CHAPTER I

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[Illustration]

[Illustration]

MONI THE GOAT BOY

AND OTHER STORIES

Translated from the German of

JOHANNA SPYRI,

Author of "Heidi"

by

Edith F. Kunz

Ginn & Company

Boston · New York · Chicago · London

Copyright, 1906

By Edith F. Kunz

All Rights Reserved

614.3

=The Athenæum Press=

Ginn & Company · Proprietors ·

Boston · U.S.A.

INTRODUCTION

Outside of the province of the Märchen, which constitutes so rich a

field in German literature, there is no writer better known or better

loved in the young German-speaking world than Johanna Spyri. Her

stories, written "for children and those who love children," are read

and reread as something that never grows old. The secret of this charm

lies, above all, in the author's genuine love of children, as shown in

her sympathetic insight into the joys, the hopes, and the longings of

childhood, and in her skillful selection of characteristic details,

which creates an atmosphere of reality that is rare in books written

for children.

Johanna Heusser Spyri was born in the little Swiss town of Hirzel,

canton of Zürich, in 1827, and died in Zürich in 1901. She wrote

especially for young people, her writings dealing mostly with Swiss

mountain life and portraying the thrifty, industrious nature of the

people. The stories are sometimes sad,--for the peasant's life is full

of hardships,--but through them all a fresh mountain breeze is blowing

and a play of sunlight illumines the high Alps.

CONTENTS

MONI THE GOAT BOY

Chapter Page

I. MONI IS HAPPY 3

II. MONI'S LIFE ON THE MOUNTAIN 10

III. A VISIT 21

IV. MONI CANNOT SING 31

V. MONI SINGS ONCE MORE 41

WITHOUT A FRIEND

I. HE IS GOOD FOR NOTHING 49

II. IN THE UPPER PASTURE 61

III. A MINISTERING ANGEL 75

IV. AS THE MOTHER WISHES IT 85

THE LITTLE RUNAWAY

I. UNDER THE ALDERS 103

II. THE TWO FARMS 119

III. GOING ASTRAY 139

IV. WHAT GRETCHEN LEARNED AT SUNDAY SCHOOL 159

V. HOW RENTI LEARNS A MOTTO 175

VI. ALL BUSCHWEIL IS AMAZED 186

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Running along in their midst came the goat boy _Frontispiece_

PAGE

"Hold fast, Meggy!... I'm coming down to get you" 17

He drew her close to him and held her fast 25

He thought over what he had promised Jordie 33

With happy song and yodel Moni returned in the evening 45

He would hunt up a hedge or a bush and hide behind it 57

"Come out, child! You need not be afraid" 69

He greedily drank the cool water 83

Never in his life had Rudi seen so many good things

together on a table 97

He charged down upon the steer 109

There he stayed for hours without stirring 136

"Why are you standing out here?... And why are you

crying?" 150

"I'd like to chop down all his trees!" 168

"The dog will understand instantly, you may depend

upon it" 179

"Brindle, dear Brindle, do you know me?" 203

MONI THE GOAT BOY

[Illustration]

MONI THE GOAT BOY

CHAPTER I

MONI IS HAPPY

The baths of Fideris lie halfway up the mountain side, overlooking the

long valley of the Prättigau. After you leave the highway and climb

a long, steep ascent, you come first upon the village of Fideris,

with its pleasant green slopes. Then, ascending still higher into the

mountains, you at length come upon the lonely hotel building in the

midst of rocky cliffs and fir trees. Here the region would indeed

be rather dreary looking were it not for the bright little mountain

flowers that shine forth everywhere from the low grass.

One pleasant summer evening two ladies stepped out from the hotel and

ascended the narrow footpath that runs up steeply from the house

to the rugged cliffs above. On reaching the first peak the visitors

stopped and looked about, for they had but recently come to the resort.

"Not very cheerful up here, is it, auntie?" said the younger of the

two, as she surveyed the scene. "Nothing but rocks and fir trees, and

beyond, more rocks and firs. If we are to spend six weeks here, I wish

we might have some pleasanter prospect."

"I'm afraid it would not add to your cheerfulness, Paula, if you should

lose your diamond pendant up here," replied her aunt, as she fastened

Paula's velvet neck ribbon from which the sparkling cross hung. "This

is the third time I have tied it since we came. I don't know whether

the fault is in yourself or in the ribbon, but I do know that you would

be sorry to lose it."

"No, no," cried Paula; "I must not lose the cross! No, indeed! It is

from grandmamma and is my dearest treasure."

She added two or three knots to the ribbon herself to make it secure.

Suddenly she raised her head attentively and exclaimed: "Listen,

listen, auntie! that sounds like something really jolly."

From far above came the notes of a merry song; occasionally there was

heard a long, echoing yodel, then more singing. The ladies looked up,

but no living creature was to be seen. The winding path, turning in

great curves between rocks and bushes, was visible only in patches.

But presently it seemed all alive,--above, below, wherever parts of it

could be seen,--and louder and nearer came the singing.

"Look, look, auntie! There, there! see!" cried Paula in great delight,

as three, four, five goats came bounding down, and behind them others

and still others, each one wearing a little tinkling bell. Running

along in their midst came the goat boy, singing the last lines of his

song:

"The winter is cold,

But who would be sad?

For spring will return

To make the world glad."

With an echoing yodel the boy finished his song, and skipping along

meanwhile in his bare feet as nimbly as his goats, he presently reached

the side of the ladies.

"Good evening to you," he said, looking up at them with dancing eyes,

and was about to go on. But they liked this goat boy with the bright

eyes.

"Wait a moment," said Paula. "Are you the goat boy of Fideris? And are

these the goats from the village?"

"To be sure they are," he answered.

"And do you take them up every day?"

"Yes, of course."

"Indeed? And what is your name?"

"I am called Moni."

"Will you sing me the song you were just singing? We heard only a few

lines of it."

"It is too long," said Moni. "The goats shouldn't be kept out so late;

they must go home." Setting his weathered little hat to rights, he

flourished his switch at the browsing goats and called, "Home, home!"

"Then you will sing it for me some other time, won't you, Moni?" cried

Paula after him.

"Yes, yes; good night!" he called back and started on a trot with his

goats. In a few moments the whole flock had arrived at the outbuildings

of the hotel, where Moni had to leave the landlord's goats, the pretty

white one and the black one with the dainty little kid. This little one

Moni cared for very tenderly, for it was a delicate little creature and

his favorite of them all. Little Meggy, in turn, showed her affection

for the boy by keeping very close to him all day long. In the stable he

put her gently in her place, saying: "There, sleep well, little Meggy;

you must be tired. It's a long trip for a little goat like you. But

here is your nice clean bed."

After laying her down in the fresh straw he started with his herd down

the highway toward the village. Presently he lifted his little horn to

his lips and blew a blast that resounded far down the valley. At that

the village children came tumbling from their homes on all sides. Each

one recognizing his own goat made a rush for it and took it home, while

women, too, came out of the near-by houses and led away their goats

by neck ropes or by the horns. In a few moments the whole herd was

dispersed and each goat was stabled in its proper place. Moni was left

with his own goat, Brownie, and the two started off toward the little

house on the hillside, where grandmother was waiting for them in the

door.

"Has everything gone well, Moni?" she asked in friendly tones, while

she led Brownie into the stable and began milking her. The old

grandmother was still a strong, vigorous woman, herself performing

all the duties of house and stable and preserving the best of order

everywhere. Moni stood in the stable door and watched her. When she had

finished milking she went into the house saying, "Come Moni; you must

be hungry."

Everything was ready and Moni sat down to eat; she sat beside him,

and though the meal consisted of but a simple dish of porridge stewed

in goat's milk, it was a feast for the hungry boy. Meanwhile he told

grandmother what had happened during the day; then, as soon as he had

finished his supper, he slipped off to bed, for at early dawn he was to

start out again with his flock.

In this way Moni had now spent two summers and had grown so accustomed

to this life and to the companionship of his goats that he could

hardly think of any other existence for himself. He had lived with his

grandmother ever since he could remember. His mother had died when

he was a tiny baby; his father had soon after left him to go into

military service in Naples. The grandmother was herself poor, but she

immediately took the forsaken little boy, Solomon, into her own home

and shared with him whatever she had of food and other goods. And,

indeed, a blessing seemed to rest upon the house from that day, for

never since had she suffered want.

Honest old Elsbeth was much respected in the village, and when there

had been a call two years before for a new goat boy the choice fell

unanimously upon Moni, for every one was glad to help the good woman

along in this way. Not a single morning had the God-fearing grandmother

started the boy off without reminding him: "Moni, do not forget how

close you are to God up there in the mountains; how he sees and hears

everything and how you can hide nothing from his eyes. But remember,

too, that he is always near to help you, so you need not fear; and if

there is no one at hand to help you in time of need, call upon God, and

his hand will not fail you."

So Moni had always gone forth trustfully to his mountain heights, and

on the loneliest peaks he knew no fear, for he always thought, "The

higher up I go, the nearer I am to the good God and therefore the safer

in everything that may happen to me." So, free from care, he could

enjoy everything about him from morning to night. No wonder, then, that

he sang and whistled and yodeled all day long, for he must express his

happiness somehow.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER II

MONI'S LIFE ON THE MOUNTAIN

Next morning Paula awakened unusually early; a lusty singing had roused

her from sleep. "It must be the goat boy," she said, jumping up and

running to the window.

Sure enough, there he stood with bright, shining face; he had just

taken the old goat and the little kid out of the stable. Now he

flourished his switch, the goats skipped and ran about him, and the

whole procession started on. Presently Moni's voice was again heard

echoing from the hills:

"Up mid the pine trees

The birds join in song,

And though rain clouds may darken,

The sun's out erelong."

"This evening he must sing me the whole song," said Paula; for Moni had

now disappeared and his distant song could no longer be heard.

Red morning clouds still hung in the sky and a fresh mountain breeze

was rustling about Moni's ears as he climbed up the mountain. It

was just what he liked. He stopped on the first peak, and for sheer

happiness yodeled forth so lustily into the valley that many a sleeper

in the hotel opened his eyes in surprise, but quickly closed them

again, for he recognized the voice and so knew that he might have

another hour's nap, as the goat boy always came very early. Meanwhile

Moni continued climbing for an hour, higher and higher, up to the rocky

ledges.

The view grew wider and more beautiful the higher he climbed.

Occasionally he would stop to look about him, across at the mountains

and up to the bright sky that was growing bluer and bluer, and then he

would sing out in a strong, happy voice:

"Up mid the pine trees

The birds join in song,

And though rain clouds may darken,

The sun's out erelong.

"The sun and the stars

And the moon shining clear,

These the dear God has made

For our comfort and cheer.

"In the spring there are flowers,

Red, yellow, and white,

And the sky is so blue

I am wild with delight.

"The summer brings berries

Of many a kind,

Red ones and black ones,--

I eat all I find.

"In fall I hunt nuts;

And I'm sure that I know

Why the goats like to graze

Where the best grasses grow.

"The winter is cold,

But who would be sad?

For spring will return

To make the world glad."

Now he had reached the spot where he usually stayed and where he meant

to rest for a while to-day. It was a little green plateau standing

out from the mountain side, so that one might look out from it in all

directions and far down into the valley. This projection was called

the "Pulpit." Here Moni would often sit for hours, looking out over

the surrounding country, whistling to himself, while his goats were

contentedly gathering herbs.

As soon as Moni had reached this spot he unstrapped his lunch box from

his back, laid it in a little hollow which he had dug for it in the

earth, and then went out on the Pulpit, where he stretched out on

the ground and gave himself up to the full enjoyment of the hour. The

sky was now dark blue; on the opposite mountains ice fields and sharp

peaks had come to view, and far below the green valley lay sparkling

in the morning light. Moni lay there, looking about him, singing and

whistling. The wind cooled his hot face, and when his own notes ceased

for a moment the birds overhead whistled all the more merrily as they

mounted into the blue sky. Moni felt indescribably happy. Now and then

little Meggy would come to him and rub her head against his shoulder in

her affectionate way, bleat tenderly, and then go to the other side and

rub against his other shoulder. The old ones, too, would come up now

and then and show their friendship in their own particular fashion.

Brownie, his own goat, had a way of coming up to him quite anxiously

and looking him over very carefully to see whether he was all right.

She would stand before him, waiting, until he said: "Yes, yes, Brownie;

it's all right. Go back to your grazing now." Swallow, the slender,

lively little creature that darted to and fro like a swallow in and out

of its nest, always came up with the young white one. The two would

charge down upon Moni with a force that would have overthrown him had

he not already been stretched flat on the ground. After a brief visit

they would dart off again as quickly as they had come.

