which they had known in Switzerland, the Pearly Everlasting,
somehow reminded them of the Edelweiss. Daddy, who loved trees, almost
to worship, saluted the same species as those which he had seen growing
in the Old World—fir, birch, pine, and oak; but the persimmon tree was
new to him and he enjoyed the autumn fruit, which the frost seemed to
ripen; while the sugar maple was as good as a fairy tale, for the idea
of a tree bearing candy was wonderful. In fact, the Harbys hailed the
trees as friends, true and tried, with reverence and awe.

A generation came and went, and soon there was a little God’s acre
around the little church on the hill top. The Hess family, from Zurich,
also had made their home near by, at Whitemarsh, and several couples of
the young men and maidens of the two households made love and married
together.

The fathers and mothers, who had known the old home land beyond the
sea, talked often of chamois and ibex, and edelweiss and the rock
roses, and the meadow flowers, and the cows and the yodel music. When
they spoke of the “Alps,” they meant the summer pastures high up, and
not mountains. At times, especially in June, they felt homesick for the
yodel songs and the Alpine horn echoes. They spoke often of the curious
things at Neuchatel, and Berne, and Zurich, and the Lake of the Four
Cantons. They sang the hymns of Heimath, or Home, and of the
Fatherland, and of the Heavenly Land, and recounted the exploits of the
Swiss heroes. The children were taught not to be afraid of the dark,
and all knew by heart many hymns, especially that beginning, “Alone,
yet not alone with God am I.”

On the other hand, the new generation told of other game, deer, bear,
wolf, wild turkey and pigeons, and of new fruits like the persimmon.
Their model, in civil life, was the good governor, William Penn, and
their hero in valor and rescue of captives was Colonel Bouquet, the
Swiss soldier in the service of their sovereign, Queen Anne. They loved
her, also, because she loved the yodel music. Later came the kings
named George. The flag over them was the Union Jack, which they saw
float on the staff, when they went to Philadelphia often, and,
occasionally, to Lancaster.

Yet all this time, one great desire and romantic longing of the maidens
was unfulfilled. The yearning of the girls, as they became sweethearts,
wives, and mothers, was handed down, as if it were a family heirloom,
to see a real prince or a nobleman, or a man with a title. They hoped
that some officer, in resplendent uniform, such as they had seen in
their home village, would come into their neighborhood, for they were
tired of Quaker drab. Even though their grandparents were democratic by
their Swiss inheritance, and almost by instinct, and though reared in
the oldest of republics, and accustomed to town meetings, the little
maids, Sarah and Hannah, longed to see a real pageant, a prince; or at
least a marquis, and something of the pomp of courts or even of armies.
They heard that the Prince of Wales, who became King George II, had
indeed visited New York, and skated on the ice of the Collect Pond; but
he had come and gone, as a private person, and it was not likely that
either he, again, or even King George III would ever visit the
colonies.

Before the two little girls could know what it all meant, the Harbys
heard, in their home at Barren Hill, of the Continental Congress, held
in Carpenters’ Hall, in Philadelphia. In this gathering Canada was
represented. Then, it was hoped that there would be fourteen stripes in
the flag, which the Philadelphia City Troop of cavalry were making. But
when their flag was unfurled and the handsome horsemen escorted Colonel
George Washington, of Virginia, to Cambridge, many felt very sorry,
that there were only thirteen, instead of the longed-for fourteen
stripes, and hoped, even yet, that Canada would join.

War broke out. From the new State House, in Philadelphia, then one of
the most wonderful buildings in any of the colonies, floated the flag
of thirteen stripes, red and white, and independence was proclaimed.

Then, after two years, this same flag had as many stars in its blue
field. Yet the armies of the Congress met with many disasters, and, one
day the little girls out in the garden heard the boom of the cannon at
Brandywine. It was not very long afterward, that the Continentals
marched past the house, to make camp and winter quarters at Valley
Forge.

Among the young men riding on horses, as Washington’s body guard of
young troopers, who were mostly Pennsylvania Swiss, or Germans, was
John Harby’s nephew, Gustave. At the camp, besides being an orderly at
headquarters, it was his special duty to raise, at sunrise, and lower,
at sunset, the thirteen-striped flag, which now bore no longer the
British Union Jack, but a blue field, in which, in a circle of glory,
were thirteen stars; and he and his comrades rejoiced that the colonies
had been made independent, and each stripe and star stood for a state,
and all in a union. It was his people that, first of all, spoke of
Washington as the “Father of his country”; or, as the minister said,
“Pater Patriæ.”

The winter of 1777–78 had nearly passed and many a skirmish, between
the British foraging parties, of Hessians and red coats, and the
American Colonel Sheldon’s dragoons, had taken place. One fine morning,
in the spring, while Gustave was taking breakfast, with his little
cousins at the Harbys, all were startled by the firing of guns at
Valley Forge. Evidently the Continentals were busy burning powder, but
why?

“A battle?” asked the mother as she glanced at her husband.

At the first roll of the echoes, the young trooper, Gustave, put on his
bearskin cap, seized his carbine, and rushed out to hear. Putting his
ear to the ground, he made up his mind that the reports were too
regular for war. Then, entering the house, he declared it must be a
salvo—a feu de jeu—or joy volley.

“For what, I wonder,” asked Mrs. Harby.

“I know,” said Daddy. “We have been waiting for news of the alliance
with France. Now, our Continentals and the sparkling Bourbonnieres will
march together. Whole companies, among these, are our Swiss boys.” Then
he hummed, joyfully, the old German tune of Yankee Doodle. Perhaps now,
a French fleet would come up the Delaware, blockade Philadelphia, and
capture Howe’s army, as Burgoyne had been captured. At the table, they
kept on talking a long time.

Only a few days later, a line of wagons, driven up from a southern
port, brought in supplies from France. Five of the wagons contained
saddles, bridles, stirrups and a full equipment, made in France, for
the whole regiment of Colonel Sheldon’s cavalry, which had been at
first raised in Connecticut. This was Lafayette’s own gift, and had
been paid from out of his own purse. The Continental Congress had given
him a commission in the American army, with the rank of Major-General.

“Why, that sounds like a prince,” murmured little Sarah to herself.

A few days later, and another surprise broke the monotony of life at
Barren Hill. Washington wished to know what the British in Philadelphia
were going to do. Would they attack him? Or, considering his military
position too strong to risk assault, would they retire to New York?
Would Washington capture, or be captured?

So May 18, 1778, the commander-in-chief, who trusted the young French
nobleman, as fully as he would trust his oldest general, placed
twenty-two hundred of his best soldiers and five cannon under his
charge. He was to reconnoitre, as the French say. So Lafayette led his
force out, and took up to a strong position on Barren Hill.

This movement was quickly known in Philadelphia, and at once three
columns of British and Hessians marched to entrap and capture Lafayette
and the Continentals.

All this is national history. Yet it was like a fairy tale to the
little Harby maids, Sarah and Hannah, to see the Continental soldiers,
now so proud of their drilling, during the long winter, by Baron
Steuben. Father Hess, the night before, had sent to the nobleman from
over the great sea, an invitation to breakfast. You may be sure that
Mrs. Harby got out her best gold-rimmed China cups and saucers, and her
caraway-seed cakes, her Zurich cookies, and her best “Dutch cake,” and
silver teapot, to set before the real, live Marquis. When she told her
two small daughters that she would let them wait on the young nobleman,
they clapped their hands for joy. At last, they were to see, not,
indeed, a prince, but a nobleman who had been at Court, talked with the
mighty monarch, and who had a bride and a chateau in France.

The little girls, as they brought Lafayette his food, noticed his deep
red hair, his fine forehead, his pleasing mouth and firm chin, but,
most of all, his clear hazel eyes. More than once, he smiled his
thanks, and this was what they, long afterward, told most about. In
fact, the great man’s features seemed to bespeak strength, more than
beauty; but this was what all the Harbys liked.

Did the British capture Lafayette? Did he show fear, when Gustave Hess,
the scout, rode up and told of three columns of red coats marching by
different roads? Two were on one side of the Schuylkill river, and one
on the other. Surely, with their five thousand men, they would, as they
fully expected, trap the Marquis; and, they might even bag his whole
force. A ship was actually waiting in the Delaware river to take the
young Frenchman a captive to London. Indeed, Lord Howe had invited some
handsome Tory ladies to dinner, expecting to outwit Washington and to
have the young Frenchman to sit as guest and captive.

But the young general spoiled this game. Mounting his horse, he ordered
out, what military men call “false heads of columns.” This made the
British, who knew not what might be behind these front files, halt,
until reinforced. Then they deployed, and, bringing up their cannon,
sent a round shot that smashed the axle tree of one of Lafayette’s
field pieces.

Must, then, the young Frenchman abandon his gun, and face Washington,
with one of his cannon lost by capture? Not he! Turning the heads of
their horses, the artillery men of the Continentals drove into the
Harby farm yard, drew out a wagon, lashed the dismounted cannon to the
hind axle, hitched on the team, and, whipping up the steeds, the whole
battery dashed toward Matson’s ford, and reached safely the camp at
Valley Forge. Seven gallant American lads, in the rear guard of the
young Continentals, died in the fight to save the guns for their
country.

But the rest of that breakfast, and all there was in the spring house,
pantry, kitchen and even in the ovens, was eaten by the hot and hungry,
and mad, and disappointed Hessians. The two little girls lived to tell
what they had seen, and another little sister, born before the war was
over, stood with them on Chestnut street in 1824, to see the Marquis de
Lafayette again. He was riding in the parade and amid the general joy,
when the City Troop, with their old thirteen-striped flag, of 1775,
escorted the aged friend of America. And the same cannon that was saved
at Barren Hill thundered welcome from its iron throat.








III

THE WONDERFUL ALPINE HORN


When the little boys and girls, who read these Swiss fairy tales, grow
up to be big and travel in Switzerland, they will enjoy the Alpine
horn.

Nearly every shepherd lad in the mountains knows how to blow it. It is
made of wood, and is about half as long as an ordinary broom. Its butt,
or heavy end, rests on the ground. When a man blows a long blast, the
sound, at first, when one is too near, does not seem to be very
pleasing; for distance lends enchantment to the sound. But wait a
moment, and listen! Far off across the valley, the strains are caught
up, and sent back from the tops of the high mountains. Then it sounds
as if a great choir of angels had come down from Heaven to sing glory
to God, and to bring greetings to all good souls. Nowhere in all the
world is there such sweet music made by echoes.

Sometimes there is a double set of echoes, like one rainbow inside of
another. Then, it makes one think of a choir of little angels, that
sing a second time, after the first heavenly chorus has ceased.

How the Swiss people first received the Alpine horn, as a gift from the
fairies, is told in the story of a faithful shepherd’s boy, named
Perrod. He had to work hard all day, in tending the cows that grazed on
the high mountain pastures, which the natives call the Alps. But when
foreign people speak of “the Alps,” they mean the ranges of mountains
themselves.

In winter, these level stretches of ground are covered with snow and
ice, but by the month of June, it is warm enough for the grass and
flowers to grow. Then the cowboys and cheese makers go up with their
cattle. At night, Perrod, having milked the cows, skimmed the cream off
the milk, hung the great caldron over the fire, and made the cheese.

By this time, that is, well into the late hours, Perrod was almost
tired to death. After calling “good-night” to Luquette, his sweetheart,
who lived across the valley, and hearing her greeting in answer, he
climbed up the ladder, into the loft, and lay down on his bed. This was
only a pile of straw, but he was asleep almost the very moment he
touched it, for he was a healthy lad and the mountain air was better
than medicine. It was especially good for sound sleep, and he knew he
must get up early, at sunrise, to lead the cows and goats out to
pasture. Then the all-day concert, of tinkling bells, began.

But this night, instead of slumber, without once waking until day dawn,
Perrod had closed his eyes, for only about three hours, when he heard a
crackling sound, which waked him up. He thought, at first, the wind was
blowing hard enough to rip off some of the bark strips from the roof of
the chalet, and was tumbling down some of the heavy stones laid on to
keep them in place. But when he saw the reflection, on the walls and
ceiling, of a bright fire, he crawled quietly out of bed. Then he
peeped down and through the cracks in the board floor, to see what was
going on.

Three men were around the fire. One, the biggest fellow of the three,
was hanging up the caldron on the hooks. The second piled on more wood,
while the others warmed their hands in the bright blaze.

The three men were all different in appearance, the one from the other,
and a queer looking lot they were. The tremendously tall man seemed to
be a giant, in weight and size. His sleeves were rolled up, showing
that his arms were sunburnt, until they were very dark. When he lifted
up the caldron, to hang it up, or take it down, his muscles stood out
like whipcords.

But the man sitting on a milking stool, at the right hand side of the
fireplace, was entirely different, being smaller, and with a white skin
and golden hair. He had a long horn, which rested on the floor beside
him.

The man on the left-hand side of the fireplace, appeared to be a
woodman, or hunter. At least, he seemed to be used to the forest.
Though it was pitch dark night, he knew where the wood lay, piled up
under the eaves of the chalet; for, when the fire burned low, he went
out doors and returned with an arm load of faggots. Then he piled up
the wood, and the fire blazed, and crackled, and roared, until the boy
in the loft thought the hut would be burned up, too. Yet, though he
trembled at the strange sight, he was brave. He resolved not to be
quiet, if the big men tried to steal his cheese, which was to be food
for the family during the winter.

Just as he was wondering, whether his sisters and old daddy would have
enough to eat, during the long cold winter of eight months, that was
soon coming, when snow and ice covered the fields, he saw a curious
thing happen. Sweet music began, such as had never met his ears before,
since he was in his cradle and his mother sang to him.

It was the man with the golden hair, who seemed to be the real
gentleman of the party. He it was, who made the music. He first handed
something to the giant, who dropped it into the caldron. Then, with his
horn, he disappeared through the door. When outside, he lifted the
instrument to his lips and blew a blast.

Perrod was so interested in watching the giant, that he paid little
attention to the man outside, or to the sound he had made, for he saw
the hunter take a bottle out of his pocket, and hand it over to the
biggest fellow, who stood at the caldron over the fire. This one poured
the liquid, which seemed to be blood red, into the big iron pot. Then,
with a ladle, as big as a shovel, and long as a gun, he stirred
vigorously. Then, three beakers, or cups were set upon the table.

By this time, the golden haired man outside had finished his blast of
music, which seemed to float across the valleys down into the defiles,
over the pastures, and through the wood. It grew sweeter and sweeter,
as it swelled on the gentle night breeze, until all the mountains
seemed to have awakened, turned into living angels and lifted up their
voices. The sweet strain ended with a prolonged sad note, as if
melancholy had fallen on the musicians, and then it ceased.

A strange thing happened. All the cows and goats woke up from their
sleep, and one, from all directions, could hear the tinkling of their
neck bells, all over the pastures, far and near. The poor creatures
thought it was time to get up and be milked, but they were puzzled to
find it was yet dark. In fact, they were all, still, quite sleepy and
very slow to move.

Something even far more wonderful happened next. Perrod, after first
hearing the horn blow, thought the music had ceased: when, suddenly, it
all seemed to come back in vastly greater volume. The sounds were
multiplied, as if a thousand echoes had blended into one and all heaven
had joined in the melody. Perrod was entranced. He even closed his eyes
lest he might, by looking down at the strange men, lose some of what
seemed to him a choir of angels singing.

When the last strain had ceased, Perrod opened his eyes. The golden
haired musician had re-entered the chalet, and resumed his seat,
sitting down again on the milkstool, at the right of the fire; while
the hunter rearranged three glass goblets, on the rough wooden table,
from which Perrod ate his meals.

All three of the strangers then solemnly watched the caldron, as the
liquid boiled, just as the cream does, when cheese is to be made; the
big man stirring up with his huge ladle. At a particular moment, the
giant lifted the caldron and emptied out the contents into the three
glass vessels. To the amazement of Perrod, there issued, from the same
vessel, three very different colors.

In the first glass, filled to the brim, the draught was as red as
blood, and it foamed at the top. The drops, flying out on the board,
left crimson stains.

Giving a tap on the caldron, with the big ladle, the tall man let flow,
into the second glass, what seemed to be the same liquid; but this
time, it was as green as grass, but hissing hot, and bubbling.

Another loud ladle tap on the caldron, and out flowed a stream as cold
as snow water, and as white as the edelweiss flower. The liquid rested
in the goblet as quiet as milk, but seemed to be frosty on the top.

Now the giant-like fellow, shaking his huge ladle in his right hand,
and putting his left at the side of his mouth, shouted with a voice of
thunder:

“Come down, you boy, and make your choice of one of these three. Each
has a glorious gift to him who drinks. Come quick, for it will soon be
daylight.”

Perrod knew he was discovered, but he was a brave boy. If his legs
trembled, his heart was big. Moreover, the golden haired man gave him a
nod, and winked his eye, to encourage the lad.

So Perrod at once climbed down and stood before the table, on which
were the three chalices.

“Drink, young friend,” said the giant, “from any one of these, but know
that, in the red liquid, is a gift to the Swiss men. Drain this cup,
and then you will have strength, like me.” At that, he bent his arm to
show his mighty muscles. “You will be able to conquer the strongest
man, or fiercest beast. Besides, I shall give you a hundred fat cows,
each of which will yield much milk, rich in butter. Drain this cup,
and, according to my promise, you will see the kine tomorrow.”

Then the hunter spoke: “Better drink from my goblet. After this green
draught, you will have all the gold you want, and heaps of coins; and
then you can marry, and still easily support your old father and
mother.” So saying, he tossed handfuls of gold pieces on the floor,
piling them up, until they reached the lad’s knees. Perrod opened his
eyes wide in astonishment, for here was not a promise in words, but the
actual thing, that he could see for himself.

He was just about to stretch both his hands and drink the green liquid,
when the golden haired man, speaking gently to Perrod, said:

“I cannot promise you either cows or coins, but if you drink the liquid
in the white goblet, you will be able to use this horn, make music in
the mountains and call your cows, as I have done. Thus your flocks and
herds also will share with you my gift.”

Not a minute did Perrod wait to decide. “I care more for music, than
for money, or strength,” he said, and, lifting the glass, he put it to
his lips and drained the cup dry.

“What was it, and how did it taste?” do you ask? It was what the cows
gave him every day—pure fresh milk, but cold as glacier water.

“Good,” cried the man with the golden hair. “Any other choice would
have meant death. Here is the horn. Blow it tomorrow, and see what will
happen.”

As if lifted up on wings, to his straw bed, but holding on to his horn,
Perrod heard the door shut and bang, as the three men went out, two of
them scowling. Then the fire cooled to ashes. He fell asleep and
dreamed of the time when, in the church, he should lead his bride to
the altar, his lovely sweetheart, Luquette, to be married, and the two
should have a chateau and home of their own.

Awakening at the first moment, when the rosy light of the rising sun
made the face of the mountains blush, even while the valleys below were
still in darkness, and long before his sisters, in the village, far
away, had awakened, he rushed out to the edge of the pasture. Then, he
drew in a man’s breath, filled his lungs, and, putting his lips to the
mouthpiece of the horn, blew a long blast. He listened eagerly, for the
far off echoes. A pleasant double surprise awaited him.

All over the pastures, in the chalets of the high plateau, and along
the mountain slopes, even down to the valleys, there was heard, at
once, the tinkling of goat bells, cow bells, and the sound even of what
hung in the metal collars of donkeys and horses, until the chorus of
bell music was wonderful.

“Very fine, but is that all?” thought Perrod.

But another surprise! From across the great ravine, or chasm, out
rushed his beloved Luquette. Hastily throwing a wrap around her
shoulders, she stood in bare feet, threw a kiss to Perrod, and shouted
to him her joy.

Now came the crowning wonder. From the high peaks, miles distant, and
now rosy red in the dayspring, came back the music, in multiplied
echoes, as if all the snow ranges of the Alps were singing. Pure,
sweet, prolonged, the boy thought of what he had heard read in the
church, that, at creation “the morning stars sang together.” So it
seemed now to him.

Through many centuries, and to this day, to call the cows together, to
make the goats look up, and turn homeward, to seek shelter of the
night, for men’s evening prayer and chant of thanks-giving, for the
signals of defence against enemies, for beginning the festal dance, or,
to sound the wedding joy, the Alpine horn is the delight of the Swiss.
It is like the carillons of the Belgic folk, the chimes of Normandy,
the tower music of Holland, or the bagpipes of the Highlander. In a
foreign land, in dreams, in its memories it tells of “home, sweet
home.”








IV

THE WHIMSICAL AVALANCHE


It may happen, in Switzerland, that mighty masses of snow and ice,
sometimes as big as the capitol at Washington, and as high as Bunker
Hill monument, will roll down the mountain sides without giving any
notice. These crush whole forests, bury villages, tear rocks to pieces,
knock off bits of the mountain sides and kill thousands of people,
cows, goats and horses.

Though large enough to engulf an army, or a battleship, they are very
small, when first born, up in the very high Alps.

Starting as a snow ball, they grow large, very quickly, every moment,
and finally become immense. Then, they roll along over many miles,
carrying destruction in their path, until they tumble over precipices,
or reach low land that is level. That is the reason why they are so
named, for avalanche means “to the valley.”

There are many causes of an avalanche and a little thing may start one
of these terrors. The irregular melting, by the morning sun, of ice, in
light or shade, the fall of an icicle, the tumbling of a stone, or a
sliver of rock, or even the firing of a gun, which shakes the
overhanging, or piled up snow, will begin one of these revolving
globes.

Now in old times, all Swiss folk used to think that an avalanche was
alive, and was having a jolly time, enjoying itself, when sliding and
rolling, leaping and dashing down the mountain slopes, in its mad race,
from the sky to the plain. This was its way of enjoying itself, with a
short life and a merry one. It grew faster than anything else known.
For, while a glacier might take a thousand years to develop, from
snowflakes into miles of solid ice, like a frozen river, it required
only a few minutes for an avalanche to spring from babyhood into full
size, with a power exceeding that of a thousand giants.

Being, at its birth, only an inch or two in diameter, this infant son
of the King of the Frost Giants, the avalanche soon became the child,
which, as it grew up, so terribly fast, took after its daddy. It liked
to flatten out trees, and houses, and smash things. It generally so
frightened men, dogs, cats and the big animals, that dared to come near
the everlasting heights of ice and snow, where the Frost Giants lived,
that, in old times, no one in winter went up to the high peaks.

As a rule, nobody knows, either in summer or winter, just when the
avalanches will fall, or whether they will be made of light, powdery,
dry snow, or of snow that is heavy, wet, and like what the boys call
“soakers.” Yet there are some old men in Switzerland, who can foretell
avalanches, as our wise men try to do with the weather.

Once upon a time, the Frost Giant’s baby, of which we are going to
tell, was born, and great things were expected of it, even when it was
only as big as a snowflake. But, when it grew up, to be a real
avalanche, it behaved very differently from all the others. It
disappointed its daddy and its uncles awfully. The Frost Giants like to
make all the mischief they can, while this one wanted to help men,
instead of hurting them, and made a new record in the history of
colossal snowballs.

It was on a summer’s day, when the Frost Giants all gathered together
on a big mountain top, to celebrate the birthday of their king. On his
part, he was to treat them to a sight of an unusually wonderful baby.
It was to be in the form of a ball of snow, that, when it become a
mighty mass, would wipe out one great forest, two big villages, with
all the people and cattle in it, and then roll into the valley. There
it would destroy hundreds of acres of farms and vineyards, block up the
roads, multiply funerals, and waste so many millions of men’s dollars,
that years would pass away before prosperity and good times would come
again. The Frost King had a map of the route, which the young avalanche
was to travel, and he showed it around freely. This was what the Frost
Giants loved to do, for they hated flowers and butterflies, and cows
and men.

When the white Frost Giants had come together, and all had arrived, in
their coats of hard snow and with long beards of icicles, the Frost
King invited them to gather at the edge of a precipice, under a jagged
peak, that had many times been riven and splintered by lightning. Then
he bade them look down over the landscape, while he pointed out the
track which he expected his hopeful offspring, the newborn avalanche,
was to take, from the time it started, until it had done its work in
levelling forests, villages and vineyards. Then, using the big palm of
his hand as a diagram, and his five fingers as pointers—just as a
fortune teller finds out and assures a girl what kind of a husband she
will have—he told them just what he was sure would happen. On reaching
the valley, the big ball would spread itself over a square mile or two,
while covering up and ruining the grain fields.

After that, it would take the sunshine and warm south wind at least two
or three years to melt the mass, while thousands of people would be in
mourning for their dead children and kinsfolk. Or, reduced to beggary,
they would bewail the loss of all they had in this world. To hear the
old Frost King, as his tongue wagged, and the icicles of his beard
flopped up and down, as the chief chin-chopper of the party, you would
have thought that this baby avalanche, that was to start today was the
greatest and most famous ever known.

“Now watch,” said the Frost King.

It was midday in midsummer, and the heat was great, as he took up a
mass of wet snow, hardly more than a dipper full, but already made soft
by the sun’s rays. He squeezed the mass hard, between the palms of his
hands. To the Frost Giants, it seemed scarcely bigger than a pill.

Then, striking an attitude, like a baseball pitcher, or a man playing
tenpins, and about to roll the ball along down the alley, the Frost
King held up before them the dark gray, sticky ball. As he fondled and
patted it, as his own child, the Frost King called out, “I name thee,
my son, ‘Soaker Smash-All,’ and I expect thee to break all records.
Make the widest swathe of ruin, my son, ever known among men. The sun
is mine enemy, and, through thee, I shall spoil his work and give him
plenty of labor to restore it. Go!”

Saying this, the toss was made and the ball set rolling.

At first, for several seconds, with Soaker Smash-All, it was more like
ploughing, than rolling its way through the drifts, for the slope was
slight. Then, as the incline grew more steep, the tumbling became more
rapid, until about a half mile from the starting point, the baby
avalanche had, by its leaps and bounds grown so fast, as to be already
as big as a barn. It was bouncing swiftly along, when, instead of going
straight ahead, as its daddy, the Frost King, had planned and expected,
it rolled against a rounded rock, that curved up and backwards, like
the dashboard of a sleigh, or the roof of a pagoda.

At once, it swerved to the right and bounded high up in the air, as
though some Frost Giant was playing foot ball, and was trying to hit
the goal.

Then all sorts of funny things began to happen.

The Frost Giants were terribly disappointed at seeing their pet mount
up in the air like a pigskin ball from the foot of a first class
kicker, even before it was half grown. To behave so differently, from
what its daddy had felt sure of, and told the Frost Giants it would do,
seemed like disobedience. For, was not this avalanche the Frost King’s
son? Instead of rolling straight down the valley, gathering force for
its final plunge, at every yard, it was apparently trying to climb up
to the moon.

“That youngster is altogether too smart,” whispered one old giant to
another.

Just a second or two, before this baby avalanche seemed to have lost
both its head and its path, to go aside and play in the deep valley
below, there was a hunter, on one side of the ravine, who had climbed
up the high rocks, to get a shot at a herd of chamois that were feeding
quietly on the other side.

Besides the buck or daddy chamois there were four mothers, each with a
pretty little kid, hardly two months old, beside her. Now it was not
the season for hunting, and it was against the law, which allowed the
mother chamois a quiet interval, and the kids, time to grow up; for a
chamois kid needs to be educated just as a child does.

But this fellow, named Erni, was both cruel and lawless. He had brought
his spy glass with him and, pulling it out, swept the distant faces of
the great cliffs to find his game. Just as this promising family—a
buck, with a harem of four does, and as many kids—hove in sight, his
fancy was tickled. Law or no law, he would shoot. He laid down his
glass, pointed the rifle and took cool aim, hoping to bring down two of
the chamois at a shot. Then he pulled the trigger. With that gun, it
was a case of “a fire at one end and a fool at the other.”

Alas, for human hopes! There is many a slip between muzzle and game. In
his case a miss was as good as a mile, or even a league. In the cruel
hunter’s brain there had been already a flitting vision of venison
pot-pie and chamois steak. He even saw, in his day dream, two fine
pairs of mounted horns adorning his parlor walls.

But the daddy of the chamois family had, a second before, thrown up his
nose and caught a whiff of some human being near. Looking up in alarm,
he saw the huge snow ball in the air above him. Giving the usual sort
of whistle, as chamois sentinels do, the whole family started to run,
as if racing with the wind, to get under the shelter of an overhanging
rock.

Already the bullet had sped, and, despite their speed, one or two
chamois might have fallen, but the movement of an avalanche had so
thickened and condensed the air, that it was like firing a pellet of
lead into molasses, making the ball go slowly. This was what is called
“the wind of the avalanche,” which sometimes kills men and beasts.

Instead of the heart of a chamois, the rifle bullet struck the monster
snowball in the centre, but it hurt the avalanche no more than a flea
bite on the end of an elephant’s tail.

We cannot here tell what Erni, the enraged hunter, said.

Having lost the whole day in climbing and now, tired, hungry and vexed
with disappointment, he trudged back. When he reached home, his wife
kept quiet, his children had to keep away from him, and he did not say
his prayers that night.

On the contrary, in the forest home of the chamois, there was much
rejoicing, for they had heard the ring of the rifle and seen its flash.
In fact, avalanches were very popular in chamois society, for even when
one was seen coming, soon enough, the bucks and does could easily dodge
them.








V

THE MOUNTAIN GIANTS


Long ages ago, when the round earth was being shaped, and the ice was
melting, to give way to the green fields and flowers, huge monsters,
bears, wolves and other wild animals were the only living creatures in
Switzerland. Then the giants arrived on the world.

When, by and bye, human beings came into the land, they told their
children that the mountains were what were left of the earth’s crust,
after it had shrunk into peaks and ridges, humps and hollows, like an
apple, when baked in the oven, making crusts, points and wrinkles. The
valleys had been sunk, by the giants walking about on the earth, while
it was yet soft. The rivers were formed by the weeping of the giants’
wives and daughters, when they were badly treated; for these rough
fellows, husbands and brothers, did not know how to be kind to their
female kin. The only way the giants were able to make their women obey
them, when they were bad tempered, or naughty, or scolded too much, was
to use shovels, pokers, clubs, and straps on them. This clumsy and
cruel way, of keeping the family in order, was because the giants had
not yet learned to love, but were like brutes and knew only about
force.

