THE LAND OF SNOW
The lesson of the trail had to be repeated several times, before the two
puppies understood just what they were expected to do. Day after day
their mother told them more about the brave deeds of the St. Bernard
dogs, for the work of the mother-dogs of the Hospice was to teach the
puppies to be kindly, obedient and loyal to the trust placed in them by
the good monks.
July and August, the two months that were called the summer-time at the
Hospice, passed swiftly, and Jan and Rollo knew that very soon it would
be winter. The first big snow storm blew over the mountains early in
September, while Jan and his brother slept, warm and snug, beside their
mother. Next morning no sun could be seen, and when the dogs rushed into
the enclosures, dark clouds, shrieking winds, and sheets of driving snow
told them that winter had begun and soon there would be hard work for
them all.
Jan and Rollo quivered with excitement and envy when they saw the older
dogs pass through the long corridors that day, and each time one of the
monks came into the basement where the dogs waited, all of them started
to their feet and wagged their tails, hoping to be taken out for work.
While Jan and Rollo watched and waited, their mother talked to them.
"Sometimes," she said, "you will find a white mound, and you must never
pass it by without digging to see if any one is under it. You have
learned already that when you find a man, you must lick his face and
hands to waken him, and if you cannot rouse him, so that he will stand
up, or put his arms about your neck, you must hurry to the Hospice to
bring the monks. That way, you may save a life, and then, perhaps, you
will have a collar or a medal, like Barry, and travellers who sit in the
big room will be told that you were worthy of your ancestors."
"Tell us about the Big Room," begged Rollo, while Jan gave a gentle
little nudge of his nose to coax his mother. Both of them had heard
many times from their mother, from Bruno, and the other older dogs,
about the Big Room, yet they never tired hearing of it. Now they bunched
themselves into furry balls with their heads against their mother's soft
breast, as she began: "In the Big Room are many beautiful pictures that
have been sent from travellers rescued by our kinsfolk. Sometimes a
handsome collar is sent to a dog that has saved a life, but the greatest
honor of all was the medal that was given to Barry, and the beautiful
marble monument that you puppies have seen near the Hospice. Your father
had a collar sent to him by the men he saved. They knew he would never
wear it, but they asked that it be hung above the fireplace in the Big
Room. Some day, I hope you, Jan and Rollo, will have collars there. Now,
run and play," she ended, giving each pup a push with her nose. "Even
though you cannot go out to-day, you must romp, for that will make your
backs and legs strong. If you are not strong you will be sent away from
the Hospice and never come back. That is a terrible thing for a St.
Bernard. I don't want it to happen to either of you!"
Though it was so cold and stormy, the two dogs leaped to their feet and
ran through the half-shut door that led to the big enclosure. Jan was
ahead, and Rollo scampered after him. Around and around the yard they
went, dodging each other until Rollo managed to catch the tip of his
brother's fuzzy tail. This did not make Jan stop running, so Rollo was
dragged after him through the heaps of snow, rolling over and over but
clinging tightly until Jan turned and pounced upon him. They tumbled
about, sometimes Jan was on top, sometimes Rollo, and they looked like a
huge, yellow spider with eight sturdy, furry legs kicking wildly. At
last, panting, they sprawled facing each other with pink tongues hanging
from their open mouths and eyes twinkling merrily.
The sound of Brother Antoine's voice made them look up quickly, and they
saw two visitors were with him. The dogs were accustomed to visitors,
for in the summer many people came to see the Hospice and the dogs, but
in the winter the strangers sought refuge from storms.
"Come on, Rollo," called Jan, as the monk and the men with him came down
the steps. "There's Brother Antoine. I'll beat you to him! Show him how
fast we can run!"
Before Jan had finished, the two puppies were tearing madly toward the
monk and the other men. One of these strangers wore a long fur overcoat,
the other was a much younger man with kindly grey eyes. Jan won the
race, but was going so fast that he could not stop until he bumped
against this grey-eyed man, who smiled and leaned down to pat him. Jan
squirmed around and touched the hand with his nose, then edged nearer
Brother Antoine, who called the dogs about him.
It was a splendid sight to see them cross the enclosure, their great
heads held proudly, their eyes beaming with intelligence and kindness,
the strong muscles moving beneath the tawny skins, as though each one of
them, old and young, understood that the honor of his forefathers must
be guarded from any act that would injure it.