The shiny black one, little Meggy's mother, who belonged to the hotel,

was rather proud. She would stand off several feet from the boy, look

at him with a lofty air, as if afraid of seeming too familiar, and then

pass on her way. Sultan, the big leader of the flock, in the one daily

visit that he paid would rudely push aside any other goat that might be

near, give several significant bleats,--probably meant for reports on

the condition of his family,--and then turn away.

Little Meggy alone refused to be pushed away from her protector. When

Sultan came and tried to thrust her aside, she would slip down as far

as she could under Moni's arm, and thus protected she had no fear of

the big buck, who was otherwise so formidable to her.

Thus the sunshiny morning passed. Moni had finished his noon lunch and

was leaning meditatively on the long cane which he always kept at hand

for difficult places. He was thinking about a new ascent, for he meant

to go up higher with the goats this afternoon. The question was, which

side should he take, right or left? He chose the left, for there he

would come to the three "Dragon Rocks," about which the tenderest, most

luscious herbage grew.

The path was steep and there were dangerous places along a precipitous

wall, but he knew a good road and the goats were sensible creatures

and would not easily run astray. He started and the goats ran merrily

along, now before him, now behind, little Meggy always very close to

him; sometimes he picked her up and carried her over the worst places.

But all went well and they reached the desired spot safely. The goats

made a rush for the green bushes, remembering the juicy shoots they had

enjoyed there before.

"Gently, gently!" Moni warned them. "Don't butt one another along the

steep places. You might easily slide off and have your legs broken.

Swallow, Swallow, what are you about?" he called out excitedly to the

cliff above. The nimble goat had scrambled over the high Dragon Rock

and was now standing on the outer edge of the cliff, looking down

saucily upon him. He hastily scrambled up the cliff, meanwhile keeping

an anxious eye upon the goat, for a single misstep would have landed

her in the abyss below. Moni was agile and in a few moments he had

climbed the rock and, with a quick movement, had grasped Swallow by

the leg and pulled her back. "You come with me now, you foolish little

beast," he said as he drew her down to where the others were feeding.

He held her for a while, until she was contentedly nibbling at a

tender shrub and had no more thoughts of running away.

Suddenly Moni cried out, "Where is little Meggy?" He saw the black

mother standing alone by a steep wall; she was not eating, but was

looking all about her and pointing her ears in a strange manner. The

little kid was always either beside Moni or running after its mother.

"Where is your little one, Blackie?" he said, standing close beside her

and looking up and down. Then he heard a faint, wailing bleat. It was

Meggy's voice and came from far below, piteous, entreating. Moni got

down on the ground and leaned forward. Below him something seemed to be

moving; now he saw it plainly,--it was Meggy hanging in the branches of

a tree that grew out of the rocks. She was wailing pitifully.

Luckily the branch had caught her, else she would have fallen into the

abyss and been dashed to death. If she should even now lose her hold,

she must plunge instantly into the depths below. In terror he called to

her: "Hold fast, Meggy! hold fast to the tree! I'm coming down to get

you."

[Illustration]

But how was he to get there? The rocks were so steep at this point

that he could not possibly get down. But he reflected that he must be

somewhere near the "Rain Rock," that overhanging cliff under which

the goat boys had for generations found shelter. From there, thought

Moni, he might climb across the rocks and so get back with the kid. He

quickly called the goats together and took them to the entrance of the

Rain Rock. There he left them to graze and went out toward the cliff.

Some distance above him he saw the tree with Meggy clinging to it.

He realized that it would be no easy matter to climb up the cliff and

then down again with Meggy on his back, but there was no other way of

rescuing her. And then, too, he felt sure the dear God would help him,

so that he could not fall. He folded his hands, looked up into heaven,

and prayed, "Dear God, please help me to save little Meggy."

Then he felt confident that all would go well and he climbed bravely

up the cliff until he reached the tree. Here he held himself tight

with both feet, lifted the trembling, whining little creature to his

shoulders, and then worked his way down very cautiously. When they had

the solid ground once more underfoot and he saw that the frightened

little goat was safe, he felt so glad that he had to speak his thanks

aloud, and he called up to heaven: "Dear God, I thank you a thousand,

thousand times for helping us back safely. We are both so very, very

glad."

He sat down on the ground for a while to caress and quiet the little

creature, that was still trembling in every limb, until it had somewhat

recovered from its terrible experience.

When it was time, soon afterward, for breaking up, Moni again lifted

the kid to his shoulders, saying solicitously: "Come, my poor little

Meggy; you are still trembling; you cannot walk home to-day; I must

carry you." And so he carried her, cuddled close in his arm, all the

way home.

Paula was standing on the ledge near the hotel, waiting for the boy

to pass. Her aunt was with her. When Moni came along with his burden,

Paula wanted to know whether the little goat was sick. She seemed so

interested that Moni sat down on the ground before her and told the

whole story about Meggy.

The young Fräulein showed great sympathy and stooped to caress the

little creature, that was now lying quietly on Moni's knees, looking

very pretty with its little white feet and smooth black coat, and

evidently enjoying the girl's attention.

"Now sing me your song while you are resting here so comfortably," said

Paula.

Moni was so happy that he gladly complied with her request, and sang

the song through to a lusty close.

Paula was delighted with it and said he must sing it for her often.

Then the whole company went on down to the hotel. There the little kid

was put to bed. Moni took his leave. Paula went to her room and talked

for a long time about the goat boy, about his happy nature, his lonely

life on the mountain, and the joys and privations of such a life. In

this far-off, strange hotel there was little diversion for the girl,

and she was already looking forward to the boy's happy morning song as

one of the pleasures of the morrow.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER III

A VISIT

Thus several days passed, each one as sunny and bright as the one

before it; for it was an unusually fine summer, and from morning to

night the sky was blue and cloudless.

Every morning at early dawn the goat boy had passed the hotel singing

his merry song, and had come back still singing at evening; and all the

guests were so accustomed to the cheerful sound that they would have

been sorry not to hear it.

But Paula, most of all, enjoyed Moni's happiness, and went to meet him

every evening, that she might have a little talk with him.

One sunshiny morning Moni had again reached the Pulpit and was just

about to settle down upon the ground when he reflected: "No, we'll go

on farther to-day. The last time we had to leave all the good, juicy

food because we went after little Meggy. Now we'll go up again and you

can finish grazing."

Joyously the goats ran after him, for they understood that they were

being led to the fine feeding on Dragon Rock. But this time Moni was

careful to hold little Meggy close in his arm all the way. He picked

the tenderest leaves and fed them to her, and the little kid showed

her appreciation by rubbing her head against his arm and bleating

contentedly from time to time. So the morning passed until Moni

presently realized from his hunger that it had grown surprisingly late.

But his lunch was in the little cave by the Pulpit, for he had intended

to be back there by noon.

"Now you have had many a good mouthful and I have had nothing," he said

to his goats. "It is time I had something, too. Come, we'll go down;

there is enough left for you on the lower slope."

With that he whistled shrilly, and the whole flock started downward,

the liveliest ones in the van; Swallow, the light-footed one,--for

whom there were unexpected things in store that day,--in advance of

them all. She jumped from rock to rock and over many a chasm; but

suddenly she could go no farther, for directly in front of her stood a

chamois, looking her saucily in the face. Swallow had never had such

an experience before. She stood still and looked questioningly at the

stranger, waiting for him to step aside and allow her to make the fine

jump she had in mind to the opposite rock. But the chamois never moved,

and stood staring boldly into Swallow's face. So they faced each other,

getting more and more obstinate every moment; they would probably

be standing there to this day had not Sultan come up at this point.

Taking in the situation, he carefully moved past Swallow and pushed the

stranger so forcibly to one side that he had to make a quick jump to

escape sliding off the cliff. Then Swallow passed triumphantly on her

way and Sultan marched proudly behind her, feeling himself to be the

mighty protector of the herd.

Meanwhile another meeting was taking place. Moni, coming from above,

and another goat boy from below, had met face to face and were looking

at each other in astonishment. But they were old acquaintances and,

after their first surprise, greeted each other heartily. The newcomer

was Jordie from Kueblis. He had been looking for Moni half the morning,

and now found him where he least expected.

"I did not think you went up so high with the goats," said Jordie.

"To be sure I do," answered Moni, "but not always. I am generally

somewhere near the Pulpit. But why are you up here?"

"I wanted to see you; I have lots to tell you. And these two goats here

I am taking to the hotel keeper; he wants to buy one,--so I thought

I'd visit you on the way."

"Are they your goats?" asked Moni.

"Of course they are. I don't herd other people's goats any longer. I'm

not goat boy now."

Moni was surprised at this, for Jordie had started out as goat boy of

Kueblis at the same time that he had been chosen from Fideris. He could

not understand how that could all be ended without a sign of regret on

Jordie's part.

But the boys had by this time reached the Pulpit. Here Moni brought out

his bread and dried meat and invited Jordie to lunch. They sat out on

the Pulpit and ate their lunch with a relish, for it had grown late and

both were hungry. When they had eaten everything and finished off with

a drink of goat's milk, Jordie stretched out full length on the ground

and leaned his head on his arms; but Moni preferred to sit up and look

out over the great valley.

"But if you are no longer goat boy, Jordie, what are you?" Moni began.

"You must be something."

"Of course I am something,--something worth while, you may believe,"

answered Jordie. "I am egg boy. I go to the hotels with eggs every day.

I go up to the baths, too. Was there yesterday."

[Illustration]

Moni shook his head. "That wouldn't do for me,--to be egg boy. No, I'd

rather be goat boy, a thousand times rather. That is much better."

"And why, I'd like to know?"

"Eggs aren't alive. You can't talk with them, and they won't follow you

like goats, and be glad when you come, and love you, and understand

every word you say to them. You can't possibly enjoy your eggs as I do

my goats."

"Yes; great enjoyment you must have up here!" said Jordie scornfully.

"What pleasures do you have? Since we've been sitting here you've had

to jump up six times to run after that silly little goat, to keep her

from falling over the rock. Is that any pleasure?"

"Yes, I like it. You know that, Meggy, don't you? Careful, careful!"

he called, jumping up and running after her, for in her joy she was

capering about most recklessly.

When he came back Jordie said, "Don't you know that there is another

way of keeping young goats from falling over the cliffs, that will save

your running after them every few minutes?"

"How is that?" asked Moni.

"Drive a stake into the ground and tie the goat to it by one leg; she

will struggle desperately, but she can't get away."

"You don't really think that I would do such a thing to little Meggy!"

cried Moni indignantly, while he drew her close to him and held her

fast, as though to defend her from such treatment.

"This little one, of course, won't bother you much longer," Jordie went

on. "There won't be many more times for it to come up."

"What? what? What did you say, Jordie?"

"Pshaw! Don't you know that the landlord doesn't mean to raise it?

It is too weak; he thinks it will never grow to be a strong goat. He

wanted to sell it to my father, but father did not want it. So now he

is going to kill it, and then he will buy our Spottie."

Moni had grown white with horror. For a moment he could not speak;

then he broke forth in a loud wail over the little goat: "No, no! they

shan't do it, my little Meggy; they shan't kill you. I won't have it;

I'd rather die with you! No, no! I can't let them; I can't let them."

"Don't carry on so!" said Jordie, annoyed; and he pulled Moni up from

the ground, where he had thrown himself, face downward, in his grief.

"Come, get up. You know the kid belongs to the landlord and he can do

with it as he pleases. Don't think about it any more. Here, I have

something else. Look! look here!" and Jordie held out one hand toward

Moni, while with the other he almost covered something that he was

offering for Moni's admiration. It flashed out most wonderfully from

between his hands as the sun shone upon it.

"What is it?" asked Moni, seeing it sparkle.

"Guess!"

"A ring?"

"No; but something of the sort."

"Who gave it to you?"

"Gave it? Nobody. I found it."

"Then it doesn't belong to you, Jordie."

"Why not? I didn't steal it. I almost stepped on it; then it would have

been crushed anyway. So I might as well have it."

"Where did you find it?"

"Down by the hotel last night."

"Then somebody in the house lost it; you must tell the landlord. If you

don't, I'll tell him this evening."

"No, no! you mustn't do that," cried Jordie. "Look! I'll let you see

it. I'm going to sell it to a chambermaid in one of the hotels; but she

must give me at least four francs, and I will give you one, or perhaps

two, and no one shall know anything about it."

"I don't want it! I don't want it!" Moni interrupted angrily; "and God

has heard every word you said."

Jordie looked up to heaven. "Too far away," he said doubtfully, but he

took care to lower his voice.

"He'll hear you, anyway," said Moni with assurance.

Jordie began to feel uncomfortable. He must get Moni over to his side

or he would spoil the whole game. Jordie thought and thought.