These giants, though so big, were very stupid, as compared with men.
Their brains were more like those of babies, and they were not half as
smart as boys and girls are to-day. They did not know enough even to
plough the ground, and raise wheat, and rye, and oats, and to make
porridge, to say nothing of bread and cakes, and pies and doughnuts.
They could not melt lead, or work iron, or make tools, but depended on
their muscles, because these were huge and tough, so that they bulged
out; for the giants had terrific strength, like bulls and elephants.
Though their brains were so small, their limbs were like pillars, much
thicker than piano legs, and their arms were like iron. They could only
make hammers, or chisels, knives and scrapers of stone, and clubs of
wood, for they knew no better, and never went to school or college.

When men finally arrived on the earth, and began to plough the ground,
and to raise wheat for bread, and brought cows for milk, the giants,
and especially the giantesses, were mightily interested. Their
curiosity was great, to see how the things were done and how houses
were built, and cradles were made for babies to sleep in.

The giants told their sons and daughters not to meddle with the human
folks, but rather to help them; for the giants, dull as their wits
were, were afraid of any creature, that, though smaller than they were,
had more brains. They wondered how human beings got such big heads, and
they often pounded on each other’s skulls, to see if they were hollow
inside, like a cocoanut.

Now the biggest, of all these big fellows, was their king, named
Gargantua, but men learned to call him “Old Gargy.” He had only one
daughter, Bertha, who was his pet. She was a pretty good giantess, but
she always wanted to have her own way, and this often made trouble in
the family. Daddy and mamma could not always agree about her. Bertha
knew how to get on Old Gargy’s soft side, and sweeten his temper.

Too often, her indulgent father either let her have her own way, or
gave what she begged of him, or else he winked at, and overlooked, some
of her foolish pranks.

One day, when her daddy and mamma were asleep, she sneaked out from the
cave, on her tiptoes, and slipped down a glacier. When on solid ground,
she ran, like a deer, up into the valley, where she saw a farmer with
two horses making furrows in the field.

Amused at this, she stood and watched, while perched on a boulder,
looking on with wonder. Then the young giantess burst out laughing.

“How funny, to make stripes, and little gutters, all along the ground,”
she said to herself. Then, she walked up to where the man was and
lifting him, his plough, and both his horses, in one of her big hands,
she held out her apron, open wide, and dropped the whole lot, man,
team, and tools into it. These she took home to play with, on the cave
floor. Her mother looked on and enjoyed the fun, as her daughter pulled
the horses’ tails, and made them kick. She forced the man to dance on
her thumb nail, and used the iron end of the plough to clean her finger
nails. The man talked and whined and wanted to go home to his wife and
babies, but the giantess, Bertha, could not understand, a word he said.
So she spoke to her mother thus:

“This must be his way of frowning, like a wolf cub. Or, maybe he is
chattering, like a monkey. Or is he crying? Do you suppose?”

At this, the shadow of Old Gargy darkened the cave door. He saw what
was being done, and instantly ordered the release of the man and his
horses. Then he lifted his club, as a sign of securing obedience.

The jolly giantess, Bertha, having had her fun, took back the man and
his team into the valley. The farmer’s wife was so grateful, that she
wanted to make her visitor a nice present. So she took from the corner
of the room something brown. It was four-foot long and stood there, on
the end, with others like it. They looked like clubs, but seemed very
light. These were loaves of Swiss rye bread, that were kept standing on
their ends, in the spring house, and were called the staff of life. A
thick round cheese, a pot of honey and a full pail of milk were also
given Bertha for a present. The giantess ate heartily. She drank a
bucket full of the milk, chewed up a cheese, and a yard of bread, and
then asked for more to take home; which was willingly given.

When back in the cave, the giant family had a jolly feast; at least,
each one had a mouth full. They all smacked their lips, and murmured
“Um, um, um,” in their delight.

Down in the Valley, the farmer’s wife, although the sky was blue, and
the sun shining, thought it was thundering, or that an avalanche had
fallen down the mountain; but it was only the giant family showing how
happy they were, at eating the food of human beings.

“So you see, daughter Bertha,” said Old Gargy, her daddy, “what these
human creatures can do for us. So, do you let them alone; and, in the
future, harm them not, even in play. Then they will give us more bread
and cheese and milk.”

The good daughter placed one of the big cheeses, still uneaten, upon
her thumb nail, as a sign of truth. Then she declared she never would
disturb anything, man or beast in the valley.

Now there was another giant, named Hotap, who, in disposition, was very
different from his neighbor, and often played bad tricks on the
farmers. He loved to start avalanches, by making a wet snowball called
a soaker, and then flinging it over the snow and down into the valley,
upon the villages. In this way, he ruined many houses, barns, and
stables, killing men, goats, sheep, donkeys, chickens and cattle.

Besides this Hotap used to lie in wait for nice little boys, especially
those that were rosy, and plump, and to catch them and eat them up. He
sometimes came back, to his cave home, with his pocket full of small
boys. He thus ruined so many families, and made so many mothers cry,
that they sometimes called him Old Schoppe, which means something like
Boy-Eater, or, more exactly, our John Barleycorn.

But Schoppe was a giant that destroyed many more small boys, than any
other giant, or ogre, and in a different way. By and bye, Hotap and
Schoppe, who at first were rivals, became partners. Instead of living
in caves, they went into business and set up shops all over
Switzerland. They lured young men into these shops, and set them to
drinking poisonous stuff, which the giants made, so that the roads, and
streets, and gutters at nights, and early in the morning, were often
full of fellows lying asleep on the ground, or like pigs in the mud.

Then, further, the two giants made it the general fashion of putting
Schoppe’s drink even into things cooked for children.

Hotap found that, as partner to Schoppe, he could catch and destroy
more boys in this new business, than in the old way. So he laid aside
his club and stopped trying to destroy villages by rolling avalanches
on them. He put on fine clothes, and made his shops very attractive, by
looking glasses, and pretty pitchers, and tumblers. But, finally, he
himself got so fond of the drink which Schoppe made, out of barley, and
rye, and other grain that he drank himself to death and was buried in a
cemetery. Over his grave a monument was carved, in the shape of a
barrel, with a bung, and spout, and tap, as if he were continuing
business in the next world.

But Schoppe kept on in the business. He ground up grain, and wasted so
much, that he made the price of bread very high, so that poor people
often had to go hungry. Out of the good barley and rye, he made the
stuff that poisoned the brains of the young men and turned them into
flapjacks, so that they lay as stupid as stones in the ground. He
filled up the men, until they were hardly better than swill barrels. In
this way many boys were ground up into poverty or stupidity, and the
graveyards were filled so fast, by old Schoppe, that people called his
saloon the Mill. At last, the big fat fellow, with a red nose, died
also.

So at Berne, one sees the monument of Schoppe or Boy-Eater. He stands
in bronze over a fountain. He has boys in his pocket, samples of boys
in his hands and mouth, some more at his feet, and a good supply at
hand, to chew up and swallow.

Everyone goes to see the statue of the Boy Eater. Yet many others still
follow his business and eat up the boys.








VI

THE DWARF AND HIS CONFECTIONERY


Of all the families, tribes and clans of the little brown Folks, that
are only a yardstick high, the Swiss dwarfs are the funniest, and at
the same time the most friendly. They excel all others in being kind to
every living creature and in doing good things for human folks. They
look after the chamois, to keep them from being shot at, or killed, by
hunters that are cruel. Or, they whisper to the fish, to keep away from
naughty boys. They even go after lost cattle and goats, tend the
flocks, milk the cows, make cheese, and do lots of good favors for the
people whom they like. There are the kind shepherds and housemaids, who
give them occasionally a bowlful of milk, or leave out a cup of cream
for them to drink. They know where treasures lie in the ground, where
the best pastures are to be found for the cows, and the secrets of the
grasses and flowers are at their fingers’ ends.

In time of storm and wind, when it is too cold, or when avalanches are
tumbling down the mountains, they keep away from the land, and are
never visible. Going down deep, into the caves, or mines, they shut
themselves up, until Jack Frost has departed and the storms and
greatest cold are over. They shrink away, especially from the South
wind, called the Föhn, which blows for seventeen days at a time, for it
is like poison to them, and blinds their eyes.

To the people who treat them badly, or make fun of their feet, or
heads, or laugh and jeer at them, because they are so small, the Swiss
dwarfs are very mischievous, and even revengeful, and do such folks
great harm in the kitchens and stables. They smash the milk pans and
cheese kettles, upset the churns, lead the cattle astray, tie the cows’
tails together, and put stones and sticks in their food-troughs.
Usually they do so much mischief, that the rude or cruel people have to
be good, and treat the dwarfs with more politeness.

As for their looks, and the way they dress, the Swiss dwarfs beat all.
They are web-footed, like geese, but they cover themselves, from head
to toes, with long green cloaks. They wear gay red caps on their heads,
which look like the cowls of monks. Most curious of all, are their
beards, which are thick and long, and often white as snow.

A hundred years or so ago, many stories were told by old folks about
the dwarfs. One of these will show how kind, obliging, and useful, or
how surly and troublesome, the dwarfs could be—according as they are
treated by merry, or by grumpy folks.

For example, Mr. Hilty was a dairy farmer, or shepherd, who was always
ready to treat a dwarf with a cocoanut dipper full of cream. Because of
this, the dwarfs were willing, whenever he called them, to look after
his herds, when he wanted to leave his chalet, in the high pastures,
and go down into the valley, to sell his cheeses, or to buy groceries.

But by and bye, Hilty, while he was a good fellow, became too
inquisitive. He wanted to know the secrets of the dwarfs and even
pestered them with questions. Then, they warned him that they could not
tell, and that he must not ask. When he got too troublesome, the chief
of the dwarfs thought it was time to give him a lesson. So one day,
Hilty was invited, by an old white beard, to come and pay a visit to
his cave.

When the shepherd, who had grown rather fat, was very tired, after much
climbing up and over the rocks, with much puffing and blowing, arrived
at the cave, he had to stop and get his breath. The chief dwarf came
out, and smilingly invited him into the cave, where he sat down on the
stool offered him.

Hilty was amazed, as he looked at the beautiful stalactites, hanging
from the ceiling, and his eyes opened wide at the ingots of gold and
silver, which he saw lying on the floor. Piles of silver ore, not yet
smelted, and heaps of rocky crystals, topazes, onyx, and some sapphires
and opals lay around. His host, the dwarf, paid no attention to these,
but led him further in the cave, where was a sofa, made of thick soft
moss, on which he was told to lounge at ease.

Before Hilty, there was spread a table, crowded with every sort of good
things to eat, except, that there was no fish or meat in sight. The
dwarf explained to his guest that all the cookies, goodies, and
eatables were made from things in the vegetable kingdom.

After Hilty had enjoyed a good dinner, the dwarf told his guest that he
would reveal to him one of the secrets of his skill, but he must not
ask to be told more. He would be shown how to make delicious sweets,
and valuable confectionery, from a common weed, which the chamois fed
on every day. But this done, he repeated, Hilty must, on no account,
ask for any other secret. Nor must he try to learn any receipt about
any other delicacy, or even watch, while the cooking was going on. If
he did, the dwarf would be angry, and cut off the shepherd from his
friendship. He might even punish him, by causing him to lose his way,
when returning home.

Hilty gave his promise, making also the sign of the cross on his
breast. He swore an oath, that he would not see, hear, touch, taste, or
try, even, to feel, any further than was permitted and clearly
commanded him.

Trusting his guest fully, the dwarf first took a basketful of what we
call “Iceland moss,” which grows so plentifully in the high Alpine
pastures. Then he showed how, with water and fire, he could make the
delicacy known among us as “Iceland Moss Paste.”

At once, after tasting a morsel of the confection, with gusto, Hilty
smacked his lips and began to dream of getting rich. He resolved to
open a shop and make the new confection in his own village.

But this Hilty was a greedy and covetous fellow and often made a
glutton of himself. Seeing that the dwarf had everything ready, to make
more confectionery, of other kinds, he made up his mind to learn all
the secrets. “This time,” he said to himself, “I shall set up, not a
village shop, but a big confectionery store in Lucerne, the great
city.” He never thought more, of keeping the solemn promise, which he
had just given to the dwarf.

So, pretending to be very sleepy, he asked the dwarf to let him lie
down at length on the moss sofa and take a nap. The kind host at once
agreed, and made his guest comfortable. In a few minutes, pretending to
be asleep, Hilty, who was a gawk and a bumpkin, in manners, let his
nose and open mouth give vent to snores, long and loud.

This, in itself, was bad enough, and the dwarf was disgusted at such
manners and much irritated by the noise. But, worse than this was to
come. This ill mannered dairyman, who kept peeping between his eyelids,
got very much excited, as he saw the dwarf doing the most wonderful
things, with common weeds and flowers. Out of these he drew juices,
flavors, coloring matter, aromatic liquids, and sugars, either in
crystal, or in the form of gum or candy. Out of his pots, pans and
kettles, he poured what looked like the most tempting things to eat.
They smelled so delightful that Hilty forgot himself and, with his eyes
wide open, stared at the dwarf and what he was doing.

By this time, Hilty was building great air castles. He saw himself in a
great candy store in Lucerne employing fifty pretty girls, in
attractive uniform, to allure the public, wait at the counters on the
crowd of customers, who came with plenty of money and all eager to get
waited on. They stood in lines, four deep, in front of the show cases,
eyeing what they were to choose; while those nearest the girls were
eagerly buying bonbons, chocolates, caramels, all-day suckers, mint
drops and Iceland moss paste, in boxes tied up in dainty, gay colored
ribbons. Each box was wrapped, not in common paper, but in dotted Swiss
muslin, or fine cambric. No one seemed to care how much the cost might
be.

Back of the counters, were scores of lovely Swiss maidens, in white
bodices, with silver chains, ornamented girdles, and brilliant
head-dresses. These were tied, so as to show they were not yet married.
There were dozens of waiter boys and serving maids, scurrying around
with trays, attending to the people at the tables, who called for ices
and sweets, or drinks, to be sipped. His chief customers were among the
fashionable folks of Lucerne. For, in Hilty’s vision, his was the
resort of the most stylish people in the city.

Out in the kitchen, another company of cooks, confectioners,
dishwashers, and porters, kept hard at work; and, during rush hours,
they were nearly ready to faint. At the rear, two clerks were kept
busy, every moment, checking off the receipts, of boxes and barrels of
white and brown sugar, sorghum, syrup, liquors, and all sorts of
flavoring extracts, besides delicacies imported from Constantinople,
Calcutta, Teheran, and Nagasaki.

On the shop front, the plate glass bore the name of “Jean Hilty,” in
large gold letters, and below this, one read “The Home of Hilty’s
Famous Genuine Swiss Mountain Confectionery and Iceland Moss Paste.”

The highest priced confection was a praline, or compound of nuts and
chocolate, which was packed up in a most dainty box, lined with
perfumed lace paper, and labeled in gold letters “Made according to the
sole receipt ever revealed by the King of the Dwarfs.”

The display, in the big window, of all the delicious things known to
the confectioners, and many of them from foreign countries, advertised
to be of “private growth,” and “imported in our own fleet of ships” was
dazzling.

Most astounding of all, was the tableau over the main entrance. It
consisted of a group of carved and gilded figures, in front of a highly
tinted background, showing the dwarf at the fire, with the well-spread
tables and the dairyman as his guest.

Out on the street, the crowd that stood on the pavement, gazing up to
see this pretty picture, in bas-relief, was so great, that the police
had to make a lane and keep open a passage way, through the press of
old and young folks, so that ordinary people could get through.

So, for a half hour or more, inside that shepherd’s brain, a moving
picture show went on, as if a five-reel film was being rolled off, and
his imagination had spread the screen. The bright colors, in this
picture, of the furore for dwarf’s candy exceeded any gallery of
paintings known in Paris, or any panorama that could be made on canvas.

In fact the dairyman was so sure of the good time coming, that, with
his eyes wide open, he actually rubbed his two hands gleefully, right
before the dwarf. The next thing he did, was that he so far forgot his
promise, as to be heard in his glee. Instead of holding his tongue in
silence, he talked out loud to himself saying, “Am I not a lucky
fellow? By Saint Matthew, I am in luck, this time, surely.”

Hearing the strange noise, the King of the dwarfs turned around to
look. In one hand was his skillet, and in the other a ladle and a
cloth; and with both he was holding a very hot kettle, full of some
liquid. In fact, he was just about to pour out the boiling chocolate
over a dish of caramels, made after his own recipe.

But seeing the lazy lubber, wide awake, when he was believed to be fast
asleep, the dwarf’s whole appearance changed. Instead of smiles, in his
usually happy manner, his eyes blazed with wrath, like fire. His face
wore one long scowl. He danced with rage, and screamed out,

“So that’s the way you keep your word, is it? You ungrateful bumpkin!
Take that, and that!”

Then, he flung the pot of hot chocolate at the fellow’s head, and
followed up his attack, with the ladle and cloth, batting him out of
the cave.

What happened just after that, the dairyman never could, or would tell.
He was so stunned, that he lay insensible for several hours, as he
thought. The scalding, from the hot chocolate, made his face smart
fearfully. Tearing off part of his shirt, he bandaged up his head and
features as best he could, and then hobbled back home. It was weeks,
before his broken head was mended enough, and the ugly scars on his
face had healed. At last, he showed himself on the street, where the
small boys made his life a burden.

Henceforth the neighbors nicknamed him “The Dwarf’s Guest,” but he
never set up a candy store.








VII

TWO GOOD NATURED DRAGONS


The whole family of dragons, that are scattered all over the world,
have a very bad reputation. It is said that they feed on fat girls, and
will not taste anything but nice, tender, juicy maidens. If they try to
eat old folks, and grown up people, they get a stomach ache at once.
Then, it takes many bottles of medicine, besides keeping them a long
time on a baby’s diet of milk and bread, while they are getting well,
before they are in full health again.

But when they regain their appetite, they roam around through the
country, devouring maidens by the dozen. Then all the fathers, that
have lovely daughters, must be on their guard. They keep their girls at
home, for fear there will be none of them left.

This habit of the dragons to relish, on their bill of fare, only lovely
maidens, makes the brave young men want to fight and kill the monsters,
because, with so few girls left, they fear that they may not be able to
get wives, and, without these, they cannot have homes or be husbands.

But the old dragons were foxy fellows, very cunning and crafty. So they
kept out of the way of the knights and heroes, with their swords and
spears, and arrows, and bow guns: and even from the fairies, who cast
spells over them. It was only once in a while, that a lucky fellow,
like Saint George, could stick his spear clear down the monster’s
throat. It happened, only rarely, that one like Sigurd, the Norseman,
or Susanoo, the Japanese, was able to slay one of the big, clumsy,
crawling creatures, with their trusty swords.

Happily there came, once in a while, a good natured dragon; that is,
the right sort of a fellow, jolly in disposition, and kind to boys.
Such a dragon would even invite a well-behaved man to take dinner with
him, and even point out what food on the dragon’s table tasted best.

Of course, the man would not always like what was served up before him
to eat; for a mortal cannot always enjoy what comes out of the dragon’s
kitchen, nor can he be sure of what he may be swallowing. Nobody enjoys
chewing up his grandmother, or his aunts, or cousins, or sisters, even
though he might, once in a great while, feel like doing so.

So when one goes to see a dragon, and does not, himself, get swallowed
up, he had better take a sandwich or two with him, and not taste the
dragon’s delicacies.

No pretty girl, or plump young lady, ought ever to pay a visit to a
dragon’s cave, because, however kind and polite the monster would wish
to be, to his guest, his appetite might be too strong for him.
Moreover, the very sight of the lovely maiden might make his mouth
water, and then, after roaring out, “um, um,” he would be very apt to
gulp her down, at one mouthful. This might happen so quickly, that she
would not know where she was, or even think what her mother would say,
when she missed her, on ironing day. So, even in the case of a
well-behaved dragon, or one supposed to have a good character, any
person had better be careful about visiting a dragon’s cave.

Now there was a man in Switzerland, a cooper, who made tubs and
buckets, and, once in a great while, a hogshead or a bath tub. His shop
sign was a well-hooped barrel, set over his doorway. He was especially
expert at making and mending milk churns. Some of the girls used to
declare that butter came more quickly, and with less hard work, in
churns made by him, than in any others.

His name was not Rip Van Winkle, whose father, by the way, was born in
Germany, but he had a wife with a bad temper. She had a great
reputation for scolding. It was said that her “tongue, which was only
three inches long, could kill a man six feet high.” In fact, some folks
declared that she did not need a sword, but she could fight a dragon
with her fiery tongue alone. Let her but open her mouth, and such a
volley of abuse would be shot out, at the monster, that, no matter how
big, or how hungry he was, he would curl up his tail and run, or else
flap his wings, like a frightened chicken, and be off.

Now when this cooper was asked how he felt, about having such a scold
for a wife, he used to make apologies, and say, “Well, it was not
always so. Once, she was so sweet and lovely, that I wanted to eat her
up.”

Then, after a minute or two, he would add, “And I have always been
sorry, ever since, that I did not do it.”

When his wife heard of this, she called him “the son of a dragon, and a
woman-eater.”

One day, the cooper received an unusually severe punishment, not at the
hands, but from the mouth of his wife. This, however, he richly
deserved; for, after drinking, with his companions, all night, she had
found him lying in the gutter. After she had rolled him over, like a
flapjack, to see if the drunken lout was her husband, he got up,
looking very sheepish. Then he promised to work hard that day. So she
went back home, to get his breakfast ready.

But instead of going to his house or shop, where the wood shavings
smelled so sweet, he resolved to take a walk, to get rid of a splitting
headache. So he scrambled up the mountain side, expecting, on his
return, to tell his wife, that he had been out in the woods, looking
for timber, to make hoops and barrel staves.

He hardly knew where he was going, for he was stupid and half dizzy,
from so much drink, from the night before, and pretty soon he slipped
and fell. Over and over, he rolled, until, coming to the edge of a
precipice, he stumbled and slid far down into a bog. This cooled him
off and brought him to his senses.

He tried long to find the way out, but could see no hole or cleft in
the rocks. After a while, he saw what looked like a tunnel, or, it
might be, a grotto.

Entering in and peering about him, he discerned four great round
lights, like moons. At this, his heart began to beat, his blood to
swell in his veins, and his hair to rise, nearly knocking his hat off.
He saw two streams of fire issue from beneath and between these shining
orbs. After a few seconds, he saw clearly two dragons, that were
breathing out streams of fire, that nearly scorched off his eyebrows,
while the sulphurous smell nearly knocked him over.

At this, the cooper made the sign of the cross, and prayed for
protection. Thereupon, both the dragons, that had got their jaws ready
to swallow him, shut their mouths. They crawled up gently, with their
tails down, and they gave him to understand that they were friendly, by
licking his hands and feet. This they kept on doing, until all the mud,
into which he had tumbled, and which had stuck to his clothes, was
entirely gone. It was almost like taking a steam bath.

As the winter came on, the appetite of the dragons became less ravenous
and they ate little. Like bears and marmots, they went into their cave,
and kept very quiet, as if asleep. Moreover, even in summer, when these
dragons could not get a supply of maidens, they devoured a sweetish
substance, that exuded from a cleft in the rocks, which must have been
filled by a colony of bees, for honey trickled plentifully down into
the gully. At any rate, the cooper got to like the dragon’s winter food
so well, that he wondered how he could ever have enjoyed black bread
and cheese. In a month, his stomach got quite used to the new diet.

He was not afraid of the dragons, and they seemed to enjoy his company.
Perhaps they thought that, when the spring should come, he might tell
them, when his wife went abroad out of the house; and then, if
starving, they might make a dinner of her.

Meanwhile, the cooper was missed in the village; and, as people wanted
their tubs mended, several parties of strong young men climbed the
mountains to find him. They sought in every grove and wood, over hill
and down dale, in valley, and on the slopes, but his body could not be
found. So, he was mourned as dead; for, in spite of his faults, he was
considered a good fellow.

But in spring time, when the sun began to climb high in the sky, and
the sap rose in the trees, the flowers bloomed, and, the cows went,
with the cheesemakers, to the higher pastures, the two dragons grew
restless, and their appetites came back in full force. Hoping to catch
a nice fat maiden or two, they began to stretch, and roll, and to
writhe, and tumble. They flapped, and furled, and unfolded their wings,
until they felt ready to soar and swoop, with all their former skill.

By this time, also, the cooper began to get homesick. Even though
afraid to meet his wife, he was longing to see his children, after his
long absence. He had got very tired of looking only on rocks and the
walls of the ravine. Moreover, the dragons did not seem to be as
sociable, as at first, and they amused him no longer. Besides, he
wanted to see his neighbors again, to tell them of his adventures and
even to pose as a hero. He feared, however, that before he tried to get
away, the dragons might still eat him up; for they snorted, and
bellowed, and rubbed their stomachs, with their forepaws, as if hungry
enough, indeed, to swallow a horse with its harness on.

One warm day, the cooper heard, afar off, the echoes of the Alpine
horn. He listened with delight to the yodel music, as the shepherds
called their cows and goats. As he was wondering how he could get out
of the valley, and whether the dragons would let him go, he saw the
larger one of the two monsters unfurl his wings, which were as big as a
windmill’s sails. He flew straight up in the air, and, when near the
blue sky, circled about a few times, like the carrier pigeons, which
the cooper had seen at home. Then, careering far away, he disappeared
in the dim distance beyond. No doubt, that day, some poor daddy, on
coming home at night, missed one of his daughters. The cooper had
noticed, that both the dragons had been roaring with hunger, for
several days previously, and now he had his fears.

So the cooper watched his chance, determined not to let the other
dragon get away, without his stealing a ride on the monster’s back. He
knew that a man’s weight, for a dragon to carry in the air, would
hardly be felt, so much as that of a feather.

For a dragon had the power of a catapult, the strength of a rhinoceros,
a roar like a lion, teeth like a tiger, fins like a fish, claws like a
falcon, wings like an eagle, and scales like an alligator. In short, a
dragon was a whole menagerie in itself.

So watching his chance, the cooper, at the very moment that he saw the
second dragon unfold his wings, grabbed hold of his tail; and, though
it was slippery, he hung on to this, for dear life. Far up in the air,
the monster flew, at first very high, and then low, as if he knew where
the cooper lived. Then, coming near his village, the monster swooped
down near the earth, and dropped his burden gently on the top of a
wagon loaded with hay. He was off before any one could let fly an arrow
from the string, or shoot a bolt out of a bow gun, or say “By Saint
Matthew.”

As the cooper climbed down from the hay wagon, all the ducks, geese and
chickens set up a concert of welcome. Donkeys brayed, the cows lowed,
and dogs barked, and cats meowed. His wife, instead of scolding him,
threw her arms around him, and wept for joy. His children gathered
about, and so held his arms and legs, that puss could not get near to
rub her sides against his limbs. All his neighbors and friends welcomed
him back with delight.

The next day, his shop was filled with leaky tubs, and churns that had
lost their hoops, and barrels that needed new staves. In addition, to
this old work awaiting him, the orders for new utensils came in so
fast, that he expected soon to be a rich man. He was so grateful, for
his deliverance and safe return, and for his continuing prosperity,
that, instead of hoarding up his money, he presented, to the church, in
his village, a beautiful silver communion service, on which two dragons
were engraved.

But his happiness was but for a short time, for his stomach had
changed, and could no longer digest the ordinary food of mortals, not
even buttermilk; and, as for cheese, it nearly killed him. Feeding so
long, on honey and dragon’s food, had ruined him for liking any other
articles of diet.

In vain his wife cooked everything very nicely and offered it in the
most tempting form. The maidens of the village, thankful at not being
digested by dragons, tried their best to tempt his appetite, with the
very finest their dainty hands could make, in the form of broths,
salads, meats, cakes, apple dumplings, puddings and tarts. The
delicatessen shops sent the choicest tidbits they could roast before
their spits, bake in their ovens, or show on their tables, or in their
shop windows. Nothing would avail, and the poor man died of slow
starvation; and this, before even autumn had come.

After so sad an event, the popularity of even good dragons waned, so
that it is hard, nowadays, to make anyone believe there were such
creatures, that are named in encyclopædias. It is now, the firm opinion
of most Swiss folks, old and young, that the only good dragon is a dead
one, while those neither dead or alive, but only painted, or in fairy
tales, are good enough to know about.








VIII

THE FROST GIANTS AND THE SUNBEAM FAIRIES


Many people think Switzerland the most beautiful country on earth. It
is certainly the world’s playground. Every year, many hundreds of
thousands of persons from various countries, go there to spend either
the winter or the summer. They come to enjoy the good sleep that comes
from the bracing air, to climb the high peaks, to see the flowers, to
hear the echoes of the Alpine horn, to ride over the mountain roads, or
to be whisked up, on electric railways, to summits among the clouds.
With most of the tourists, the effect of the sharp atmosphere is to
whet their appetites, even more than their wits; but perhaps this is
what they seek.

The sick and the well alike get vast benefit. They think it great fun
to find so much ice and snow, and also so much sunshine, as if winter
and summer liked to play together. In February, hardy and strong people
enjoy sledding and sliding, besides skis and skittles, and many other
merry sports. Children go out on sleds, with almost nothing on them, to
enjoy the air baths.

Yet Switzerland was not always a flowery playground, rich in splendid
hotels, where the boarders’ bills catch the spirit of the place and
become mountain climbers. For ages, it was a sort of North Pole, set in
the middle of Europe, frozen in, tight and fast, and with mountains of
snow and rivers of ice, where no animals could live. In this age,
everything was white. Then there were no animals, men, women, children
or babies; no flowers, no birds, no fish; no farms, no vineyards, but
only dreadful cold, all the year round, and for millions of years.

