Part 2

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.”