When the little boys and girls, who read these Swiss fairy tales, grow
up to be big and travel in Switzerland, they will enjoy the Alpine
horn.
Nearly every shepherd lad in the mountains knows how to blow it. It is
made of wood, and is about half as long as an ordinary broom. Its butt,
or heavy end, rests on the ground. When a man blows a long blast, the
sound, at first, when one is too near, does not seem to be very
pleasing; for distance lends enchantment to the sound. But wait a
moment, and listen! Far off across the valley, the strains are caught
up, and sent back from the tops of the high mountains. Then it sounds
as if a great choir of angels had come down from Heaven to sing glory
to God, and to bring greetings to all good souls. Nowhere in all the
world is there such sweet music made by echoes.
Sometimes there is a double set of echoes, like one rainbow inside of
another. Then, it makes one think of a choir of little angels, that
sing a second time, after the first heavenly chorus has ceased.
How the Swiss people first received the Alpine horn, as a gift from the
fairies, is told in the story of a faithful shepherd’s boy, named
Perrod. He had to work hard all day, in tending the cows that grazed on
the high mountain pastures, which the natives call the Alps. But when
foreign people speak of “the Alps,” they mean the ranges of mountains
themselves.
In winter, these level stretches of ground are covered with snow and
ice, but by the month of June, it is warm enough for the grass and
flowers to grow. Then the cowboys and cheese makers go up with their
cattle. At night, Perrod, having milked the cows, skimmed the cream off
the milk, hung the great caldron over the fire, and made the cheese.
By this time, that is, well into the late hours, Perrod was almost
tired to death. After calling “good-night” to Luquette, his sweetheart,
who lived across the valley, and hearing her greeting in answer, he
climbed up the ladder, into the loft, and lay down on his bed. This was
only a pile of straw, but he was asleep almost the very moment he
touched it, for he was a healthy lad and the mountain air was better
than medicine. It was especially good for sound sleep, and he knew he
must get up early, at sunrise, to lead the cows and goats out to
pasture. Then the all-day concert, of tinkling bells, began.
But this night, instead of slumber, without once waking until day dawn,
Perrod had closed his eyes, for only about three hours, when he heard a
crackling sound, which waked him up. He thought, at first, the wind was
blowing hard enough to rip off some of the bark strips from the roof of
the chalet, and was tumbling down some of the heavy stones laid on to
keep them in place. But when he saw the reflection, on the walls and
ceiling, of a bright fire, he crawled quietly out of bed. Then he
peeped down and through the cracks in the board floor, to see what was
going on.
Three men were around the fire. One, the biggest fellow of the three,
was hanging up the caldron on the hooks. The second piled on more wood,
while the others warmed their hands in the bright blaze.
The three men were all different in appearance, the one from the other,
and a queer looking lot they were. The tremendously tall man seemed to
be a giant, in weight and size. His sleeves were rolled up, showing
that his arms were sunburnt, until they were very dark. When he lifted
up the caldron, to hang it up, or take it down, his muscles stood out
like whipcords.
But the man sitting on a milking stool, at the right hand side of the
fireplace, was entirely different, being smaller, and with a white skin
and golden hair. He had a long horn, which rested on the floor beside
him.
The man on the left-hand side of the fireplace, appeared to be a
woodman, or hunter. At least, he seemed to be used to the forest.
Though it was pitch dark night, he knew where the wood lay, piled up
under the eaves of the chalet; for, when the fire burned low, he went
out doors and returned with an arm load of faggots. Then he piled up
the wood, and the fire blazed, and crackled, and roared, until the boy
in the loft thought the hut would be burned up, too. Yet, though he
trembled at the strange sight, he was brave. He resolved not to be
quiet, if the big men tried to steal his cheese, which was to be food
for the family during the winter.
Just as he was wondering, whether his sisters and old daddy would have
enough to eat, during the long cold winter of eight months, that was
soon coming, when snow and ice covered the fields, he saw a curious
thing happen. Sweet music began, such as had never met his ears before,
since he was in his cradle and his mother sang to him.
It was the man with the golden hair, who seemed to be the real
gentleman of the party. He it was, who made the music. He first handed
something to the giant, who dropped it into the caldron. Then, with his
horn, he disappeared through the door. When outside, he lifted the
instrument to his lips and blew a blast.
Perrod was so interested in watching the giant, that he paid little
attention to the man outside, or to the sound he had made, for he saw
the hunter take a bottle out of his pocket, and hand it over to the
biggest fellow, who stood at the caldron over the fire. This one poured
the liquid, which seemed to be blood red, into the big iron pot. Then,
with a ladle, as big as a shovel, and long as a gun, he stirred
vigorously. Then, three beakers, or cups were set upon the table.
By this time, the golden haired man outside had finished his blast of
music, which seemed to float across the valleys down into the defiles,
over the pastures, and through the wood. It grew sweeter and sweeter,
as it swelled on the gentle night breeze, until all the mountains
seemed to have awakened, turned into living angels and lifted up their
voices. The sweet strain ended with a prolonged sad note, as if
melancholy had fallen on the musicians, and then it ceased.
A strange thing happened. All the cows and goats woke up from their
sleep, and one, from all directions, could hear the tinkling of their
neck bells, all over the pastures, far and near. The poor creatures
thought it was time to get up and be milked, but they were puzzled to
find it was yet dark. In fact, they were all, still, quite sleepy and
very slow to move.