Then the frost giants ruled a land forever white with snow, that never
melted, and their king sat on the top of a solid mountain of ice. These
frost giants would not allow anything alive to come near them. They
made it the law that, whatever had eyes or nose, feet or hands, or paws
or wings, should be instantly frozen to death, and their solid
carcasses packed away in a refrigerator, a million years old.

The queen of the fairies, that lived down in the warm meadows, felt
sorry that so fine a place should have nothing in it that was alive, or
had any color, red, pink, blue, or yellow, violet or green. She
believed that the land could be conquered from the frost giants and
made a country in which boys and girls could play and pick flowers.

It might, indeed, take several millions of years to melt the ice and
cover the ground with flowery meadows. But what was that? Because
fairies never care anything about days, months or years. They never
grow old and do not use almanacs, because not dwelling in bodies like
ours, and never having lived like us mortals, they do not get sick or
have any funerals or cemeteries. They are saved all expenses of being
buried, for they do not have any graves. There are no doctors, or
undertakers, in fairy land, even though the immortelle flowers bloom
everywhere. It seems to be that because some are wiser than others that
they may be called old, or mothers, aunts or grandmothers.

To carry out her purpose, the fairy queen made a friend of the sun and
asked his help. This, Old Sol, as the fairies called him, was very glad
to give; because he had rescued other parts of the world from the
ice-kings and made many lands bright and beautiful. He thought that the
monarch of the frost world and his white giants had reigned long
enough, in Switzerland. Besides, Old Sol wanted to show that he had not
yet done his best work. It is true that he had made other lands look
lovely, changing them from barren rocks and sand, to fruitful fields,
groves and gardens, rich in wheat and corn, fruit trees and berry
bushes, besides peaches and apples and pears, roses and lilies.

Old Sol declared that, with the aid of the fairies, he would make
Switzerland the most beautiful of all countries, so that many people
from foreign lands would come to see it. He would scoop out lakes,
channel out rivers, smooth the face of the country, and make it lovely
with pastures, rich in cows and goats, and spangled with flowers of
many hues. Yes, if the fairies would promise to put enough clothes on
their favorites, and wrap them up in downy undergarments, with lots of
fur and wool for overcoats, he would help the prettiest flowers to
climb up to the high mountains. Then he would promise to furnish heat
enough, so that they could keep warm and live there. He would make it
so pleasant for them, that they would never get homesick, or want to go
back to their mothers in the valley below. In spite of the frost
giants, the storms and winds, the tempests, and the icy breath of the
giants, these flowers would bloom, and nod, and laugh at and defy all
enemies.

What was even more wonderful, Old Sol promised that every flower, as it
climbed higher, should have a richer color on its cheeks, so that all
the world would wonder. Then, the plants, in the warmer regions lower
down, should envy the brilliant faces of their sisters so high up. In
fact, it was to be a beauty contest. “Nothing venture nothing have,”
should be the rule. They might not grow to be so tall. Their feet might
be larger, for they would need strong toes, to hold on tight to the
ground, when old Boreas, the wind giant, tried his best to blow them
away; but to win out, they were sure to do, in the end, and beat Jack
Frost and all his army.

When the fairies were called together, and told by their queen that the
Sun would be their friend and help them every day, and never tire of
his good work, you ought to have seen how happy they were. They all
clapped their hands, and every one, big and little, wanted to be brave
and go out to fight the frost giants. Each volunteer said, “I am not
afraid. The frost giants can’t freeze me.”

It was wonderful how the pretty fairies were perfectly willing to be
changed into humble looking plants, that never could grow very tall,
but lie quite flat on the ground, and have deep roots in the crannies.
They would have to live without much society, or excitement, and spend
their lives in clefts and hollows. What was hardest to bear, was, that
most of them would have to live like nuns; for in the case of many of
them, their beauty would never be appreciated or even seen.

Some were glad even to become plain meadow grasses. When one plump
fairy was told she would become an Alpine Poa, and must carry her
babies on her back, she gladly consented saying, “I am willing.”

The enthusiasm for the war became an epidemic. Some of the big fairies
asked to be changed into trees—oak, maple, spruce, pine, or birch. This
was hard, for those who had been regular chatterboxes would now be able
only to sough in the breeze, or whisper in the winds, and they could
roar only in a gale or tempest. Some even begged to be allowed to take
on the form of the old-fashioned arolla, the most ancient of all the
Swiss trees.

It was astonishing to note how ready, these pretty fairies were, to put
off their lovely gossamer-like robes, lay aside their wings, and wear
such plain clothes, as some of them must, who volunteered to be meadow
and rock plants. But then, the idea of fighting the frost giants, and
rescuing the land from ice and snow, had filled them all with
enthusiasm. It was like patriotism among mortals. But then, they loved
the children and wanted them to have a pretty playground made ready for
them, so that, when babies and cradles came into the land, the flowers
would be in bloom, for the little folks to pick and string around their
necks.

So the queen of the fairies and her wise counsellors enrolled and
equipped an army of her fairies, who had agreed to be turned into
plants, for the long war against the frost giants. Of all these, Old
Sol was to be the general. Heaps of fur and flannel, wool and velvet,
and hair and down, were stored up, to make thick underclothes, and
stout overcoats to keep warm, and all sorts of wiry stuff, for toes to
grip tight and keep hold of the rocks. Then, with plenty of rich paints
and dyes, to color their cheeks, the Fairy Queen summoned the
volunteers to come forth.

As each name was called, and a fairy stepped out, the queen waved her
wand. First, she pointed it upward, to where the stars were playing
hide and seek among the snowy peaks. Then, touching each kneeling
fairy, she tapped with her star-tipped wand, upon the neck of each.

Presto! What change! Eyes, nose, ears, lovely yellow, or raven black,
or shining auburn hair, limbs, hands and feet and wings disappeared, in
a golden mist.

When one looked again, there was, where each fairy had kneeled down, a
flower. Never was the like seen before, in all the wonderful floral
world, either as to the kind, or blossom, or the shape of the stalk,
leaves or petals of the plants. Some hardly looked like flowers at all,
while others were recognized at once, as cousins or sisters of old
friends; but so dressed up, as if for an arctic journey, as scarcely to
be recognized. One had a family of little folks on its back—“As hairy
and furry as an Esquimaux baby,” whispered one fairy to the other.

Here was one creature, dazzlingly splendid in colors, while, alongside
of her, was a little lady robed entirely in white, as if she were to be
the bride of Jack Frost, and marry him in a country where the tint of
ermine and ptarmigan bird was the only one in fashion.

The lowliness, of some of these new born flowers, was perhaps the most
astonishing thing about them. Even when in bloom they were not over an
inch in height, while their neighbors, down in the valley, were all
nearly as tall as yard sticks. One group became only plain meadow
grass, while their relatives seemed dressed for Fifth Avenue, or the
main street of Zurich or Berne.

Although, when the fairies were turned into trees, and were, at first,
hardly higher than a needle, and not one of them had a body as thick as
a thimble, they at once began whispering, for it was hard to give up
the old habit of talking every minute.

Of one pretty creature, shaped like a blue bell, with scalloped edges,
it was noticed that she shut up her mouth, and did not say a word. At
this, one wise old fairy looked up at the sky, and said, “It is
certainly going to rain.” Thereupon, since flowers were so cheap, this
one, they called “the poor man’s weather glass.” Another, that had a
curiously shaped blossom, they named Lady’s Slipper. To still another,
very reddish, tufty, and strong, they gave the title of Prince’s
Feather; while an unusually pert and active one, that had a very
expressive face, they christened Johnny-jump-up. This fairy had
whimpered a little, at the idea of being named after a boy; but, when
told she would have clothes of many colors, she was instantly happy,
and welcomed her change into a flower with a face that would never need
rouge, or lily white powder.

While these, thus far mentioned, were mostly valley or pasture flowers,
and not expected to live very far up the mountain slopes, several
others volunteered to lead what some called “the forlorn hope,” but
they were too full of “pep” for that and took the name of the advance
guard. These were especially equipped for fighting the cold. These were
the edelweiss, the Alpine rose, and the octopetalla. They were made so
frost-proof, by fur and thick clothes, that they could laugh in the
very faces of the frost giants, and dare them to do their worst in
trying their best to freeze them out.

Of the one, that seemed done up entirely in white flannel, and that
kept its blooms in a bunch, like a rosette, everybody knows, for it was
the edelweiss—proud of her name, the noble white.

Millions of fairies gathered together on the hill slopes, to see the
procession start, and did not mind waiting a thousand years or so. They
hung on bushes, sat on top of rocks and boulders and on the
tree-branches, or stood or hovered, wherever they could get either a
peep, or a good view of the fairy flower army, that was to march up to
the heights and wrestle with the giants.

Some wondered how the battle would go, and if the war would ever end.
Could they possibly march up the mountain sides, and hold their own,
amid the blasts of winter and amid the eternal snow and ice, and win
the land now covered up? Not a sign of field, or pasture, or road, or
any space clear of snow, was then visible. There was nothing but ice,
many miles thick and looming so far up in the air, as to seem, at
night, to touch the stars. The jagged rocks, splintered by the
lightning, and the mountain sides, clothed with glaciers, like armor,
and which were billions of tons in weight, seemed very forbidding.

“Just give us a few millions of years, and we’ll surely win,” cried the
fairy queen, who was proud of her beautiful army, and who, with them
all, knew or cared nothing for what we call time.

Fairies never cry, but some felt as if they might weep, to see so many
pretty flowers killed, as they feared they would be. Even the idea of
the chills and shivers, they would have to suffer, made some of the
timid ones feel creepy.

Even suppose they could survive ice and frost, and the cold breath of
the strong winds, that might uproot them, how could they resist the
avalanches, that might overwhelm and crush them? If whole forests of
giant trees were often leveled, like egg shells, and flattened like
flounders, by these rolling terrors, or torn up by landslides, or
ground to gravel, by falling rocks, or carried away by landslides, how
could tiny and tender flowers hope to escape?

But the fairy queen knew the power of her friend, the Sun, and the
tenacity and perseverance of her flower children. So, laughing at such
forebodings, she bade the lovely flowers and little trees begin their
march. Their orders to advance were steadily “forward and upward.” They
were to hold the ground gained, inch by inch. They must even try, again
and again, to split the rocks, and be willing to suffer cold, wet,
wind, and not be out of sorts, or show bad temper, when it rained too
much, or the clouds hid the sun. They must take advantage of every
nook, crevice, crack and cranny.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said one wise fairy to her neighbor. “I’ll warrant
you they will pretty soon complain that it is too hot, and sometimes
even ask the sun to veil his face with clouds. When the evil imps, that
ride on the Föhn, or south wind, visit them, one or more will be eager
to marry a frost giant, to keep cool.”

But the other fairy said, “that is only gossip,” and she did not
believe they would “ever be sorry and want to change back.”

When, after their first victories, the cows and goats should come, and
the birds make their nests, and men and women arrive, and the boys and
girls play, these fairies, thus changed into flowers, were not to
object to have their stalks eaten up by the cattle, or their seeds to
be swallowed by the birds, or their blossoms to be plucked by the
children. Even when they should come to their best bloom, and seem too
pretty to be touched, they were to welcome the cows and goats.

To all these directions, the new plants, trees, and flowers, nodded
their heads, and the war began. The older fairies went back to the
vineyards, groves, forests, dales and meadows, in the lower lands of
sunshine, of mild climate, and of fair weather, and the battle was on.

Several millions of years slipped away, and some of the fairies in the
warm countries had almost forgot their cousins in the high Alps. Then
it happened that some thousands of them made up a party to go and visit
what they had once left long ago, as a polar region, of thick ice where
no land was visible.

What a change, and how lovely! When they reached Switzerland, and
looked over the landscape, they could not, at first, believe their own
eyes. True, it was mid-summer when they arrived; but, as far as the eye
could reach, they beheld valleys and meadows spangled with flowers,
from which floated the sound, or echoes, of tinkling bells, where
contented cows and goats were browsing. On the sweet perfumed air, were
wafted the aromatic odors of the delicious herbage, freshly cropped by
the cattle. Pretty houses, on the flat spaces, or perched on the hill
slopes, told of happy homes. Children were playing games, or picking
flowers. Church spires pointed toward Heaven. In one village, a great
long parade of sleek cows, their well groomed coats shining in the sun,
and one with a milking stool between her horns, was moving up, where
the grass was most luscious. Donkeys and horses, laden with cheese and
garden produce, were moving in lengthened lines to the markets. Here
and there, castles, chalets, bridges, church spires, and thickly
clustered houses, told of villages, towns and cities; for man was now
in possession, and all the world rejoiced. It was like an heiress
receiving her fortune, for human beings thus to enter into the
enjoyment of the lovely landscape and beautiful country, which the
fairies had helped so grandly to create.








IX

THE FAIRY IN THE CUCKOO CLOCK


As a rule, and certainly with most fairies, mortals are considered to
be very stupid. In fairyland, the reputation of human beings, as dull
witted and slow, is a fixed tradition.

Before doing a new thing, men and women have to think it out. They talk
a good deal about “cause and effect”; whereas, with fairies, there are
no causes, but things, and events just happen. If they do not, the
fairies make them.

Some situations, like the sun and moon, the earth and sky, the summer
and winter, cannot be changed. Yet fairies can bring to pass lots of
wonders that surprise men. They can play tricks that puzzle them beyond
measure.

A hundred years ago, before the days of tourists, alpenstocks, hotels,
electric railroads, and other foolish novelties, the guides, and all
village folk, believed in the fairies. They felt as sure of giants and
dwarfs, elves, and dragons, as folk of today, that never saw a dodo, or
a pterodactyl, or an auroch, or a five-toed horse, believe these were
once plentiful on the earth.

In fact, there was once a time, when men had no clocks or
wrist-watches, and girls did not carry at their waist the pretty gold
or nickel time-keepers of today. Nor did the big bells in the towers
boom out the hours, nor were the huge clock-faces or dials seen, by day
or by night. In the castles of Switzerland, where rich men or nobles
lived, they knew nothing about marking the hours and minutes by
anything, with a round face, having figures on it. One way to announce
the hours was to have a candle, with two little brass balls, on
opposite sides of the wax, and tied together with a string. When the
flame burned, say, an inch, or other measured space, the balls dropped
down into a brass basin. This made a loud, ringing noise, which sounded
out the hours. Or, a little hammer struck a bell, and that is the
reason why a clock, as its name was at first, was called a klok, or
bell. On ships, the bells sounded every hour, and half hour, and this
is still the method, to which sailors are accustomed; “eight bells”
marking the end of one of the three periods of four hours each, into
which the day is divided.

The fairies could always tell the time, as well as men, by the sun, but
they were more interested in the moon and stars, for night was their
joy time. The common people had no word for a minute, or a second, or
anything less than an hour. They knew when the sun rose and set, and
they guessed the time of day from the place of the sun in the sky—at
the east, as it rose in the morning, and during the afternoon, as it
sank in the west.

After the Alpen glow, or rosy light, that flushed the mountains like a
maiden’s blush, the fairies came out to dance in the meadows. They
always went away and disappeared at sunrise, for the dancing fairies
would be turned into stone, if the sun’s rays struck them. It was even
worse for them, than for mortals, who, even amid the ice and snow, when
climbing high mountains, might be sunstruck and die. One family of the
flowers they named Four o’Clocks.

But by and bye, men learned that they could set two sticks in a line
north and south, and the shadow line from one stick would touch the
other. They called this time twelve o’clock, or noon. The old men also
took notice that, in the long days of summer, the sun lengthened and,
in cold winter, shortened its shadows. They were thus able to count the
days before the flowers would bloom in the springtime. Then the yodel
music would sound and the cows be driven to pasture up in the high
mountains.

From this noon shadow of the sun, men got the idea of the sundial.
Placing a round disc, or plate, made of brass, or copper, on a stone or
post, and setting on one side of it a metal pin, they noticed the sun’s
shadow going round it in a circle. On the spaces, they marked the
hours. Soon, it became the general fashion to have sundials in the
gardens.

Yet all the time the fairies laughed at mortals and declared that if
they could live on the earth, during the sunshiny hours, they would be
able to tell the time of day from the flowers and the sun’s place in
the sky. So, just for the fun of it, whenever they noticed a new
sundial, of brass, or stone, set up in a garden, they invariably held a
ball, and danced around it all night.

Once in a while, they went into a church when no one was there, and
walked and sported around the hour glass in the pulpit.

Of the arrant stupidity of some mortals, the fairies became finally and
perfectly sure, when one night, they gathered together for a merry
dance around a new sundial. This had been placed, only that day, in a
garden owned by an old fellow, who was reputed, by his neighbors, to be
a very wise man. The fairies were interrupted in their plan of playing
ring-around-a-rosy, when their sentinel, set to watch, had seen a
strange sight and called out a loud alarm.

Now this funny old fellow had a name which, if translated, into
English, would be Soft Pudding. He was a kind-hearted chap, that loved
the birds, and his pets, and children, but he was a most absent-minded
codger. He never knew where his hat was, when he went outdoors, so his
wife tied it, by a string, on to his button hole, as she did the little
children’s mittens with a bit of tape, over their shoulders. Yet he was
a delightful daddy, and all the little folks loved him.

Mr. Soft Pudding gladly paid the bill for his new toy, the sundial. He
was so overjoyed at the idea of telling time by a shadow, that he
talked about it for hours. Indeed, he was so absorbed in it, that he
forgot all about the sun, and the necessity of its shining, or that
daylight was at all requisite for his enjoyment, in looking at the
sundial.

So, on one cool autumn night, old Soft Pudding put on his cloak,
lighted his lantern, and walked out into the garden to see what time it
might be! Fool that he was, he found that as he changed the position of
the lantern, its rays every time cast a new shadow. Instead of its
showing one time, it looked as if there were several times, marked by
the pin; and, as if everything had gone wrong. Then, for the first
time, the idea entered his head that sundials were for use, during the
daytime only.

“Who would have thought it?” he cried, as he tramped back into his
house, hoping his wife would not know the object of his errand and
laugh at him. But he did not tell her, and she thought he had gone out
to look after the cows.

But the fairies were irritated and in bad temper, because they had been
driven away, by this intruder on their pleasures. They laughed at his
stupidity, but their vexation was plain to be seen.

“He might as well have had a wooden head, or one made of a squash. This
only shows what fools these mortals be,” said one fairy to another.

“Oh, don’t be angry, or sneer at him,” said an old fairy, who was a
famous inventor. “Stupid though he is, he and his wife have always been
kind to us fairies. Leave him to me. I’ll put another idea in his head.
For the sake of his people, I’ll teach him to turn the dial upside
down, turn its face outward, and put hands and fingers on its face,
with wheels inside and weights below. Then, he can always have what he
expected, this evening, to do; and tell the time, at night, as well as
by day.

“And I’ll make the new contrivance sing. No longer shall a timekeeper
be called a bell, to strike or sound the hours. I’ll put a bird inside,
to fly out and call out the hours.”

So the next night, the Queen of the Fairies took counsel of the owl,
the wisest of all the birds, and also as fair-minded as a judge, who is
just to all and the favorite of none. The owl decided that the cuckoo
would serve best, and could be most depended upon always to come out,
flap its wings, and chirp out the proper numbers of the hours.

The Fairy Queen was surprised. “How can you, sir Judge, nominate a bird
of bad character? The cuckoo is a pirate. Does it not lay its eggs in
the nests of other birds? How often, besides stealing their homes, it
throws out the eggs of the rightful owners, and, because of this
robbery, the birdies die.”

“True, I have considered this,” said the owl, “but the cuckoo is a
summer bird, that eats up the hairy caterpillars, which other birds
will not touch. In this manner, it helps the trees to grow and the
fruit to ripen, so that men have a clean country for the fairies to
play in. Besides, in the courting season, you know it is the male
bird’s love note, that sounds so sweetly, in April, May and June, and
this song, ‘cuckoo, cuckoo,’ we all love to hear.”

The Queen of the Fairies pondered this answer. She was impressed with
the owl’s wisdom, and, besides, she wanted all the fairies to love each
other. So she concluded to invite the male cuckoo bird to be her model,
for the new clock, that was to make Switzerland wealthy and famous.
Surely, such clocks would be wanted, all over the world.

The land being rich in walnut trees, there was no trouble in getting
plenty of wood, dark and handsome, to be carved. So, appearing to old
Soft Pudding, in a dream, the fairy queen said to him.

“Although we fairies all had a good laugh at you, when we saw you
coming out of your house at night, with a lantern, to tell the time at
the sundial, thus breaking up our party, yet because you have always
been so kind to the birds, and loved our fairy folks, and the children,
I will show you how to make a new kind of clock. It will not only mark
the hours on its face, without the aid of the sun, but will send out a
cuckoo, every hour, to flap its wings in delight. Then this wooden bird
will call out ‘cuckoo, cuckoo,’ as if a real one in feathers were
making love to its mate. Do you not, yourself, think that the affection
of the lover bird, thus shown, will increase mutual affection in your
own house and brighten every Swiss home, and many more homes, beyond
the sea?”

“I am sure it will. Thank you heartily,” said Soft Pudding.

Then the Fairy Queen held out before his gaze a lovely cuckoo clock,
made of black walnut, with hands and face-figures cut out of the wood
of the white birch tree.

When he woke up in the morning, out of his sleep, old Soft Pudding
stretched out his hands to receive the gift, but it was daylight, and,
of course, the fairy was gone. It was the common light of the sun, but
he was very happy, even though he had only dreamed. He proceeded at
once to turn his dream into reality, by constructing the clock.

Within a week, he had made the works. Then, he set them inside a black
walnut case, with ivory figures on the dial. After several attempts, he
succeeded with the wooden cuckoo, that would come out, flap its wings,
and chirp the number of the hours, and go inside the shut doors, while
the clock face also marked the proper point.

Then, he brought his whole family, one morning, near the moment when
the minute hand was approaching the proper dot on the disc.

What was their surprise, when, without any one touching the little
black house, which was set on the wall, the doors flew open, and out
strutted a cuckoo, flapping its wings. It chirped out, ten times, and
then bowed, went into its box again, and the little doors shut.

The children all clapped their hands and the mother embraced her
husband in joy. By and bye, for ivory, which was very costly, Mr. Soft
Pudding used white birch for the clock hands.

Then he set up a factory, and this gave work to many villagers, men and
women, boys and girls. He soon made a fortune, and now, no one called
him Soft Pudding, but every one saluted him with a title of respect.

When he died, he left his wealth to his family. To this day, his
cuckoos flap their wings, and salute the hours, in every land. Because
the wooden clock and bird were black, the time-telling cuckoo, which
was sometimes hitched to a barometer, or set in a toy, to foretell the
weather, was called the “rain-crow.” But, with this beginning, made by
the cuckoo clock, Switzerland became a land of clocks, watches, and
musical boxes.








X

THE CASTLE OF THE HAWK


The hawk is one of the children of Asia, the Mother Continent, in which
almost all the fairy tales were first told. From the beginning, this
sharp-eyed bird of prey has had the reputation of being very cruel, and
of eating up the little birds. It has a curved beak, terribly sharp
talons, and very large and strong wings. The young fowls in the
barnyard are afraid, even of the hawk’s shadow, and they quickly run to
cover. For the hawk, sometimes called a falcon, can fly up very high
and then swoop down on the small, or tame birds, kill them at once and
carry them off. Little chickens, to be safe, had better run at once
under the wings of their mother. Sometimes, the old hen faces the
falcon so bravely, that she can save her brood and fight hard, until a
man comes with a gun and drives off this pirate of the air. In
Switzerland, they call the big hawk the Mountain Condor, or the Robber
Bird. It seizes many a lamb, kid, or puppy, and its nest is, most of
the time, built in the midst of bones.

In the Far East, before rifles were invented, falcons were kept, fed,
trained, and taught to hunt such birds as the crane, pigeons, ducks,
geese and barnyard fowls, and the many little feathered fellows, that
live in the woods and swamps. Men would go in among the rushes and the
bushes, and drive out, from the covert, both the smaller and larger
birds. Out in the fields, or on the hills, the falconer would be in
waiting to let his trained birds fly at them, with beak and talons.

One man carried around his waist a wide hoop, kept a foot or so out
from his body, and held by a strap from his shoulders. On this hoop,
were a half dozen or so trained falcons, with their eyes covered by
little caps or hoods held down over their heads. As soon as a bird was
seen, the hunter would take off the hood and let one of the trained
falcons free.

Flying straight up, high in the air, and swiftly descending, swooping
down and striking the bird in the neck, with its sharp beak, the
falcons brought down the game to their masters, until the hunting bags
were full. Women, as well as men, loved this sport, and it was a gay
sight, when a cavalcade of ladies and gentlemen, as they issued from
the castle, and all on horseback, went out for a hunt, while the
gamekeepers with the falcons and bush-beaters, with the dogs, followed.
The men on foot carried a spear, in case they should meet a bear, or
wild boar. On their return, the hunting party would have a feast in the
castle.

Now it was the belief, in Asia, that a good person, after his death,
was born again in another world, and became a still holier being or
even an angel. But a bad person, after his death, if he had been a
tale-bearer or deceitful, or told lies, would be changed into a snake.
If he had been stupid, he might become a sheep or donkey, or a mule.
Or, if he or she had been too proud, each was reborn as a peacock; if
cruel, into a tiger or a hawk.

There were many girls in Japan, named Taka, which means a hawk, because
of their bad temper, or their cruelty to puppies or kittens. Sometimes,
however, the name was a compliment, because they were quick and smart,
like falcons.

Now, according to these ideas, there was a very hard-hearted man, named
Chicksha, who beat his children. When angry, he threw dishes at his
wife and cursed his servants. One day, when in a fit of bad temper, he
fell dead. No one was sorry, and some were even glad.

After this event, whenever people saw a falcon, with terrible shining
eyes, and beak as sharp as two razors, and with claws and talons, like
a steel meat hook, they said, “It must be Chicksha, come to life
again.” Then they all ran out of their houses to see a thing so
wonderful.

After they had become used to the sight, they noticed, one day, that
the terrible creature had unfolded its wings, spread them out wide, and
flown westward. After awhile, this falcon had soared so high and so
far, that, in the distance, it became nothing more than a speck on the
blue horizon. Then it disappeared behind the mountains. At this,
everybody clapped their hands with delight. In fact, some of the more
pious went to the village shrine and gave thanks to Great Buddha, for
ridding the neighborhood of such a pest.

On wings, which seemed to be tireless, this bird of evil flew on and
on, farther and farther away, until in a strange land, it perched,
tired and hungry, on a very high rock, beneath which was a lordly
castle.

In this stronghold lived a count and countess, in whose castle-yard was
a skillful gamekeeper, whose ring of falcons was the most noted in all
the land. Flying down among the falcons, the soul of Chicksha, now a
hunting bird, at once felt at home among these winged creatures, that
fed on the blood of their fellows.

When taken out on hawking expeditions, few, even of the strongest
falcons, equaled, and none excelled, Chicksha, in striking down, what
the good Saint Francis called, “our little brothers of the air.” So
Chicksha became the favorite of his owner, the Count.

But one day, tired of being hooded and kept inactive in the cages, in
the castle yard, or, when taken out on the hoop and often, when hooded,
kept from having the chance to kill and cause suffering, Chicksha, the
falcon, leaped up from its keeper, when its cap dropped off, and flew
away. Proud of its freedom, the bird never stopped, until it perched
upon a mountain named the Wülpelsberg, in Switzerland.

On this lofty pinnacle, far above the river torrent, in the Aare
valley, there stands today a lonely ruin, which is all that is left of
what was once a spacious and magnificent castle.

Meanwhile, the Count, who was loath to lose his best bird, went off to
hunt for his lost favorite. Hoping, at every climb, to find his prize,
he went up higher and higher into the forest. Emerging from the woods,
he caught sight of the hawk resting on the jagged rock. Approaching
stealthily, he put out his hand, captured the bird and quickly slipped
the hood on its head.

On turning his eyes, to survey the scene, the count had before him a
splendid view of the grandest scenery upon which he had ever looked. It
was the valley of the Aare, with its wonderful glacier and ice-cold
river, and its romantic wild and rocky gorge, where now are villages
and hotels, while its healing sulphur baths are among the most famous
in Switzerland.

The nobleman at once felt that here was the spot on which to build his
castle. Returning home, he summoned an architect, made his plans, and
set about the enterprise. When he had finished it, he named the lordly
structure, Hapsburg; which means the Castle of the Hawk. Here, one of
the most renowned princely families of rulers, including kings and
emperors, that wore crowns on their heads, was founded. They took for
their emblem a double-headed bird of prey, as if they would seize
double the amount of land, and oppress twice the number of people,
commonly ruled over by monarchs. It is astonishing how rulers, in the
past, have chosen birds and beasts of prey as symbols of their
government—all so different from the Good Shepherd.

In course of the centuries, this house of Hawk Castle gained a greater
amount of power and spread their sceptre over more countries than any
other. Yet this was done, more by marrying their daughters, princesses,
to kings and princes, than by victories in war. So this dynasty of
rulers became famous for its matchmaking, in which the mothers and
aunts had much to say.

Now, when the time came, that the young prince of the Hawk Castle House
must seek a bride, he went into the country now called Belgium, and
sought in marriage the hand of a lovely princess, named Eleanor. Then,
the usual medieval custom was followed, in regard to royal ladies who
left their own land to marry the prince of another country, and to live
among strangers.

In this case, also, the Prince having been summoned to Rome, on
business that could not be put off, had first to be married by proxy;
that is, one of his officers must make the journey to Belgium and take
his place at the ceremony.

For, while she, the promised bride, was perhaps the most beautiful of
the princely daughters in all Europe, as she certainly was the richest
heiress, he, the betrothed groom, was one of the poorest of titled
rulers. There were beggar princes, then, as well as wealthy ones, and
the needy bridegroom wanted to use some of the money of her dowry at
once, for he was hard pressed to pay his debts. So he sent one of his
high officers into Belgium.

The ceremony was one of great magnificence, like a pageant. It was held
in the largest hall of the palace, which was brightly lighted by
hundreds of candles and the walls were hung with tapestry in brilliant
colors. A train of bridesmaids brought in the princess, arrayed in her
fairest robes, and decked with jewels.

