Part 3

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.