"Moni," he said suddenly, "I will promise you something that will

please you, if you won't tell any one about what I found. And you

needn't take any of the money; then you won't have anything to do with

it. If you'll promise, then I will persuade father to buy little Meggy,

so that she won't be killed. Will you?"

That started a hard struggle in Moni. It would be sinful to conceal the

finding of the treasure. Jordie had opened his hand; there lay a cross

set with many jewels that sparkled with all colors. Moni saw that it

was no trifling thing that would not be searched after. He felt that if

he did not tell it would be the same as though he himself were keeping

something that did not belong to him. But, on the other hand, there

was dear little Meggy; she would be killed--horribly butchered with a

knife, and he could prevent it if he kept silent. The little kid was at

that moment lying trustfully beside him, as though she knew that he

would always protect her. No, he must not let such a thing happen; he

must do something to save her.

"Then I will, Jordie," he said, but without any enthusiasm.

"Your hand on it!" and Jordie held out his own hand, for thus a promise

was made inviolable.

Jordie was very glad that he was now safe with his treasure; but as

Moni had grown so quiet, and as he had a longer way home than Moni,

he thought it best to start on. He took leave of Moni and whistled to

his two goats, which had meanwhile joined Moni's grazing flock,--not

without various buttings and other doubtful encounters, however;

for the goats of Fideris had never heard that one must be polite to

company, and the goats of Kueblis did not know that when one is on a

visit it is not proper to pick out the best feeding for oneself and

push every one else away from it. When Jordie was halfway down the

mountain Moni, too, set out with his flock, but he was very quiet and

gave forth not a note of song or whistle all the way home.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV

MONI CANNOT SING

The next morning Moni came to the hotel as quiet and downcast as he had

been the evening before. He came silently, took away the landlord's

goats, and then started on his upward journey, without ever opening his

lips for a song or a yodel; he hung his head and looked as though he

were afraid of something. Now and then he cast a furtive glance around

to see if some one was not following him.

Moni could not be happy any more; he could hardly tell why. He felt

that he ought to be glad because he had saved little Meggy, and he

tried to sing, but he could not. The sun happened to be clouded

that day; he thought that when the sky cleared he would feel quite

different, and would be happy again. When he got up on the mountain it

began to rain hard. Soon the rain came down in torrents and he took

refuge under the Rain Rock.

The goats, too, came and stood under the rock. The proud black one,

careful of her fine glossy coat, had crept in even before Moni. She

now lay behind him, looking out contentedly from her comfortable

corner into the streaming rain. Meggy stood in front of her protector

and rubbed her head affectionately against his knee, then looked up

astonished to find that he did not say a word to her, for that was most

extraordinary. His own brown goat, too, pawed at his feet and bleated,

for he had not spoken to her all the morning. He sat there, leaning

thoughtfully on his cane, which he carried in rainy weather to keep him

from slipping on the rocks, for on such days he wore shoes. To-day, as

he sat for hours under the rock, he had plenty of time for reflection.

He thought over what he had promised Jordie. It seemed as though Jordie

had stolen something and he had done the same; for was not Jordie going

to give him something for it? He had at any rate done what was wrong,

and God was displeased with him,--he felt that in his heart. He was

glad that it was dark and rainy, and that he was hidden under the rock,

for he would not dare look up into the blue sky as he had formerly. He

was afraid now of the dear God.

[Illustration]

Other things, too, came into his mind. What if Meggy should fall over

a steep place again, and he should try to save her, and God would no

longer help him? What if he could never pray to him any more, or have

any hope of help from him? And what if his feet should slip? Then he

and Meggy would fall down on the jagged rocks and lie there all torn

and mangled.

"Oh, no!" he cried in his troubled heart; "this cannot be." He must

make his peace with the dear God, so that he could pray once more and

go to him with all his troubles; then he could be happy again. He

would throw off the weight that was upon him; he would go and tell

the landlord everything. But then? Then Jordie would not persuade his

father, and the landlord would have little Meggy butchered. Oh, no, no,

no! he could not endure that; and he said: "No, I will not. I will say

nothing." But that did not relieve him; the weight on his heart grew

heavier and heavier.

So the whole day passed. He came home at night as silent as he had gone

forth in the morning; and when Paula, waiting at the hotel, eagerly ran

out to him and asked sympathetically: "Moni, what is the matter? Why

don't you sing?" he turned away embarrassed, saying, "Can't," and went

away as quickly as possible.

In their room upstairs Paula said to her aunt: "If I only knew what is

wrong with the goat boy! He is so changed I hardly know him. If he

would only sing again!"

"This wretched weather probably spoils the boy's humor," said her aunt.

"Everything seems to be going wrong. Let us go home, auntie," begged

Paula. "Our good times are over. First I lose my beautiful cross and

there is no trace of it anywhere; then this endless rain sets in; and

now there is not even the jolly goat boy to listen to. Let us go home."

"But we must finish the treatment here. There is no way out of it,"

said her aunt.

The next morning was again dark and cloudy and the rain poured down

without intermission. Moni spent the day as he had the one before. He

sat under the rocks, his thoughts going round and round in the same

circle. Whenever he reached the resolution, "Now I will go and confess

the wrong, so that I can look up to God once more," he saw the little

goat under the butcher's knife, and the whole struggle began again

from the beginning; so that he was quite worn out when evening came,

and went crawling home through the drenching rain as though he hardly

noticed it.

As he passed the hotel the landlord called to him: "Can't you get along

a little faster? Look how wet they are. What's come over you, anyway,

lately?"

Such cross words had never been addressed to him before by the

landlord. On the contrary, the latter had always shown special

friendliness to the boy; but now he was irritated by Moni's altered

manner, and was in bad humor otherwise, for Paula had told him about

her missing jewel, which she declared could have been lost only within

the hotel or directly before the door, for she had left the house on

that day only to listen to the goat boy's song. To have it said that so

valuable an article could be lost in his house, and not be returned,

annoyed the landlord extremely. On the previous day he had summoned the

whole staff of servants, had examined them, threatened them, and had

finally offered a reward to the finder. The whole establishment was

upset by the occurrence.

When Moni passed the front of the hotel Paula was there waiting for

him, wondering why he had not yet found his song.

"Moni, Moni!" she called; "are you really the same boy who used to come

by here singing from morning to night,--

'And the sky is so blue

I am wild with delight'?"

Moni heard the words and they made a deep impression on him, but he

gave no answer. He felt that it had indeed been different when he went

about singing all day, with a spirit as happy as his song. Would such

days ever come again?

The next morning he climbed the mountain sad and silent as the day

before. The rain had stopped, but a heavy mist hung over the mountains,

and the sky was covered with dark clouds. Moni sat under the rocks,

tortured with distressing thoughts. Toward noon the sky began to clear.

It grew brighter and brighter, and Moni came out of the cave and looked

about. The goats were gayly skipping about once more, the little kid

wantonly capering in the sunshine.

Moni stood out on the Pulpit watching the sky and the mountains as they

came out brighter and brighter. When the clouds parted and the blue

heavens shone forth, it seemed to Moni as though the dear God were

looking down on him from heaven. Suddenly things within him seemed to

grow very clear, and he knew what he must do. He could not carry the

wrong about in his heart any longer; he felt that he must cast it off.

Then he seized the frolicsome little kid, took it in his arms, and said

tenderly: "O my Meggy, my poor little Meggy! I have surely done what I

could; but it was sinful and bad. Now you must die. Oh, oh! how can I

endure it!" And he began to cry so bitterly that he could say no more.

The little kid uttered a sad cry and crept as far under his arm as she

could, as though to hide and be safe with him. He lifted her to his

shoulders.

"Come, Meggy," he said; "I'll carry you home once more. Perhaps soon I

shall not have you to carry."

When the company reached the hotel Paula was again waiting. Moni left

the little kid and the old black mother in the stable. Then, instead of

going on down, he came to the house and was about to go in, when the

Fräulein stopped him.

"Haven't you found your song yet, Moni? Where are you going with that

look of woe?"

"I have something to report," answered Moni, without raising his eyes.

"To report? What is it? Won't you tell me?"

"I must see the landlord. Something was found."

"Found? What? I lost something,--a beautiful cross."

"That is it."

"What did you say?" cried Paula, in greatest astonishment. "A cross

with sparkling stones?"

"Yes, exactly."

"Where is it, Moni? Give it to me. Did you find it?"

"No; Jordie of Kueblis did."

Paula wanted to know who Jordie was and where he lived, and was about

to send some one down to Kueblis right away to get the cross.

"I will go; and if he still has the cross, I will bring it," said Moni.

"If he still has it!" cried Paula. "Why should he not have it? and how

do you know all about this, Moni? When did he find it, and how did you

hear about it?"

Moni stared at the ground; he dared not tell how it had all happened

and how he had helped to hide the discovery until he had been forced to

speak.

But Paula was very kind to him. She led him aside, sat down on a tree

stump with him, and said reassuringly: "Come, tell me how it happened,

Moni. I want you to tell me all about it."

So Moni took courage and began. He told the whole story,--all about

his struggles for Meggy's sake; how he had grown so miserable through

it all and dared not look up to God; and how he had not been able to

endure it longer and had resolved to tell.

Then Paula gave him friendly advice and said he ought to have come at

once and reported, but it was right that he had now told her everything

so frankly, and he would not regret it. She said he might promise

Jordie ten francs as soon as she had the cross in her possession once

more.

"Ten francs!" repeated Moni in surprise, remembering how Jordie had

wanted to sell it. Then he rose. He would go back to Kueblis that very

night, and if he got the cross, bring it back to-morrow morning. Then

he ran away, realizing as he went that he could skip and jump once

more, and that the heavy burden was no longer on his heart.

On reaching home he merely told his grandmother that he had an errand

in Kueblis, and at once started off. He found Jordie at home and told

him what he had done. Jordie was quite angry with him for a moment,

but when he reflected that further concealment was now impossible he

brought out the cross, asking, "What is she going to give me for it?"

Moni was ready with his answer: "Ten francs. You see honest dealing

would have paid you best, for with your dishonesty you expected to get

only four francs; but you will get your money."

Jordie was surprised, and regretted that he had not gone to the hotel

at once with the cross, and so come off with a clear conscience, which

he certainly had not now. Things might have been quite different, but

it was too late. He gave the cross to Moni, who hurried home, as it had

grown quite dark.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER V

MONI SINGS ONCE MORE

Paula had left orders that she was to be called early in the morning.

She wanted to be on hand when the goat boy came, and settle with him

herself. The previous evening she had had a long interview with the

landlord, coming away from his room with a look of satisfaction, as

though she had made some pleasant arrangement with him.

When Moni came up with his herd in the morning Paula called to him,

"Moni, can't you sing even now?"

He shook his head. "I can't. I keep thinking of poor little Meggy and

how many days longer she will be with me. I'll never sing again as long

as I live; but here is the cross." With that he gave her the parcel,

which his grandmother had carefully done up for him in many wrappings.

Paula took the jewel from its coverings and examined it closely; it was

really her precious cross of sparkling stones, perfectly unharmed.

"Well, Moni, you have made me very happy. Without you I should probably

never have seen my cross again. So I want to make you happy, too. Go

and get little Meggy; she belongs to you now."

Moni stared at the Fräulein as though he could not comprehend her

words. At length he stammered, "But how--how can Meggy belong to me?"

"How?" said Paula, smiling. "Last night I bought her from the landlord,

and to-day I give her to you. Can you sing now?"

"Oh! oh! oh!" cried Moni, running to the stable like mad. He took the

little goat and held her close in his arms. Then he came running back

and held out his hand to the Fräulein, saying over and over again, "I

thank you a thousand, thousand times! God reward you for it! If I could

only do something for you!"

"Then sing your song and let us hear whether it has the old ring," said

Paula.

So Moni lifted up his voice, and as he climbed the mountain his joyous

notes rang out so clearly through the valley that every one in the

hotel noticed it, and many a sleeper turned on his pillow, saying,

"Good! the goat boy has sunshine once more."

They were all glad to hear him sing again, for they liked the early

notes, which were to some a sign for rising, to others leave for

another nap. When Moni looked down from the first ledge and saw the

Fräulein still standing before the hotel, he stepped forward and sang

as loudly as he could:

"And the sky is so blue

I am wild with delight."

Nothing but sounds of joy came from his lips all day, and the goats,

too, seemed to feel that it was a day of gladness, and skipped and

capered about as never before. The sun was so bright, the sky so blue,

and after the heavy rains the grasses so green and the flowers so gay,

that Moni thought he had never seen the world so beautiful. He kept his

little kid beside him all day, plucked the best herbs for it, and fed

it from his hand, saying again and again: "Meggy, dear little Meggy,

you are not going to be killed. You are mine now, and will come up the

mountain with me as long as we both live."