Then the prince’s officer, who, in his splendid garments, was in
uniform, with decorations for the occasion, like his master, and looked
like him, came in the hall. He had on his head a crown, and at his side
a sword, spurs on his boots, and jewels on his breast. He took his
place on the right, for the bride must always be near the husband’s
heart. In each corner of the room, was a sentinel in armor, and with
his sword drawn. Then a notary appeared. He was in his scarlet robes of
office, with the legal documents in his hand to secure the signatures.
The witnesses were ranged around the hall and the nuptial service was
read. The wedding was made legal by the loyal officer making answer for
his august master, and the notary writing a record, attested by
witnesses.

The next day, attended by her ladies in waiting, her maids, cooks and
serving women, the princess travelled in state to the frontier at the
Rhine. In a great house, standing on the boundary line, half in Belgium
and half in France, the preparations were made, by which the princely
daughter ceased forever to be a Belgian maiden. After this ceremony of
disrobing, she was ever afterwards to be an Austrian wife, for this was
the time, when the Hapsburgs ruled over Switzerland in which epoch also
the story is told of Gessler and William Tell.

In one room, she left behind her all the wardrobe and whatever was
Belgian. She then stepped into the next room, which was all Austrian in
its furniture and treasures. It was full of dainty clothes, fluffy and
gauzy for summer wear, the time of flowers; but there was also more, in
plenty, of garments that were fur-lined, for winter warmth. With
garments for wear next to the skin, that were white as an edelweiss,
and thicker wraps for her body, that were crimson and purple, like the
Alpine rose, she was met by the Swiss chaperone and the maidens
awaiting her, who completed her costume. Then she stood forth as a
bride, ready for the other ceremony of wedding, which took place in the
cathedral, where, with bell and book, in the holy bonds of matrimony,
they were to be joined by the bishop. There, the prince met his lovely
princess and the two were married, and they and their children lived
happily ever afterwards.








XI

THE YODEL CARILLON OF THE COWS


They say that the soul of Belgium is the carillon. In many a tower, far
up in the air hang a hundred bells or more, of all sizes. These are
struck by hammers, which are worked by the carillonier, who presses the
keyboard, as if playing the piano. Very famous are these chime-masters,
and sweet is the music, which sounds in the air. When away from home,
in a foreign land, the Belgian gets homesick, amid strangers, and is
often down-hearted, because of the silences of the strange country.
Should he hear the sweet chimes of a city church, a vision of the home
land, with its quaint houses and high towers, its carrier pigeons, and
river-dykes, and flower markets, and happy children, playing in the
streets, rises before him. Then he thinks of the years of his
childhood, in his old home.

In Switzerland, it is not the tower bells, or even the church-spires,
sounding out the tollings for a funeral, or the merry peals of wedding
bells, or the strokes calling to worship, that so deeply stir the
mountain man’s heart, as do the yodel music and the carillon of the
cows.

On summer days, let one stand in the high pastures above the valleys,
or on a mountain slope, and he will hear the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, of
bells, bells, bells. They sound and echo from near and far. They float
on the air, from unseen nooks in the distance.

Even the cattle enjoy the music of the bells. Just as soon as the
shepherds sound the Alpine horn, or start the call, for the herds to
come home, every goat moves forward and cows leave their grazing on the
grass, or they rise from chewing the cud. Then one may see the long
lines of the milk-givers marching towards the chalets. There the men,
at night, and in the morning, milk the cows. When the animals are
housed for the night, they start the fires. They put in the rennet,
that curdles the cream and turns the white and golden liquid into
cheeses, so solid that one can roll them down the hills.

Everyone in America knows about the delicious white Schweitzer cheese.
When cut open, it is seen to be full of holes, as if well ventilated,
or, in many places, bored with an augur.

So well do the cows like to wear the leather collar, or neck strap, and
hear the tinkle of the bells, that sometimes they die of homesickness,
when these are taken away, or they lose their sounding collar; or, when
among their sisters, thus decorated, they have none.

In old days, when it was the fashion for young men to be soldiers of
fortune and enlist in the armies of France, or Germany, or Italy, or
Holland, a Swiss man could forget, even his country, unless he had a
sweetheart at home.

But when any one would start the yodel song, it made him and his
comrades so homesick, that they wanted to leave at once, for their
native land. So many soldiers were found to desert, on this account,
that the generals forbade any one ever to sing the yodel songs, or play
the yodel music, such as Queen Anne introduced into England. The “Ranz
des Vaches,” or Song of the Cows, is more truly Switzerland’s national
music, than is even the carillon of Belgium for the Belgians, or even
that of the Swiss song, “Stand Fast, O Fatherland.”

In this country, where the music box was invented, the yodel is
centuries old. It is almost like telling a fairy tale, to narrate the
story of the cow parade in June, as it assembles and moves up to the
high pastures, called “the Alps,” which are spangled with flowers of
gorgeous colors. From June to October, these highland meadows are rich
in the sweet aromatic herbs, which the cows so enjoy, especially the
plant called the Alpine Poa. Almost as wonderful, is the cow parade, on
its return downwards, in October.

During the long winter, every boy in the villages looks forward to the
time, counting the last few days on his fingers, when he can go, with
his father and hired men, and along with the dogs and donkeys, to spend
the summer in outdoor life in the highlands. Then, he can be like a
virtuous Indian, or a moral pirate, or an antique shepherd; and,
indeed, the frisky goats, though all named and numbered, will give him
plenty to do. He waits patiently, during the long house life of the
cold time, when, walled in by the winter snow, he thinks of the long,
bright summer days that are coming. Then, he can live nearer the sky,
and until the sun begins again to set earlier and the snows drive men
and cattle home.

The wonderful fact, in the cow parade, that reminds one of a fairy
tale, is the way these horned creatures organize, of their own accord,
and drill. They fall into line and march, as if they were playing
soldiers, or were a company of real warriors, or cavalry horses, going
to war. Each milker knows her place, and, if any young heifers try to
be fresh, and show off too much, they get a hint from the horns of the
old ladies of the herd, that they had better know and keep their place.
Such snubs and punishments are not forgotten. After such discipline, a
young snip of a cow behaves better, until grown up. Then, with more
sense, she takes and holds her place, in good bovine society.

The herds, when bound for the Alps, number from twenty to two hundred.
Three magnificent cows, brindle, dun, or white, lead the procession and
they feel their honors, as fully as a lieutenant, just fresh from West
Point, feels his. On the neck of each, is a wide leather strap, often
decorated with metal bosses, or knobs, to which is hung a bell, often
as big as a bucket. Most proudly, with heads up in the air, the leaders
step forward. The other cows, all having names, follow, each with a
smaller strap and bell on her neck. Here are a few of the names,
expressed in English: Star, Crow, White Stocking, Youngster, Mirror,
White Horn, and Lady.

The boy who is on his first venture up with the herd, dressed in his
best clothes, leads the flock of goats, which are put under his special
charge. Each one has a name and he knows them all. They will give him
plenty to do, for they are great tramps and vagrants. Nobody knows how
a goat will behave. We get our word “caprice,” and “capricious,” from
his Latin name.

Back of the columns, is the big sow, with her litter of little pigs,
all of them. They are glad enough to go, and they look on the whole
thing as a picnic. For now, instead of living on dry winter feed, they
will get the juicy grass and herbage of the summer pasture. Mrs. Hog is
certainly proud of her young porkers, but her music is hardly up to the
carillon standard, for it consists chiefly of grunts, and this is the
only language, in which the education of the piggies is carried on.

Feeling quite as important as any, and always wanting to hurry along,
and go ahead faster, is the dog Tiger. This pet of the family and the
terror of the goats, that give him a butt, when he gets too lively,
looks more like a mastiff, than a collie, or one of his cousins, the
stately St. Bernard dogs.

Finally, as the rear guard, is the daddy of the family. He leads the
horse, on which are packed and strapped the cheese caldron, for boiling
the milk and cream. From his position, Daddy can round up the unruly
members of the herd, cows, goats, or pigs, that have too much genius,
or temperament, or are too original, or independent, to obey rules.
Just as often, in a marching army, the rear guard is the place of
honor, so the last cow, usually a superb animal, carries the milking
stool between her horns.

The cows’ parade marks a heyday for the whole village. The girls are
all out, and in their best dresses. Most of them will not see their
brothers, their beaux, or their lovers, until autumn. So they make the
most of the fun for a day.

During the summer, and until October, there are few of the male sex,
except old men and small boys, left in the mountain or dairy villages.
Many are the farewells and handwavings, until the procession disappears
around the curve of the mountains. Then the yodel music, the Ranz des
Vaches, the Song of the Swiss, for centuries, is raised and echoed
among the hills. The words are, in most cases, very old, and in a sort
of French, that is never heard in Paris, or at the universities. The
notes are very much as their Swiss ancestors sung them, before America
was discovered. The words are, in many of the songs, quite witty. In
one form or another, they are in praise of the work and craft of the
cattle, or dairy men.

The yodel music will never die. The herds may change in breed, form, or
numbers, but never the song. When heard near at hand, there is too much
jingle, with many discords; but distance lends enchantment to the
sound. When far away, all notes melt into sweetness and accord.

Once up in the regions near the sky, while the echoes, coming back from
the peaks, make angelic sweetness, and heavenly harmony, the Swiss boy
has a fine time in both work and play. At no other season are the
meadows more beautiful. He soon finds out, however, the difference
between cows and goats. The larger animals stay on the levels, obey the
rules, and are faithful, punctual, and well drilled. They always move
homewards when the horn calls, or the yodel music sounds. On the
contrary, the goats are often obstinate, and act as if imps and elves
were in them. Then, too, they love to climb and wander. It is, with
them, a game of Johnnie Jump Up, pretty much all the time. They leap
and scramble out of the meadows, and up over the rocks, climbing
thousands of feet towards the mountain tops, and into the most
difficult places, as if they loved to play hide and seek and plague the
shepherds. This gives the boy plenty to do in hunting them, for it is
hard to hear their bells tinkling, when the wind blows roughly, or in
the wrong direction.

In autumn, when Jack Frost returns, and storms are many and frequent,
and the snows heavy, the march back and down is made in good order.
Then, all the village folk turn out again, to welcome the shepherds. As
the men, cows, goats, pigs and horses return, the latter are well
loaded with cheeses. These will be sold and sent to the cities in
foreign countries, and especially across the sea to America.








XII

THE TAILOR AND THE GIANT


All giants behave in about the same way, in every country; so each one
of the big-boned fellows in Switzerland was like his relations in other
lands. He had two legs, each as thick as a telegraph pole, arms like
crowbars, and a body that made one think of a hogshead. His bone box,
called a skull, had only a spoonful or two of brains inside of it, for
his head was no bigger than a cocoanut. Usually he went about roaring
like a bull, and carried a club in his right hand, as long and thick as
a young fir tree. Although he was as strong as an ox, he could hardly
run as fast as an elephant, and any smart dog could move around more
quickly than he. That is the reason why a nimble princess, with a
needle, could outwit him, or any clever young fellow could trap him in
a pit, and then crack his skull with a pickaxe.

The monstrous fellow had a stomach equal to that of a rhinoceros. At
one meal, he could chew up a sirloin of beef, eat a half bushel of
rice, and gulp down a firkin of milk. With his club, he could smash a
hay wagon; but, besides eating and bullying, he was not good for much.
In fact, when it came to a game of hard thinking, and using his two
spoonfuls of brains, any clever boy or girl twelve years’ old could
beat him. Some giants, of course, were more intelligent than others,
but as a rule, a giant got very soon and very much tired out, when he
had to use his mind.

They do say that the reason why giants are so stupid is because that,
when they were quite little babies, their skull bones closed tight, too
soon; so that their brains never grew any larger, while the bone became
thicker and thicker. That is the reason why some people usually called
the big lout, “Mr. Bone Head, with the big club.”

There were other people, however, who believed that the heads of the
giants were made of wood, and some always thought of the big clumsy
fellows as belonging to the tribe of Wooden Heads.

One exception, to the general run of Swiss giants, was a bulky fellow
named Kisher, who served the great Charlemagne, when this mighty
general was fighting the savages, called Huns and Avars. This giant
could wade all rivers, no matter how deep. If his horse, which was
bigger than a hippopotamus, was afraid to step in, and cross over,
Kisher would grab hold of his tail and pull him backwards, through the
deep water and over to the other shore. When fighting with his long
sword, in front of Charlemagne’s army, one would think, from the way he
cut down the enemy, and left their corpses in swathes, that he was a
sort of mowing machine.

After the battle, Kisher poked his spear into eight or ten of the
carcasses of the defunct savages. Then, stringing them on his spear
shaft, like a pile of pretzels, he threw the load over his shoulders.
Trudging to his general’s tent, he shook off the dead savages on the
ground, as though he was dropping sausages from a fork.

Thereupon, his general rewarded him by naming him Einheer, which means
that the giant was a whole army in himself. He also ordered that the
big fellow should have all the sausages, and barley cakes, and dried
apples, that he wanted.

In fact, it was necessary to have plenty of eatables ready for the
giant, for fear lest, when very hungry, he might swallow the dishes,
chew up the napkins, eat up the table cloth, and gulp down the table,
legs and all. So terrible was his appetite, that the mothers, when they
saw Einheer coming down the hill, or up the street, called all their
children inside the house, for fear lest a pretty plump girl, or a nice
fat boy, should be seized, to fill up the mammoth cave that he kept
under his belt.

When no food was at hand, and the giant had to do without his dinner,
he set up a roar, like a lion, until people thought it was distant
thunder echoing among the far off mountains. Then old Kisher—for the
people often forgot his new title—used to pull his belt tighter. He
would even let the buckle tongue go into two or three holes further
back, in the strap. This took off the edge of his appetite for a while,
but only for a few hours. Then he began to roar once more. Again the
mothers clasped their babies in their arms and locked the doors, for
fear he might get in and eat them out of house and home. The farmers
took the harness off the horses, so that even if he broke into the
stables, he would help himself only to the animals, and not devour also
the traces and horse collars. But after all this, the giant never knew
enough to pick a lock, or get into barns, when the doors were properly
barred. Even a trained monkey could beat him at this sort of smartness.

Now there was a young tailor, who was tired of this giant’s boasting.
Although the people often laughed at this man of shears and measuring
tape, and called him “one-ninth,” and the boys at times shouted
“Cabbage” at him, he was really a brave fellow. Besides being an expert
with needle and thread, he was really as clever as any one in town.
Indeed, he thought himself, in this respect, equal, even to the judges,
in the court, who put big wigs on their heads, to look as if theirs
contained more brains than common people have. He read stories of
famous heroes and dragon slayers and wanted to be like them and even
excel. He boasted that, with a bag and a pair of scissors, he could get
the better of any giant living. But when he declared he would some day
show them the giant’s carcass, they laughed and said, “That’s only a
tailor’s promise.” Yet he always retorted, “You’ll see.”

At any rate, the tailor made up his mind that cunning could accomplish
as much as force. So he studied the habits and tastes of giants, to see
what they liked best to eat. He soon found that this monster in human
shape was very fond of rice pudding, with plenty of sauce and sugar on
it. But the tailor never said a word to the giant about knowing this
special weakness of his.

One day, while walking on the road to the next town, to take home a
suit of clothes to a customer, he suddenly came upon the giant, who at
this time was, as usual, very hungry. They both glared at each other,
but the giant, speaking first, roared out:

“Here, you fraction of a fellow, come now let us have a trial of
strength. I’ll hang you on a tree, if I beat you, and you can skin me
alive, if you win.”

At first, the little tailor was so frightened that his knees knocked
together, and his hat fell off; but, quickly feeling brave again, he
answered:

“All right, I’m not afraid of you. Come on, we’ll try.”

The tailor knew that a brainy fellow, with a clear head and a sharp
tongue, was more than a match for the big bonehead, any day. So, when
the giant picked up a boulder, weighing a ton or so, and threw it into
the lake, and then dared the man to do likewise, the tailor answered:

“Bah! that’s nothing. Why don’t you give me something that’s hard to
do? I can pick up the hardest pebble and squeeze water out of it with
my hands. I’ll wager a gold coin you can’t do it.”

Thus dared, the giant picked up a bit of hard rock and nearly broke his
finger bones trying to crush it, or make it yield water. Mad as fire,
he called the tailor a rascal, and said he told fibs. Then he dared him
to try his hand at it. He got his club ready to smash the man into a
jelly, if he failed.

Now the tailor, not expecting to get home until night, had brought a
fresh cheese ball and some crackers, to eat on the way. He turned his
back to the giant and bent over, pretending to pick up a hard round
stone from the ground. Then he pressed this cheese between his two
hands so hard, that a drop or two, of what looked like water, came out.
As the moisture glistened in the sun, the astonished giant dropped his
club. Then, rushing up to the tailor, he grasped his hand and cried
out:

“Comrade and brother you are. Don’t skin me. Come along with me; we’ll
skin other people, and I’ll make you rich and famous.”

The tailor, pretending to be as merciful, as he thought himself brave,
and being very ambitious, walked along with the giant, until they came
to a castle. The tailor wanted to get rich quick and marry a princess,
or at least an heiress.

Strange to say, they found everybody inside the castle shedding tears,
so that there were barely handkerchiefs enough to go round. Even the
sentinel at the castle gate was weeping and had already used up four.
Secretly, the tailor wished he had brought along his whole stock of
linen, for here he might have driven a good bargain, and made large
sales at a high profit. But he told no one his thoughts.

In one breath, both the tailor and the giant asked, “What’s the
matter?”

Then the man-at-arms told them the trouble. A dragon, living up in the
mountains, in a cave had been roaring all night for food. The citizens
wanted to feed the criminals, then in prison, to the monster, but he
refused such common nourishment. In fact, he was the most particular
dragon, as to his diet, that ever came to Switzerland. He required one
maiden a day to appease his hunger. He never would be satisfied with
boys, or men, or even with ladies, that were either slender or bony.

Now the supply of plump and beautiful girls had actually run so low,
that the new victims had to draw lots. This very day, the lot had
fallen on the King’s only daughter, and at sunrise the next day, she
was to be swallowed up.

As soon as the news had spread abroad in the city, after sunrise, the
stock on hand, in all the shops that kept mourning goods, or black
silk, or muslin, or grief-bordered handkerchiefs, was sold out before
noon, and there was not time enough to import a fresh supply of crêpe
from Paris. So everybody was sighing and groaning, and the sounds were
appalling. Some were shedding tears copiously, for real grief; but
others, because their old mourning garments were out of fashion. With
others, it was a case of economy, rather than grief, for black goods
saved their best clothes.

But the tailor, though feeling sad at first, saw a chance of coining
wealth and getting into society, for he had quickly learned that the
king had offered his daughter, in marriage, to any one who would fight
and kill the dragon, besides making a gift outright, of a thousand
pounds of gold.

So when the pair of heroes, the tailor and giant, proffered their
services, the monarch gave the monstrous fellow an iron bar, as big as
the rail for a locomotive to run on.

But when the king saw that the little tailor had only a pair of
scissors, he laughed, until he forgot his grief. Then he offered the
little man a battle axe. It was as sharp as a razor, and heavy enough
to chop open a knight clothed in steel. Thus armed, the two were all
ready to set out together to the dragon’s cave.

Pretending that one of his shoe laces had broken and he needed to tie
it up, the tailor told the giant to go on, and carry both axe and iron
club, and he would catch up with him. When the two were together, the
giant was about to hand his companion the battle axe, when the tailor
began at once to talk about rice pudding. He smilingly asked the giant
whether he liked raisins in it, and would take it with grated nutmeg,
sprinkled over the top; or, would he have it plain?

The subject was so interesting to the giant, that his eyes sparkled at
once. He forgot that he was carrying both of the two heavy things, axe
and bar. He never dropped them, until they reached the dragon’s lair.

But, while they were arguing which should go in first, the dragon
rushed out and swallowed the little tailor at a gulp, without chewing
him up.

The giant noticed that not a bit of butter, nor drop of gravy, was
necessary, for the tailor had slid down, and disappeared, in a jiffy.
Thereupon, the giant gave the monster a mighty wallop upon the head,
with the iron bar. It was so terrific, that he fell dead and stiffened
out, ten yards long. The giant waited to be sure he was defunct. Then,
opening the monster’s wide mouth, he thrust his big fist down the
dragon’s throat, pulled up the little tailor, and stood him on his
feet.

The tailor was out of breath, for a moment; but, quickly regaining both
his wind and his wits, he took off his cap and began to rub his head.

“What’s the matter?” asked the giant. “Don’t you feel all right?”

“Why, no! You nearly dented my skull, when you struck the dragon with
your club. Why are you not more skillful? I can handle such monsters
better than you. Can’t you see that I just leaped into the dragon’s
mouth, in order to cut his throat, with my scissors?” With this, he
flourished his shears, which were all bloody.

The stupid giant was dumbfounded, but he did not know enough to
contradict the tailor, who told the big fellow to shoulder the dragon,
and they would both go back to the king’s court, and demand the
promised reward. So, with much pulling and hauling, lifting and
dragging, the giant did all the work. The clumsy carcass was laid
before the royal throne. The princess, looking on, wondered which one
of the two heroes was to be her husband.

She did not feel, just then, like marrying either of them, big or
little. When, however, she thought it over, she believed she could live
on her income better with the tailor, than with the giant, who was
already beginning to ask when dinner would be ready.

As for the king, he could not decide which was the hero, for both laid
claims to the princess and to the gold. So, for the time being, the
giant was fed all the beans, and pork, and barley, and turnips, he
could eat; but, even then, the tailor saw that the big fellow was not
satisfied, and would rather have rice pudding.

The king and his wise men kept on debating for several days, for
neither would give in. Then they became alarmed, when the steward
whispered, in the royal ear, that provisions were running low. In fact,
both the larder and the cellar were nearly empty. This was on account
of the giant’s enormous appetite. By the following Sunday, nothing
would be left except an extra hogshead of rice.

The tailor overheard the steward’s talk, and at once he proposed a
plan, by which the contest between the two claimants could be settled.
Let that hogshead of rice be made into one enormous pudding. It must be
well sweetened, and with plenty of raisins and powdered nutmeg on top,
and then divided into two parts, or piles. Whichever ate up his
portion, most quickly, should be hailed as the hero, marry the
princess, get the money, and be publicly announced, by the trumpeters,
as the royal son-in-law and successor to the throne.

“Now I’ll keep my promise,” said the tailor to himself, “as to what I
could do, with only a pair of scissors and a bag.”

So, when the boiled rice, smoking hot, was piled on trenchers, and
served on a long table, with a small shovel beside each large wooden
plate, the trial began. The giant went at his mess, as if he were
himself a dragon. To his astonishment, however, the tailor made the
rice pudding disappear as fast as he himself could. Even after
unbuckling his belt, and letting out, first, two, and then four holes,
in the leather, the tailor kept on.

Finally the giant had to stop. He rolled over on the floor and cried
out:

“I’m beaten. Give the tailor the princess and the money; but don’t let
him skin me alive.”

All the while, the tailor, who had a pal, under the table, to hand him
bag after bag, as he dropped into them the shovelfuls of rice pudding.
He filled, first, one big bag, strapped to his bosom, and when that was
full, he put on another. The giant was so occupied with gorging
himself, that he did not notice anything, but the rice before him.

Meanwhile the man, whom the tailor had paid to do it, kept on handing
fresh bags to the tailor. When all of these, except several, towards
the last, were used up, he took the tailor’s scissors and cut open the
bags at the bottom of the pile, for fear the supply of bags might run
out. Meanwhile, he filled a tub near by. So the castle people were
saved from starvation, but they all, from king to scullion, had only
cold rice to eat the next day.

When the tailor explained, to the giant, that he had an extra stomach,
and cut open the first one, after enjoying the taste of the rice
pudding, and then filled the second one, the giant, foolishly hoping
still to eat more, and thinking it was the proper thing to do, cut open
his big stomach with a sword. But that was too much even for a giant.

So on Monday, the next day, the giant’s funeral took place, and on
Tuesday, the day after, the tailor married the princess, and they lived
happily ever after. He had several sons and daughters, and people said
his boys and girls looked like their father, on whose coat of arms was
a leather wallet and a pair of scissors.








XIII

THE DWARF’S SECRET


There is one curious thing about the little brown fellows of the
mountains, called dwarfs, that seems very funny to us. Instead of
thinking of themselves as less than men, they consider themselves fully
as clever as human beings. Indeed, some of them strut about, slapping
their stomachs and saying “who wants to be a man?”

Instead of rating men as greater than themselves, they are more apt to
talk about human beings as slow, and dull witted. The dwarfs declare
that they have secrets which no boys or girls, or even wise men, can
ever find out.

Most of the dwarfs live in caves, or down in the mines. They are very
expert in using fires, forges, bellows, anvils, hammers, tongs, pincers
and the tools of blacksmiths and machinists. They often make very
handsome weapons, ornaments and things of use, such as guns, ploughs,
swords, armor, milkpans, and cheese caldrons.

Now there was a hunter named Walter, who lived in the Alps. This man
went out every day to get food for his wife and his large family of
boys and girls, who all had good appetites. He never shot at any
creature, or ever killed anything that had life, out of mere sport. He
was always pleasant to the dwarfs also.

So all these folks, in the caves and mines, got to like this hunter.
Even the chamois, that he chased, knew that he was not cruel. Besides,
they heard good things about him from the birds, that could talk the
languages of goats, ibexes and chamois.

Occasionally Walter the hunter shot a bear, and then he had a big fur
robe, out of which to make a bed, besides bones for all his dogs to
gnaw upon. Moreover, he was looked upon by the village people as a
hero, and his sons felt very proud of their father.

Yet it was not so easy, as some might think, to feed his large family,
for each of these youngsters seemed to have a cave, growing in their
stomachs, which, three times a day, apparently enlarged, as meal time
drew near. Only a few potatoes and cabbages could be grown in their
garden, and every wisp of hay, and all the dry leaves, had to be saved,
to keep warm in the Swiss winter, which lasted eight or nine months.

Buttermilk and potatoes, and corn meal, boiled in goat’s milk, was what
was on the bill of fare for Walter’s family, most of the time. They
were too poor to live down in the valleys, or villages, where the land
was all owned by well-to-do people. So the entire family, old and
young, were kept busy at work, every moment of daylight in summer, when
the snow was off the ground. There were many things to do, to get fuel,
to keep the roof from leaking, and to prepare for the awful cold, from
September to May.

Walter’s chief trouble was with his poor gun, the barrel of which was a
smooth bore, which could not shoot a bullet straight forward, very far,
so that the hunter could not be sure of hitting anything that was over
fifty yards away.

Sometimes, Walter would spend many hours, or even a whole day, while
out hunting, in climbing over rocks and up the steep mountain sides, to
get even a distant shot at a chamois, only to miss his aim. Or, what
was even worse, to this kind-hearted hunter, the leaden ball, going out
of its course, only wounded the poor animal, so that it ran away, to
suffer a long time and then die in pain. In this manner, Walter very
often lost a dinner for himself and his hungry children, while he
grieved over inflicting pain upon innocent creatures. More than once,
he threw down the gun, in his anger, calling it names, as if it were an
animal, or, at the worst, a “blunder buss.”

Now, so many of the chamois had complained to their friends and
protectors, the dwarfs, about the cruelty of hunters, and the
sufferings of their fellows, especially the doe and fawn, that all
these little people held a congress, in a cave, and to see what could
be done. Nearly a hundred dwarfs attended the meeting, and both
graybeards and youngsters were invited to give their opinions. All
agreed that men were stupid fellows, and had to be helped out, in all
their needs and plans, as well as to have their wits sharpened, by the
dwarfs.

“Here is a really good and kind hunter, Walter. He is using a
blunderbuss, because he has nothing better. He ought to help him
improve his weapon. But what can be done?”

“We must first find out the reason why this fellow Walter, and others
like him, inflict so many wounds upon the chamois; for we know he is
our friend, and is full of pity for the animals,” said a venerable old
chap, who seemed to be chairman of the meeting.

The talk went on for hours. At last a good looking dwarf, with a big
head and very long white beard, slowly arose to speak. Usually, he
never said a word, but listened carefully, until every one else had had
his say. Then, if asked, he would give his own opinion, which always
proved to be the sense of the whole meeting. Every one wondered how his
head could carry all he knew, and how he could remember what each one
had said. So he was generally known, by one or the other of two names,
which, in the dwarf language, mean “Thought Includer,” or “Clarifier of
Ideas.”

The chairman at once recognized him, called him by name, and bade him
come up in front and speak where all could hear him. He was very modest
at first, and held back a moment, but fearing that some of the other
dwarfs might twist their necks off, in turning them too far around to
get a good look at him, and knowing that some of the old fellows were
nearly deaf, he strode forward. Stepping upon a platform of rock, where
all could hear him easily, he began thus:

“The trouble with our friend Walter, and with all other hunters, good
and bad, especially with those who are poor shots, is that with all
their good intentions, they are too stupid. They need the help of us
dwarfs.”

Here he was interrupted by applause, and cries of “well said,” and “go
on.”

“Now,” he resumed, “from what has been already remarked, by the
honorable speakers in this company, I propose:

“1. That we prevail upon the prettiest fairy in the Alps to lure this
man Walter up into one of our caves, so far up toward the peaks that,
getting very tired, he will fall asleep quickly.

“2. Then, while in slumber, one of our best soothsayers will make him
dream of a gun that never misses fire, or fails to deliver its bullet
to the mark.

“3. Finally, that our best craftsman shall invent a new kind of weapon,
with improved barrel and lock. Then, when Walter wakes up, I propose he
be shown how to use it.”

On hearing this, all the dwarfs clapped their hands and the meeting
broke up, every one feeling sure that men needed only the brains of
dwarfs to help them. Now, they declared, there would be few wounded
chamois to suffer pain.

The chairman then selected, from the dwarfs that were passing out, one
handsome fellow to take the message, in the most polite manner and
correct language, to the fairy maids. These were to choose one of their
number, as the Queen of Beauty, to lead the hunter to the cave, in
which the dwarf’s secret was to be revealed.