Bruno limped slowly, Jan's mother walked sedately beside him, back of
them were Jupitiére, Junon, Mars, Vulcan, Pluton, Leon, and among the
older dogs came those the same age as Jan and Rollo, followed by the
mothers with still smaller puppies. They reached a place in the yard
where all of them stopped, and though the man in the fur coat, who
stood a distance back of Brother Antoine and the younger man, called to
them, the dogs only wagged their tails and did not go any closer.
"You will have to come further," said the monk. "The dogs know that they
must not cross to you, for the first thing a puppy learns is to respect
the boundary line."
The fur-coated man moved to where Brother Antoine and the other man
stood, then the dogs grouped about while the monk talked to the
visitors.
"They seem to understand every word you say," the old man spoke. "Their
eyes are so intelligent."
"They are living sermons on obedience, loyalty, and self-sacrifice,"
answered Brother Antoine's gentle voice. "Not one of these dogs would
hesitate to risk his life to save his most bitter enemy. That has been
their heritage for almost a thousand years, now."
"Natural instinct counts for a great deal," the grey-eyed man spoke as
he looked into the upturned faces of the dogs, "but the patient training
you give them has developed it."
"The older dogs help us teach the youngsters," went on the monk, whose
hand rested on Jan's head. "We send out four dogs each morning--two
younger ones and two of the old ones. One pair goes on the trail down
the Italian slope toward Aosta, the other travels the Swiss path leading
to Martigny. None of them turns back until the last cabin of refuge has
been reached, where they look to see if any person is waiting. It is not
unusual for the dogs to stay out all night in a hard storm. There have
been many instances of their remaining away for two days and nights,
without food or shelter, though at any time they could have come home."
"Our guide showed us the cabin," interrupted the older man. "The
footprints of the dogs proved they had been there a short time before
us. We followed their tracks until the storm covered them. It was a
lucky thing the storm did not break earlier."
"The dogs would have found you, Mr. Pixley," the monk replied. "You see,
since we have had a telephone from the Hospice, each time travellers
start up the trails, we know when they leave Martigny or Aosta and how
many are on the way. If they do not reach here in reasonable time, or a
storm breaks, we send out the dogs at once. It was much harder in the
other days, before we had telephones, for we could not tell how many
poor souls were struggling in the snow. The dogs seemed to understand,
too, and so they kept on searching until they believed they had found
all."
"I would not have attempted this trip had I not been assured that it was
too early for a bad storm," said Mr. Pixley. "It is foolhardy, not
courageous, to face these mountains in a winter storm. I cannot imagine
any one being so rash as to try it, but I suppose many do?"
"During the winter only poor peasants travel the Pass," was Brother
Antoine's answer. "They cross from Italy to seek work in the vineyards
of France or Switzerland for the summer. When summer is over they return
home this way, because it would mean a long and expensive trip by rail,
which would take all they have earned for a whole year. An entire family
will travel together, and often the youngest will be a babe in its
mother's arms."
"I should think they would wait till later in the summer, and take no
risks."
"Only the good God knows when a snow storm will overtake one in the Pass
of Great St. Bernard," Brother Antoine said. "Even in our summer
months, when a light shower of rain falls in the Valley below, it
becomes a heavy snow up here, and many people are taken unawares. After
winter really begins, in September, the snow is often from seven to ten
feet deep and the drifts pile up against the walls of the Hospice as
high as the third story roof."
"I had planned to visit Berne," Mr. Pixley spoke now, "but after this
sample of your winter weather I have decided to return home to
California. I do not enjoy snow storms. We have none where I live, you
know."
Brother Antoine nodded. "Yes, I know; but I hope some day you will visit
Berne and see Barry. His skin was mounted and is kept in the Museum at
Berne. You know his record? He saved forty-two people and died in 1815,
just after the terrible storm that cost the lives of almost all the
Hospice dogs. Only three St. Bernards lived through those days--Barry,
Pluto, and Pallas. A few crawled home to die of exhaustion and cold; the
rest lie buried under thousands of feet of snow, but they all died like
heroes!"
"A glorious record!" exclaimed the younger man, who had been patting
Jan while the others talked. "I remember, when I was a very small boy,
that I found a picture in a book. It showed a St. Bernard dog digging a
man from the snow, and last night I recognized the picture in that
painting which hangs over the fireplace in the refectory."
"It was a gift from a noted artist," replied the monk. "The dogs used to
carry a little saddle with a warm shawl, but the extra weight was hard
on them, so we do not use the saddle any longer, but a flagon, or wooden
keg of white brandy that we call 'kirsch,' is fastened to the collar,
together with a bell, so that the tinkling will tell that help is near,
even though it may be too dark for any one to see the dog."