With happy song and yodel Moni returned in the evening, and after he

had led the black goat to her stable he took the little one on his

arm; she was henceforth to go home with him. Meggy seemed very well

satisfied, and cuddled up to him as though she felt herself in the

best of care; for he had always treated her more tenderly than her own

mother had.

When Moni came home with the little one on his shoulder his grandmother

hardly knew what to make of him. His calling out, "It is mine,

grandmother; it is mine!" explained nothing to her. But Moni could not

stop to explain until he had run to the stable and made a good bed for

Meggy close beside their own goat, so that the little one would not be

lonely.

"There, Meggy; now sleep well in your new home. You shall always have a

good bed. I will make it fresh for you every day."

Then Moni ran in to the wondering grandmother, and while they sat at

supper he told her the whole story,--of his three sad, troubled days

and the happy ending of it all. His grandmother listened attentively,

and when he had finished she said earnestly: "Moni, this experience you

must always remember. Had you done right in the first place, trusting

in the good God, then everything would have gone well. Now God has

helped you so much more than you deserve that you must not forget it as

long as you live." And Moni was very sure that he would not forget.

Before he went to sleep he had to go to the stable once more to make

sure that the little kid really belonged to him and was there in its

bed.

[Illustration]

Jordie got his ten francs, as promised, but that did not end the

matter for him. When he went to the hotel he was taken before the

landlord, who gave him a severe lecture. But the worst of it all was

that whenever anything was missed after that, it was Jordie who was

immediately suspected of having stolen it. He had no more peace, for he

was continually in dread of being punished for something that he had

never done.

Moni's little goat throve and grew strong, and the boy continued to

sing all summer. But often when he was comfortably stretched out on the

Pulpit, he thought of the troubled days under the Rain Rock, and he

said to himself, "It must never happen so again."

But when he was too long absorbed in such reflections one or another of

the goats would come and rouse him with a questioning bleat.

[Illustration]

WITHOUT A FRIEND

[Illustration]

WITHOUT A FRIEND

CHAPTER I

HE IS GOOD FOR NOTHING

The traveler who ascends Mt. Seelis from the rear will presently find

himself coming out upon a spot where a green meadow, fresh and vivid,

is spread out upon the mountain side. The place is so inviting that one

feels tempted to join the peacefully grazing cows and fall to eating

the soft green grass with them. The clean, well-fed cattle wander about

with pleasant musical accompaniment; for each cow wears a bell, so that

one may tell by the sound whether any of them are straying too far out

toward the edge, where the precipice is hidden by bushes and where a

single misstep would be fatal. There is a company of boys, to be sure,

to watch the cows, but the bells are also necessary, and their tinkling

is so pleasant to hear that it would be a pity not to have them.

Little wooden houses dot the mountain side, and here and there a

turbulent stream comes tumbling down the slope. Not one of the cottages

stands on level ground; it seems as though they had somehow been thrown

against the mountain and had stuck there, for it would be hard to

conceive of their being built on this steep slope. From the highway

below you might think them all equally neat and cheery, with their open

galleries and little wooden stairways, but when you came nearer to them

you would notice that they differed very much in character.

The two first ones were not at all alike. The distance between them

was not very great, yet they stood quite apart, for the largest stream

of the neighborhood, Clear Brook, as it is called, rushed down between

them. In the first cottage all the little windows were kept tightly

closed even through the finest summer days, and no fresh air was ever

let in except through the broken windowpanes, and that was little

enough, for the holes had been pasted over with paper to keep out the

winter's cold. The steps of the outside stairway were in many places

broken away, and the gallery was in such a ruinous state that it

seemed as though the many little children crawling and stumbling about

on it must surely break their arms or legs. But they all were sound

enough in body though very dirty; their faces were covered with grime

and their hair had never been touched by a comb. Four of these little

urchins scrambled about here through the day, and at evening they were

joined by four older ones,--three sturdy boys and a girl,--who were at

work during the day. These, too, were none too clean, but they looked

a little better than the younger ones, for they could at least wash

themselves.

The little house across the stream had quite a different air. Even

before you reached the steps, everything looked so clean and tidy that

you thought the very ground must be different from that across the

stream. The steps always looked as though they had just been scrubbed,

and on the gallery there were three pots of blooming pinks that wafted

fragrance through the windows all summer long. One of the bright

little windows stood open to let in the fresh mountain air, and within

the room a woman might be seen, still strong and active in spite of

the snowy white hair under her neat black cap. She was often at work

mending a man's shirt, that was stout and coarse in material but was

always washed with great care.

The woman herself looked so trim and neat in her simple dress that one

fancied she had never in her life touched anything unclean. It was

Frau Vincenze, mother of the young herdsman Franz Martin, he of the

smiling face and strong arm. Franz Martin lived in his little hut on

the mountain all summer making cheese, and returned to his mother's

cottage only in the late fall, to spend the winter with her and make

butter in the lower dairy hut near by.

As there was no bridge across the wild stream, the two cottages were

quite separated, and there were other people much farther away whom

Frau Vincenze knew better than these neighbors right across the brook;

for she seldom looked over at them,--the sight was not agreeable to

her. She would shake her head disapprovingly when she saw the black

faces and dirty rags on the children, while the stream of fresh, clean

water ran so near their door. She preferred, when the twilight rest

hour came, to enjoy her red carnations on the gallery, or to look down

over the green slope that stretched from her cottage to the valley

below.

The neglected children across the stream belonged to "Poor Grass Joe,"

as he was called, who was usually employed away from home in haying, or

chopping wood, or carrying burdens up the mountain. The wife had much

to do at home, to be sure, but she seemed to take it for granted that

so many children could not possibly be kept in order, and that in time,

when the children grew older, things would mend of their own accord.

So she let everything go as it would, and in the fresh, pure air the

children remained healthy and were happy enough scrambling around on

the steps and on the ground.

In the summer time the four older ones were out all day herding cows;

for here in the lower pasture the whole herd of cows was not left to

graze under one or two boys, as on the high Alps, but each farmer

had to hire his own herd boy to look after his cows. This made jolly

times for the boys and girls, who spent the long days together playing

pranks and making merry in the broad green fields. Sometimes Joe's

children were hired for potato weeding farther down the valley, or

for other light field work. Thus they earned their living through

the summer and brought home many a penny besides, which their mother

could turn to good account; for there were always the four little

mouths to be fed and clothes to be got for all the children. However

simple these clothes might be, each child must have at least a little

shirt, and the older ones one other garment besides. The family was

too poor to possess even a cow, though there was scarcely a farmer in

the neighborhood who did not own one, however small his piece of land

might be.

Poor Grass Joe had got his name from the fact that the spears of grass

on his land were so scarce that they would not support so much as a

cow. He had only a goat and a potato field. With these small resources

the wife had to struggle through the summer and provide for the four

little ones, and sometimes, when work was scarce, for one or two of the

older ones also. The father occasionally came home in the winter, but

he brought very little to his family, for his house and land were so

heavily mortgaged that he was never out of debt throughout the whole

year. Whenever he had earned a little money, some one whom he owed

would come and take it all away.

So the wife had a hard time to get along,--all the more so because she

had no order in her house-keeping and was not skillful in any kind

of work. She would often go out and stand on the tumbledown gallery,

where the boards were lying loose and ready to drop off, and instead of

taking a hammer and fastening them down would look across the stream

at the neat little cottage with the bright windows, and would say

fretfully, "Yes, it's all very well for her to clean and scrub,--she

has nothing else to do; but with me it's quite different."

Then she would turn back angrily into the close, dingy room and vent

her anger on the first person who crossed her path. This usually

happened to be a boy of ten or eleven years, who was not her own child,

but who had lived in her house ever since he was a baby. This little

fellow, known only by the name of "Stupid Rudi," was so lean and gaunt

looking that one would have taken him to be scarcely eight years old.

His timid, shrinking manner made it difficult to tell what kind of a

looking boy he really was, for he never took his eyes from the ground

when any one spoke to him.

Rudi had never known a mother; she had died when he was hardly two

years old, and shortly afterward his father had met with an accident

when returning from the mountain one evening. He had been wild haying,

and, seeking to reach home by a short cut, had lost his footing and

fallen over a precipice. The fall lamed him, and after that he was not

fit for any other work but braiding mats, which he sold in the big

hotel on Mt. Seelis. Little Rudi never saw his father otherwise than

sitting on a low stool with a straw mat on his knees. "Lame Rudolph"

was the name the man went by. Now he had been dead six years. After his

wife's death he had rented a little corner in Joe's house for himself

and boy to sleep in, and the little fellow had remained there ever

since. The few pennies paid by the community for Rudi's support were

very acceptable to Joe's wife, and the extra space in his bedroom,

after the father's death, was eagerly seized for two of her own boys,

who had scarcely had sleeping room for some time.

Rudi had been by nature a shy, quiet little fellow. The father, after

the loss of his wife and the added misfortune of being crippled,

lost all spirit; little as he had been given to talking before his

misfortune, he was even more silent afterward.

[Illustration]

So little Rudi would sit beside his father for whole days without

hearing a word spoken, and did not himself learn to speak for a long

time. After his father died and he belonged altogether to Joe's

household, he hardly ever spoke at all. He was scolded and pushed about

by everybody, but he never thought of resisting; it was not in his

nature to fight. The children did what they pleased to him, and besides

their abuse he had to bear the woman's scoldings, especially when she

was in a bad temper about the neat little house across the stream. But

Rudi did not rebel, for he had the feeling that the whole world was

against him, so what good would it do? With all this the boy in time

grew so shy that it seemed as though he hardly noticed what was going

on about him, and he usually gave no answer when any one spoke to

him. He seemed, in fact, to be always looking for some hole that he

might crawl into, where he would never be found again.

So it had come about that the older children, Jopp, Hans, Uli, and

the girl Lisi, often said to him, "What a stupid Rudi you are!" and

the four little ones began saying it as soon as they could talk. As

Rudi never tried to deny it, all the people in time assumed that it

must be so, and he was known throughout the neighborhood simply as

"Stupid Rudi." And it really seemed as though the boy could not attend

to anything properly as the other children did. If he was sent along

with the other boys to herd cows, he would immediately hunt up a hedge

or a bush and hide behind it. There he would sit trembling with fear,

for he could hear the other boys hunting him and calling to him to

come and join their game. The games always ended with a great deal of

thumping and thrashing, of which Rudi invariably got the worst, because

he would not defend himself, and, in fact, could not defend himself

against the many stronger boys. So he crept away and hid as quickly as

he could; meanwhile his cows wandered where they pleased and grazed on

the neighbors' fields. This was sure to make trouble, and all agreed

that Rudi was too stupid even to herd cows, and no one would engage

him any more. In the field work there was the same trouble. When the

boys were hired to weed potatoes they thought it great fun to pelt each

other with bunches of potato blossoms,--it made the time pass more

quickly,--and of course each one paid back generously what he got. Rudi

alone gave back nothing, but looked about anxiously in all directions

to see who had hit him. That was exactly what amused the other boys;

and so, amid shouts and laughter, he was pelted from all sides,--on

his head, his back, or wherever the balls might strike. But while the

others had time to work in the intervals, Rudi did nothing but dodge

and hide behind the potato bushes. So at this work he was a failure,

too, and young and old agreed that Rudi was too stupid for any kind of

work, and that Rudi would never amount to anything. As he could earn

nothing and would never amount to anything, he was treated accordingly

by Joe's wife. Her own four little ones had hardly enough to eat, and

so it usually happened that for Rudi there was nothing at all and he

was told, "You can find something; you are old enough."

How he really existed no one knew, not even Joe's wife; yet he had

always managed somehow. He never begged; he would not do that; but

many a good woman would hand out a piece of bread or a potato to

the poor, starved little fellow as he went stealing by her door, not

venturing to look up, much less to ask for anything. He had never in

his life had enough to eat, but still that was not so hard for him as

the persecution and derision he had to take from the other boys. As he

grew older he became more and more sensitive to their ridicule, and his

main thought at all times was to escape notice as much as possible. As

he was never seen to take any part with the other children in work or

play, people took it for granted that he was incapable of doing what

the others did, and they declared that he was growing more stupid from

day to day.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER II

IN THE UPPER PASTURE

On a pleasant summer afternoon when the flies were dancing gayly in

the sun, all the boys and girls of the Hillside were running about so

excitedly that it was evident there was something particular on hand

for that day. Jopp, the oldest one of them all, was leader of the

assembly, and when all the company had come together he announced that

they would now go to the dairy hut in the upper pasture, for this was

the day for a "cheese party." But first of all they must decide who was

to stay below and watch the cows while the others went to the party.