To another was given the task of conjuring up the dream for the
sleeping hunter.

Then a committee of four, of the cleverest dwarfs, was appointed to
invent the new gun, and show the hunter how to use it.

Now the cave selected, to which the prettiest of the fairies was to
lead the hunter, was one just opened, a few days before, by an
avalanche. In tumbling down the slopes, this colossal ball of snow and
ice, well loaded with rocks, had struck off a part of the mountain
which had bulged out. In a moment the rocky crust was broken open.

Then as if a curtain had been lifted, a great cave, like a hall lighted
with crystal chandeliers, was suddenly opened to view. As the sunbeams
struck the walls, the vast space was seen to be full of topaz,
glittering at a thousand facets, like cut and polished diamonds.

The lovely fairy elected to allure the hunter was told about this new
cave of jewels. She was perfectly delighted, with both the task given
her to do and with the jewel parlor. She met the hunter, who was
struggling upwards, on his way to the high peaks, after a chamois. She
first appeared in his path, and greeted him with a smile. She then led
him towards the topaz cavern. Her beauty so dazzled him, that, while
she went ahead, talking to him, he quickly forgot the miles he had
traveled. Occasionally, she would sing a sweet song.

Soon she had led him into the topaz hall of the great cave, but no
sooner had he crossed the threshold than he fell down, exhausted, upon
the shining floor. In a moment he was in a deep sleep, from which he
was not to awake for many days.

Meanwhile, the master dwarfs were busy at the forges, making a new kind
of fire arm. Instead of leaving the barrel smooth inside, they made
grooves, along its whole length, which curved and twisted round. Or, as
they said, they made it reiffelin, which kept the leaden ball perfectly
straight on its course. When finished, a master dwarf asked the fairy
to fly across the ravine and set up on the face of the cliff, a hundred
yards off, a flat round bit of smoky rock crystal, only as big as a
thaler, or a watch face.

First the dwarf loaded the gun and then, with a mallet, pounded on the
ramrod, to drive the lead of the bullet well into the grooves. Then,
taking aim, he pulled the trigger. The bullet struck the disc, knocking
the pretty crystal to pieces.

By this time the hunter, asleep in the cave, began to dream, and the
fairy whispered the secret in his ear. With both sight and hearing, he
saw and understood all.

Awaking, the hunter found his old blunderbuss gone. In its place lay
the rifle, and a beauty it was, lighter to carry, more graceful in
shape, and requiring less powder and lead. For one who had to climb
mountains, this was a great benefit. So he at once loaded his new
piece, so as to be ready for the first chamois he should see. He
thought it would be fine fun to carry home a prize, in addition to his
new weapon.

He had hardly stepped out of the topaz cave, which seemed to close like
a door behind him, than there appeared in view four chamois, each full
grown and with splendid horns. Putting his rifle to his shoulder and
taking careful aim, though the distance was great, he fired. Instantly,
there fell the finest of the animals, while the others scampered away.

Retrieving his prize, Walter started down the mountain with the buck on
his back. Reaching home, his wife embraced him, and all his children
gathered round him, while his dog frisked about him in delight. Then he
told the whole story.

The next day, he walked to the village and showed the gunsmith the
rifle barrel, which he had cleaned and scoured inside, until, when
unscrewed from the stock, it shone like a mirror. At first, the
craftsman laughed at him, but on looking down into the muzzle, as a
sunbeam struck the touch hole and lighted it up along the whole length,
the gunsmith opened his eyes wide in surprise. Besides a sight of it,
he put his little finger in and at once discovered the secret. His eyes
gleamed and his face lighted to a smile of joy. He begged the hunter to
let him try the weapon. Walter gladly allowed him, for the gunmaker was
an expert. At a hundred yards, he knocked a hole in a plough handle. On
a second shot, he cut the stem of a lone leaf remaining on a maple
tree. At his success, the gunsmith fairly yelled with delight.
Thenceforth the hunter was called Mr. Walter Reiffler.

The gunsmith, with the happy hunter’s permission, set up, as a sign
over his shop, the picture of a disc or circle, with eight dots showing
the grooves in the gun. From this time forth, he could not make rifles
enough to supply the chamois hunters. Each man wanted the new weapon.
There was rejoicing, even among the dumb animals, for the dwarfs told
them what had happened and why it was that none of their number
suffered pain any more, or died in agony from the hunters’ missing
fire.

So a new joy came into the life of Walter the hunter. After this, he
could always get enough meat to supply his family’s need. From the
skins and fur, the horns, and the heads, stuffed and mounted, with
bright eyes made of glass, and sold in the village shops and hotels,
and to visitors, he had plenty of pocket money. For his wife, he bought
a tortoise shell comb, besides a linen and lace cap, and silver chains
for her bodice. To each of his daughters, he gave enough spending money
for them to save up sufficient to buy all the pretty things they
needed, and also to lay in a store of linen, for their dowry. His sons,
trained early to the use of the rifle, won prizes at the shooting
matches, which now grew to be so popular as to become in time a
national institution. This enabled the Swiss people to fear none of the
despotic rulers of Europe, who hated republics. When one proud visiting
emperor asked one of Walter’s sons, who was a dead shot, what the
Swiss, in little Switzerland, would do, if an army corps from Germany
were to invade their land, he answered:

“We should, each one of us, shoot twice, your Majesty,” answered the
brave boy.

All the other hunters were happy, too, for chamois meat was plentiful
in every chalet. Nevertheless, so many of the herds were, in time, so
depleted and the total number in the mountains so lessened, that laws
were passed forbidding any hunter, young or old, and no matter how
famous, from shooting more than one hundred, during his life time. Yet,
even then, there was plenty of meat for all, and very much more than in
the old days.

All the world rejoiced, also, for now, armed with the rifle, the wild
beasts, even lions, tigers and grizzly bears that had so long destroyed
millions of human beings, were no longer able to drive men away. Even
women hunters dared to go into the jungle and face the terrible
creatures.

In time, the rifle was made lighter to carry, prettier to look at, and
easier to charge. Men discovered that the old way of loading was at the
wrong end, and used the breech, instead of the muzzle, to put in the
cartridges. So the heavy mallet and ramrod were left behind and
forgotten, and wars became shorter and less dreadful.








XIV

THE FAIRY OF THE EDELWEISS


Every child in Switzerland has heard of the Golden Age, long, long ago,
when no ice or snow covered the mountains. Then grass grew, and flowers
bloomed, clear up on the highest summits. Those barren and rocky
heights, such as we see now, where nothing can live, but the big horned
woolly ibex, were unknown; for they were then clothed with forests and
verdure. One could walk all the way up to the peak’s top, amid
beautiful trees, lovely shrubs and blossoming plants and sweet-smelling
herbage.

Summer then reigned for at least ten months in the year. The cows
grazed on the delicious aromatic grass, that makes the breath of kine
so sweet. Where now are only masses of snow and ice, and rivers called
glaciers, were flowery meadows, full of birds and bright dragon flies,
and musical with bees, crickets and singing insects. Then the cows were
so big and fat, that they gave their milk, that was rich in cream,
three times a day. Pastures were everywhere, and nobody went hungry,
for food was as cheap as leaves or pebbles.

The old people still tell us that, during this period, all that one had
to do was to ladle out the milk from tanks, as large as ponds, or pick
big red cherries, by putting out your hands. Then the fairies were
happy. On every moonlight night, they held dancing parties in the
meadows.

But by and bye, the terrible Frost Giants, that live up around the
North Pole, heard of this Land of a Thousand Mountains, where the chief
rivers of Europe were born and still have their cradles. Then these
greedy fellows that in winter tie up all things fast, or freeze them
solid, except for a few hours on warm days, when the sun is shining,
said one to the other:

“Come on, fellows, let us go down and conquer this mountain country,
that is so rich in honey, and cream, and flowers. We shall pile up the
snow flakes, leagues high, and freeze solid the falling snow and cold
water. We shall turn these into sheets of ice, that will cover the land
thousands of yards thick, and kill all living things. We shall drive
off all the flowers, blow the grass away, and chill the noses of the
cows, so that they cannot graze. That will prevent men from having
houses, and milk churns, and stores of cheeses. We must drive off the
hens, too, so the people can have no eggs. If the sun tries to stop our
work, we’ll laugh at him, so we will.”

Thus spoke the Frost King, while the mists rolled out in clouds from
his mouth, as he boasted of what he could do.

“Yes, yes, indeed we shall,” cried all the Frost Giants, and a shower
of snow flakes and ice particles filled the air, for even their icy
breath turned solid and was deadly to all plants.

When the North Wind blew down the news to the Swiss fairies, there was
much sadness and even terror. Where could the fairies dance, when the
meadows were gone and the flowers dead?

How could they float in the air, clad only in gauzy garments? How could
they see each other, if mist and storm and darkness filled the air, and
ice covered the ground? And how could they live without the blossoms?
One fairy actually wept tears, in sympathy for the poor cows, that were
certain to starve. And as for the children, whom the fairies loved,
where could they play, if there were no fields to play in, or roses or
violets to pick?

One bold fairy looked defiance and spoke out loud in the meeting:

“I’m not afraid of these Frost Giants, from the North Pole. They are
nothing but big, boasting bullies. Let our Fairy Queen change me into a
flower, and clothe me warm enough, and I’ll defy even the Frost King to
hurt me.”

“Bravo, bravo!” cried all the fairies in chorus.

“But how could you stay all the time up there, with no living thing
near you, and all alone? You will have no neighbors, except the rocks
and crags, and even they will be all bare, and swept by the fierce
winds. Can you stand that?” asked an old fairy, doubtingly.

“Yes, if for nothing else, than to show that we fairies are not afraid
of the Frost Giants, I should be willing to live alone. Besides, our
fairy queen will see that, by and bye, there will be others like me,
and then I shall have company. The more of us, the merrier, I am sure.
In a few thousand years, we’ll make an army and a victorious one, too.”

Seeing this brave one, of her company, so ready and willing, the Queen
of the Fairies put on her thinking cap. She spent a whole night in
planning how to turn this volunteer fairy into a flower. Then she would
bundle her up in furs, and dress her so warmly, that even the biggest
and coldest of the Frost Giants could not kill her with his icy breath.

And this was the way this volunteer, from the fairy ranks, was clothed
and made ready to fight, in the long war with cold and storm, so that
for ages, this little thing has been able to live far up on the
mountain heights and, all the time, to smile and be joyful, and laugh,
in the face of the Frost Giants. In fact, so happy is she, among the
rock crags and sunshiny crannies, and so amused at herself, in looking
down over the terrible precipices, to the rocks, thousands of feet
below, that she would not exchange places or climates, with even the
cloves and nutmegs; no, not even with the tea roses and coffee blossoms
in the Spice Islands of the southern seas.

Now it is customary in all happy families, when father and mother are
expecting the cradle soon to be filled, to choose a name for the baby,
and to have its clothes ready. This is done, so that the poor little
thing, on coming into the world, will not get a chill, or sneeze, or
have a cough, and die. Moreover, if it have a name, no one will mistake
one baby for another, unless they arrive as twins, when some mark, such
as a blue ribbon for a boy, and a pink one for a girl, is necessary.

So the old fairies put their heads together, to find a proper name for
the new fairy flower-baby, that was to live among the cold mountain
tops and refuse to be frightened, or frozen, or be driven down lower,
or to be cuddled up in meadows, near men’s houses, where it was warm.

“What say you?” asked the Queen, of the wisest of the fairies, who was
considered a sort of sage or prophet, and who had a wonderfully long
head. “What name do you give?”

With a loud voice, almost like a roar, this fairy, that wore clothes
the color of an old man’s beard, called out “Anawphilis Margarita.”

At this, every fairy looked at each other, as if to say, “What a
mouthful,” “How strange a name,” or “So big for a little fairy!” or
“Why does she talk Latin?”

There were questions in their eyes also, but none asked “What does the
name mean?” for all fairies are very shy about confessing ignorance.

But the Fairy Queen, who knew almost everything, put on a look of great
dignity, and discreetly inquired, of the sage, if her everyday talk was
in Latin. She did not mean to be sarcastic, however.

“Why would you call me by the ‘Pearly Lion’s Foot,’ if I were to
volunteer?” asked a bright young fairy.

“For two reasons, your Majesty,” answered the old oracle, addressing,
not the young volunteer, but the Queen, as was proper.

“First, to reward valor and virtue, by giving an august name; and
second, to let the Frost Giants, the insolent fellows from the North
Pole, know, that when even one of us fairies puts her foot down, it is
like a lion’s. No one can move, or lift, or push, or drive it away. We
thrust forward this fairy flower, as our banner, to say to the enemy,
‘We shall not surrender, and we defy you!’”

The Fairy Queen, full of admiration, replied:

“We bow to your wisdom, and so it shall be written in our books.
Nevertheless, both mortals and fairies must have also a short name for
everyday use. How about the second, or personal part, Margarita?”

“As you will, your Highness, but may I suggest even a better term, in
the speech of the mortals of this mountain land? They will love
anything that you may clothe and adorn, I am sure.”

After this ending of her speech, the wise old fairy curtsied most
politely.

The Fairy Queen looked very lovely, as thus flattered, by the fine
tact, and the charming speech, of this oldest member of the family;
and, besides, as she loved the brave Swiss nation, she said.

“You are always wise. So please let me have a name that will be popular
with the Swiss people.”

“Well, your highness, if it be your pleasure, we shall clothe your pet
in purest white, like ermine, rivalling even the snow, without spot, or
stain, or any dark tint. So, we may justly call it, the Edelweiss, that
is, the Noble White.”

At this, all the fairies shouted with delight. Even the Queen herself
smiled, and then made answer.

“You have well spoken; ‘Edelweiss’ it shall be.”

Now that the name was ready, the Queen called for the attendant maids
of the brave fairy volunteer and, then and there, the custom was begun,
which mortals always afterwards followed, of robing a princess, who was
to marry a husband in a foreign country. She must drop off all her
former clothing, even to her glistening skin. Then, entering another
room, in the new land, she must apparel herself in the garments that
are fashionable in her new home—as in the case, for example, of the
Belgian lady, who, long afterwards, came as a bride to the Castle of
the Hawk, in the Land of the Swiss.

Stripped of all her pretty gauzy skirts, bodice, and chemise, and
standing forth as nude as a baby in the bath tub, the Queen bade her
brave fairy look at her new wardrobe, which lay piled up and as white
as any snowdrift. Then, before all the other fairies, the Queen put
this question:

“Are you willing, to leave the company of your fellows in fairy land,
and be a flower, to remain rooted in the rocks, and amid the cold
forever?”

“Yes, truly, with all my heart,” answered the brave one.

“And will you cast seed every year and multiply your family, that will
bear your noble name?”

“Surely, for the more of us there are, and the more we can resist the
cruel enemy, the Frost Giants, and make mortals glad, the happier we
shall be.”

“You have spoken wisely,” said the Queen. “We shall clothe you very
thickly, in white robes, that look like flannel, but that are even
warmer. So, no giant can hurt you, when he bites with frost, no snow
storm chill you, or ice choke you, or North Wind make you shiver. We
shall give you roots, that dig their way down deep in the crannies, and
that will nourish your life. Besides, we have searched the world over,
and, whatever of hair, or fur of arctic animals, or wool of sheep, or
down of birds can show or suggest to us, we have used to weave a
garment so warm, that the biggest of the giants, with the iciest breath
and a beard of icicles, cannot even give you a chill. With your long
hair, and woolly coat, and roots that resist frost bites, you can
tickle his nose when he comes too near and even laugh in his face.”

“Indeed I will,” answered the fairy defiantly.

“And will you do even more? Will you keep your eye on the cracks and
crevices, that hold the sun’s warmth, so that your children can creep
up higher every year?” asked the Queen.

“The sun in the heaven helping me, I will,” replied this “Fairy of the
Vanguard,” as some of her sisters already spoke of her.

Then the Queen lifted her wand tipped with a star. She touched the
forehead of the Fairy of the Lion’s Foot, which was her war name; while
in the talk of mortals, she was called Noble White, though still the
fairies, quite often, use the name Margarita.

Then they stood fairy Edelweiss on a pile of rocks, filled in with sand
and earth, to show the others where, and how, in the new world,
Edelweiss was to live and grow and enlarge her kingdom.

It was a strange and wonderful transformation, as the fairy’s pretty
feet turned into rootlets, that quickly thrust themselves deeply
downwards, gripping the rough rock and drinking in the moisture and
juices in the soil. Grandly the Edelweiss showed her pride, in
belonging to the great family which a famous man first named after the
Little Frogs, because they love moist, damp and soft places.

Yet all this was beneath.

Above, there first rose a stalk, a few inches high, until it reached
half a foot. Then the arms multiplied and stretched out. They were
densely covered, like sleeves of overcoats, with thick coverings, each
resembling white flannel, or velvet, and as warm as the fur of an
ermine.

“Looks as if she had on an ulster,” said one of the many fairies, some
of whom thought she looked too sweet for any use.

And yet, so far, there was no real flower, but only a defence, like
armor, against those worst enemies of a plant, cold and frost.

“Now for beauty and for glory,” said the Queen.

Out of, and on top, the dense star-like mass of warmth and coziness, as
if robed for a skiing or skating party, there blossomed forth many
round-headed tufts, or rosettes, that were pearly white.

Now, not only thickly clothed, but beautiful and strong, the Noble
White was given a home at once in a rock cranny. Like a new-born baby,
that, as soon as it arrives, sticks its thumb in its mouth, as much as
to say, “This world is all right; I am going to like it,” the Edelweiss
rooted itself at once and began to grow.

Years passed by, and the lovely white flower, flourishing where only
the chamois and the ibex among animals lived, or the red Alpine rose
could bloom, multiplied. Like a brave army, it moved steadily forward,
occupying every crevice, cranny and hollow. These the hardy plants
held, like forts, against all cold comers; yes, even resisting the
avalanches, that tried to crush these little strangers.

In a few hundred years, thousands of the Noble White plants dotted, or
made beautiful, the bare rocks, or hung over the precipices. In vain
did the icy breath of polar winds, or the blasts of the rude Frost
Giants, or even the hurtling avalanches, drive the Edelweiss away. Nor
was the hot south wind, the Föhn able to wither it.

Swiss maidens made this flower the emblem of their own purity, and also
of the tenacity of faithful lovers. At the wrestling and shooting
matches, the young men wore its flowers in their hats, or twisted them
among the ropes, which marked off the boundaries of their games and
wrestling bouts. To heroes, it was the symbol of perseverance,
endurance and that quiet force which compels victory. Patriots so loved
it, because of its resisting power—the spirit of advance instead of
retreat—that they would gladly make it the national flower.
Switzerland—the Edelweiss among nations—has held its own for ages,
maintaining her life and independence despite the alien power of
invaders and tyrants, and the Swiss still sing their national hymn,
“Stand fast, O Fatherland!”

So also Edelweiss, the Noble White, remains forever as the Swiss emblem
of their republic, and of its beauty and permanence. To destroy this
flower, the Frost Giants make their continual assaults in vain. Just as
mighty monarchs have tried again and again to overwhelm, as with
avalanche of invasion, the freedom of the Swiss, and have always
failed, so the Edelweiss never yields. Its white banner hangs forever
on the heights. To every boy and girl, it is, as a living motto,
bearing, amid snow and ice, the message of Excelsior—Higher yet and
ever onward!








XV

THE AVALANCHE THAT WAS PEACEMAKER


Sometimes judges and lawyers advise people, that have a quarrel, to
settle their case outside of court. When a person thus decides between
two, who are not agreed, we say that they are judicially minded. Now
there was once, in Switzerland, an avalanche, that did what peacemakers
and honest judges could not accomplish. So it was called the Judicial
Avalanche.

Now, in the path of this avalanche, as it began to roll, was a rounded
rock, called the Pagoda Curve. This was because it had a turn up and
backward, like a sleigh runner. At a distance, it looked like one of
the roofs, which they build in Peking, Soochow, and other Chinese
cities. Once in a while, the ladies of the village on the slope below
held tea parties on it, drinking out of egg shell china cups. Then the
maidens pretended they had little feet, and ate candied ginger, and
stuck pear blossoms in their hair. On their part, the boys wore
pigtails of horsehair, behind their caps and shot off fire crackers, to
make believe they were Chinese mandarins of the old style.

One summer’s day, this tremendous avalanche came rolling and thundering
down the mountain side, and Pagoda Curve was directly in its path. When
it struck this rounded rock, there was not enough of the bulge or
re-curve, to stop the avalanche, but only to give an upward joust, or
bounce, toward the sky. Then the big ball which, for a moment, was
poised high in air, hung directly over the houses, five hundred feet
below.

This dorf, or village, had a name, which, in English, means Tell’s
Apple. Most of the houses stood on a flat place, among the mountains
which rose round about it, like sentinels in ice-armor. The people who
built it, long ago, were great admirers of the famous archer, who shot
the apple off his little son’s head. The place where they kept the pig
pens was named Gessler, after the cruel governor.

Now in this place, and just at this time, there was a very ugly and
dilapidated old house of worship, which had been erected several
hundred years before, and was now almost ready to tumble to pieces.

For a long time, the question, of tearing down the old church and
erecting in its place a new one, in modern style, had so vexed the
community, that a disgraceful squabble had broken out. The people of
one party would not speak to, or have anything to do with, those of the
other way of thinking; and all on account of this old building. The
young people were hot for a new edifice. They hoped to get an architect
from Zurich, who had gone from their village, and had his plans all
ready, which the young ladies all said were “just lovely.”

Against these, the old folks held to the idea of keeping the holy house
yet a while longer. The aged people were especially anxious that the
venerable tower should not be touched, but be kept; and they even
wanted to give it a new coat of paint, for which, of course, the
younger party would not vote.

On this very afternoon, the choir had gathered to practice to sing the
hymns for Sunday. The organist had put his foot on the pedals and
struck the keys, and the soprano had just opened her mouth, when down
thundered the avalanche!

This was far worse, than when a June bug had once flown into her
mouth—as had happened on a Sunday night, a few weeks before. She
stopped and the tenor’s face turned white, as if the crack of doom had
been heard.

The sexton was outside, sitting on the steps smoking his pipe, when a
lump of ice knocked the pipe out of his mouth, scattering fire and
tobacco, down into his vest bosom and over his best trousers. Then
followed a crash, as stone and brick, and the lightning rod, fell on
the paving stones of the street.

All thought the world had come to an end, but when they lifted up their
eyes to note the damage, they all declared that this was the most
obliging and considerate avalanche, that had ever visited that region.
It simply knocked over the old tower, and enough of the church walls to
compel rebuilding.

The mighty mass rolled past one corner of the village, upsetting a
farmer’s barn, but doing no further hurt or damage, except to a
bob-tailed cat of vicious character.

This animal had fought with many dogs, and one, that it had scratched
pretty badly, had bitten off its tail, so short, that even a rabbit
would be ashamed of the measly tuft, left on the end, for, only what
looked like a furry plug was visible.

Now this old puss, known as “Stumpy,” was just that minute about to
sneak up to a bird box, in which were four very hungry little birdies.
The mother bird was out, seeking worms for her little folks’ dinner.

Stumpy was just about to thrust in one of its front paws, through the
little round hole, in the bird box, hoping to claw and drag out the
four squabs, one by one, and eat them all up; when down came the edge
of the avalanche, like ten billion of bricks. It just grazed the bird
box, without doing any harm, or hurting the young ones inside, but it
flattened out that puss, so that it crawled away alive, but limping,
and meowing most piteously, and with one ear ground off by a bit of
sharp ice. The mother bird, returning at this moment, seeing the cat,
danced around and chirped out what sounded like the Japanese “aru beki”
(served you right).

The avalanche was last seen, when rolling down the valley in the
direction of the vineyards, apparently with the fell purpose of
overwhelming them all in one common ruin. But, on its way, it struck
again, right in the face, of an outjutting rock, on the side of a
mountain, which made it roll around in another direction.

As for the church question, that was settled. There must be a new
building and there was one soon, which, when finished, toned up the
whole dorf. At a later meeting, one frivolous youth proposed a
resolution of thanks to the avalanche, but this was voted down. Then
the pertinacious fellow brought in a proposition to give thanks for the
special Providence, that had opened the way to peace in the church.
This was carried by a majority vote, all the young people being on the
affirmative side.

The way that judicial avalanche behaved, was a scandal among the Frost
Giants. The old style had been to toss donkeys, and their drivers, down
within glacier crevices, into cold storage, a thousand feet deep; to
crush houses, kill cattle, and bury more people in one day than the
undertakers could put into coffins in a month. Besides this, old
fashioned avalanches used to lay waste orchards, and fruitful fields,
and spoil vineyards.

The conduct of this avalanche, which seemed bent on settling quarrels,
was more like that of a nun, a monk, a parson, or an old grandmother.
It happened to be about the time that the great Napoleon was upsetting
the world like a political avalanche, and the Empress Josephine was
covering up the red arms of peasant girls, now wives of generals, with
long white kid gloves reaching up to the arm pits.

Now, in a certain house in the dorf, an old fashioned mother was
scolding her frivolous young daughter, named Angelette, for aping Paris
and Napoleonic fashions. She remarked that things had come to a pretty
pass, when a young snip of a girl needed the leather of a whole goat to
clothe her arms. Daddy had also joined in the conversation, but only to
lose his temper. In his gestures, the cover of his pipe dropped off,
spilling the hot ashes all over his daughter’s low-necked frock. The
sparks made her jump, besides reddening the skin of her neck, even more
than her arms.

The girl Angelette was dressing for the evening dance, on the green,
and was quite put out by the accident. In fact, the old man had seized
the tip of Angelette’s middle finger of her glove and had pulled off
the half yard or more of white kid, when the avalanche flew past. It
flung a bit of rock, like the bolt of a catapult, right through the
window, sending the glove, all muddy and torn, out of the other.

Thinking his last day had come, the old daddy fell on his knees to
pray, but he was quickly awakened to his senses, by hearing a regular
concert in the barn yard. Outside, the donkeys were braying, the horses
neighing, the roosters crowing, the geese cackling, the hens clucking,
and the dogs barking—and all in joy. As for the old billy goat, he
stood up on his hind legs and cut up such capers, that the whole family
of kids began to imitate him by frisking in a circle.

Where, a minute or two before, had been ominous stillness, there had
come, in the twinkling of an eye, a salvo of rejoicing in the animal
world. It was as if the boarders in Noah’s ark had been let loose and
were having a concert. It’s a way the animals have, of showing their
joy, with a kind of music, all their own, which they can make, when the
danger they feared is over and deliverance has come.

There was also a bride, the daughter of the richest man in the dorf,
who was dressing for her wedding. All the other girls of her set were
collecting their old shoes and handfuls of rice, ready to fling after
the young couple’s carriage for good luck.

The bride’s kid boots, ordered from Paris, had cost fourteen dollars.
The mail wagon having arrived, with the letters and the salt, at the
Post Office, had just stopped in front of the bride’s house and handed
out the long waited package. The servant maid was bringing the lovely
white buttoned shoes upstairs, when, along and downward, thundered the
avalanche. According to a way that avalanches have, this one flung off,
at the sides, stones, rocks, gravel, ice and mud. Now, like cannon
balls in a bombardment, one mass of wet snow, not quite so big as a fat
elephant, struck the maid. It knocked her heels over head, sent her
slippers flying, and her feet in the air, until one could see the color
of her stockings, from toe to knees. As for the box from Paris, it was
shot, as out of a gun, into the pig pen. The bride screamed, but nobody
was hurt, and the maid quickly smoothed out her hair and dress, put on
her slippers, and she was soon presentable.

It was weeks after the honeymoon, and return of the couple, that, after
searching up hill and down dale, the remains of what were once a pair
of white kid boots from Paris, were found in the black mire, among the
pigs. Not knowing what it was, the porkers had crushed it under their
hoofs. After trial with their teeth, unable to eat it, or its not
tasting nice, the pigs thought it was not worth a turnip. One piggy,
without chewing, had actually attempted to swallow it. Not finding it
suited to a hog’s diet, the animal had dropped it with a grunt, and
trampled on it. When fished out with the long handled pitchfork, it was
recognized as a Paris shoe, by the two white buttons, which had escaped
the blackening of the mire.

By this time the proceedings of this avalanche, which had started out
to settle quarrels, had become positively frivolous. Wabbling about,
here and there, reeling like a man with a quart of brandy in his
stomach, the mighty ball rolled down the long road, leading into a
larger village.

“Now,” fancied the Frost Giants, that were watching from aloft, “it
surely will uphold the reputation of the family and act like other
avalanches, in turning villages into cemeteries, and farms and
vineyards into deserts.” Vain thought!

This lively chit of an avalanche followed the road, far enough to
tumble, flat into the ditch, some drunken fellows, who had just come
out of the gin house, and were staggering homewards. It was like
ironing out clothes, to see the way that avalanche flattened out those
topers. It left them for hours on the roadside, faces downwards, and
sleeping off their debauch. When they woke up, as out of a cold bath,
they shook off the snow and trudged homeward, only to get, from their
sharp-tongued wives, the scoldings they richly deserved.

Many another adventure did that judicial avalanche have, before it had
scudded past other villages, but hurting next to nothing, avoiding
forests, farmhouses and vineyards, until it reached a glacier, over
which it rolled.

Scratching, cracking, dropping out dirty stuff, rock and gravel, it
acted like a dredge box. It sprinkled out its contents, to fill up the
great deep green crevasses in the ice, until it finally reached a big
open space of waste land, that had nothing on it, but rocks and bushes.
Then, with a roar, as if laughing at itself, it broke up, spread open,
and left the place strewn with more rocks and stones and lumps of ice.

Then a troop of fairies came riding on the hot, dry, south wind. They
blew, with their breath, on the snow mass, and quickly melted it into
the river, so fast, indeed, that men wondered at the high water in the
distant lakes and the rivers in France. In lovely Switzerland, new soil
was made, where today are farms and vineyards. In time, billions of
purple clusters are plucked, and willing tourists are happy, in taking
the grape cure; while they walk over the place where once, a judicially
minded avalanche had laughed so hard, that it burst.








