They say that the soul of Belgium is the carillon. In many a tower, far
up in the air hang a hundred bells or more, of all sizes. These are
struck by hammers, which are worked by the carillonier, who presses the
keyboard, as if playing the piano. Very famous are these chime-masters,
and sweet is the music, which sounds in the air. When away from home,
in a foreign land, the Belgian gets homesick, amid strangers, and is
often down-hearted, because of the silences of the strange country.
Should he hear the sweet chimes of a city church, a vision of the home
land, with its quaint houses and high towers, its carrier pigeons, and
river-dykes, and flower markets, and happy children, playing in the
streets, rises before him. Then he thinks of the years of his
childhood, in his old home.
In Switzerland, it is not the tower bells, or even the church-spires,
sounding out the tollings for a funeral, or the merry peals of wedding
bells, or the strokes calling to worship, that so deeply stir the
mountain man’s heart, as do the yodel music and the carillon of the
cows.
On summer days, let one stand in the high pastures above the valleys,
or on a mountain slope, and he will hear the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, of
bells, bells, bells. They sound and echo from near and far. They float
on the air, from unseen nooks in the distance.
Even the cattle enjoy the music of the bells. Just as soon as the
shepherds sound the Alpine horn, or start the call, for the herds to
come home, every goat moves forward and cows leave their grazing on the
grass, or they rise from chewing the cud. Then one may see the long
lines of the milk-givers marching towards the chalets. There the men,
at night, and in the morning, milk the cows. When the animals are
housed for the night, they start the fires. They put in the rennet,
that curdles the cream and turns the white and golden liquid into
cheeses, so solid that one can roll them down the hills.
Everyone in America knows about the delicious white Schweitzer cheese.
When cut open, it is seen to be full of holes, as if well ventilated,
or, in many places, bored with an augur.
So well do the cows like to wear the leather collar, or neck strap, and
hear the tinkle of the bells, that sometimes they die of homesickness,
when these are taken away, or they lose their sounding collar; or, when
among their sisters, thus decorated, they have none.
In old days, when it was the fashion for young men to be soldiers of
fortune and enlist in the armies of France, or Germany, or Italy, or
Holland, a Swiss man could forget, even his country, unless he had a
sweetheart at home.
But when any one would start the yodel song, it made him and his
comrades so homesick, that they wanted to leave at once, for their
native land. So many soldiers were found to desert, on this account,
that the generals forbade any one ever to sing the yodel songs, or play
the yodel music, such as Queen Anne introduced into England. The “Ranz
des Vaches,” or Song of the Cows, is more truly Switzerland’s national
music, than is even the carillon of Belgium for the Belgians, or even
that of the Swiss song, “Stand Fast, O Fatherland.”
In this country, where the music box was invented, the yodel is
centuries old. It is almost like telling a fairy tale, to narrate the
story of the cow parade in June, as it assembles and moves up to the
high pastures, called “the Alps,” which are spangled with flowers of
gorgeous colors. From June to October, these highland meadows are rich
in the sweet aromatic herbs, which the cows so enjoy, especially the
plant called the Alpine Poa. Almost as wonderful, is the cow parade, on
its return downwards, in October.
During the long winter, every boy in the villages looks forward to the
time, counting the last few days on his fingers, when he can go, with
his father and hired men, and along with the dogs and donkeys, to spend
the summer in outdoor life in the highlands. Then, he can be like a
virtuous Indian, or a moral pirate, or an antique shepherd; and,
indeed, the frisky goats, though all named and numbered, will give him
plenty to do. He waits patiently, during the long house life of the
cold time, when, walled in by the winter snow, he thinks of the long,
bright summer days that are coming. Then, he can live nearer the sky,
and until the sun begins again to set earlier and the snows drive men
and cattle home.
The wonderful fact, in the cow parade, that reminds one of a fairy
tale, is the way these horned creatures organize, of their own accord,
and drill. They fall into line and march, as if they were playing
soldiers, or were a company of real warriors, or cavalry horses, going
to war. Each milker knows her place, and, if any young heifers try to
be fresh, and show off too much, they get a hint from the horns of the
old ladies of the herd, that they had better know and keep their place.
Such snubs and punishments are not forgotten. After such discipline, a
young snip of a cow behaves better, until grown up. Then, with more
sense, she takes and holds her place, in good bovine society.