That was, of course, a difficult question, for no one was inclined

to sacrifice himself for the sake of the others and stay behind. Uli

suggested that they might for once make Rudi take care of the cows, and

in order to keep him mindful of his duties they had best thrash him

beforehand. His suggestion met with approval, and some of the leaders

were already starting off to find the victim, when Lisi's voice was

heard shrilly screaming above the others: "I think Uli's notion is a

very stupid one, for we'll all have to pay for it when we come home and

find the cows strayed off. You don't suppose that if Rudi is too stupid

to watch two cows he would suddenly be smart enough to take care of

twenty! We must draw lots and three of us must stay here with the cows.

That's the only way."

Lisi's argument was convincing. The company took her advice, and three

of the number were sentenced to stay behind, Uli himself being one of

those upon whom the unhappy lot fell. Mumbling and grumbling he turned

his back upon the exultant throng and sat down upon the ground,--the

other two beside him,--while the rest, with shouts and laughter, went

scampering up the mountain, wild with expectation.

The boys were always notified by Franz Martin of the coming of cheese

day, and they, in turn, never failed to remind him if they thought he

might forget, for it was a gala occasion to them. It was the day when

Franz Martin trimmed his fresh cheeses, after these had been pressed,

a soft mass, into the round wooden forms. When the weight was laid

upon it some of the cheesy mass would be pressed out from the edge of

the mold in the form of a long, snow-white sausage. This was trimmed

off, broken into pieces, and distributed among the children by the

good-natured dairyman. The festival of cheese distribution occurred

every two weeks throughout the summer and was hailed each time with

loud expressions of joy.

While the children were settling their plans Rudi had been hiding

behind a big thistle bush. He kept very quiet and did not move until

he heard the whole company racing up the mountain; then he looked out

very cautiously. The three who had been blackballed sat sulking on the

ground with their backs toward him. The others were some distance up

the mountain; their shouting and yodeling rang out merrily from above.

Rudi, hearing their shouts, was suddenly seized with an overwhelming

desire to join the cheese party. He stole out from behind the bush,

cast a swift glance over toward the three grumblers, and then, softly

and lightly as a weasel, slipped up the mountain side.

After scrambling up the last steep ascent he came upon a little fresh

green plateau, and there stood the dairy hut; close beside it Clear

Brook went tumbling down the slope. In the door of his hut stood Franz

Martin with round, smiling face, laughing at the strange capers that

the boys and girls were making in their efforts to get to the feast.

They had all reached the hut and were pushing one another forward in

order to be as close as possible when the distribution should begin.

"Gently, gently," laughed Franz Martin; "if you all crowd into the hut,

I shall have no room to cut the cheese, and that will be your loss."

Then he took a stout knife and went to the great round cheese that he

had ready on the table. He trimmed it off quickly and came out with a

long, snow-white roll, and, breaking off pieces from it, passed them

about here and there, sometimes over the heads of the taller ones to

the little fellows who could not push forward,--for Franz Martin wanted

to be just and fair in his distribution.

Rudi had been standing in the outermost row, and when he tried to push

forward he got a thump now on one side and now on the other. So he ran

from side to side; but Franz Martin did not see him at all, because

some bigger, stouter boy always crowded in ahead of him. Finally he

got such a fierce blow from big, burly Jopp that he was flung far off

to one side, almost turning a somersault before he got his footing. He

saw that the distribution was almost at an end and that he was not to

get even a tiny bit of cheese roll, so he did not propose to get any

more thumps. He went off by himself down the slope, where some young

fir trees stood, and sat down under them. On the tallest of these trees

a little bird was whistling forth gayly into the bright heavens, as

though there were nothing else in the world but blue skies and sunshine.

Rudi, listening to the glad song, almost forgot his troubles of a

moment ago; but he could not help looking over occasionally to the

hut, where the shouting and laughter continued as the children chased

each other about, trying to snatch pieces of cheese from each other.

When Rudi saw them biting off delicious mouthfuls of the snowy mass,

he would sigh and say to himself, "Oh, if I could only have a little

taste!" for he had never had a single bite of cheese roll; never before

had he even ventured so far as to join a party. But it availed him

nothing, even if he summoned forth all his courage, as he had to-day,

and so he came to the melancholy conclusion that he would never in his

life get a taste of cheese roll. The thought was so disheartening to

him that he no longer heard the song of the little bird, but sat under

the bushes quite hopeless.

Now the feast at the hut was ended and the revelers came down the

slope with a rush, each one trying to get ahead of the others, their

eagerness leading to many a roll and tumble down the steep places. As

Hans went shouting past the group of fir trees he discovered Rudi half

hidden under them.

"Come out of there, old mole! You must play with us!" he shouted; and

Rudi understood what he was expected to "play" with them.

He was to stand as block, so that the others might jump over him. He

was usually knocked over at every jump, and he would much rather have

stayed in his little retreat; but he knew what was in store for him if

he did not follow their commands, so he came out obediently.

"How much cheese roll did you get?" Hans yelled at him.

"None," answered Rudi.

"What a simpleton!" yelled Hans still louder. "He comes up here

expressly to get cheese roll, and then he goes away without any!"

"You stupid Rudi!" they shouted at him from all sides, and the big boys

began jumping over him, so that he had hard work getting on his feet as

fast as they knocked him over. Sometimes he would roll down the hill

with a whole clump of them, and they would all continue rolling until

some chance obstacle brought them to their feet once more. After their

boisterous descent they all ran in different directions, each one to

seek his own cows. Rudi ran off by himself, far away from them all,

for now he expected even worse treatment from the three unfortunates,

because he had deserted them. He slipped down the hill to the swamp

hole, and crouched down so that he could not be seen from above or

below.

The swamp hole was a hollow where water gathered in spring and fall and

made the ground swampy. Now it was quite dry,--a pleasant spot, where

fine, dark red strawberries ripened in the warm sun that beat against

the side of the hollow. But Rudi trembled as long as he was in the

neighborhood of houses and herd boys, for the latter might discover

him at any moment and renew their persecutions. He sat there trembling

at every sound, for he kept thinking, "Now they are coming after

me." Suddenly he was filled with a delightful memory of the little

nook under the fir trees and of the whistling bird overhead. He felt

irresistibly drawn to it; he must go back to that spot.

He ran with all his might up the mountain, never stopping once until he

had reached the group of trees and had slipped in under them. The only

opening in this retreat was on the outer side, toward the valley, so he

felt safely hidden. All around him was great silence; no sound came up

from below; only the little bird was still whistling its merry tune.

The sun was setting; the high snow peaks began to glimmer and to glow,

and over the whole green alp lay the golden evening light. Rudi looked

about him in silent wonder; an unknown feeling of security and comfort

came over him. Here he was safe; there was no one to be seen or heard

in any direction.

He sat there a long time and would have liked never to go away again,

for he had never felt so happy in his life. But he heard heavy steps

coming from the hut behind him. It was the herdsman; he was coming

along carrying a small bucket; he was probably going to the stream to

fetch water. Rudi tried to be as quiet as a mouse, for he was so used

to having every one scold and ridicule him that he thought the herdsman

would do the same, or at least would drive him away. He huddled down

under the bushes; but the branches crackled. Franz Martin listened,

then came over and looked under the fir trees.

"What are you doing in there, half buried in the ground?" asked the

herdsman with smiling face.

"Nothing," answered Rudi in a faint voice that trembled with fear.

[Illustration]

"Come out, child! You need not be afraid, if you have done nothing

wrong. Why are you hiding? Did you creep in here with your cheese

roll so that you could eat it in peace?"

"No; I had no cheese roll," said Rudi, still trembling.

"You didn't? and why not?" asked the herdsman in a tone of voice that

no one had ever used toward Rudi before, arousing an altogether new

feeling in him,--trust in a human being.

"They pushed me away," he answered, as he arose from his hiding place.

"There, now," continued the friendly herdsman; "I can at least see you.

Come a little nearer. And why don't you defend yourself when they push

you away? They all push each other, but every one manages to get a

turn, and why not you?"

"They are stronger," said Rudi, so convincingly that Franz Martin could

offer no further argument in the matter. He now got a good look at the

boy, who stood before the stalwart herdsman like a little stick before

a great pine tree. The strong man looked down pityingly at the meager

little figure, that seemed actually mere skin and bones; out of the

pale, pinched face two big eyes looked up timidly.

"Whose boy are you?" asked the herdsman.

"Nobody's," was the answer.

"But you must have a home somewhere. Where do you live?"

"With Poor Grass Joe."

Franz Martin began to understand. "Ah! so you are that one," he said,

as if remembering something; for he had often heard of Stupid Rudi, who

was of no use to anybody, and was too dull even to herd a cow.

"Come along with me," he said sympathetically; "if you live with Joe,

no wonder you look like a little spear of grass yourself. Come! the

cheese roll is all gone, but we'll find something else."

Rudi hardly knew what was happening to him. He followed after Franz

Martin because he had been told to, but it seemed as though he were

going to some pleasure, and that was something altogether new to him.

Franz Martin went into the hut, and taking down a round loaf of bread

from an upper shelf, he cut a big slice across the whole loaf. Then he

went to the huge ball of butter, shining like a lump of gold in the

corner, and hacked off a generous piece. This he spread over the bread

and then handed the thickly buttered slice to Rudi. Never in all his

life had the boy had anything like it. He looked at it as though it

could not possibly belong to him.

"Come outside and eat it; I must go for water," said Franz Martin,

while he watched with twinkling eyes the expression of joy and

amazement on the child's face. Rudi obeyed. Outside he sat down on

the ground, and while the herdsman went over to Clear Brook he took

a big bite into his bread, and then another and another, and could

not understand how there could be anything in the world so delicious,

and how he could have it, and how there could still be some of it

left,--for it was a huge piece. The evening breeze played softly about

his head and swayed the young fir trees to and fro, where the little

bird was still sitting on its topmost branch and singing forth into the

golden evening sky. Rudi's heart swelled with unknown happiness and he

felt like singing with the little bird.

Franz Martin had meanwhile gone back and forth several times with his

little pail. Each time he had stood awhile by the stream and looked

about him. The mountains no longer glowed with the evening light, but

now the moon rose full and golden from behind the white peaks. The

herdsman came back to the hut and stood beside Rudi, who was still

sitting quietly in the same spot.

"You like it here, do you?" he asked with a smile. "You have finished

your supper, I see. What do you say to going home? See how the moon has

come to light your way."

Rudi had really had no thought of leaving, but now he realized that

it would probably be necessary. He arose, thanked Franz Martin once

more, and started off. But he got no farther than the little fir trees;

something held him back. He looked around once more, and finding that

the herdsman had gone into the cottage and could not see him, he

slipped in quickly under the shadowy bushes. Franz Martin was the only

person in all the world who had ever been kind or sympathetic toward

him. This had so touched the boy that he could not go away; he felt

he must stay near this good man. Hidden by the branches, Rudi peeped

through an opening to see if he might not get another glimpse of his

friend.

After a little while Franz Martin did come out again. He stood before

the door of his hut and with folded arms looked out over the silent

mountain world as it lay before him in the soft moonlight. The face of

the herdsman, too, was illumined by the gentle light. Any one seeing

the face at that moment, with its expression of peaceful happiness,

would have been the better for it. The man folded his hands; he seemed

to be saying a silent evening prayer. Suddenly he said in a loud

voice, "God give you good night," and went into his hut and closed the

door. The good-night message must have been for his old friends the

mountains, and the people whom he held in his heart, though he could

not see them. Rudi had been looking on with silent awe. If Franz Martin

attracted every one who ever knew him by his serene, pleasant ways,

what love and admiration must he have aroused in the heart of little

Rudi, whose only friend and benefactor he was!

When all was dark and quiet in the hut, Rudi rose and ran down the

mountain as fast as he could.

It was late, and there was no light to be seen in the cottage; but

he did not mind, for he knew the door was never locked. He went

quietly into the house and crept into his bed, which he shared with

Uli. The latter was now sleeping heavily, after having expressed his

satisfaction at Rudi's absence by exclaiming, "How lucky that Rudi

is getting too stupid even to find his bed! I have room to sleep in

comfort for once."

Rudi lay down quietly, and until his eyes closed he still saw Franz

Martin before him, standing in the moonlight with folded hands. For the

first time in his life Rudi fell asleep with a happy heart.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER III

A MINISTERING ANGEL

The following day was Sunday. The community of the Hillside belonged

to the Beckenried church in the valley. It was a long walk to church,

but the children were obliged to go to Sunday school regularly, for

the pastor was stern in insisting that the children must be properly

brought up. So on that day the whole troop wended its way as usual down

the hill, and soon they were all sitting as quietly as possible on the

long wooden benches in church. Other groups had assembled; the pastor

got them all settled, and then began. He said that he had told them the

last time about the life hereafter, and as his glance fell on Rudi, he

continued: "Now, Rudi, I will ask you something that you can surely

answer, even if we cannot expect much of you. Where will all good

Christians--even the poorest and lowliest of us, if we have led good

lives--finally be so happy as to know no more sorrow?"