Something even far more wonderful happened next. Perrod, after first
hearing the horn blow, thought the music had ceased: when, suddenly, it
all seemed to come back in vastly greater volume. The sounds were
multiplied, as if a thousand echoes had blended into one and all heaven
had joined in the melody. Perrod was entranced. He even closed his eyes
lest he might, by looking down at the strange men, lose some of what
seemed to him a choir of angels singing.
When the last strain had ceased, Perrod opened his eyes. The golden
haired musician had re-entered the chalet, and resumed his seat,
sitting down again on the milkstool, at the right of the fire; while
the hunter rearranged three glass goblets, on the rough wooden table,
from which Perrod ate his meals.
All three of the strangers then solemnly watched the caldron, as the
liquid boiled, just as the cream does, when cheese is to be made; the
big man stirring up with his huge ladle. At a particular moment, the
giant lifted the caldron and emptied out the contents into the three
glass vessels. To the amazement of Perrod, there issued, from the same
vessel, three very different colors.
In the first glass, filled to the brim, the draught was as red as
blood, and it foamed at the top. The drops, flying out on the board,
left crimson stains.
Giving a tap on the caldron, with the big ladle, the tall man let flow,
into the second glass, what seemed to be the same liquid; but this
time, it was as green as grass, but hissing hot, and bubbling.
Another loud ladle tap on the caldron, and out flowed a stream as cold
as snow water, and as white as the edelweiss flower. The liquid rested
in the goblet as quiet as milk, but seemed to be frosty on the top.
Now the giant-like fellow, shaking his huge ladle in his right hand,
and putting his left at the side of his mouth, shouted with a voice of
thunder:
“Come down, you boy, and make your choice of one of these three. Each
has a glorious gift to him who drinks. Come quick, for it will soon be
daylight.”
Perrod knew he was discovered, but he was a brave boy. If his legs
trembled, his heart was big. Moreover, the golden haired man gave him a
nod, and winked his eye, to encourage the lad.
So Perrod at once climbed down and stood before the table, on which
were the three chalices.
“Drink, young friend,” said the giant, “from any one of these, but know
that, in the red liquid, is a gift to the Swiss men. Drain this cup,
and then you will have strength, like me.” At that, he bent his arm to
show his mighty muscles. “You will be able to conquer the strongest
man, or fiercest beast. Besides, I shall give you a hundred fat cows,
each of which will yield much milk, rich in butter. Drain this cup,
and, according to my promise, you will see the kine tomorrow.”
Then the hunter spoke: “Better drink from my goblet. After this green
draught, you will have all the gold you want, and heaps of coins; and
then you can marry, and still easily support your old father and
mother.” So saying, he tossed handfuls of gold pieces on the floor,
piling them up, until they reached the lad’s knees. Perrod opened his
eyes wide in astonishment, for here was not a promise in words, but the
actual thing, that he could see for himself.
He was just about to stretch both his hands and drink the green liquid,
when the golden haired man, speaking gently to Perrod, said:
“I cannot promise you either cows or coins, but if you drink the liquid
in the white goblet, you will be able to use this horn, make music in
the mountains and call your cows, as I have done. Thus your flocks and
herds also will share with you my gift.”
Not a minute did Perrod wait to decide. “I care more for music, than
for money, or strength,” he said, and, lifting the glass, he put it to
his lips and drained the cup dry.
“What was it, and how did it taste?” do you ask? It was what the cows
gave him every day—pure fresh milk, but cold as glacier water.
“Good,” cried the man with the golden hair. “Any other choice would
have meant death. Here is the horn. Blow it tomorrow, and see what will
happen.”
As if lifted up on wings, to his straw bed, but holding on to his horn,
Perrod heard the door shut and bang, as the three men went out, two of
them scowling. Then the fire cooled to ashes. He fell asleep and
dreamed of the time when, in the church, he should lead his bride to
the altar, his lovely sweetheart, Luquette, to be married, and the two
should have a chateau and home of their own.
Awakening at the first moment, when the rosy light of the rising sun
made the face of the mountains blush, even while the valleys below were
still in darkness, and long before his sisters, in the village, far
away, had awakened, he rushed out to the edge of the pasture. Then, he
drew in a man’s breath, filled his lungs, and, putting his lips to the
mouthpiece of the horn, blew a long blast. He listened eagerly, for the
far off echoes. A pleasant double surprise awaited him.
All over the pastures, in the chalets of the high plateau, and along
the mountain slopes, even down to the valleys, there was heard, at
once, the tinkling of goat bells, cow bells, and the sound even of what
hung in the metal collars of donkeys and horses, until the chorus of
bell music was wonderful.
“Very fine, but is that all?” thought Perrod.
But another surprise! From across the great ravine, or chasm, out
rushed his beloved Luquette. Hastily throwing a wrap around her
shoulders, she stood in bare feet, threw a kiss to Perrod, and shouted
to him her joy.
Now came the crowning wonder. From the high peaks, miles distant, and
now rosy red in the dayspring, came back the music, in multiplied
echoes, as if all the snow ranges of the Alps were singing. Pure,
sweet, prolonged, the boy thought of what he had heard read in the
church, that, at creation “the morning stars sang together.” So it
seemed now to him.
Through many centuries, and to this day, to call the cows together, to
make the goats look up, and turn homeward, to seek shelter of the
night, for men’s evening prayer and chant of thanks-giving, for the
signals of defence against enemies, for beginning the festal dance, or,
to sound the wedding joy, the Alpine horn is the delight of the Swiss.
It is like the carillons of the Belgic folk, the chimes of Normandy,
the tower music of Holland, or the bagpipes of the Highlander. In a
foreign land, in dreams, in its memories it tells of “home, sweet
home.”