Our Little Swiss Cousin

"Indeed I do. Won't you tell us another story? Look! the sun is still high in the sky. We need not go home for an hour yet."

"Let me see, boys. Shall it be a tale of old Switzerland and of her struggles with her enemies?"

"Yes, yes," cried both boys. "We are never tired of hearing of the lives of our great men."

"Very well, then, you shall listen to the story of Arnold of Winkelried.

"It was a time of great danger. The Austrians were pouring into our country. Their soldiers, protected by the strongest steel armour, bore fearful weapons. Our people were poor, and had only slings or bows and arrows with which to defend themselves. What should be done? There was the Austrian army, closely drawn up, with shields glistening in the sunlight, – here were the Swiss, few and unprotected, but burning with love for their country.

"It seemed as though all chance of saving Switzerland was hopeless. Then the brave Arnold spoke.

"'Friends,' said he, 'I am ready to give my life for my country. I will rush into the ranks of our enemies and make an entrance for you. Be ready; follow with all your might, and you may throw them into confusion. You who live after me must take care of my wife and children when I am gone.'

"There was not a moment to be lost.

"'Make way for Liberty!' cried Arnold, then ran with arms extended wide, as if to clasp his dearest friend.

"A hundred spears were thrust toward him. He gathered as many as he could in his hands and arms. They entered his body on all sides, but before the hero fell he had made an opening into the ranks of the enemy through which his comrades dashed. Thrown into confusion, the Austrians fled, and were driven out of our loved country.

"Switzerland was saved for us, my lads, through the sacrifice of that noble man, Arnold von Winkelried. May you live to do him honour!"

"I can see him now, as he rushed into the midst of the cruel Austrians," cried Carl, jumping to his feet. "Noble, noble Arnold! I do not believe any other land has such a hero. Dear master, I will try to be braver and truer all my life, and be ready to serve my country faithfully in time of need."

"I, too," exclaimed Franz, "will be more of a man from this very moment."

"Well said, my dear boys. But come, it is growing late and you will be needed at home."

CHAPTER V

THE HAYMAKERS

"Mother! mother! here come the mowers," called Carl, as he came toward the house with a pail of milk in each hand. The wooden milking-stool was still strapped around the boy's waist, and its one leg stuck out behind like a little stiff tail. You would have laughed at the sight, as did the two haymakers who had by this time reached the hut.

"What, ho! Carl," said one of the men, "are you changing into a monkey now you have come up to the highlands for the summer?"

"I was so busy thinking," replied the boy, "that I forgot to leave the stool in the stable when I had finished the milking. I am glad you are here to-night. How does the work go?"

"Pretty hard, my boy, pretty hard, but I love it," answered the younger man of the two mowers. "Still, I shouldn't advise you to be a haymaker when you grow up. It is too dangerous a business."

"It isn't such hard work gathering the hay in these parts as it is in most places," said the older man. "Ah! many a time I have worked all day long on the edge of a precipice; it is a wonder I am living now."

"It is not strange that the law allows only one person in a family to be a haymaker," said Carl's mother, who had come to the door to welcome her visitors. "I am very glad my husband never chose the work. I should fret about him all through the summer. But come in, friends, and lay down your scythes. We are glad to see you."

The two mowers were on their way to higher places up on the mountain. They were cutting the wild hay which could be found here and there in little patches among the rocks and cliffs.

Could this work be worth while? We wonder if it is possible. But the Swiss value the mountain hay greatly. It is sweet and tender and full of fine herbs, while the higher it grows, the better it is. The cattle have a treat in the winter-time when they have a dinner of this wild mountain hay.

Carl's friends had large nets tied up in bundles and fastened to their backs. Their shoes had iron spikes in the strong soles. These would keep their feet from slipping, as they reached down over the edge of a sharp cliff or held themselves on some steep slope while they skilfully gathered the hay and put it in the nets. But, even then, they must not make a false step or grow dizzy, or let fear enter their heads. If any of these things should happen, an accident, and probably a very bad one, too, would surely follow.