"In the hut of the high pasture," Rudi replied without hesitating.

But he heard snickering all about him and looked around timidly.

Mocking faces met him on every side and the children all seemed

bursting with suppressed laughter. Rudi bent down his head as though he

wished to crawl into the floor. Of the pastor's previous lesson he had

heard nothing, because he had been engaged the whole hour in dodging

sly attacks from the rear. Now he had answered the question entirely

from his own experience.

The pastor looked at him steadily; but when he saw that Rudi had no

thought of laughing, but was sitting there in fear and mortification,

he shook his head doubtfully and said, "There is nothing to be done

with him."

When the lesson was over the whole crowd came running after Rudi,

laughing noisily and shouting, "Rudi, were you dreaming of the cheese

party in Sunday school?" and "Rudi, why didn't you tell about cheese

rolls?"

The boy ran away like a hunted rabbit, trying to escape from his noisy

tormentors. He ran up the hill, where he knew the others would not

pursue him, for they meant to pass the pleasant summer afternoon down

in the village.

He ran farther and farther up the mountain. For all his trials he had

now a solace: he could fly to the upper pasture and console himself

with the sight of Franz Martin's friendly face. There he could sit

very quietly in his little retreat and be safe from pursuit. As he sat

there to-day under the fir trees, the little bird was again singing

overhead. The snow peaks glistened in the sun, and here and there a

clear mountain stream made its way between green slopes of verdure.

Rudi breathed a sigh of contentment as he looked over the peaceful

scene. He forgot all about his recent tormentors and was conscious

only of the one wish,--that he might never have to leave this spot

again. Now and then he got a glimpse of Franz Martin, for whom he was

continually watching. Then he would crouch down and make himself as

small as possible, for he had the feeling that if Franz Martin should

find him here again he might think he had come to get another piece of

bread and butter, while really it was only because this man was the

first and only person who had ever been friendly and kind to him, so

that he felt happier in his presence than anywhere else in the world.

The herdsman did not discover him, and Rudi sat in his little nook

until the stars came out and Franz Martin stepped forth from his hut

again and said, "God give you good night."

Then at last Rudi ran home. It was late, as on the evening before, when

he found his bed; but to-night he was hungry, for he had had nothing

since morning. He did not mind it very much, though, he had been so

happy on the mountain.

So a whole week passed. Whenever Rudi thought no one was watching him

he ran up the alp and slipped into his hiding place. There he would

observe the doings of the herdsman from moment to moment, and never

would he leave his hiding place until Franz Martin had said, "God give

you good night." It seemed to him now as though the evening blessing

were meant for him, too.

The days that followed were exceptionally warm. The sun rose each

morning in a sky as cloudless as that in which it had sunk the night

before. The pasturage was especially fine, and Franz Martin got such

rich milk from the cows that he turned out most excellent cheeses. That

pleased him, and his happy whistle could be heard from earliest dawn

to evening as he went about his work. On Saturday of this week he was

at work even earlier than usual, for this was one of the days when he

was to carry three or four of the cheeses down to the lake and have

them shipped. Soon he had them packed and strapped to his back and was

trudging in happy mood down the mountain, alpenstock in hand. It was

the hottest day of the whole summer.

The farther down he went the more he was oppressed by the excessive

heat, and many times he said to himself, "Oh, how glad I shall be to

get back to my hut this evening in the cool upper air! Down here it is

like an oven."

He reached the landing place just as the boat came in that was to

carry the cheese. His business was quickly settled, and then he stood

a moment thinking whether he should go right back up the mountain or

stop for something to eat. But he had no appetite; his head was hot and

heavy and he wished only to get back. Then some one touched his arm. It

was one of the ship hands who had just helped load the boat.

"Come, Franz Martin; it is a warm day; we'll go in the shade and have

a glass of wine," he said, as he drew the herdsman toward the tavern

where the big trees stood.

Franz Martin was hot and thirsty and was not averse to sitting down a

little while in the shade. He emptied his glass at one draught; but

in a few moments he rose, saying that he felt quite oppressed by this

heavy lower air, and that he was used to cold milk and water and not to

wine. He took leave of his companion and started off with long strides

up the mountain. But never had he found the ascent so difficult. The

noonday sun beat upon his head, his pulse throbbed, and his feet were

so heavy that he could scarcely lift them. But he kept on resolutely.

The steeper the alp the longer grew his strides, and he spurred himself

on with the prospect that now there was only an hour, now a half hour,

and at last only a quarter hour of hot climbing before him; then he

would be at home and could lie down to rest on the fresh hay.

Now he had reached the last steep ascent. The sun burned like fire on

his head; suddenly all grew dark before his eyes; he swayed and fell

heavily to the ground--he had lost consciousness.

* * * * *

When the milker came in the evening he found that Franz Martin had not

yet returned. He set the milk down in the corner and went away; he

never thought of looking about for the dairyman. But there was some

one else there who had been looking for Franz Martin for a long time,

and that was Rudi. The boy had been sitting in his retreat for several

hours. He knew every step the herdsman had to make and how his duties

followed one after another; he was very much surprised to see how long

Franz Martin left the milk standing to-day, for he had always poured it

immediately into the various vessels. Some of it, for buttering, was

poured into the big round pans and left to stand until all the cream

rose to the top in a thick layer; the rest of it was poured into the

cheese kettle. All this Rudi had seen from day to day through the open

house door.

Still the herdsman did not come. The boy began to feel that there was

something wrong. He came out very softly from his hiding place and went

toward the hut. Here all was still and deserted, in the lower room

as well as in the hayloft above. There was no fire crackling under

the kettle; not a sound was to be heard; everything seemed dead. Rudi

ran anxiously around the outside of the hut, up and down, and in all

directions. Then, suddenly, down on the path he spied Franz Martin

lying on the ground. He ran toward the spot. There lay his friend with

closed eyes, groaning and languishing in great distress. He was fiery

hot and his lips were dry and hard. Rudi stood and stared for a moment,

pale with fright, at his benefactor. Then he ran down the mountain as

fast as he could run.

Franz Martin had been lying on the ground unconscious for many hours; a

terrible fever had come upon him. He was tortured by awful thirst. Now

and then it seemed to him in his fever that he was coming to water and

was about to bend over and drink. In his efforts to get at the water

he would wake up for a moment, for it had only been delirium. Then he

found himself still lying on the ground, unable to move, and longing in

vain for a drop of water. He would lose consciousness again and dream

he was lying down in the swamp where he had seen the fine strawberries

as he passed this morning. There he saw them hanging still. Oh, how he

longed for them! He put out his hand, but in vain,--he could not reach

them. But presently he had one in his mouth; an angel was kneeling

beside him and had given it to him,--one, and another, and another. Oh,

how good the juice tasted in his parched mouth! Franz Martin licked and

smacked his lips over the refreshing morsel. He awoke. Was it really

true? was he really awake? It was no dream; there knelt the angel

beside him and laid another big, juicy strawberry in his mouth.

"Oh, you good angel, another one!" said Franz Martin softly; but not

one only,--five, six, the angel put into his mouth, and Franz Martin

eagerly devoured them. Suddenly a look of pain shot over his face; he

laid his hand on his forehead and could only murmur, "Water," before

he became quite unconscious again; he could not even eat the last

strawberry.

[Illustration]

He dreamed most horrible things: his head grew as big as his very

largest ball of butter, and then grew still larger and so very heavy

that he thought in terror, "I shall not be able to carry it alone; they

will have to hold it up with props,--like an overloaded apple tree."

And then he felt quite plainly that his head was full of gunpowder;

some one had lighted it from behind and now it was burning with awful

fury and soon would blow everything to pieces. Then suddenly Clear

Brook came running down over his brow, cool and invigorating, then

over his whole face and into his mouth; and Franz Martin swallowed and

swallowed, and awoke to consciousness.

It was quite true,--shower after shower of icy water ran over his face;

then he felt something at his mouth like a little bowl, and he greedily

drank the cool water. Over him were the twinkling stars. These he could

see plainly, and also that he was still lying out on the open ground.

But it could not be Clear Brook that was flowing over him and giving

him drink. He could not make out what it was, but it felt very good and

refreshing, and he murmured gratefully, "O blessed Father, how I thank

you for your kindness and for this ministering angel!"

At last he felt something on his brow, so cool and comforting that he

said, "Now the fire cannot get through," and contentedly fell asleep

and dreamed no more.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV

AS THE MOTHER WISHES IT

The sun was rising in splendor from behind the high peaks when Franz

Martin opened his eyes and looked about him confusedly. He shivered a

little,--he felt chilly. He wanted to sit up, but his head was heavy

and dull. He put his hand to his brow; it seemed as though there was

something lying on it. And he was not mistaken; sixfold, wet and heavy,

his big kerchief that he had left in the hut lay upon his head. He

pushed it away, and as the cool morning breeze played across his brow

he felt so refreshed and strengthened that he sat up quickly and looked

about him. He met a pair of big, serious eyes fixed steadfastly upon

him.

"Are you here, Rudi?" he asked in surprise. "How did you get up so

early? But now that you are here, come closer, so that I can lean on

your shoulder; I am dizzy and cannot get up alone."

Rudi sprang up from his seat and went close to the herdsman. He braced

his feet on the ground with all his might so that Franz Martin would

have a firm support in him. In the toilsome ascent to the hut the

herdsman, still leaning on the boy's shoulder, began to recall one

thing after another that had occurred to him; but there were various

incidents for which he could not account. Perhaps Rudi could help him

out.

On reaching the hut Franz Martin sat down on one of the three-legged

stools and said: "Rudi, bring the other stool and sit down by me. But

first get down the big jar and we will have a good drink of cold milk

together, for I cannot make a fire yet. There is a little bowl beside

it; see--" He stopped and looked about in surprise. "But what has

become of it? I always set it up there; I don't know what has happened

to me since yesterday."

Rudi's face turned fiery red; he knew well enough who had taken down

the little bowl. He said timidly, "It is down there on the ground," and

ran and fetched it; then he brought the milk jar, and set them both

down before Franz Martin.

The latter shook his head in perplexity. As long as he had lived he had

never set his bowl on the ground there by the door. He drank his milk

silently and thoughtfully, filled the bowl afresh, and said: "Come,

Rudi, you drink, too. You have done me a good service in coming up so

early. Did you think there might be cheese rolls to-day, and you would

be here first?"

"No; truly I did not," protested Rudi.

"Well, tell me this," continued the herdsman, who had been looking

now at the wet cloth that lay on the table, now at the little water

pail that stood waiting at the door as if ready to start out,--"tell

me, Rudi, did I have the cloth on my head when you came up early this

morning?"

Rudi turned scarlet, for he thought that if Franz Martin heard all that

he had done perhaps he would not be pleased; but the man was looking

him so earnestly in the eyes that he had to tell all. "I laid it on

your head," he began bashfully.

"But why, Rudi?" asked the herdsman in surprise.

"Because you were so hot," answered Rudi.

Franz Martin was more and more astonished. "But I was awake at sunrise.

When did you come up?"

"Yesterday at five, or perhaps four, o'clock," stammered Rudi timidly.

"The milker did not come until long afterward."

"What! you were up here all night? What did you do or want here?"

But the herdsman saw that Rudi was quite terrified. The visions of the

night recurred to him, and with fatherly kindness he patted the boy's

shoulder and said encouragingly, "With me you need not be afraid, Rudi.

Here, drink another glass of milk and then tell me everything that

happened from the time that you got here."

Cheered thus, Rudi took new courage. He drank the milk in long

draughts; it tasted delicious to the hungry, thirsty boy. Then he began

to relate: "I came up here to sit in the bushes a little while, but

only as I did every day, not on account of the cheese rolls. And then,

after the milker had brought the milk and you did not come for so long,

I looked for you, and I found you on the ground, and you were red and

hot and seemed thirsty. So I ran down quickly to the swamp and got all

the big strawberries I could find and brought them up to you, and you

were glad for them. But you pointed to your head and wanted water on

it. I fetched the little bowl out of the hut, and the pail, and filled

them at the brook, and poured the water over your head and gave you to

drink, for you were very thirsty. Whenever the pail was empty I went

to the brook and filled it; but because the water ran off your head so

fast I thought a heavy cloth would keep wet a long time. So I got the

cloth out of the hut and laid it thick and wet on your head and dipped

it in the pail whenever it got dry and hot; and then at last you awoke

when it was morning, and I was very glad. I was afraid you might get

very sick."

