Throughout Switzerland, the summer of 1806 is always spoken of as “The
wet Summer.” During May, June, and July, many and heavy showers fell,
but in August it rained almost every day. In the Canton of Schwytz, the
sky was so dark and forbidding that the clouds left the upper spaces,
and chased each other quite down the mountain sides: and shut out the
lovely little valley, which lay between Mount Rossberg and Mount Rigi,
from the rest of the world. The people cared little for this, however,
for was not the grass in the meadows on the mountain side as sweet
as sweet could be? had the cows ever given richer milk? had ever such
butter and cheese been made before, or so good a price received for it?
And look at the gardens; such cauliflower! such cabbage! such potatoes!
And above all, look around at the “over world,” the mosses, the vines,
the shrubs, and trees, whose leaves, from the tenderest brown to the
darkest green, seem as though tipped with diamonds, they sparkle so!
And the flowers; were their colors ever more soft and lovely? No,
everything was beautiful! beautiful! True, the tourists grumbled at
the weather, but they always had a way of grumbling at something, and
perhaps it might as well be the weather as anything else: and so the
Fraus talked, and smiled, and nodded their heads, which made their
words all the more reliable.
At the foot of the Rossberg nestled the pretty little village of
Goldau. The mountain lifted its head five thousand feet above the
village, but it smiled down upon it so kindly, and when the sharp
winds blew shielded it so securely, that the people looked up with
grateful eyes and spoke of it as their own beautiful mountain. And it
was indeed beautiful. Near the top, and extending for a good way down
its side, grew strong large trees, with little trees in between; quite
a wood in fact; and when the wind passed over the mountain tops, the
leaves rustled, shook hands, and laughed and talked in the pleasantest
way imaginable. Below the wood, lay the great green meadows, where
the grass grew soft and thick like velvet; and gardens too, for the
people of Goldau not only kept many cows, but thought much of their
cauliflower, cabbage, and potatoes. A little higher on the mountain
side than most of the houses in the village, stood the home of young
Kaspar Bernstein, Josepha his wife, three pretty children, and a
little maid named Franziska Ulrich. Heinrich, the eldest, was a stout
lad of eight years, who helped his father drive the cows to and from
the pasture, and pulled the weeds in the garden. But the pet of the
household was wee, blue-eyed Gretchen, a demure little maid of six
years, who helped her mother, or thought she did, and made the hours
pass happily for baby Fritz. Their home was a very pleasant one, clean
and comfortable; the floors white with frequent scrubbings,--the
pretty blue picture dishes at which Gretchen never tired of looking as
the plates stood on edge in the racks on the wall; the tinware polished
until it shone like silver; and the great square tile stove, with the
bench around three sides of it, so that all could sit with their backs
against the warm tile of an evening, while the top was large enough to
make a bed upon in the coldest winter nights,--oh, it was as cozy and
comfortable as a home could well be! And in the Summer time, how breezy
the house was when the doors and windows were all wide open; why, one
could stand in the front door, and look right out through the back door
at the mountain. And the view of Goldau, with other little towns all
lying so close together, and the shimmering water of the lake, made
a picture always lovely to look upon; and when the sweet tones of the
church bells floated up to them, morning and evening, their joy was
complete.