The herds, when bound for the Alps, number from twenty to two hundred.
Three magnificent cows, brindle, dun, or white, lead the procession and
they feel their honors, as fully as a lieutenant, just fresh from West
Point, feels his. On the neck of each, is a wide leather strap, often
decorated with metal bosses, or knobs, to which is hung a bell, often
as big as a bucket. Most proudly, with heads up in the air, the leaders
step forward. The other cows, all having names, follow, each with a
smaller strap and bell on her neck. Here are a few of the names,
expressed in English: Star, Crow, White Stocking, Youngster, Mirror,
White Horn, and Lady.
The boy who is on his first venture up with the herd, dressed in his
best clothes, leads the flock of goats, which are put under his special
charge. Each one has a name and he knows them all. They will give him
plenty to do, for they are great tramps and vagrants. Nobody knows how
a goat will behave. We get our word “caprice,” and “capricious,” from
his Latin name.
Back of the columns, is the big sow, with her litter of little pigs,
all of them. They are glad enough to go, and they look on the whole
thing as a picnic. For now, instead of living on dry winter feed, they
will get the juicy grass and herbage of the summer pasture. Mrs. Hog is
certainly proud of her young porkers, but her music is hardly up to the
carillon standard, for it consists chiefly of grunts, and this is the
only language, in which the education of the piggies is carried on.
Feeling quite as important as any, and always wanting to hurry along,
and go ahead faster, is the dog Tiger. This pet of the family and the
terror of the goats, that give him a butt, when he gets too lively,
looks more like a mastiff, than a collie, or one of his cousins, the
stately St. Bernard dogs.
Finally, as the rear guard, is the daddy of the family. He leads the
horse, on which are packed and strapped the cheese caldron, for boiling
the milk and cream. From his position, Daddy can round up the unruly
members of the herd, cows, goats, or pigs, that have too much genius,
or temperament, or are too original, or independent, to obey rules.
Just as often, in a marching army, the rear guard is the place of
honor, so the last cow, usually a superb animal, carries the milking
stool between her horns.
The cows’ parade marks a heyday for the whole village. The girls are
all out, and in their best dresses. Most of them will not see their
brothers, their beaux, or their lovers, until autumn. So they make the
most of the fun for a day.
During the summer, and until October, there are few of the male sex,
except old men and small boys, left in the mountain or dairy villages.
Many are the farewells and handwavings, until the procession disappears
around the curve of the mountains. Then the yodel music, the Ranz des
Vaches, the Song of the Swiss, for centuries, is raised and echoed
among the hills. The words are, in most cases, very old, and in a sort
of French, that is never heard in Paris, or at the universities. The
notes are very much as their Swiss ancestors sung them, before America
was discovered. The words are, in many of the songs, quite witty. In
one form or another, they are in praise of the work and craft of the
cattle, or dairy men.
The yodel music will never die. The herds may change in breed, form, or
numbers, but never the song. When heard near at hand, there is too much
jingle, with many discords; but distance lends enchantment to the
sound. When far away, all notes melt into sweetness and accord.
Once up in the regions near the sky, while the echoes, coming back from
the peaks, make angelic sweetness, and heavenly harmony, the Swiss boy
has a fine time in both work and play. At no other season are the
meadows more beautiful. He soon finds out, however, the difference
between cows and goats. The larger animals stay on the levels, obey the
rules, and are faithful, punctual, and well drilled. They always move
homewards when the horn calls, or the yodel music sounds. On the
contrary, the goats are often obstinate, and act as if imps and elves
were in them. Then, too, they love to climb and wander. It is, with
them, a game of Johnnie Jump Up, pretty much all the time. They leap
and scramble out of the meadows, and up over the rocks, climbing
thousands of feet towards the mountain tops, and into the most
difficult places, as if they loved to play hide and seek and plague the
shepherds. This gives the boy plenty to do in hunting them, for it is
hard to hear their bells tinkling, when the wind blows roughly, or in
the wrong direction.
In autumn, when Jack Frost returns, and storms are many and frequent,
and the snows heavy, the march back and down is made in good order.
Then, all the village folk turn out again, to welcome the shepherds. As
the men, cows, goats, pigs and horses return, the latter are well
loaded with cheeses. These will be sold and sent to the cities in
foreign countries, and especially across the sea to America.