Franz Martin had been listening with earnest attention. Now everything

that he had gone through in the night was plain to him,--how he thought

an angel had come to him with strawberries, and how he afterward

enjoyed the water of Clear Brook as the real water of life. Franz

Martin sat and gazed at Rudi in dumb amazement, as though he had never

seen a boy before. Such a boy as this he had certainly never seen.

How was it possible, he said to himself, that this boy, whom every

one, young and old, never called anything else but "Stupid Rudi,"

had been clever enough to save his life, which had certainly been in

great danger?--for what a fever had been consuming him the herdsman

knew perfectly well. Had Rudi not quieted this fever with his cooling

showers, who knows what might have developed by morning? And how could

this boy, whom no one thought worthy of a friendly word, be capable of

such self-sacrifice that he would sit up and care for him all night?

Tears came to the eyes of the big, stalwart man as he looked at the

timid, despised little fellow, and thought this all over. Then he took

the boy by the hand and said: "We will be good friends, Rudi; I have

much to thank you for and I shall not forget it. Do me one more favor.

I am so weak and shaky that I must lie down and rest. You go down to

my mother and tell her to come to me. Say that I am not quite well.

But you must come back with her, for I have much to talk over with you

to-day. Don't forget."

In his whole life Rudi had never been so happy. He ran down the

mountain, leaping and skipping for joy. Franz Martin had himself told

him to come again, and now he need no longer hide, but might walk right

into the hut, and, better still, Franz Martin had said that he would be

good friends with him. At each new thought Rudi leaped high into the

air, and before he knew it he had reached the Hillside. Just as he was

coming down from above in jumps toward the neat little cottage with

the shining windows, Frau Vincenze came up from below in her Sunday

clothes, prayer book in hand. The boy ran toward her, but for several

moments could say nothing; he was quite out of breath with running.

"Where do you come from?" said the proper little woman disapprovingly,

as she looked the boy over from head to foot. She thought that Sunday

should be fittingly observed, and Rudi presented anything but a

holiday appearance in his little, old, ragged trousers and shirt. "I

think I have seen you across the stream," she said; "you must belong to

Poor Grass Joe?"

"No, I am only Rudi," the boy replied very humbly.

Then it occurred to the woman that Joe's wife had a foolish boy in

her house, who would never be of any use, people said. This was

probably the boy. "But what do you want of me?" she asked in growing

astonishment.

Rudi had found his breath again and now delivered his message clearly

and correctly. The mother was very much alarmed. Never before had her

sturdy Franz Martin had any illness, and that he should now send for

her, instead of coming down himself, was to her a very bad indication.

Without saying a word she went into the house, carefully packed

everything that she thought they might need, and in a few moments came

out with a big basket on her arm.

"Come," she said to Rudi; "we will start right up. Why must you go

back?"

"I don't know," he answered shyly, and then added hesitatingly, as

though he were afraid it might be something wrong, "Must I not carry

the basket?"

"Ah, yes! I understand," the mother said to herself; "Franz Martin

thought that I should be bringing all sorts of remedies, and the boy

was to carry them for me."

She gave Rudi the basket. Silently she walked beside him up the

mountain, for her thoughts were troubled. Her son was her pride

and joy; and was he really ill,--perhaps dangerously so? Her alarm

increased as she approached the hut. Her knees trembled so that she

could hardly keep up.

She entered the hut. There was no one there. She looked all about,

then up into the hayloft. There lay her son buried in the hay; she

could hardly see him. With beating heart she climbed the ladder. Rudi

remained respectfully standing outside the door after he had shoved the

basket inside. As the mother bent anxiously over her son he opened his

blue eyes, cheerily stretched forth his hand, and sitting up, said:

"God bless you, mother! I am glad you have come. I have been sleeping

like a bear ever since Rudi went away."

The mother stared at her son, half pleased, half terrified. She did not

know what to think.

"Franz Martin," she said earnestly, "what is wrong with you? Are you

talking in delirium, or do you know that you sent for me?"

"Yes, yes, mother," laughed Franz Martin; "my mind is clear now and the

fever is past. But my limbs were all atremble; I could not come down to

you, and I wanted so much to talk to you. My knees are shaky even now,

and I could not get very far."

"But what is it? What was it? Tell me about it," urged the mother,

sitting down on the hay beside her son.

"I will explain it all to you, mother, just as it happened," he said

quietly, as he leaned back against the hay; "but first look at that

poor, gaunt, little boy down there, who hasn't a decent garment to his

name, whom no one thinks worthy of a kind word, and who is known only

as 'Stupid Rudi.'"

The mother looked down at Rudi, who was watching the herdsman with much

concern to see whether he was going to faint again.

"Well, and then?" asked the mother intently.

"He saved my life, mother. If it had not been for this little boy, I

should still be lying out on the ground in deadly fever, or it might

even be all ended with me by this time."

Then Franz Martin told her everything that had happened since the

afternoon before,--how Rudi had stayed with him all night and had cared

for him and relieved him from the consuming thirst and fever, and had

cooled the fire in his head. The cleverest person in the world could

not have done it better, and perhaps no other person would have done it

for him.

Again and again the mother had to wipe away her tears. She thought to

herself, what if her Franz Martin had lain out there all alone and

forsaken in his agony of thirst, and had been quite consumed by the

fever, and no one had known anything about him!

Then such joy and gratitude rose in her heart that she cried aloud:

"God be thanked! God be thanked!"

And for little Rudi she suddenly felt such a heart full of love that

she exclaimed eagerly: "Franz Martin, Rudi shall not go back to Joe's

wife! The boy has probably been only half fed, and she has let him

run about in dirt and rags. This very day he shall go with me, and

to-morrow I will make him some decent clothes. He shall not fare poorly

with us; we will not forget what he has done for you."

"That is exactly what I wanted, mother, but of course I had to find out

what you would say to it; now you have the same plan as I, and have

thought it all out in the best possible way. There is nothing in the

world like a mother, after all!"

And Franz Martin looked at her so lovingly and happily that it warmed

her to her heart's core, and she thought to herself, "Nor is there

anything in the world like a manly, virtuous son." Then she said: "Now

you must eat and get strong again. I have brought fresh eggs and wheat

bread, and I will go and start the fire. Take your time about coming

down"; which Franz Martin found that he was really obliged to do, for

he was still weak and trembling. But he finally succeeded. When he got

down he beckoned to Rudi, who had been looking in through the door all

this time, to come and sit at the table beside him.

"Rudi," he said, smiling into the boy's eyes, "do you want to grow up

to be a dairyman?"

A look of joy came over Rudi's face, but the next moment it

disappeared, for in his ears rang the discouraging words that he had

heard so many, many times,--"He will never amount to anything," "He

can't do anything," "He will never be of any use,"--and he answered

despondently, "I can never be anything."

"Rudi, you shall be a dairyman," said Franz Martin decisively. "You

have done very well in your first undertaking. Now you shall stay with

me and carry milk and water and help me in everything, and I will show

you how to make butter and cheese, and as soon as you are old enough

you shall stand beside me at the kettle and be my helpmate."

"Here, in your hut?" asked Rudi, to whom the prospect of such happiness

was almost incomprehensible.

"Right here in my hut," declared Franz Martin.

In Rudi's face appeared an expression of such radiant joy that the

herdsman could not take his eyes from him. The boy seemed transformed.

The mother, too, noticed it, as she set on the table before them

the big plate of egg omelet that she had just prepared. She patted

the boy's head and said, "Yes, little Rudi, to-day we will be happy

together, and to-morrow, too; and every day we will thank the good God

that he brought you to Franz Martin at just the right time, although no

one may know why it was that you came up here."

The happy feast began. Never in his life had Rudi seen so many good

things together on a table; for besides the omelet the mother had set

out fresh wheat bread and a big, golden ball of butter and a piece of

snow-white cheese, while in the middle of the table stood a bowl of

creamy milk. Of each dish there was a generous portion for Rudi, and

when he had finished one helping there was another ready for him.

[Illustration]

When the mother was preparing to go home in the evening she said:

"Franz Martin, I have changed my mind. Rudi shall stay up here with you

until you are strong. He can fetch things and be useful to you. I will

arrange matters with Joe's wife."

Franz Martin was satisfied, and Rudi's happiness knew no bounds. Now

he was really at home with Franz Martin. That night, when the evening

blessing was said, he was not crouching under the fir trees, but stood

beside his friend under the starry sky, as the latter folded his hands

and said, "Come, Rudi, we will say our evening prayer."

Reverently he, too, folded his hands, and when at the close the

herdsman said, "God give you good night," Rudi's heart was so full

of joy that he wanted to call out the blessing to everybody in the

world,--"God give you good night!"

That very evening the mother went over to Joe's wife. The latter

was standing before her house with the three boys and Lisi, and was

trying to make out what they were telling her. They were all talking

at once, and all she could understand was that it was something about

Franz Martin, whose illness the milker had told them about. When Frau

Vincenze explained why she had come, and said that she and her son had

agreed to take Rudi as their own child, the woman made a great ado,

assuring her that they would do far better to take one of her three

boys, who would be much more help to Franz Martin, a hundred times

more, than Stupid Rudi.

And the boys all shouted at the top of their voices, "Me! me! me!" for

they well knew how kind Franz Martin was, and what good things there

were to eat in the hut on the mountain. But all their begging and

clamoring was in vain. Frau Vincenze said very quietly that she was

determined to have Rudi, that she knew him, and that he had more heart

and sense than many another who called him "Stupid Rudi." Moreover, she

wanted to warn the boys to be careful henceforth about their jeering

and gibing, or they would have to settle with Franz Martin and his

strong arm. When she left them they all stared after her, dumb and

stupefied, and each one of the children thought in his heart, "I wish

I were Rudi! he'll have fine times,--like a king, up in Franz Martin's

hut."

From that day on, whenever the boys saw Rudi anywhere, they ran after

him and each one wanted to be his best friend, for they all remembered

the last cheese party when Rudi was so badly treated. But now he would

surely have all the cheese rolls to himself, and so it would be a good

thing to be his friend. And later they did find it a good thing, for

Rudi took great delight in dividing the rich harvest of cheese rolls

among them all. He never ceased wondering at the way all the children

had changed toward him, and at their not jeering or laughing at him any

more.

When he got over being afraid of people, it turned out, to the surprise

of all, that he was a very apt, nimble little fellow, of whom every

one said, "Either he is not the same boy, or else we were all wrong in

calling him 'Stupid Rudi.'"

[Illustration]

THE LITTLE RUNAWAY

[Illustration]

THE LITTLE RUNAWAY

CHAPTER I

UNDER THE ALDERS

The Alders is the name of an estate famed for its rich fields and

smiling meadows and for its wealth of luscious fruits. Apple and pear

trees stand in plenty on its well-kept fields, and if the year be a

good one they stand at harvest time with drooping branches, and their

red and yellow treasure gleams from afar like gold.

At some distance from the house and barn lies the great pasture land,

where in the sunny autumn days eight sleek cows graze contentedly upon

the fragrant grass, making sweet music as they wander to and fro,--for

each cow wears a little bell about her neck. Sometimes the whole herd

starts up together into lively movement; then the pleasant sound is

carried far down into the valley and gladdens the heart of the traveler

upon the highway below.

Through the middle of the pasture runs a low stone wall that marks the

boundary line of this farm; for the land beyond belongs to the estate

of Lindenhof. Halfway down the wall, and close beside it, stand two

great alder trees whose swaying branches cast pleasant shadows on the

wall and give the estate its name of The Alders.

On the neighboring farm a mighty linden tree has stood since ancient

times. It guards the dooryard and spreads its branches far out over the

farmhouse and the big stone well. From it the estate takes its name of

Lindenhof.

These two farms, though not especially large, are among the finest of

all those that lie scattered over the mountain side in the parish of

Buschweil.

One morning in September, as the sun lay warm and soft on the wall, a

little girl of about ten years came running across the meadow. In her

right hand she carried a long switch; with her left she was holding

together the folds of her apron, carefully guarding something within

that seemed to be of great value, for she would stop every now and then

to open the folds, peep inside, and then draw them together again with

a happy smile.

When she reached the wall she stopped and looked over into the

neighboring pasture. Her blue eyes shone forth merrily from her little

blond head, wreathed about with its two long braids, and fresh and

pink was the little face that turned expectantly from side to side.

Disappointed at not finding any one there, the little girl dropped the

switch from her hand, and, reaching into her apron, brought forth a

bright red apple, which she set upon the wall. Then she brought out

another and another, and still others, until there was a long row of

them.