XVI

THE FAIRIES AND THEIR PLAYGROUND


Once upon a time in Switzerland, there was a Golden Age for cows and
people. This was before the country had become the playground of Europe
and the Land of a Thousand Hotels. It was before men climbed mountains
for pleasure; or, imitating the New Hampshire Yankees on Mount
Washington, had built railways to their summits, and filled the land
with wires and rails. Not then, could the Edelweiss be bought in a
drygoods store, or in the markets. Not then did lazy and soft-muscled
tourists pay money to have burnt upon alpenstocks the names of a
hundred mountains, which they never even saw, except from a hotel
porch, or distant window, or from the train.

Then, as the old ladies tell us, summer lasted during ten months of the
year and the very mild winter only eight weeks. Flowers were everywhere
and the bees were so busy that immense caverns were stored with the
honey combs, which hives could not hold. Colossal stalactites, and
mosses, big as cabbages, were common. Then the land was so rich in
clover and grass, that grew up to the very tops of the highest
mountains, that the cows had to be milked three times a day. They were
so large and fat, that the milk was poured by the bucket full into
tanks, so big that the milk men went round in boats to skim off the
cream for the making of cheese. These balls and disks were so thick and
so big around, that the dairy men had to be very careful in piling them
up in the store houses.

For, if, when rolling one inside the door, it broke loose and went
trundling down the valley, it might destroy a village and people might
think it an avalanche.

In those days, there were no mists, or storms, or barren rocks, or
danger of landslides. On the day for churning out the butter from the
cream, they used to employ the giants and give them big dinners for
their wages, for the churns were like towers, for height.

This was the story of the Golden Age, as told by the old folks, who sat
on their stone seats in front of the quaint wooden houses. As told,
year after year, everything grew in size, just as an avalanche starts
as a snowball and is finally able to wipe out a whole village,
including modern hotels, as is done occasionally in our day.

But what happens always, when people get too rich or prosperous,
followed in this case also. It went to their heads. Then they become
proud, lazy and often cruel. Gold got to be as common, as iron or lead
had been, yet many old frumps and codgers wanted more. Then misers
became numerous. Such fruit grew out of the root of all evil. It seemed
as if there was nothing more deceitful, than those very riches which
their ancestors knew nothing about. In such prosperity, the farmers and
shepherds had foolishly thought, lay the secret of all joy. They had
imagined that, if they could only get and increase what they could sell
for money, it would make them, as they used to say, “perfectly happy.”

The climate changed and gradually the whole land grew colder. Snow
covered the mountain tops. Rocks, storms, fog, mist, and clouds lay
long over the land. Land slides occurred often, and avalanches ruined
the meadows and villages. Huge rivers of ice, called glaciers, leagues
long, and hundreds of yards deep, were formed. These covered up the
flowers. Summers grew shorter and winters grew longer. Grapes and fruit
shriveled up to their present size and cows and goats were no longer
such givers of food as of old. Milkmaids, who had to work with a cow
thrice a day to get two small pails of milk between daybreak and dark,
wondered at the story of the Golden Age, which the old folks constantly
told. They wished they had lived then, when a boat, instead of a
bucket, was the sign of a dairy man’s shop.

Many looked wistfully up at the ruins of an old tower, now ivy grown,
where the owls hooted at night. They wondered, when told that, in the
Golden Age, this was the Giant’s Churn, in which boat loads of cream
were turned into butter by the good natured monster, who ladled out the
yellow delicacy, with a shovel, as big as a pine tree.

In the Golden Age, the fairies were very numerous, of many kinds and
always busy.

Some were rough, and loved to play tricks on stingy farmers, bad
tempered milk maids, rude boys and naughty girls; but most of them were
always glad to do something nice and pleasant, and, especially, to help
kind people in their work.

But when the age of steam and smoke and puffing locomotives, and boats,
with iron chimneys, that breathed out choking gas from their furnaces,
and left clouds of blackness on the beautiful blue lakes and landscape,
had come, the happy days changed to gloom. Men made railroads up to the
very tops of the mountains and stuck their big hotels in the prettiest
places, even on the high Alps. They spoiled the village dances, drove
away the poor people from their old amusements in summer, and even
turned thousands of the once honest Swiss folks into money-grubbers.
Then the fairies lost all patience, and determined to call an out door
congress, such as the mortals do at the Landsgemeinde, or town
meetings, when they talked politics and voted by thousands, raising
their hands, to mean “yes” or “no.”

One fairy, that was the lawyer and politician of the Swiss fairy world,
was especially angry, when it was learned that even the children were
taught by their parents to tell lies about their mother being dead—when
she was waiting in the chalet, for the money the little girls got by
telling doleful tales and thus moving the pity of travelers.

One day, after hearing some of these dreadful stories, the fairy took
the form of a Yankee pedestrian tourist, and walked along a well beaten
path in the mountains. Coming to a closed gate, which shut off the
passage, it was opened for him by a little girl, not ten years old, who
said plaintively with tears in her voice:

“Meine Mutter ist gestorben,” (My mother is dead).

At this, the kind hearted fairy, in Yankee clothes, nearly dropped his
Alpenstock, out of sheer sympathy. Taking out his purse, he was about
to hand the child a silver coin; when, looking up at the doorway of the
chalet near by, he saw a woman standing and peering out with keen
interest. He hesitated a moment, and then inquired, of the little
gate-opener, whether that were her mother. She, having learned to speak
her piece, but not prompted as to any further question, replied at once
“Yes.”

At this the fairy in disguise lost his temper and said to her “you
little cheat!” Then he shut up his purse, and passed on.

Quickly changing into his former fairy form, messengers by the score
were sent out by him over the mountain tops, down in the mines, under
the lakes, over the pastures, and wherever fairies of any kind or sort
lived. These were all summoned to the meeting.

The hour and place of gathering was named, and it was promised that
all, whether pretty or ugly, slow or rapid of speech, and whether of
land, water, air, or snow, should have a chance to talk, all being
limited to a quarter of an hour each.

What was of the most importance, was the guarantee given, that all
delegates should be excused, and the whole meeting break up before
sunrise, so that no fairies would be turned into stone, when the
sunbeams should strike them.

No ogres or man-eating giants, of either sex, were invited to this
meeting, for the Swiss fairies are a very respectable lot of folks. In
some countries, they do not have anything to do with “gods,” or
“devils.” They are very particular as to who or how or what they regard
as fit for society, or look upon as equals. Such beings of uncertain
reputation as “the gods,” or “the fates,” or “the devils” or any of
their tribe, were not known in their fairy society. It is said that
such beings used to live in the mountains, when the Romans were in the
land.

Many people said that some of these used to live still further back and
long ago, in certain mountains and caves which could be pointed out,
but they went away forever, after the good saint Fridolin, and others
came to St. Gall and Appenzell, from Ireland, a thousand years ago.
When the idolators, in China or Japan, would build a temple for their
idols, they inscribed it on their bells that “gods, as well as devils,”
have paid or subscribed money to help rear the structure.

But Swiss fairies are better educated, and they have nothing to do with
either “gods” or “devils.” These creatures have no reputation in
Switzerland, and are not received into fairy society; for the Swiss
fairies approve of churches and never hurt them, or the good people who
go to them.

In fact, what all the fairies resented most, and about which they were
as mad as fire with mortals, was that they had brought in such
creatures of their fancy into the country. Men described the worst one
of the lot as having hoofs, horns, a sooty skin, hooked nose, forked
tail and sulphurous breath.

In other words, this fellow was something altogether different from any
sort of fairy in earth, air, sky, water, cave, or mine. Besides, though
the demons had the reputation of being always very busy and very smart,
they never did anything good, nor helped honest mortals, as the fairies
often did.

In truth, the fairies of every sort held their noses, and otherwise
showed their dislike, or contempt, whenever any one made mention of the
name or the deeds of demons, or devils.

What made the lovely fairies and the frost giants awfully mad, was,
that human beings should name the pretty scenery, the wild crags, and
the rocky valleys and mountains after one, they called His Infernal
Majesty. A certain fairy told the story of a funny mortal, who had got
mixed in his ideas. She had overheard one bumpkin find fault with the
president of a college for inviting a popular preacher to address the
students. “He’s an atheist,” said the fellow, “for he does not believe
in a personal devil;” at which, both fairies laughed heartily.

It was the general opinion, however, that mortal men could do wonderful
things. They might build railroads up to the mountain tops, harness
every waterfall, fill the valleys with electric machinery, and erect
observatories to study the weather and the stars. For all this, the
fairies paid them due honor.

It was acknowledged that, in one thing, some of the native mortals
could beat the world, that is, in holding out their hands for a gift.
Fairies thought this was because they had a disease, called itch of the
palm; but they noticed that a coin always healed the trouble and caused
the fingers to shut up finely on the silver.

But when human beings gave credit, for the smart things which the
fairies used to do, to the monster they called the Devil, they were
vexed indeed. Both the frost giants and the flower fairies declared
that they would go on with their work, for who or what could stop
either of them? Besides, no human beings could produce anything so
pretty as a flower, or a snow crystal. At the idea of their making
Edelweiss out of canton flannel, and selling these bogus things in the
shops, they laughed again and again.

In spite of railways built up the mountains, or tunnels dug into them,
the gnomes and the kobolds declared, fiercely, that they should have
their own way down below the ground, so long as there was any fire left
in the earth.

The Undines and the Herwischers made their boast that, while glaciers
melted and became rivers, and lakes were lakes, and marshes grew reeds,
they, and all the water sprites, were determined to have a good time in
their own way. They would enjoy their tricks and play their pranks on
stupid mortals, as long as they pleased. There was too much fun in it
for them to give up their old customs.

“Besides these foolish fashions, that will pass away,” said the
president, “there was one place where machinery, or the jim-cracks of
inventors, and all this chatter about science, or any thing else, can
never destroy. None of these things can reach the hearts of the
children.” Then he went on to say: “There will always be a new
generation who love us. Even after all the learned men and scholars and
prudes and fault-finders shall have had their way, and tried to drive
out of the libraries such splendid fellows as Santa Claus or William
Tell or Humpty Dumpty, they would climb through the window, go down the
lightning rods, and from the chimneys into the nursery.

“Even if the prudes tried to abolish the fairies by law, and shut out
all the fireplaces, and did away with sleighs, for automobiles, and had
aeroplanes, in place of wagons, even then a new lot of fairies and
heroes would come in and take the place of the banished old friends of
the children. They would sit in the chairs, peep in at the windows,
live in the nursery, and refuse to be driven out. In Switzerland, they
would hide in the milk churns, or behind rocks, or in the ice caverns.
In a word, never having been born they could not die.”

A wise old gnome spoke for his companions, as follows:

“It is only those creatures that have bodies and have to be born and
must eat and drink food every day, that get old, and have to be buried.
Besides, every fairy knows that, while thousands of tourists come, year
after year, in their bodies, as in sleeping cars and day coaches, very
few ever really get into that Switzerland, which, after two thousand
years, has grown up in the Swiss heart. These foreigners come and go,
and eat and sleep, and drink, but what did they know of the Swiss
soul?”

One ancient fairy that looked as if he might be several millions of
years old, who had a name too long to be pronounced, but which means,
when translated, “I told you so,” summed up in his speech what he had
seen come to pass, since mortals arrived on the earth. He had looked
upon the lake dwellers, the Romans, the barbarians, the visitors of all
sorts and times, and finally the hotels and tourists.

“There have been many changes of fashions since I paid any attention to
mortals,” said he. Then he made them all laugh, by continuing: “Once,
nobody cared for the mountains. Now, all human folks are writing poetry
about them, or climbing them, or punching their faces with alpenstocks.
Once no one loved the flowers of the Alps. Now, foolish mortals, in
both trousers and petticoats, come with their long purses, but they are
too lazy to climb up to the real ‘Alps,’ and pick the blossoms where
they grow. So they buy them, already and artificially made, in the
market. They go shopping for canton flannel Edelweiss, as they would
for soap, or tooth brushes. They stick these woolen things in their
hatbands, and they have their alpenstocks branded with the names of
places, whether they have been there or not. Or, they make belt
bouquets of the Alpine roses, or glacier violets, and then strut about
as if they were explorers. What fools these mortals be.”

At this, all the fairies of every sort and kind, laughed and guffawed
so uproariously, that the meeting adjourned in disorder.

Yet they all went away happy, for they felt sure that whatever foolish
mortals should do, Switzerland would still be the fairies’ playground.








XVII

THE KANGAROO POA


During millions of centuries a battle on, between the frost giants and
the flower fairies. Occasionally, for a few tens of thousands of years
at a time, the ice rivers and the snow avalanches would roll down the
mountain sides and smother, or crush all the pretty blossoms. Rocks and
stones in the glaciers would squeeze the leaves, and tear out the
roots, so that nothing could grow. Then the whole land would become a
cemetery of ice, or a graveyard covered with snow, for all the plants
of every kind were frozen stone hard and were dead beyond hope.

Nothing could be seen but jagged rocks and sharp peaks rising up out of
the desolation. No bird, beast, insect, or fish could live in such a
world, for there was nothing for them to eat, or to grow with. Though
there was plenty of water, there were no fish. Cows could not graze, or
goats, or deer find any grass or moss, and dogs would die at once, for
lack of meat.

But the sun in the sky was always the friend of the flower fairies, and
he kept on, fighting Jack Frost, and the glacier giants, melting the
ice and snow and making rivers that carried off the cold water to the
sea.

So by and bye, after a few millions of years had passed by, the
fairies, who never die of old age, got together in a meeting. After
talking the matter over, they resolved to have a flower that could
fight the frost giants, by laughing in their faces, and keep on
growing, no matter how hard the winds blew, or how deep the snow was,
or how often the avalanches fell, or glaciers formed. Besides being
able to live, and find its own food, by rooting itself deep in the
crevices of the rocks, such a flower ought to be sweet, and taste good
to the cows.

In this way pastures would be coaxed to cover the meadows of the high
Alps with their green glory, well spangled with blooms. Then men could
get milk and make butter and cheese. The fairies liked good boys and
girls, and were always glad to help their fathers and mothers, and they
also loved meadows, with plenty of flowers and grass, for their
moonlight dances. They never enjoyed this, their favorite amusement, so
much as when, in the spring, the fields or the heights were both
fragrant and beautiful.

But how could a pretty plant, such as they wanted, get clothes enough
to keep from shivering all winter? How could a flower be made hardy to
laugh at Jack Frost, when he came to bite her?

The fairies young and old, all thought it over, but no one could tell
how to begin or proceed. The young ones thought much of gloves and
muffs, tippets and leggings, hoods and ear muffs, thick stockings and
fleecy lined gloves. Yet how could these be made to fit a plant?

It was natural for them to think in this way, for all their things to
wear were on the outside, both for grown ups and those fairies that
were more like big boys and girls. On the other hand, the fairy mothers
were all the time thinking about the baby’s life, and not only how to
cover the young thing, but also to have it warmly wrapped up, when it
was still very little. They brought to mind examples of papooses well
bundled in furs for cradles and hung on the branches. Some told of
Esquimaux babies, all swaddled in furs, that are given a lump of whale
blubber, instead of candy, and skewered on a stick, so that it will not
swallow the tidbit, all at once, and choke. Others told of Italian
bambinos, wrapped up tight, and Japanese akambos, held pick-a-pack
style, on their big sisters, but none of these seemed to give the right
idea of what was wanted.

At last, one old grandmother fairy made a sign that she wished to
speak, and all listened while she talked.

“You fairies had better stop thinking about human beings, for not one
of them could live where we want this flower to grow. It is too cold,
and the frost giants already own the country. Better look to the
animals to show us how. Now I have heard of a two-legged creature, that
yet is not a man nor a woman; and another one, with four legs that
carries its babies, even a whole family, of four or five, in a pouch in
front of its body, until the little ones can take care of themselves.
In this way, they are kept free from danger, until they grow up and can
provide for themselves.”

“Oh do tell us about these wonderful creatures,” cried all the young
fairies at once; and, though the old folks were silent, they were just
as eager to hear.

“Well, the four-legged creature is the opossum, and lives in America.
The mother carries a whole family of her cubs in a chatelaine pocket,
which she wears in the front of her dress. She can even climb up a tree
with her family.

“Who can believe that?” whispered one fairy to another. “And the
other?” she asked, hardly believing such a thing was possible.

“Let me tell you, then, about the kangaroo, that lives in Australia.
She has a wallet, or travelling bag where, or in which, she stows away
her little folks, and there they are as cozy as if they were riding in
a wagon. Yet, all the time, they can look out and see what is going on
in the world. In this way, both the young opossums and the kangaroos
are kept warm, and are fed until they are grown. No wolves, or bears,
or foxes can catch and run away with them.”

“Can a kangaroo climb a tree?” asked a fairy, whose fancy had been
greatly taken with the idea of a whole family being up a tree at once,
and free from the wolves.

The old fairy felt insulted, or thought the questioner was trifling,
and made no answer. So there was quiet for the space of three minutes.

“Well then,” asked still another fairy, “can you furnish us with a
vegetable kangaroo?” This was asked in a tone of contempt, as if she
believed it were not possible to protect anything from Jack Frost and
the giants, even though the sun helped with all his might.

“Well, not exactly the Australian jumper, or the American tree-climber;
but, if we can persuade the sun to help us, we may get a plant to
become more mother-like, and keep her babies at home, until they are
weaned and warmly clothed. Then, when they grow up, they will be able
to find food, and set up housekeeping for themselves.”

So it came to pass that the sun and earth, and the fairies, all
agreeing together, they invited a plant, named the Poa, to come in
their country to live and raise children, that could stand the cold.

As fast as the glaciers or ice rivers melted, the fairies coaxed the
Poa family to multiply and come up higher. This the plants always did,
increasing in numbers like a great army. They climbed higher and
higher, until they formed acres upon acres of meadow land, for the cows
and goats, that enjoyed the delicious taste of the ripened grass. When
the glaciers had retreated and melted away, the Poa covered the land.
Then the cows multiplied. They were fat and sleek, because of rich
food, and men won wealth by making butter and cheese. The young fairies
watched how the Poa grew and cast its seeds, and they called it the
kangaroo plant.

And this was the reason why it was named, by the fairies, the Kangaroo
Plant. Watching its opportunity, the Poa Alpina started every
springtime, from the lower meadows, to go up on the mountain tops
nearer the stars, in time becoming victorious, like an army. Instead of
dropping its ripe seeds to the ground, or having them blown far by the
winds, or letting them leap out, like popcorn, or lending them the
wings, which dandelions have, or trusting to birds, or sailors, or men
who sell seeds to farmers, the Poa had a new way of its own. The mother
stalk held her babies, that is the seeds, as long and as close to her,
as an opossum keeps her cubs or a kangaroo her kittens.

Instead of first weaning them and then letting them go away to play or
ramble abroad, out of her sight, she kept them all with her until they
were full grown, that is, until they had both leaves and roots; for
these are the legs and arms of a plant, whether it be a Johnnie Jump
Up, or Sweet William, or Ragged Robin, or Dusty Miller, or Lady’s
Slipper, or Four o’Clocks, or what not. So, before Jack Frost could
bite them hard, or the giants crush them, or a snow storm bury them, or
an avalanche roll over and flatten them out, or a cow eat them up, they
hid themselves in all the crannies, cracks, and crevices of the rocks
and down deep too. Wherever any sand, or dust, or moss, or moisture
was, there you would find a whole family of the young folks of the Poa
family settled down, all growing up and able to take care of
themselves.

Now like a great army they are, indeed. They laugh at winter’s cold, or
icy wind, or driving sleet, and even at that scorching south wind, the
Föhn, that blows for over two weeks in the spring time, and again, for
a fortnight in the autumn. By and bye, in a little while, according to
the fairy clock, that is, in a million years or so, the Kangaroo Poa
had spread all over Switzerland. Twenty thousand cows were made happy,
for they loved to browse on the Poa pastures, and liked nothing better.
Now, nearly two million of Swiss cows enjoy the summer feast, while
their bells tinkle on the hillsides.

When the calves were too big for their mother’s milk, and the lady cow
got tired of being a restaurant for her booby calf, she pushed it away,
and said, in cow language, “go and eat Poa.” Sometimes the calf did not
like to give up its baby habits, learned in the nursery. Then, it
behaved like the naughty boy, who said “I’m hungry and bread I won’t
have. I want cake.”

Then the mother cow tried another plan. She would give notice to the
cowherd, in her own language, that she had done her part, and wanted
him to attend to her naughty, and bad tempered, or sulky calf. Then the
man would put a leather strap with sharp nails on it, over the calf’s
muzzle, so that, when calfy wanted refreshment, it would be like
sticking pins into its mother. Then the cow would push the calf away
and make it learn to eat Poa.

But once having taken a bite, the calf never again wanted to eat
anything else. It tasted as good as candy to a little girl. So
Switzerland became one of the greatest countries in the world for
butter and cheese. The fairies rejoiced, too, for the Poa, with its
pretty blossom, made the meadows, which were their dancing hall, more
beautiful, and for them, it was like waltzing on a cloth of gold.

And to this day, the Alpine Poa is as wonderful, among plants and
grasses, as the opossum and kangaroo are among quadrupeds.

The fairies, that had succeeded in so clothing the edelweiss, that
lives among the rocks, that it was able to resist the frost and cold,
were now very happy over their second venture. Like a brave and
vigilant sentinel, the new flower kept guard. The Poa was clothed, so
as to delight the cattle, while the edelweiss was dressed for beauty,
and to please mortals. Thus, both man and beast were blessed.

And it is, even yet, the flowers that, with vigilance and valor, guard
Switzerland against the assaults of the ice giants and the frost army.
These would make the Land of the Edelweiss like the regions of the
North Pole, if it were not for the flowers and the grass. That is the
reason why the Swiss people are not like Esquimaux. Their beautiful
country holds the chamois, and the ibex, and the birds, instead of
walruses and polar bears; and the people have bread, and honey, and
cream, instead of seal meat and blubber.








XVIII

THE SWISS FAIRIES IN TOWN MEETING


In Appenzell, and some other cantons in the heroic Swiss republic, many
old democratic customs still prevail. One of these is seen in the
Landsgemeinde, or meeting of all the men not only in a village, but in
the whole canton, or district.

This long word means a mass meeting of voters. The people gather
together in a great crowd, when they wish to settle matters of public
interest. They vote, not by casting bits of paper in a box, or with a
voting machine, but by raising their hands.

When the president of the meeting puts the question, tens of thousands
of fingers at once go up in the air. This is the ancient form of the
town meeting, which is still kept up.

The Swiss fairies follow Swiss customs, and, not long ago, one
moonlight night, they met together on a glacier in a deep valley.

They had much to talk about. It was not all gossip, but after much
friendly chat, that they began. Not one said “How do you do?” For, none
of them ever gets sick, or has influenza, or whooping cough, or the
mumps, or the measles, or tooth ache. They never have doctors, or take
doses of medicine, or wrap flannel round their necks, or swallow castor
oil, or have the doctor visit them and feel their pulses or make them
stick out their tongues.

Instead of all this, the fairies usually inquire, one of another, in
this fashion, “How about those curious creatures called men?” Or, “How
are mortals behaving?” Such questions, as “What are they up to now?” or
“What are they doing to spoil our fun?” are very common also.

Some of them at this meeting wanted very much to tell about some of the
tricks, which they had played on foolish men, or how they had done a
good thing or two to people they liked. There was, however, no time for
a long chat, for it was said that much business was on hand. Moreover,
the meeting must break up before daybreak.

We shall not describe all that were present, for most of them looked
like the fairies of other countries. Yet there were some entirely
Swiss, and these are known, or heard of, only along the Rhine or the
Rhone river, or on the mountains inside the country.

The water fairies, quite the most numerous, were present in full force.
There were the sprites, or “necks,” that live in, and had come all the
way from the river Neckar. They looked and behaved very much like the
nixies of England.

Undine was the general name of one family of the female water fairies.
All of these were in the form of pretty young women. They love to sit
by the side of the brooks or water courses. Sometimes they lurk in the
marshes among the reeds. They have very white hands and golden hair,
which is full of waves or ripples, that can beat Marcel, or any other
hair waver. On their heads they wear a fillet, or wreath, made of pond
lilies, and often have on a long white veil-like mist. They are very
sentimental and have tender emotions and whisper often and sigh a great
deal. They delight in dancing along the shore, and go flitting from one
water lily to another, opening the golden hearts and lovely white
petals of these flowers that grow in the water.

These mist maidens were very attentive to all that was talked about,
but they did not themselves say much. Like other pretty fairies, they
were lovely to look at, but they had no soul, and if they had any
brains, no one would ever know it. One would not expect to meet them at
matinee parties, or at any daylight picnics, for they made it a rule
never to be seen, except on moonlight nights. It was therefore useless
to look for them at any other time.

Very much like Undine and her sisters were those in a delegation of
fairies from the Grotto de Balme. This cave may be seen on the way to
Chamounix, but high up above the level of the road, and has stalactites
hanging from the ceiling. The story teller remembers it well, but when
he was there, the fairies were all out, for it was broad daylight, when
fairies do not allow themselves to become visible. How we two college
boys wished we had spectacles, that could pierce the light and make the
fairies to be seen.

These grotto folks, that were at this mass meeting of the fairies,
looked much like human girls, with olive complexions; but if one looked
carefully, he would see that they had no heels. Their hair was the most
wonderful part of them, for they never wore any clothes. When any human
person came near, they could cover themselves up entirely with their
tresses, so that nothing but their roguish, laughing faces were
visible.

They were great coquettes, and often appeared on mountain paths, to
lure away young hunters; but old men only laughed at them, and hummed a
tune and ditty about “The Spider and the Fly,” for they knew all the
tricks of these grotto girls. Sometimes these pretty creatures carried
lights at night and danced in circles, so it was very hard to tell one
from another. Yet they looked very lovely, with their fresh faces,
sparkling eyes and pretty manners. Besides these charms, they had, each
one, a soft low voice. Of all these grotto girls, Funetta was the best
known.

In fact, some of these fairies belonged to the same families as fairies
in other lands, though they spelled their names differently and talked
German, French or Italian, and, what sounded like the speech, which
country people in Switzerland use.

For instance, there were several of the Herwisch folk, or first cousins
to the Will-o’-the-wisp. Several dozen of little creatures of this
family, not much bigger than dolls, were on hand. They live on marshy
ground and delight in lighting their little lanterns at night. Then
they entice bumpkins and other dull fellows, out of the regular path in
the fields, into the mud and swamp. When the clumsy chaps are
floundering deep in the water, and down among the frogs and tadpoles,
the Herwisch put out their lights and leave the louts in the wet, all
the while laughing at them. Stupid fellows from the grog and beer
shops, with their brains befuddled, are the chief victims of these
merry mischiefs. It is good to see how many a drunkard gets a ducking
and cooling off from these tiny tots.

Some of the Herwisch folk have wings like bats, and to the bold girl or
boy that is too smart, and makes fun of them, they come and flap their
wings in his or her face and this frightens them. Men, especially, who
have drunk too much wine, get easily scared. After it is dark, most
people are careful not to anger, or irritate the Herwisches in any way.

Quite different in their bearing and looks, as well as in their ideas
and manners, was another set of delegates to this fairy convention.
These were the gnomes, the kobolds, and the elves. They were near
relations, and looked very much alike, especially in stature, in the
color of their skin, and in all having beards. Most of them live
underground and in the mines. These very industrious and lively little
fellows are always busy. Many among them look like old men. When they
talk to each other, their long beards and chins wag up and down, so the
boys and girls call them “chin choppers.” They wear funny, peaked caps,
each with a tassel on the end of it. They have to do with gold mines,
for they understand all about fires, forges, coal, crucibles, and what
one sees in a foundry.

A long time ago, one of these gnomes amused himself and enriched the
good people in a place called Plurs, by pouring liquid gold in a
crevice of the rocks. But having thus gained plenty of the precious
metal, the people got to be very proud, like most mortals who get rich
suddenly. They lost their good manners, and got drunk and fell into
very bad habits. When the gnomes saw that the heads of these mortals
were turned, and that their hearts were like those of bad potatoes,
they threw down tons of dirt upon the villages and destroyed them, just
as men burn up caterpillars and potato bugs.

It is true that at this meeting, the elves, gnomes and kobolds were,
some of them, so black and sooty, and smelled so strongly of smoke and
fire, that the more dainty fairies in gauzy dresses did not like to sit
near them. Besides this, some of the kobolds came with their leather
aprons on, and altogether they were such real blacksmiths, that the
doorkeeper did not want to admit them. At least, the water fairies
thought, they might have taken off their aprons and washed up a little.

Biggest of all, at the assembly, were the frost giants, and one of
these, who towered above all, was chosen, by a show of hands, to be
president of the meeting. A half acre was allowed him to sit down upon.
When ready to tap for order, he picked up a boulder, for a gavel, which
weighed a ton or more. With this, he pounded on a flat rock. At the
sound, all stopped talking, looked up and listened. One minute before,
it was like the buzzing of bees. Now all was silence.

These frost giants, of whom a dozen or so were present, had ridden to
the meeting each on his own avalanche, which he used for a bicycle.
They all had long beards of icicles, that appeared like stalactites in
a cave. Their big eyes looked, for all the world, like locomotive
headlights, and some of the little fairies were afraid to look at them.

Their sabots, or wooden shoes, were hollowed out of whole trunks of fir
trees, and when they walked they made an awful stamping noise. Their
breath, like mist, rolled out in great clouds over the assembly, so
that at times some of the fairies could not see the speaker and several
felt very chilly. Their voices, in speaking, sounded like rolling
thunder. When the president pounded with his gavel, some of the
fairies, sitting at the edge of the crowd, thought an earthquake had
taken place.

