I went, with some other young people equally devoid of care, one day
during the extreme heat of summer, to seek for coolness and fresh air on
one of the lofty mountains, which surround the Lago Maggiore in
Lombardy. Having reached by daybreak the middle of the ascent, we
stopped to contemplate the Borromean isles, which were displayed under
our feet, in the middle of the lake, when we were surrounded by a large
flock of sheep, which were leaving the fold to go to their pasture.
One of our party, who was no bad performer on the flute, and who always
carried his instrument along with him, took it out of his pocket. "I am
going," said he, "to turn Corydon; let us see whether Virgil's sheep
will recognize their pastor." He began to play. The sheep and goats,
which were following one another towards the mountain, with their heads
hanging down, raised them at the first sound of the flute, and all with
a general and hasty movement turned to the side from whence the
agreeable noise proceeded. Gradually they flocked round the musician,
and listened with motionless attention. He ceased playing; still the
sheep did not stir. The shepherd with his staff, obliged those nearest
to him to move on; they obeyed; but no sooner did the fluter begin to
play, than his innocent audience again returned to him. The shepherd,
out of patience, pelted them with clods of earth; but not one would
move. The fluter played with additional skill. The shepherd fell into a
passion, whistled, scolded, and pelted the poor fleecy amateurs with
stones. Such as were hit by them began to march; but the others still
refused to stir.