When all the nets were filled, they would be stored in safe nooks until the snow should come. Then for the sport! For the mowers would climb the mountains with their sledges, load them with the nets full of hay, and slide down the slopes with their precious stores.

"May I go with you when you collect the hay in November?" Carl asked his friends. "I won't be afraid, and it is such fun travelling like the wind."

"It will take your breath away, I promise you," said the boy's father. He had come into the house just in time to hear what was being said. "I will risk you, Carl, however. You would not be afraid, and he who is not afraid is generally safe. It is fear that causes most of the accidents. But come, my good wife has made the supper ready. Let us sit down; then we can go on talking."

"How good this is!" said one of the visitors, as he tasted the bread on which toasted cheese had been spread.

Carl's mother did not sit down to the table with the others. She had said to herself, "I will give the mowers a treat. They are not able to have the comforts of a home very often." So she stood by the fire and held a mould of cheese close to the flames. As fast as it softened, she scraped it off and spread it on the slices of bread. Every one was hungry, so she was kept busy serving first one, then another.

She smiled at the men's praise. They told her they had spent the night before with two goatherds who lived in a cave. It was only a few miles away on the west slope of the mountain.

"They have a fine flock of goats," said one of the men, "and they are getting quantities of rich milk for cheese. But it cannot be good for them to sleep two or three months in such a wretched place. They look pale, even though they breathe this fine mountain air all day long."

"Carl and Franz don't look sickly, by any means," laughed Rudolf, as he pointed to the boys' brown arms. The sleeves of their leather jackets were short and hardly reached to their elbows. The strong sunshine and wind had done their work and changed the colour of the fair skin to a deep brown.

"You will have good weather for haying, to-morrow," said Franz, who was standing at the window and looking off toward a mountain-top in the distance. "Pilatus has his hood on to-night."

"A good sign, surely," said Rudolf. "We shall probably see a fine sunrise in the morning. You all know the old verse,

"'If Pilatus wears his hood,
Then the weather's always good.'"

The "hood" is a cloud which spreads out over the summit of the mountain and hides it from sight. Carl has often looked for this the night before a picnic or festival. If he saw it, he would go to bed happy, for he felt sure it would be pleasant the next day.

"I shouldn't think Pilatus would be happy with such a name," said Franz. "I wonder if it is really true that Pilate's body was buried in the lake up near its summit."

"That is the story I heard when I was a little boy at my mother's knee," said the old hay-cutter. "I have heard it many times since. It may be only a legend, but it seems true to me, at any rate."

"Tell it to us again," said Rudolf. "There are no stories like the ones we heard in our childhood."

"It was after the death of our Master," said the mower, in a low, sad voice. "Pilate saw too late what he had done. He had allowed the Wise One to be put to death. He himself was to blame, for he could have saved Him. He could not put the thought out of his mind. At last, he could bear it no longer, and he ended his own life.

"His body was thrown into the Tiber, a river that flows by the city of Rome. The river refused to let it stay there, for it was the body of too wicked a man, so it cast it up on the shore. Then it was carried to the Rhine, but this river would not keep it, either. What should be tried now? Some one said, 'We will take it to the summit of a mountain where there is a deep lake, and drop it in the dark waters.'

"It was done, and the body found a resting-place at last."

"You did not finish the story," said Rudolf. "It is said that the restless spirit of Pilate is allowed to arise once each year and roam through the mountains for a single night on a jet-black horse. On that night the waters of the lake surge and foam as if a terrible storm were raging."

"Are you going to the party to-morrow night?" asked the younger mower. "The goatherds told me about it. I wish we could be there, but our work is too far away. The villagers are getting ready for a good time."

"What party?" cried Carl and Franz together. They were excited at the very idea.

"Why, haven't you heard about it? You know there is a little village about two miles below the pasture where those goatherds live. The young folks have planned to have a dance and a wrestling match. I am surprised you have not heard about it. They expect all the herders and mowers to come from near and far. You will certainly be invited in the morning."

And so it was. Before the cows were let out to pasture, a horn was heard in the distance.

"Hail, friends!" it seemed to call.