"I notice that most of the dogs are short-haired," the grey-eyed man
observed. "Such fur as this pup's would afford better protection against
the cold. He has a magnificent coat of hair!"
"That is the only point against him," said Brother Antoine. "During the
big storm of 1815 we learned that long-haired dogs break down from the
snow clinging and freezing like a coat of mail; or the thick hair
holding moisture developed pneumonia. We brought Newfoundland dogs to
fill the kennels when only three St. Bernards were left, but the long,
heavy hair of the new breed that was part Newfoundland and part St.
Bernard proved a failure. They could not stand the snow storms. Now, we
very rarely keep a long-haired pup. He is generally sold or presented to
some one who will give him kind treatment."
Jan looked suddenly at Rollo and the other puppies near him. All except
himself had short hair. Now he remembered his mother's worried eyes each
time the monks had examined him. He hurried to her side and pushed her
with his nose, as he whispered, "Mother, will they send me away because
I have long hair? You know, Brother Antoine said that I was one of the
best dogs they have had for a long time!"
"Don't worry, Jan," she soothed him. "Even though your fur is long, you
are so strong and so like your father, who had long hair, too, that I am
sure you will be kept here. Hurry, Jan I Brother Antoine is calling you
back."
Jan pushed among the other dogs until he stood again at the monk's side.
The two strangers looked at Jan, and Brother Antoine touched the pup's
head lovingly.
"His father was one of our best dogs," the monk spoke. "But that was not
surprising. He was a direct descendant of Barry. Four travellers owe
their lives to Jan's father, Rex."
The little fellow tried not to look too proud as he listened again to
the story his mother had told him and Rollo many times.
"Rex was guiding four men to the Hospice after a big storm last Fall. It
was the worst since 1815. The men told us the story after they reached
us. They had lost all hope, their guide had fallen down a crevasse and
they were exhausted when Rex found them. They knew that their only
chance of life was to follow him. He went ahead, moving very slowly and
looking back while he barked to encourage them. An ice-bridge had
formed. It was hidden by deep snow and they did not understand the
danger that Rex knew so well. The dog went ahead, the men keeping
closely behind him. Half way across he turned and began barking
fiercely, and as they drew nearer, he started toward them uttering
savage snarls.
"They thought the dog had gone mad, and backed away as he advanced
threateningly. Then suddenly his snarl turned to a mournful howl that
was lost in frightful cracking as the ice-bridge broke away. Rex was
never seen again, but his warning prevented those four men from being
smothered in the chasm under hundreds of feet of snow. So, you see, this
little fellow comes of royal blood. That is why we named him 'Prince
Jan.' He looks just like his father, too!"
Jan thrust his warm nose into Brother Antoine's hand.
"I want to be like my father and Barry," he said, hoping they would
understand him, as he understood them. "I will do my very best to be
worthy of them both!"
The visitors and the monk did not know what Jan said, but the other dogs
understood. Bruno's dim eyes beamed on the pup.
"You will be a credit to us all, Prince Jan!"
The strangers and Brother Antoine left the yard, and the dogs formed in
little groups to talk among themselves, as they always did when new
people came to see them.
"That man came from America," Bruno said to Jan's mother.
"Lots of people from America visit us," she replied, trying not to
yawn, for the storm had kept her awake. All night, while she felt the
warm little bodies of the puppies pressed against her side, she had
stared into the darkness, thinking of the time when Prince Jan and his
brother must go out, like their father, Rex, to do the work of the St.
Bernards.
"Yes," Bruno added in a queer voice, "but this man said he was from
California, where they never have any snow!"
"What?" shouted all the dogs together. "A place where they never have
any snow? Oh, what a funny place that must be!"
"What do they walk on?" asked Jan's mother curiously.
Before Bruno could answer, Jan shoved up and said earnestly: "But,
mother, how do dogs save people where there is no snow?"
"I am sure I don't know," she told him. "Ask Bruno."
Neither Bruno nor any of the other dogs could explain this mystery,
though Jan went to each in turn for an answer to his question. At last
he lay down, his nose wedged between his paws, his yellow forehead
wrinkled with thought, and he stared across at the tops of the great
white peaks above the enclosure until his soft eyes closed in sleep.
Soon he was dreaming that he was digging travellers from the snow and
asking them, "Won't you please tell me how a dog can save people in a
land where there is no snow?"
But none of them could answer his question.