During the debate, when some of the frost giants lost their tempers, it
seemed at times, as if they would hurl rocks at each other, or gobble
up some of the smaller fairies, such as the elves, or Undines. In fact,
the gentle flower fairies, that were very thinly clothed in gauzy
dresses and loved warmth, shivered, when a frost giant came near them,
and some almost cried, lest they should get frozen. In fact, one brave
little fairy borrowed a white fur coat, made of edelweiss velvet, and
boldly sat near the frost king—to the mingled fear, anxiety and
admiration of her sisters. One of them even said she was “a pert
hussy.”

On the other hand, one cunning summer fairy, with a fan of flowers in
her hand, enticed a young frost giant to come and sit down beside her.
Then she threw a spell over him, and he was so wrapped up in her
charms, that she actually melted him with her beauty, so that when the
meeting broke up, there was no frost giant there, but only a puddle of
cold water; for that is what frost giants turn into, when the weather
is too warm.

Each speaker mounted the platform, which was a big boulder, with a flat
top. When any of the frost giants, who sat up in front, made a speech,
it was noticed that, while there were gnomes and kobolds out on the
edge of the audience, who shouted “Louder, Louder;” some of the gentler
fairies, who were nearer, put up their hands to their ears, for fear of
being deafened. It was hard to please all, and at one time, when there
were too many on their feet and all wanted to talk at once, the
president roared out that he would adjourn the meeting, if there was
not better order.

As for the grotto girls, they were pointedly requested, several times,
to stop whispering.

It was a pretty long session, for all were allowed to have their say,
just as at a town meeting of mortals.

Yet when one of the big giants talked too long, or when a lovely and
pretty fairy wandered in her thoughts, and prattled too much, without
saying anything, the whole company coughed him, or her, down. After
all, nothing much came of the meeting, for they could not agree.

Here the president of the meeting pounded hard, to call the long-winded
fairy to order, lest he might keep on for a week. It would soon be
sunrise, when they must all scamper.

So, at the first streak of light, in the east, down came the gavel of
the president, with a force that split the rock, and, before half of
those who wanted to speak, had opened their mouths, the congress was
adjourned.








XIX

THE PALACE UNDER THE WAVES


Fashions change in the fairy world, as well as among mortals who live
on the earth. The Swiss water fairies, called Undines, at times grew
tired of living down below the surface of the lakes and rivers. When
restless, they longed to mingle in the village gatherings. They wanted
to hear the lively music of the young men and maidens, as they sang and
danced. Their favorite time for waltzes and cotillions was on moonlight
nights.

So it became quite common, at these times, for the fairy maids and
swains to swim up to the shore. Then these Undines changed themselves
into girls and young men. They put on clothes, that were deep green,
the color of the waves. Slipping in among the dancers, they joined in
the fun and merry making. In this manner, many a lad romped with a
water fairy and even kissed her, thinking she was or might be his
sweetheart; for, in the dim light of the moon, it was not always easy
to see clearly the face of one’s partner. Many a lassie received an
embrace, or a salute on the lips, from a lively dancer, whom she
supposed was a new comer. He might not be well known in the village,
she thought, though he appeared graceful and dressed very nicely, in
sea green, gauzy clothes.

Yet no matter how hard these Undines might try to get their clothes
entirely dry, they could never wring the water out wholly of their
garments, so that they were always more or less damp. If they had
changed their form too quickly, their clothes would drip, and make
spots on the floor, or ground. Often the village folk felt dampness, on
their limbs below the knees. Yet few ever gave the matter a second
thought, for their minds were wholly set on having a good time, and
they had it.

Sometimes the lady fairies started rather late in the evening to take
their swim to the lake shore. Fearing to lose some of the fun, and
thinking they might even find the dancing all over, and the people gone
home to bed, they were in a great hurry, while on the strand, to change
into the form of mortals and put on their human clothes. So it happened
that, when they joined in the dance, one sharp-eyed fellow, who was
playing the violin for the measures, noticed that something was wrong.
In fact, he was so surprised, that he suddenly stopped fiddling. Then,
instantly, everybody dropped arms and stood looking around at the
musician’s stand, to see what was the matter. In a moment, it was as
quiet as a church aisle, when the parson was praying.

What he saw made his eyes big and round. Then, most impolitely—as some
of the girls thought—he pointed to a maiden’s green petticoat, that was
beneath her outer dress and that had come a little below her frock. It
was dripping with water. Again, after looking with searching eyes at
another, and a third, he screamed out:

“Folks and fellow villagers! Don’t you know you’ve got the Undines
among you? Look there, and there, and there!” Then he pointed, with his
fiddle bow, to some of the prettiest of the female dancers. “Just feel
the hem of their skirts, and you’ll know what sort of guests have been
dancing with you tonight.”

Whereupon, every young man turned his female partner round, and some of
them, most ungallantly, flapped their hands on their lower skirts.
Feeling and finding that these were very damp, four or five of them at
once lifted up their hands, which were wringing wet, and shook off the
drops.

One bold fellow even went behind, and seized the tail of his partner’s
petticoat. She seemed to be the sloppiest-looking girl in the whole
party, and he actually wrung out a half pint of water.

Thereupon, a tall handsome fellow, leader of the Undine party of a half
dozen or so, put his two fingers in his mouth and gave a sort of
whistle. At once, all the Undines shouted and ran down to the water’s
edge. There, they stopped a minute or two, on the lake beach, and then
leaped below the waves and disappeared. It sounded as if six big seals
had made a dive.

One villager, who pretended to be an Undine, ran quickly after these
water sprites and saw them for a moment on the shore, when they changed
their form before resuming their old shapes.

He came back to tell a wonderful tale of what he had seen. When he
examined the clothes they had left behind, he found that though they
looked shiny, in the moonlight, the stuff was only that of some water
plants like sea weed.

When arrived in their crystal palace under the waves, the king of the
Undines gave the girl fairies a good scolding, for not, in the first
place, being more punctual in both starting and coming home, and next,
for being in too much of a hurry in changing themselves into mortals.
As for the others, he punished these by forbidding them ever to dance
again on that side of the lake.

Ever after that, when, on moonlight nights, the village lads and lasses
came out to waltz, they scrutinized each partner in the dance, before
allowing him or her to join in when the music began. Some, among the
younger set of girls, felt offended at such a severe examination; but
it was necessary, and the other girls agreed to it.

Yet even then, the water sprites would sometimes join in; for, when
everybody was lively, and the fun was fast and furious, each one of the
lads and lasses was too much excited to notice the dress, or to be
certain as to who was who, or which was which, or what was what, or
even to see the face of a partner.

One night, the daughter of the lord of the grand chateau, the Princess
Babi, slipped out the castle gate, along with several of her maids, and
joined the village youth in their fun. At the very height of the dance,
a young man became her partner in the waltz, chiefly because of his
elegant clothes and polished manners. Though he did not talk, but
expressed his offers and wishes by signs and motions, she enjoyed
mightily his dancing, which was both deft and graceful.

There was present, however, a sharp-eyed mother, a nurse, who had three
nieces in the dance. She kept looking, like a lynx, at every lad in the
party. At last, she noticed this unusually handsome and stylish fellow,
who seemed to wear finer clothes than most of the village boys.

The old woman’s suspicions were fully aroused, when she saw the young
couple linked, arm in arm, and, especially, as he turned his body round
in the dance. For, when the moonbeams fell upon the skirt of his coat,
it shone as only wet clothes could, in the silvery light. The color
reflected was that of wave green.

Upon this, she made up her mind that this fine fellow was no other than
the King of the Crystal Cavern, which was far down in the world under
the waters.

She was about to give the signal, that would expose him, when her mouth
was shut, and her limbs felt as if paralyzed by some unseen and unknown
power, when she saw him offer to take, as his partner, the Princess
Babi, the daughter of the castle lord.

Smilingly the lovely maiden put out her arms, in return for his
embrace. All she thought of was the fun and merriment. Yet, within a
few minutes after they had linked arms together, he started in a
whirling dance. It was so rapid, that the mother and the older
spectators, who sat watching the young people, were too fascinated to
speak or cry out. They noticed him whirling his partner around, but
getting ever nearer the lakeside. Wider and wider were the circles they
made, but all the time he was bringing her nearer the beach; while she
seemed delirious with delight, apparently oblivious to everything but
the rapturous motion.

Reaching the shore, pausing hardly a moment, he leaped with her into
the water, which was then silvered with the moonbeams and rippling with
the breeze.

Down, down, below the sparkling waves, the King of the World under the
Waters—for it was he—made her his wife and queen, but never would he
let her go back home.

There, among the great coral trees and groves of gold and silver and
amid heaps of shining gems, with a score of maidens to wait on her,
valets and footmen and servants of a strange sort, and with food rich
and abundant, pleasing and tempting to both eye and palate, and with
the most entrancing music ever at her command, she was enraptured. So
delighted was she, that the years passed away as days.

Yet even when touched with homesickness, and longing for those she had
left behind on earth, in her castle home, she found herself watched and
guarded. The gates, though made of emerald and sapphire, shut of
themselves, because moved, by some secret spring, against her return.
Having once eaten of fairy food, and accepted her husband’s gifts, she
could never again leave either the palace or the World under the Waves.
The crystal cavern was her prison. When she looked in the mirror, she
found her teeth were wave green. She was now an Undine.

Yet in the village, where the story of the castle princess was told, it
was declared that, on calm still nights, when the moon shone brightest,
the most delightful music could be heard coming up from the lake. Some
of the fishermen were sure that, far below on quiet summer days, also
when no wind blew, and the sunbeams struck deep into the waters, they
could peer down into the depths and see the walls and towers of this
crystal palace.








XX

THE ALPINE HUNTER AND HIS FAIRY GUARDIAN


There is one variety of the Swiss fairies who manage to get along with
very few clothes, and those very thin. The prettiest ones among them
seem to live up among the highest mountain peaks. There, it is colder
than anywhere else, but these fairies do not mind it. Furs are not in
fashion, but only very filmy garments. On their backs are gauzy wings,
by which they can fly around from one peak to another. They hover over
the meadows also, which in summer glisten with blossoms of every tint
and hue. They love to plague Jack Frost, and the old mountain giants,
that have beards of icicles, and hair of snow streamers, and who try so
hard to freeze out the flowers.

These fairies know all the secrets of the mountains. They find out
where the largest and prettiest rock crystals are, and where the
priceless minerals are to be found. They can tell just where the caves
of sparkling topaz are situated, but they do not let any mortal know,
unless he is their favorite. They can lead a hunter to the spot where
the chamois are feeding on the moss. When they want to reward a brave
man, they bring him bullets that are sure to hit the buck, and win for
the marksman a fine pair of horns; or, at the village shooting matches,
plug the bull’s eye of the target, and so secure the prize. To please
his fairy guardian, the hunter must always promise to do what she bids
him, or else her bad temper is roused. Then she scolds, and leaves him
to his luck, which, after that time, is never good. It is not safe to
quarrel with a fairy.

Now there was one of these lovely creatures, named Silver Wreath,
because she looked as charming as the morning mists at sunrise, when
shot through and through by the upspringing light. Then they float off
in the air, like glistening wreaths made of golden braid, or like
scarves of silver. Sometimes, when illuminated by the sun’s rays, they
remind one of necklaces of pearls; or, when many are together, like
white garments of burnished silver set with costly gems.

Silver Wreath, the fairy, was noted for living among the lofty peaks,
where only the hardiest flowers, such as the Alpine rose, and the noble
white flower, called the edelweiss, could grow. No animal or bird,
ermine or ptarmigan, could be whiter than her body, which glistened
like snow crystals or hoar frost, when struck by the sunbeams. When she
blushed, her whole body was like the wonderful Alpine glow that, after
sunset, robes the mountain tops, and both for the same reason. The sky
becomes rosy red, because the sun’s rays are reflected from the snow,
even after going down. So this fairy’s beautiful body not only shone by
its own light, but at times reflected the great luminary’s loveliest
tints. It was a way the sun had, of saying “good night” to the mighty
mountains. So, also, fairy Silver Wreath blushed when, in the dawn of
day, she made her farewell curtsey to her companions, for, after
sunrise, the fairies disappear.

Now there was a brave hunter named Jeannod, who lived in a village of
Uri. In his pursuit of the chamois, this stalwart youth was not afraid
to follow this agile animal over the most dizzy precipices, and far up
beyond the snow line. He did not hesitate to climb the most
perpendicular mountain walls, to get a good shot. Hence, he was often
compelled to spend a night, amid the cliffs and glaciers.

One evening, while on a hunting expedition, Jeannod caught sight of
Silver Wreath, as she was flitting on her gauzy wings around a peak. At
once, he fell in love with her. Happily for him, she was, after several
meetings, enamored of Jeannod, and he became her favorite. As they
became better acquainted with each other, she guided him over unknown
paths and often warned him of danger. She directed him to the chamois
herds, and fed him with the finest oat cake and cheese. When too
wearied to retrace his way back, or to return home, for the night, she
watched over him while he slept. There, far above, where the eagles
flew, she guarded her lover from falling rock or ice, shielding him
from every peril, seen and unseen.

In that way, it happened that for many months, the hunter was in luck
and became the envy of his village companions. He never slipped or lost
his balance, or fell over a precipice, or into an ice crevasse, or was
hit by an avalanche, or lost his path. On every occasion he came back
home with a fat buck on his shoulders, or a brace of ptarmagan birds,
or a big rock crystal, and always looked rosy and healthy; all the
young girls admired him, and the youth wanted to be like him. They
hoped to learn the reason of his luck, which he kept a secret.

Silver Wreath soon found out what Jeannod liked most to eat, for while
she was a fairy, he was a mortal, and had a stomach, and, always, a
lively appetite. He was very particular, and rather fussy about the
kind of cheese he ate, and he always bought the best that could be
found in the market. In fact, he would often walk many miles, and spend
his last coin, to get a cheese of an especially good brand or flavor,
no matter at what price.

The fairy soon found this out, about her lover’s taste, and when
Jeannod was hungry, after climbing the steep rocks, she fed him on a
most delicious kind of cheese. He declared no mortal man or woman could
make any equal to it, whether in taste, or in nourishment, or in
flavor. On the other hand, he amused her by singing, rattling off
rhymes, or telling her stories about men and women. One of these, about
“Peter, Peter, Pumpkin-eater,” seemed to her to be the funniest of all.
After that, when he asked her what he might bring her for a present, he
was surprised to hear her say a “pumpkin shell.” Then he laughed
heartily. When he brought it to her, she kept the pumpkin shell in a
rock crevice as a great curiosity and called it her doll house.

Jeannod was so happy in his love for fairy Silver Wreath, that he
wanted to make her his wife. So one day, he kneeled before her and
asked her to be his bride. He thought it would be easy for her to
accept his love and care, after she had so helped and favored him.

But Silver Wreath, much as she loved Jeannod, did not welcome the idea
of either changing her nature, or leaving her mountain home. Either or
both meant much to her, though little to him. She would have to put on
women’s clothes, and be bothered with changes in fashion, with which
fairies are not troubled. She would be shut up in a house, among
mortals, who get old and die. She would have to depart from heaven-high
peaks, and things white, and vast, and glorious, and dwell among
gossips and tale-bearers. Besides, she could not tell whether Jeannod
would always be fond of her. One day, she remembered the story he had
told her, in fun, of “Peter, Peter, Pumpkin-eater,” and it frightened
her, when she thought of Peter’s wife. So she brooded, long and hard,
over the matter as to whether she should say “yes” to Jeannod, and be
his wife. Would he be a Peter, and keep her in a pumpkin shell?

Yet the hunter was so handsome and so brave! Besides, he did so love
the mountains and the Alpine flowers! Every time he came to her, he had
an Alpine rose in his coat as a symbol of his joy, which might,
however, be for his lifetime only; but, in his hand, he held an
edelweiss, as symbol of faith in the things eternal. This showed that
he thought of both the affairs of the body and the life of the soul, in
the true Swiss way. Besides, he so vehemently assured her that,
whenever she should get homesick, he would take her with him up to her
old haunts. Every time he went to hunt the chamois, she should be his
companion. Last, but not least, he pressed his suit so ardently that,
finally, she consented to marry him, and live in his home.

But she gave her promise, only on one condition. She would be a
faithful and loving wife, and live truly as a mortal, provided he
should agree to the rules, which she made about eating; and, if he
would observe the table manners, which she approved. Knowing his
weakness for cheese, she vowed to keep the larder furnished, always,
with the same kind of this delicacy, upon which she had fed him in his
hunting trips, when he made love to her.

“I’ll wed with you,” she said, “provided that, every time, when you eat
and enjoy the cheese, you will leave one small portion, uneaten, on
your plate.”

This one condition of wifehood seemed so simple, that he laughed out
loud, and poked fun at his betrothed, at her being so childish. But she
looked very grave, though she did not speak a word. Fairies are not
fools, and it may be that even mortal women know more than men, in some
things. Besides, the pumpkin shell had become to her such a spectre,
that, one day, she smashed it with a rock, even after he had promised
vehemently to obey her law as to table manners. Then he gave her a
kiss, and everything serious was forgotten in the mutual joy of lovers.

So the fairy put on a human form, keeping her beauty and loveliness,
but leaving off her wings, and wearing bridal clothes. Then they were
married in the village church. At the wedding, the maidens all
marvelled at her wonderful dress and veil of silvery gauze. When the
honeymoon was past, all declared that no more modest, sensible and
pretty woman had ever come among them, while they wondered where
Jeannod could have met and won so lovely and so good a wife.

In her new home, the fairy lady seemed to be happy every hour. Days
sped into weeks, and months into years, in the routine of household and
village life. What with her flowers and her cuckoo clock, and her
carved wooden spoons, and her well set table, and a flower garden, and
vines on the house wall, that surpassed all her neighbors, her bee
hives and dove cote, the home of Jeannod and Silver Wreath was a place
of beauty and joy. She was at once the delight and envy of all the
village brides and wives. The blossoming plants seemed to thrive and
grow more beautiful, because she loved them so. On her dainty, well
spread table, were set the richest cream, the most transparent and
delicious honey, and the whitest rolls. Her cheese surpassed in taste
everything made by the men in the summer high pastures, who came back
in the late September autumn, bringing their cheeses, which, since
June, they had made in the chalets. In the chateau of Jeannod and
Silver Wreath, it seemed to be always summer, and the food had the
coveted June flavor all the year round.

While her butter, eggs, honey, milk and cream were the best, no one
knew where she got such wonderful cheese, which excelled all. This was
on the table, at every meal, and all the year round, from New Year’s
Day to Christmas Eve, and during the holidays. Her husband was not very
curious and did not ask questions. So long as he had plenty to eat, he
was satisfied, for he had a good appetite and he loved his fairy wife
very dearly, and liked to look at her often with sincere affection.

While food was plenty, Jeannod always remembered the promise he had
made and kept his good table manners. He never caused his sweet and
loving mate to scold, or even to frown. Because of his active life,
hunger was the best sauce to sharpen appetite. Yet he always left a
large part of the cheese uncut, for good manners. Even when returning
from a chamois hunt hungry enough—so he laughingly declared—to swallow
a cow, with its horns and tail, he kept at once his promise and his
politeness to his sweet wife.

But in one year, when midwinter came, the cold was so severe, the
storms so much more frequent and the avalanches so much bigger and more
destructive than usual, that the roads were covered, so as to hide even
the great landmarks out of sight. Then hunting was impossible. The wind
was so tempestuous, that the strongest men kept indoors. Apart from
what his wife provided, Jeannod could bring little to the table. In
such terrible weather, Jeannod, unable to use his rifle, could not
provide meat, and even Silver Wreath could furnish only cheese. In such
a case, the husband was often ravenously hungry, and an empty stomach
who can bear very long? Even when wolves and lions become tame and
helpless, through hunger, what strong man does not become weak?

One day, after trying many hours, to track a chamois, and get within
range of it, with his rifle, Jeannod came back empty, and very low in
his mind. He was so fiercely hungry, that he threw down his hat and
forgot, not only what the edelweiss and Alpine rose had taught him, but
even what he had promised.

When he opened the door, into the larder, he saw that there was nothing
there, but a strip of cheese, left over, from the last meal. Indeed it
was hardly more than a rind. Thinking of nothing, but to satisfy his
gnawing hunger, he seized and bit into it.

At that moment, Silver Wreath, his wife, entered the house. She saw him
with the cheese in his hand, and cried out:

“Oh, my beloved, remember your promise that you would always keep a
slice of cheese. Please do wait until midnight; and, at breakfast time,
I promise you, you shall have all you want of the best; but now,
please, please, leave even a small piece over.”

But the hungry and tired man was too obstinate to listen. From a
thinking being, he had become a ravening beast. He gobbled up the last
fragment.

No sooner had he swallowed the morsel, than his fairy wife cried out,
“You’ve broken your promise and the rule of good manners in the fairy
world. I cannot live with a glutton and promise-breaker. I must return
to my mountains and fellow-fairies.”

Thereupon, all her clothing fell off. Her cap and comb, and her shoes,
stockings and her pretty garments, one by one, dropped on the floor. In
a moment more, her former filmy blue and pink robes covered her, while,
from her back, grew out a pair of wings, like a butterfly’s, but
larger, and mist-like. Waving a good-bye, she flew out of the door,
which opened of its own accord. Soon, on the lofty mountain heights,
she rejoined her fairy family, while the hunter-husband was left alone
in misery and hunger, and, worse than all, with an accusing conscience.








XXI

THE FAIRIES’ PALACE CAR


Once upon a time, the fairies that live up near the mountain tops got
together, and one said to another:

“Let us go travelling.”

“We’ll go as far as Geneva,” said another.

“Agreed,” they all shouted in chorus. “It will be like going from the
North Pole to the Spice Islands. We can see all sorts of landscapes and
go through many climates, before we get to Geneva. So let us all begin
our journey today!”

It was not at all strange, that they should all start off at once. The
fairies had no laundry to get home in time, nor new clothes to have
made and fitted, nor trunks to pack, nor expressmen to bother with.
There were no tickets to be bought, or reserved seats in the cars to
look after, or handbags to carry, or telegrams to send, or letters to
write. Neither did they fume or fret, because the taxicab man did not
arrive on the split second. They had no watches to wind up, or to look
at, lest they might miss the train, nor hunting cases to snap, nor
sandwiches to carry, in case there were no buffet or dining cars. No!
Happily for them, all they had to do was to jump on their ice-chairs at
once, and be off.

Now let us ask what was their palace car, in which they were to
journey, from the top of Mont Blanc to the Rhone river, and over Lake
Leman and thence by ship to Geneva the Beautiful?

It was nothing less than a glacier, twenty miles long and two miles
wide. This car, made of white snow and ice crystal, moves, as everybody
knows, steadily along, and down, from mountain top to the valley. It
does not fly as fast indeed as the Empire State lightning express. Yet
it starts on time, and is sure to arrive at its terminal. It takes only
about a thousand years, from the mountain’s tip top to the down below,
or from snow flake to Rhone river.

When motion was begun, by the fairies in the air, several hundred of
them caught, each, a snow flake at the summit, and rode on it from the
clouds to the ground, until enough had fallen from the sky to make up
the party, which sat, all together, on a snow bank, for awhile, till
the train was all ready. Then the slide downhill began.

Every day the sun would tickle the ice mass and melt it, so it had to
move on. Then, for the fairies, it was like coasting on a bob sled, and
they were as merry as if they were on a toboggan. So they mightily
enjoyed the fun. The fairies did not have to sit on a narrow line, or
hold on tight, lest they might fall off, bump against a post, or hit a
tree, or a rock.

On the contrary, it was more like going on board a big ship, or
promenading on the deck of an ocean liner. They played ball, and
hockey, and shuffle board, and danced and waltzed, and had guessing and
finger games, and leap frog for exercise. They sat in the cabins, which
were crystal ice caverns. They played hide and seek in the crevices,
and blindman’s buff among the ice ridges. They leaped merrily over the
hammocks, and they bathed and swam in the ponds of water, which the sun
melted every day toward noon. In the baths, which lasted several hours,
they sported around like a lot of mermaids.

In this way, they so amused themselves, that they forgot or did not
care to remember the passing months, or years, or centuries. They were
travelling for fun, and had no business or social engagements to attend
to, or guide books, to tell where they were going. So they were in no
hurry, for the glacier only moved at the rate of half an inch an hour,
or a few miles in a century. What cared they for rapid transit? There
were no strikes or delay, no subway or tunnel rules, no hustler to make
you “step lively,” and shut the car door on you, or tell you to “let
’em out,” or “watch your steps.” No policeman on foot, or motorcycle,
to overtake and arrest you for speeding! It was all pure fun.

The fairies had a watcher, who sat on an ice pinnacle, like a man in
the foretop of an ocean steamer. He it was, who announced anything new
in the weather, or the country, or landscape through which they passed.
Then, also, a lecturer came aboard, every ten or twenty years, to
explain the history and point out the wonderful things along the route,
or what had happened, at this or that place.

These wise prompters were also expected to tell what famous trees or
flowers lived, along the route, and in the various climates. Without a
telescope, they could see little moving specks, looking like flies, or
fleas, high up on the eternal snows. These were human beings, who had
either, like wild flowers, escaped cultivation; or, perhaps, had fled
from prison, or lunatic asylums, and were bound to get up to the
mountain tops, as if their keepers were after them with guns.
Occasionally an electric railroad, with snorting locomotive, on a track
and pinion system of cog-wheels, with central rail, carried the
passengers, fat or thin, who could not climb, or who were sane, or, it
might be, lazy.

Occasionally, in rambling through the ice halls, the fairies could
discern, embedded in the crystal walls, black spots. Asking whether
these were flies in amber, such as they had heard of, they were told
that these specks were mortals, men and women, mountain climbers, who
had fallen down precipices, or upon the ice, or slipped into crevices.
Having ended their lives thus, they were kept in the crystal for years,
until their bodies were shot out on the moraines, or washed down the
rivers. Sometimes the fairies found bits of rope and alpenstocks. They
even learned to tell the difference between blondes and brunettes.

Often some of the fairies wondered how it would feel to be born as a
baby, and drink milk, and eat candy, and first crawl over the floor,
and then walk and grow up to be a man or a woman. They could only guess
vaguely what it was to die. For that is the curious thing about
fairies, they cannot die, because they were never born. They do not
have to grow like human babies, or big elephants, or little kangaroos,
or be hatched out of eggs, like chickens, or wriggle in the ponds, or
swim in the water like frogs, or fishes, or whales, or porpoises. Once
in a while, some fairy thought she would like to try it, just once, to
live and die, just to see how it felt, but the other fairies, who did
not admire her taste, only laughed at her.

As a rule, these passengers on the glacier did not pay close attention
to such matters. They were not much interested in mortals, but more in
themselves, for they considered boys and girls, and men and women, to
be very inferior creatures. They gave more attention to what they saw,
as they traveled through the country, changing climate every few
thousand feet and every century or so.

At first, all was snow, ice and rocks, with no birds, shrubs, or trees,
or flowers, and not even moss. Indeed, some of them grumbled and
declared they would not have left home, if they thought they were to
see nothing more than mere human beings. But very soon, that is, after
a few years, ten or twenty, perhaps, their ice chariot or train had
carried them past this old scenery.

Now they began to see mosses and lichens, and occasionally a condor, or
Alpine eagle, on a crag, eating his dinner—perhaps a young lamb, or a
rabbit, or a marmot, or a chamois kid, or something from a cow’s
carcass, which the big bird of prey had stolen from some butcher’s
slaughter house. This was the first sign of that uncanny thing they
called life; which, inside of mortals and other animals, makes them
move about.

It was a stunning novelty, when the conductor called out the name of a
new station:

“Flowers!”

Then they saw, overhanging the rocks, or near the edges of the
precipices, or in the crevices and crannies of the cliffs, what they
called flowers. Yet to us folks, who live in the house and nursery,
these plants, so bundled up in white, hardly seemed to be flowers. They
rather looked like babies, ready to be taken out to ride, for they were
well swaddled in what appeared to be fur or flannel. In fact, their
flowers, so called, were so woolly, and cushiony, and flat, and low,
and they kept holding on so hard, as if for dear life, in the biting
cold wind, that they looked bleak and ghostly. Some of these Alpine
flowers were as downy as a duckling, and as hairy as a poodle. But this
was to keep the plants warm. For life is warm. Death is cold.

Even more wonderful, to most of these fairies, that had lived so long
up among the highest mountain tops, and had never been lower down than
eight thousand feet or so, was another lovely sight—that of green
meadows, spangled with blooms. It was that of the summer pastures.

Now they began to hear the tinkling of bells and saw many cows. They
laughed uproariously, as they saw that the billy goats waved their chin
beards, up and down, and stood on their hind legs. On the roofs of the
shepherds’ chalets, they noticed the big stones. These were laid in
rows, to keep down the strips of bark or shingles, when the tempests
roared. While they were wondering how funny it must feel, to be a boy
or a girl, and live in a skin, with clothes on, they heard the Alpine
horn. While listening to its sweet echoes, some of the fairies actually
began to think that perhaps, after all, mortals might have a good time,
and, possibly, as much enjoyment as fairies do, and always have had.
Most of them, however, scouted the very idea.

A real epidemic of rapture broke out and went through the fairies, like
measles among children, when they looked upon still greener meadows
rich in grass, which were spangled with flowers and these of the
loveliest hues, deep red, scarlet, crimson, pink, violet, blue and
yellow. They saw the Alpine Poa, which the cows love so dearly.

When the lecturer described its kangaroo-like mothers and babies of
this family of plants, the fairies laughed, so loud and merrily, that
some of the shepherds thought that a swift horse, with a strap of
silver sleigh bells, around its neck, was galloping over the ice.

Perhaps the greatest surprise of all was the sight of trees, which
those fairies who had never traveled, had not seen before. In one
country, that is, on one level, they found only pines and firs, which
rocked in the wind.

Several of the fairies jumped off the train, to pick up a handful of
pine needles from the ground, and to play cradle-swinging in the tree
branches. They were not afraid of being left behind, by the train
rushing past them; for, after playing two or three years under the
trees, these passengers jumped on again, and showed handfuls of the
curious things that had fallen off the trees, and covered the ground
like a brown carpet. Then there were many exclamations of wonder among
those that had kept on the train.