"Ho! hey! Gretchen!" came a lusty cry from below; then, amid noise of

shouting, tinkling bells, and fierce snapping of a whip, a boy came

rushing up the slope. The cows followed with noisy accompaniment, for

the vigorous whipsnapping had brought them along in quite a tumult.

"Why are you so late?" Gretchen called out to the boy.

"Because I--I had--there were so many things--well, I really don't know

why it was."

With these words Renti had reached the wall and now stood breathless

before Gretchen, who had seated herself on the top and was looking down

at him.

"Now you see how it is," she said; "and the next time I am late you

must be patient. You find that you can't always get here when you

wish."

"Yes, you are right. I didn't consider before. And then it's always so

stupid here until you come. Oh, how hot, how hot!" he cried, throwing

down his whip and brushing back his thick brown hair with both hands.

Then he stretched out full length on the ground and gazed up into the

blue sky.

Gretchen smiled down from her cool seat under the alders.

"It isn't hot at all, but you have run so fast. Where are the potatoes?"

Renti pointed to a sack that he had thrown down beside the wall.

"What fine apples!" he said, raising his head a little and looking up

approvingly at the big red treasures set out in a row. Then he lay down

again, turned his eyes to the sky, and in the fullness of his joy began

to whistle.

Meanwhile the herds were grazing peacefully on both sides of the

children. The gentle tinkling of bells was heard here and there, as the

cows wandered to all parts of the meadow. In the alder trees the birds

were singing gayly; a fresh mountain breeze swayed the branches and now

and then blew away some of the leaves that Gretchen had gathered and

spread out in her lap. She was weaving them into a wreath by fastening

the stem of each leaf into the back of the preceding one. This made

a dainty little garland, for the leaves that Gretchen used were of a

certain delicate kind. She would take the wreaths home afterward and

lay them in the hymn book, where they would serve as bookmarks for the

verses she was to learn for Sunday school.

Occasionally the little girl would look up from her work to see

whether her eight cows were all in sight and grazing properly, neither

disturbing each other nor being disturbed by outside causes. Gretchen

knew all her cows by name and had come to know the character and

peculiarities of each one in her two years of intimate association with

them,--for this was not her first season at herding. She had been to

pasture with them in the previous summer and fall and had herded them

alone,--that is, with the help of Renti, who was always on the other

side. At least, his cows were there; he himself was wherever Gretchen

was,--on the wall, on her side or on his.

Renti was now lying unconcernedly in the sunny grass, not paying much

attention to his cows, for he had great confidence in his strength and

quickness, should anything happen among them.

Gretchen had looked several times toward one particular spot, where two

of the cows were standing in a rather strange, unnatural manner; they

were not eating, and were holding their heads up in the air.

"Renti," she said, "I believe there is something wrong. Look how

strangely Star and Brownie hold their heads, and they are not eating.

Now Brindle is beginning to act frightened, too. Look, Renti!"

Renti sprang to his feet. At the same moment a big, terrible head

appeared over the brow of the hill in Gretchen's field. Then the rest

of the animal came into sight,--a wild, snorting steer that came

rushing furiously up the hill. The cows ran about in terror. The bells

jangled loud and wild, like storm bells. Renti's cows now began to rush

about, too.

Gretchen jumped down off the wall to Renti's side. "O Renti! look,

look! he is coming! Where shall we go?" she cried, pale with fright.

Renti made one leap over the wall. Then, setting up a terrible howl

and roar, as though he were himself a wild beast, he charged down upon

the steer, at the same time cracking his whip as hard as he could. The

beast came on with increasing fury; Renti increased his noise.

[Illustration]

Then the creature stopped, stood motionless. Renti howled, snapped his

whip, and ran toward him. Suddenly the steer turned tail and galloped

away. Renti dashed after him, still screaming and raging like a

madman. The beast, in growing terror, ran toward the steep descent

that led to the fields of Broadwood Farm, from which he had escaped.

There Renti finally stopped and turned back. He was breathless from the

chase, but he came back on a run to Gretchen's side. As she stood there

waiting for him, her face was pale, but her blue eyes shone bright with

joy.

"Oh, but I'm glad you're back, Renti!" she said with a deep breath. "I

was so frightened when you went after him, for fear he would catch you

up on his horns and gore you."

"You must never be afraid," Renti assured her, breathless and almost

voiceless, for he had well-nigh split his lungs with his screaming.

Suddenly he laughed aloud as he thought of the extraordinary leaps the

creature had made in terror of his noise.

"What if I had been alone!" said the girl, trembling anew at the

thought. "If you had not been with me, where could I have taken refuge?

He would surely have caught me on his horns and thrown me down and

trampled on me! Oh, oh! And he would have gored the cows to death,

too." And Gretchen trembled anew at the thought of what might have

happened.

"Don't be afraid, Gretchen; I will always be with you," Renti said

reassuringly; "and in the morning I will always be here when you come.

Depend upon it, I shan't be late half a minute; I will manage somehow.

But I mean to tell them at home what happened to-day, and they will

send word to the farmer of Broadwood to tie up his steer so that he

can't get out again; so don't be scared any more."

The children went back to their place on the wall and Gretchen was

at length quieted by the boy's assurances. The cows were grazing

again with gentle, tinkling accompaniment, and everything round about

them seemed so quiet and peaceful that before long the children had

forgotten all about the disturbance.

Now the sound of church bells came floating on the wind from the

villages round about. It was eleven o'clock, the hour when the noon

bell rings in this region, the signal for the wives at work in the

fields to shoulder their tools and go home to cook dinner. In the

meadows the herd boys and girls began to bestir themselves, and here

and there a thin wreath of smoke arose. As it curled up into the blue

sky gay shouts and yodeling went up with it.

Renti leaped down from the wall. "Come, it is time for lunch!" he

cried, running to the place where he had laid down his sack and

bringing it forth.

Gretchen, with dainty care, arranged her garlands on the top of the

wall, placing pebbles on them so that the wind might not blow them

away; then she jumped down. Renti had emptied the contents of his sack

on the ground. There lay potatoes, bits of wood, a piece of cheese, and

several bricks, all tossed in together.

"You ought to wrap your cheese in paper," Gretchen told him, as she

stooped to pick it up from the ground. "Look, it is all red from the

bricks and covered with bits of wood."

Taking out her pocketknife, she scraped away the dirt, while Renti

looked on with great relief, for the red and black speckled mass had

struck him with pained surprise. Then Gretchen drew a little package

from her pocket; that was her piece of cheese, wrapped in a clean,

stout paper. She opened the parcel and, placing Renti's piece with her

own, laid them together on the wall.

"What are the bricks for?" asked Gretchen.

"To make a better fire. See; we'll build a hearth with them." And Renti

arranged his five bricks to form a sort of fireplace on the ground.

Then he carefully heaped up chips inside and lighted them. The flame

leaped up in an instant and filled the fireplace and Renti had to hunt

about for more chips to keep the fire going. When the big flames had

subsided and only single little tongues came out here and there from

the ashes, Gretchen approached and carefully laid the potatoes in the

embers, each one in a good glowing spot; and wherever the ashes seemed

to be turning gray, Renti blew upon them with all his might until they

glowed again. He kept putting on dry grass and chips, so that the

flames continued to burn between the potatoes.

Gretchen watched the crackling embers very earnestly. Renti had to

run off to one side every now and then to cool his face, for with the

blowing and poking it had become almost as hot as the fire. After some

time Gretchen said, "There, now they are ready. Have you the shingle,

Renti?"

"Yes, here it is," he answered, as he drew forth a little board and

also a long willow wand from under the sack. The supple willow twig had

been bent down from the top and fastened upon itself with a thread, so

that it made a loop. With this the children drew out one potato after

another from the fire, sliding them onto the shingle and then to the

top of the wall.

When all the potatoes had been laid out in a row on the wall, Gretchen

looked about for a comfortable seat, where the shadow of the alders

was thickest, for now the sun was in the zenith and poured down with

considerable warmth from the cloudless sky.

"Come, Renti; up here it is fine," she said, as she settled herself

and laid out beside her some large leaves that she had gathered. Renti

was by her side in a moment, and then they sat and watched the little

clouds of gray steam rise from the potatoes and float off on the wind.

But now they had waited long enough; Gretchen took up one potato after

another and rubbed off the charred outer layer with one of the big

leaves that she had at hand. She was careful, however, to save the

crisp brown skin, for that was the part they liked best of all. Then

their noonday meal began. The children sat up on their little elevation

with a potato in one hand and a piece of cheese in the other, taking

delicious bites now from one, now from the other. Overhead the birds

were singing in the alder branches; across the meadow lay the golden

sunshine; and in the grass at their feet the blue harebells tossed

merrily in the breeze.

"Gretchen," said Renti, taking alternate bites from his right, then

from his left hand, "would you rather be a king and sit on a throne and

wear a golden crown on your head, or would you rather sit on the stone

wall in the alder shade and eat baked potatoes and listen to the birds'

singing?"

Gretchen hesitated.

"Well," she said, after some reflection, "a king can have whatever he

wishes; so, besides having everything else, he could still sit on the

wall and eat baked potatoes whenever he pleased."

"No, he couldn't; that wouldn't be proper; a king must always sit on

his throne," declared Renti. "But I know"--and in his ardor Renti

raised his fist high in the air and thumped it down on his knee--"I'd

a thousand, thousand times rather sit here than be a king on a throne,

for he could have nothing better than we have here."

"Yes, yes; it is true," Gretchen agreed. "I like it best here, too."

"I'm sure you do. Oh, how good this potato tastes! and do you hear that

finch?"

Renti tried to imitate the bird's whistle. Then he took another bite of

potato, but being obliged to express his happiness in some way, he beat

time to the bird's melody by kicking his feet against the wall. "Surely

this is the loveliest spot in all the world. Where could it be finer?

Or do you think it may be more beautiful in heaven?"

"Yes, of course," replied Gretchen positively; "where all the beautiful

white angels are, with lilies in their hands."

"I don't believe it is. Among so many strange people we'd be afraid

and shouldn't know how to behave; I'm sure it wouldn't be nearly so

nice as it is here, where we two are alone together and can do just

as we please, and are masters of the whole meadow and of the cows and

everything. No, I'm sure it isn't so nice anywhere on earth or in

heaven."

But Gretchen was not easily convinced.

"You have never been to heaven and can't be at all sure about it," she

declared. "But come, let's have the apples now."

The first part of the meal, the more substantial portion, was now over,

and as it had been of a rather dry nature it had made the children

very thirsty; so the juicy, sourish apples tasted most delicious, and

disappeared so fast that soon there were only two left. A few more

bites finished these, too, and then Renti made himself comfortable on

the wall and said, "That was the best dinner that any person could

have." And Gretchen agreed with him perfectly.

The afternoon brought a number of unexpected happenings. Star and

Brindle got into a quarrel because both wanted to graze in exactly

the same spot. They began to horn each other and the children had to

run down and separate them. Then they kept them grazing in different

parts of the pasture for a while until the cows had got over their

quarrelsome mood. Later Renti saw that Molly, the slender black one of

his herd, was bounding across the pasture toward the hedge beyond,

and three or four of the others, seeing her, started in pursuit. The

whole herd seemed about to follow their example. Renti started after

them with loud "Ho!" and "Hey!" and turned them back just before they

reached the hedge, where they seemed to have no intention of stopping,

although the high jump would certainly have had disastrous results for

them. On the other side of the hedge the grass had been cut and was

spread out in the sun to dry. It had wafted such tempting odors to

Molly's nostrils that she had started off on a run to follow up the

scent.

So one thing after another happened during the afternoon to keep the

children busy. The cows were healthy and well fed, and toward evening,

when they were no longer hungry, they were subject to all sorts of

whims and notions that the children had difficulty in restraining. When

the herd on one side was quiet something would happen in the other

field, and the children ran back and forth, for they always helped each

other. It was much pleasanter to do together whatever had to be done.

Meanwhile the sun had moved far on toward evening and was about to set.

The mountains began to redden and all the little hills around seemed

covered with gold. Suddenly a loud tooting sound was heard, first on

the right hand, then on the left, then from varying distances. It was

the signal, blown forth on immense horns, to the herd boys and girls

that it was time to bring the herds home for milking. And the cows

seemed to know the sound, for they gathered in a group from all sides

of the pasture and stood waiting.

"Good night, Renti!" "Good night, Gretchen!" the children called to

each other.

Renti, with three or four bounds, landed in the middle of his herd,

and cracking his whip and yodeling at the top of his voice, he ran on

toward the Lindenhof stables.

Gretchen gathered up the two little garlands she had made and spread

them out on the palm of her hand; then she, too, moved on toward home,

accompanied almost to her door by Renti's loud yodeling.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]