Lower down, in another climate, or country, or level, they found
forests of oak, birch, and maple. Yet they could not get any sweets out
of this Swiss tree, for these fairies did not live in America, where
the sugar maple grows.

Every once in a while, the fairy that was the conductor would get out
and consult the thermometer. Then, with an air of great wisdom, like an
owl, or grand daddy, it was announced that tomorrow—that is, a year, or
two, from that date—they would come into a new climate, and to such and
such a level, or place, so many feet above sea. Then they would see
this and that sort of thing, such as houses, church spires, cheese
factories, etc.

At last, having used up their old calendar, through centuries, and into
and out of many climates, they found that their palace car train had
itself greatly changed within. In one place, where the mountain sides
came close together, the road narrowed. Then the rate of movement
slackened, so that the ice forming the train was all squeezed up high,
and curled, and twisted up, like tooth-paste pressed out of a tube. The
glacier was cracked and fissured in every direction.

Some of the fairies had feared, lest their train should run off the
track, and bump into a hill, and a wreck follow; but the conductor
assured them all was perfectly safe, and that no accidents ever
happened on that line. One fairy tried to quote Latin, having once
heard a parson say it, in his sermon. In attempting to say Deo Volente,
she got it Dic Volente. So the knowing ones nicknamed this member of
their family “Dick,” and one, who was very irreverent, called her
“Slippery Dick.” She did not like a boy’s name, but she could not help
herself.

Dick warned them that they were near the end of the first part of their
journey and that the train would stop, when at the level of five
thousand feet. Then the temperature would be so high, that they must
all be prepared to jump overboard and swim.

At this bit of news, all the family laughed. They said they were glad,
for already the palace cars had got so wet with the thaw, inside, that
the ceiling dripped on them continually, the seats were slippery, and
fast melting away, while as for the floor, it was only a puddle, most
of the time. It was a case of watering stock. After all, however, the
fairies did not mind it much, and they were only in fun, when they
pretended to grumble.

At last, the train, after having made a quick passage of a thousand
years, or thereabouts, arrived at its terminal. Then it gradually
melted away, becoming a noisy and very muddy river. One after another,
the fairies turned themselves into water, and slid out into the stream,
rolling about until they reached the beautiful Lake Leman, at the end
of which was Geneva. Here they expected to pay a brief visit, of four
or five hundred years, before returning home to the mountain tops.

When they arrived at the entrance of the lake, and were well into the
deep water, the fairies found waiting for them one of the prettiest
craft that ever floated. It was a galley, of strange shape, with a high
deck at the bow and the stern. There was plenty of room in the middle
for the fairies to play and dance. With their pretty butterfly wings,
and lovely gauzy robes, of every tint and hue, they looked so sweet!

On the prow of the ship stood their Queen, who ruled over the lowlands
and lake waters, and was captain of this fairy vessel. The smallest of
the fairies were continually flitting round the queen, dropping flowers
and fruits, and filling the air with perfumes. The vessel had sails of
the shape called lateen, or leg-of-mutton. These were made of
embroidered silk and cloth of gold. For even more rapid movement,
several snow white swans, swift of feet and bright of eye, were
harnessed, with silver chains, to the front part, called the cut-water.
These drew the ship along gracefully, all the time singing in chorus
the sweetest songs imaginable. Accompanying this music was a large
golden harp, set in front of the mast, and this, whispered to by the
winds, made, with the swans’ songs, the most delicious melody all day
long.

Some of the fairies remembered the echo music of the Alpine horn, sent
back by the lofty mountain peaks; which, however, lasted but a few
seconds. Yet this lake melody continued from sunrise to sunset.

Whenever the Fairy Ship touched the shore, the ground, no matter how
hard and stony it had been, at once became soft with soil. Then,
grasses, and flowers, grain farms and orchards, and trees rich in
luscious fruits, sprang up. Every boy and girl, always on the lookout,
and adults, who were so fortunate as to catch a glimpse of the Fairy
Ship, would make a wish in their hearts, which was sure to be
gratified. They got what they wanted, though often in fairy time, that
is, years afterwards.

For years and years, the Fairy Ship plied up and down the lovely blue
lake, stopping here and there. A moonlight night was the best time for
catching a glimpse of it. Many old folks, still living, like to tell
about the craft of good fortune, and also what they then wished for,
when they were so happy as to see it coming, or sailing past them.

But bye and bye, when the black smoke of steamboats poisoned the air,
and set the fairies sneezing and coughing, and roughened the throats of
the swans, so that they could not sing any more, the Fairy Queen gave
up her pleasure trips on the lake and ordered the snow fairies back to
their mountains.

But, first, the mountain fairies had their visit to Geneva, where they
saw the pretty shops and streets, and there these fairies still live,
in the hearts of the children. Although nobody ever sees them nowadays,
the old folks love to talk about them, and tell of the lovely times
they had when children.

It is certain that the fairies left their blessing behind them, for to
this day, on the great Genevan holiday, in the confectionery shops, on
birthday greetings, and on Christmas and New Year’s cards, you may see
a picture of the Fairy Ship, with its brightly colored lateen sails,
inscribed with “Good Luck,” or “Happy New Year,” or “Many Joyful
Returns of the Day.” Sometimes, they who receive these cards feel as
happy as if they had seen the Fairy Ship.








XXII

THE WHITE CHAMOIS


The dwarfs and chamois have always been good friends. This is chiefly
because they are so much like each other, in being small. The short
dwarfs look like little men. They have beards, and wear caps and
clothes, but they are hardly as high as a yard stick, and measure up,
only to the heads of quite small boys. In weight, some of them scarcely
reach up to a calf. Occasionally, you find a little fellow that could
be packed in a band box, or carried in a suit case. As for the baby
dwarfs, one of them could be wrapped up in a napkin, and be dropped
into a man’s overcoat pocket.

Now the chamois is like the dwarf in this, that he is too small to be a
goat, and not big enough to be a deer. He is a funny fellow to look at.
His horns are only as long as from your elbow to your hand, and are
turned around and backwards at the ends, so that they look like a pair
of big, black fish hooks. He has a yellow head, with a dark band on it,
and on each cheek is a strip of black, as if he were held in, with
bridles and bit. His coat of hair is brown, but his funny little tail
is also black, and, oh, how bright his eyes are!

But when it comes to leaping, from rock to rock, the chamois is the
Johnny Jump Up, among all animals, for he will skip over a chasm
fifteen feet wide. Then, he will land on a tiny ledge of rock, so
narrow that one could hardly imagine a cat could hold itself on.
Putting his hind legs first, it gets a good footing, and then bounds
forward.

These creatures are so agile, that one almost expects to see the
strongest of them climb up trees, by hooking their horns on the
branches, but they do not. They cut many capers, but not this one. The
wonderful thing is that the females, as well as the males, have horns
also.

These chamois ladies, and the little folks of the family, that is, the
doe and fawn, generally live down among the lower forests, while the
daddies and strong young bucks stay, most of the time, up among the
high rocks and peaks. They all eat the lovely flowers, grasses, mosses
and aromatic herbs, that have a hot taste, and which keep them warm
inside.

The very old chamois, with beards, often live alone and off by
themselves. So the dwarfs and chamois are much alike, in this respect,
that they are both chin choppers, in having hair growing, like a tuft,
under their chins, and both are able to whistle. For, when a hunter
comes near and the wind blows from him to them, the sentinel, or
watchman of the herd gives the alarm, by means of a short shrill sound.
Then the whole party scampers far away.

Many thousands of stuffed heads of chamois, mounted, with their hooked
horns and bright, artificial eyes, are seen on the walls of Swiss
hotels and houses. After the invention of the rifle, so many chamois
were killed, that laws were passed which forbade any one hunter to
shoot more than one hundred during his lifetime. Then, when the herds
of chamois went further and further away, men put telescopes on their
long-range rifles, and were thus able to kill at a great distance—even
a mile off.

Now among these four footed inhabitants of the high places near the
sky, the white chamois is the king of the herds and the pet of the
dwarfs. No hunter can kill this leader, for he is the property of the
fairies. After a man has shot his hundredth animal, the white chamois
appears, to give him warning to stop killing his fellow creatures. This
king of the hook-horns can leap, as if it were flying, over chasms. It
moves through the deep snows far faster than the strongest man in the
land.

To the good people, the white chamois is a messenger of joy, telling of
the safety of the herds, announcing also that there will be much sport
for the brave hunter, and plenty of meat for the people, next summer,
and for years to come; but, for the bad hunter who breaks the law and
shoots over a hundred, whether bucks or does, or both, the white
chamois is the messenger of death.

Now there was a very bad man, a hunter named Erni, who only said, “pooh
pooh,” and “fudge,” when an old man informed him that a white chamois
had been seen near the village, as if he had braved danger, in coming
so near houses, in order to give warning.

But the man, instead of hanging up his trusty rifle on its pegs,
sallied out very early one fine morning to shoot, if possible, this
very creature, the white chamois, of which he had heard, but had never
yet seen. It was still dark in the valley, when he started, but the man
knew it would be bright light, by the time he should reach the peaks.

And so it was. Up over the rocks, and across the flowery meadows, that
were more brilliant, with many colors, than any garden ever planted, or
parlor carpet ever woven, the hunter made his way. When he came to the
edge of a deep ravine, he slung his rifle over his back, and slid down.
Then he climbed up to the top of a high ridge. Balancing himself on the
edge of the rocks, he looked across the terrible, yawning chasm. With
his telescope, he swept the field of view, but instead of discerning
anything brown, with a black tail, he saw, very clearly, a white
chamois.

“Now for a good shot,” he thought. “I’ll show these old grannies and
silly dotards, down in the village, what fools they are.”

He unslung the rifle and then, for a moment only, looked down a
thousand feet below, to the jagged rocks, wondering how he could get
the body of the white chamois, if the bullet sped to its heart, and its
carcass fell down.

But this was only for a second; for the bold fellow, familiar from his
youth, with the mountains, laughed at any and all difficulties in his
path. He was just about to level his weapon and take aim, when he heard
a loud voice behind him, shouting:

“Erni, pull your cap down over your eyes.”

Astonished to hear his name called out at such a place, and struck with
curiosity, he turned to see who and what it was.

There stood a dwarf, cap, beard, and all, with a stern look on his
face. Pointing to the white chamois, he screamed:

“You had warning enough; down you go!”

Just then the hunter’s foot, with its hob-nailed shoe, slipped upon a
fragment of rock, and he fell. Over the cliff, down, down, down, the
cruel man tumbled. A few minutes later, the Alpine condors were
quarreling over his corpse. Later, the wolves picked his bones, that
lay long upon the bare rocks. An awful warning!

After this, the chamois mothers, during the summer season, reared their
kids in peace and quiet and all was happy in the high places, where the
dwarfs and the chamois dwell as friends together.








XXIII

THE SIREN OF THE RHINE


The Father of the Fairies, who used to live along and under the river
Rhine, was not able always to control his daughters, after they had
grown up. One of them, named Lorelei, a long time ago, used to appear
above the current of the great stream, at the place where the water
dashes over the rocks and foams high. It was very hard, in that place,
or near it, for the sailors to steer their boats, so as not to have
them dashed to pieces. Only with cool heads and strong arms could the
boatmen get their vessels through in safety.

But if they should stop, to look at the pretty maidens, or to turn
their heads to listen to the lovely music which they made, then, they
were sure to lose their heads and have the boat go wrong and run upon
the rocks. Then, of course, every one on board was thrown into the
boiling waves, and drowned. The rocks are so sharp and jagged that,
when the boat was upset, the poor people were thrown violently against
these, and, even if spared by the waves, were sure to perish.

The fairy, named Lorelei, paid no attention to their cries, but only
laughed at them, as they struggled in the water.

This Lorelei, the chief of the river fairies, was never seen during the
day, for during the sunlight she loved to sit among her jeweled caves,
and remain far down below in the cool depths of the waters. During
daylight hours, if any mortal tried to catch even a glimpse of her, he
sought in vain. It thus happened that some people, and even boatmen on
their way down to Rotterdam, laughed at the idea of there being a
Lorelei, or any other fairy among the rocks.

But when the moon was at its full and shone brightest, and its silvery
beams seemed to turn into a fairy-like gauze, woven of mist and
moonbeams, the Lorelei was in her happiest mood.

As soon as the sun was down and twilight fell on the earth above, she
called for her maidens to dress and adorn her lovely form with jewels.
They plaited part of her golden hair, braiding it up over the top of
her head and around at the back. This made a pretty, cap-like
arrangement, while behind, and down her back, the other tresses fell in
ripples, so that, in the faint evening wind, it would float out, and
gleam, and rise and fall fitfully, on the breezes, seemingly now
silvery, and again golden, in the moon’s rays. A comb of gold, studded
with rare gems, added to the glory of her headdress, which, in the dim
light from the night skies, would glisten like a cluster of stars.

No ordinary man could resist such a lure, for even apart from the
entrancing music he would assuredly have the curiosity to see what this
resplendent figure on the high rock could be.

So, when Lorelei was arrayed in her gorgeous apparel, that so
heightened her beauty, this fairy would rise out of the current. Then,
swimming over to the base of the loftiest rock that rose from near the
river’s shore, she always had her harp with her. Perching aloft, on the
top of the pinnacle, she would sweep the strings and make the most
entrancing music.

Whenever she saw a boatful of mariners, coming up, or going down, the
Rhine, she trilled her voice to particular sweetness. Then they could
see her, among the moonbeams, with her long golden hair streaming out
on the evening breeze, or lightly lifted and rippled, when the zephyrs
were soft as a breath. It seemed as if her song music was loveliest,
when the night wind was most faintly sighing.

No matter how vehemently even the most stout-hearted sailors might have
promised, or even vowed, to pay no attention to anything they heard,
while shooting the rapids, they were sure to drop oars and pole, to
listen, when the melody floated through the air. Then, the man who
steered and had been the loudest, in saying that he would clap his hand
over his ears, and be deaf to any strains, however sweet, was always
the first to weaken. He would stand still, as if shot through, with an
arrow, and forget all about his duties at the rudder. Then, very
quickly, the boat would strike against the rocks. In a moment more, the
whole crew would be struggling, soon to sink under the waves, while the
boat drifted along, bottom upwards. In their last moments, the drowning
men heard the fairies laughing, as if they were enjoying good sport.

Now it is said that the only one who ever basked in the favor of the
Lorelei, was a young and very good looking fisherman’s son, named
Ulric. He was his mother’s darling and his father’s pride, yet none of
his brothers were jealous of him.

Whenever he appeared at night, the Lorelei would get down from her rock
throne, and walk along the river’s strand to welcome the handsome lad.
He never, however he might seek diligently, or call loudly, could find
her, or catch a single glimpse of her, by day; but the moment he met
her at night he would be in raptures over her beauty.

Sometimes she would sing for him, so that he never knew how fast the
hours sped away. It was often midnight, before Ulric reached home, and,
once in a while, it was near daybreak in the east.

But, always before parting from him, Lorelei would point out to her
lover the place in the river, where, on the next morning, the fish
would be found most plentifully.

Ulric would then tell his father, and brothers, where to cast their
nets, and then they always drew up a good boat load of fish. These they
sold in the market at a high price, and so had nice clothes and plenty
to eat. So they never asked Ulric where he had been, so long, the night
before, and why he reached home after the household were all in bed,
and only their faithful dog Fritz kept watch at the door.

His mother warned her youngest son not to go and see the Lorelei too
often, but he only laughed, kissed her, and said he could stop going
when he wanted to; which is the way many boys and girls talk, not
knowing the power of habit, which binds like a chain.

But one night, the old fisherman’s son did not return, and in the
morning, when his mother looked into his room, expecting to call and
wake him, she found it empty. The bed was in perfect order, as if no
one had slept in it. Putting her hand under the covers, she found no
warmth.

At once, she gave the alarm to her husband and sons, who were then at
their breakfast. Taking their faithful dog with them, they at once set
out to find the lad. All day long, they searched among the reeds, along
the river bank, along the rocks, and even in the woods and on the
hills; but no sign of son and brother was found. It was believed that
the siren Lorelei, madly in love with the handsome boy, and, though in
the form of a pretty woman, having no human heart to feel for his
mother, had dragged him down into her caves under the river and deep in
the earth, to enjoy him as her companion forever.

Bye and bye, so many sailors having been drowned, and so large a number
of merchants having lost their precious treasures, in the wrecked
boats, it was determined to send a band of brave men to seize the
Lorelei, and bind her as a prisoner. If she resisted, she was to be put
to death. Thus a danger, to be dreaded more than jagged rocks, or
treacherous currents, would be taken away. Then the merchants, in
Cologne and Rotterdam, would be made happy, by piling up fortunes to
enjoy and leave to their children.

Before starting on the expedition to capture the siren, every man was
taken into the cathedral, and, before the altar, made to cross himself
on the breast, and swear not to listen to the Lorelei’s song. All of
them wore helmets, with thick padded ear muffs, coming down over their
ears, and tied tight. All the orders of the captain were to be given by
signs without his speaking a word.

But what availed arrows, swords, and spears, helmets and armor, and
what were the strong muscles of brave men, against a beautiful fairy?
When the company had landed, silently, on the shore, without
endangering their boats, by going near the rocks, they suddenly found
that they could not move; for the Lorelei had cast a spell over them,
so that not one could lift hand or foot. All night long, the captain
and his soldiers stood upright and motionless, as if made of wax and in
a museum, while the moonbeams were reflected from their helmets,
weapons and armor.

Yet during all these night hours, they had the power of eyesight. They
saw all that was going on, and this was what they witnessed.

Just as the first gleams of the upcoming sun were beginning to streak
the midnight blue of the skies, with light, and make rosy the east, but
while, at the same time, the moon cast a pale light on the strange
scene, they discerned plainly the Lorelei. She was standing on the
highest pointed rock that rose out of the Rhine. There, the beautiful
creature was, as if in a waiting attitude, before a mirror, and about
to retire to her bed for sleep. She took off all her ornaments and
jewels. She unbound the bands of her shining hair, and unplaited the
braids, until her tresses fell, in one glorious mass, like a cataract
of gold. She threw away, one by one, her comb, her girdle, her splendid
robes, and each of her pearls and gems, into the foaming waters. Then
she chanted a spell, to draw the waters up to the very top of the rock,
until the wavelets rolled over her shining feet.

At this moment, two white horses, with long flowing manes, rose up,
pawing and snorting, out of the flood. In golden harness, they drew a
chariot, made of a single emerald, with sapphire wheels. She mounted
within the vehicle and at a word from the siren, the steeds drove away,
with the swiftness of a lightning flash, and disappeared.

Gradually the river subsided to its usual low level. Minute by minute
passed, and the spell over the soldiers was gradually broken. First,
they could move their toes; then, their fingers; and, after a while,
their arms and legs. When at last, by a sign, the captain gave the
order to march, they faced about, towards the river. Embarking on their
boats, they rowed down the Rhine to Basel and Cologne, and told their
weird story.

Never again was the Lorelei seen by man. The people, who live around
the old place of moonlight music, say that the siren felt insulted at
this invasion of her domain. In her view, what were the lives of a few
sailors, and the loss of one fisherman’s son, for a lover, compared
with such music as she gave so freely?

So, to punish foolish men, she has never again left her shining caves,
under the Rhine, to appear on earth. Yet, inspired by her example, the
musicians have continued her sweet music, while the poets never weary
of telling her story in their rhymes and stanzas.








XXIV

THE ASS THAT SAW THE ANGEL


In that part of the Swiss Republic, called the Grisons, there is a
sharp mountain, thin and round, like a horn. Because it is red, its
name has always been Rothhorn, or Red Peak.

In one of the towns near by, lived a proud man, named Gruntli, who
scouted the idea of there being any fairies, or Santa Claus. To his
view, there was no intelligence, or virtue, in dumb brutes. He did not
believe in anything but what he could see, taste, smell, hear, or
handle with his ten fingers. This was what he called “science.”

This old fellow, Gruntli, boasted of being “a man of science.” He
considered that everything belonging to religion was superstition. Mule
drivers, cow milkers, cheese makers, and such folk, whom he called “the
ignorant common people,” might have faith in such things, but not he.

Gruntli was rich. He had a large house, with one room full of books,
but not one of these contained any poetry, or stories, or novels, or
romances. He sneered at anybody who said they believed in Santa Claus,
and he openly insulted people who loved to think that William Tell,
their national hero, ever lived. As for the exploits of Joan of Arc, or
of Arnold of Winkelried, he used to say that what was told of them was
only the same as nursery stories.

Nobody loved Gruntli, for he was a hard master with his servants.
Though he called himself “a man of science,” and sneered at the village
folks, when they went to church on Sunday, he did nothing to help the
poor people of the valley.

Part of the wealth, of this hard-hearted man, consisted in mules, of
which he had twenty or more. These were sumpters, or pack animals, that
carried the milk, butter, cheese, and produce of the valley, to be sold
in the nearest large city, and to bring back what was needed.

Gruntli’s favorite animal for the saddle was a pure-blooded white ass,
which his father had given him, when a boy, so that he and the dumb
brute were well acquainted with each other. Large in size and imposing
in appearance, this animal was named Julius Cæsar; or, for short,
“Gulick,” for that was the way the great Roman conqueror’s name was
pronounced in the local dialect.

People used to say that this donkey was the only living creature for
which Gruntli cared, or had any affection; or, that he even treated
decently. Occasionally, his master would allow this, his favorite
beast, to be ridden by his overseer, or chief clerk—a privilege on
which this head man set great store. The sure-footed creature carried
its rider over the most dangerous passes. It seemed almost a miracle,
the way in which, along narrow ledges of rock, the ass moved as if on a
well-paved road.

Gulick seemed to measure with its eye, and gauge the width necessary,
even making allowance for its load, for the pack saddle, or for the
knees of the rider; so that, though a dumb beast, its reputation for
safety was great in all the region. Muleteers often used to scold their
stubborn animals, by calling them “rabbit-eared fools,” and “not worth
one hoof of Gulick,” the paragon among long eared animals.

Nevertheless, there were times, when the donkey, Gulick, showed that it
had a mind of its own. Then it could be stubborn, too. But this was
what men thought, and not the animal’s own opinion of itself. This
usually took place, when it saw that the path ahead, or the ledge of
rock, over which it was expected to pass, with a pack load, or a stout
lady in the saddle, or a big fat fellow, with both legs far out and
taking up the room, between the ass and the rock.

Then, no amount of scolding, yelling, bad temper, hard names, or even
beating, could move the creature. The only thing to do was to get off
and unload. In fact, the ass had a very poor opinion of some human
beings. He even pitied them, because they had only two legs, while
donkeys had four.

Not once, in all its long life, did Gulick lose its way, slip, fall
down, or have an accident. In fact, its master could go to sleep, while
riding home. When, as was often the case, the man was too full of
strong wine, to sit up straight, this was a good thing; for a sober
donkey has more brains than a drunken man.

Some people, who believed in fairies, even thought that Gulick was
really a human being who, for doing something wicked, in another world,
had been changed, by a fairy, into this creature with the shaggy hide,
ropy tail and ears like a jack rabbit’s.

An event, that seemed to furnish a fresh foundation for the common
belief, took place near the village of Plurs. Then, the general idea,
that a man had, somehow, got into an ass’s skin, was confirmed.

One night, Gruntli’s overseer was returning from Zurich. He reached the
village of Plurs, late at night. There, the wine being good and the
stabling cheap, he expected to make his stay, until next morning. So,
stepping into the wine room, and calling for the hostler, he sat down
before the table, thinking that all was right, according to the usual
way of beasts and man, until morning.

But when the stable boy went outdoors, he found the line of mules was
some distance up the road, and that Gulick was leading them.

Running after the train, he brought the animals back, to the inn; but
when, for a moment, being at the end of the line, he left the beasts,
to open the stable door, off trotted Gulick and all the donkeys after
their leader.

So the boy had another run and was in very bad temper. He seized the
bridle of Gulick, and gave such a jerk, in his anger, that he nearly
broke the strap, and pained the animal’s jaw.

Nevertheless, for a third time, the sagacious beast ran away. When the
stable boy, out of patience, rushed into the wine room, and told the
overseer of the strange behavior of his donkey, Gulick, the man had
sense enough to follow the mule train.

Well for him and his master, that he did so, for, when hearing a
frightful noise, he looked behind him, from the top of the hill, he saw
a landslide, from the mountain flank, wipe out the whole town, leaving
the houses, people and cattle buried under one white pall of earth,
rock and snow.

After this, one would suppose that the owner of Gulick would fully
trust the animal’s wonderful instinct and unerring vision, as well as
his sure footedness.

But this man, Gruntli was, as he called himself, “too much of a man of
science” to consider such an affair, as that of Gulick and the
landslide, as anything but an accident, a coincidence, or, as an
example of “the doctrine of averages.”

Wishing, however, to see the ruin wrought by the landslide, he mounted
Gulick, clapped his ankles against the animal’s sides, and was off.
Gruntli wore spurs, more for show than for use, for Gulick instantly
obeyed the pull of his master’s bridle, or the clap of his foot, and
never was known to need urging. So there never had been any blood on
the points of Gruntli’s spurs.

But this day, the master was in very bad humor, because seven of his
houses, which he owned in the village, were now destroyed. Much of his
income was thus lost, for he could no longer collect rents from the
people who had been his tenants.

Now, as they were jogging along, and approached near the scene of
yesterday’s horror, the ass suddenly stopped with a jerk, that threw
its master forward, and nearly off the saddle.

There, in front of the animal in the middle of the road, stood an angel
holding a naked sword. Of course, Gruntli could not see anything, for
his soul had nearly shriveled up, and Gulick had never before met such
a being. Yet the ass, even though it was a dumb brute, had enough sense
to know that it dare not, and ought not, to rush up against the
apparition, whatever it might be. Had it been rock, stone, ice, a
mountain path, a chamois, or anything usual, the Swiss donkey would
have known what to do. But before such an unusual sight, Gulick stood
still.

As for Gruntli, he, being a self-styled “man of science,” without any
faith, and very little imagination, could see nothing. So, when Gulick,
to get out of the way, turned aside and out of the road, to make its
way through the field, Gruntli, getting very angry, beat the animal and
in his bad temper, even laid on several blows with his whip handle.

At this unusual action of his master, the ass was so surprised, that he
actually stopped. He turned round, gave a rebuking glance at Gruntli,
and then tried to go on, but in vain.

Then the man, in a worse temper than ever, not only beat the dumb brute
again, but he drove his spurs into the sides of the faithful beast,
until little drops of blood dropped on the ground.

At this, even patient Gulick lost his donkey temper, and lifting one of
his hind legs tried to kick the man’s heels.

This enraged Gruntli still further, and he cried out:

“You stupid beast! If you want to climb up into the saddle and ride
yourself, I’ll jump off.”

Then he clutched his whip more tightly, expecting to get down and
thrash the animal with all his strength.

But Gulick moved on, the road narrowing down, between rocks, as many
bridle paths in Switzerland do. Yet no sooner had the intelligent beast
entered into the shadow, than again a shining angel appeared in the
path in front of them, but this time in a threatening manner, and
waving his glittering sword.

Startled at the sight, the ass again stopped, hoping its master would
treat his own beast more kindly and see what was the matter.

But angry men are nearly always blind, and sometimes half insane, or
even wholly so. Gruntli once more drove his already bloody spurs into
Gulick’s side.

At this, stung with pain, and fearing to rush against the angel, the
beast dashed sideways against the rocky wall.

Maddened, almost to insanity, at this action, and smarting with a
crushed ankle, Gruntli beat the ass with repeated and cruel blows.

In spite of such inhuman treatment, and even more awed by the
apparition, than by the agony it was suffering, the ass lay down flat
under its rider, though without hurting him. It turned its head around
and looked at him, as if in stern rebuke, at this treating an old
friend, that had ever served faithfully.

Unmoved by the beseeching look in the eyes of what had been his pet,
since childhood, Gruntli, in a fresh fury of rage, bellowed out:

“I just wish I had a sword to kill you,” and he rained blow upon blow
on his faithful brute.

Then he jumped off the saddle, and, leaving Gulick in the rocky path,
walked forward a few rods. All the time he was wondering what had so
disturbed and checked the brute.

One look, as he turned away to the brow of the mountain, revealed to
him a scene of frightful desolation. Rocks, gravel, ice, snow, and
general débris, covered what had been his seven houses, and tenants and
their cattle. Looking up, he noticed that the face of the mountain,
whence the mass of earth had slipped down, was greatly changed in form.

Nevertheless, the landslide, for so it was, had opened a view,
impossible before, of a rich pasture, where many kine were grazing.
Looking intently at a cow that, having filled its stomach with grass,
was about to lie down, Gruntli noticed that, before doing so, the dumb
animal fell, first, on its front knees.

“Now I see that I am a fool,” he cried, as he beat upon his breast.
“That cow has more religion than I, for it kneels before it lies down;
while, before tumbling into bed, my knee has been unbent, this many a
year.”

Then going back, he patted the neck of his faithful Gulick, washed off
the blood stains, threw his spurs away, and spoke so kindly to the ass,
that it rose up, and actually began frisking around. Then it sidled up
close to Gruntli, and seemed to invite him to get on its back again.

This the man did, and, riding to where the village had been, organized
a corps of relief to help the wounded and hungry, who were left alive,
and he paid for medicines out of his own purse. Then he built new and
better houses for his tenants, the survivors, and for those who came
from other parts of the Swiss country.

And when later, a devout worshipper in church and helper of his fellow
men, Gruntli cared for and fed his ass Gulick, in a comfortable stable,
until at last the beast died at a good old age.

The pastor of the rebuilt village came one day, and asked Gruntli to
tell the story of his great change and the reason of it. Then the man
made answer as follows:

“When it came to pass that an ass could see an angel before I, a man of
science, could discern, or hear him, I thought it time to believe. So I
at once exchanged science, so called, for faith, as a little child,
and, my pride of knowledge for help to my fellow men.”



                                THE END.