Part 6

“Although we fairies all had a good laugh at you, when we saw you coming out of your house at night, with a lantern, to tell the time at the sundial, thus breaking up our party, yet because you have always been so kind to the birds, and loved our fairy folks, and the children, I will show you how to make a new kind of clock. It will not only mark the hours on its face, without the aid of the sun, but will send out a cuckoo, every hour, to flap its wings in delight. Then this wooden bird will call out ‘cuckoo, cuckoo,’ as if a real one in feathers were making love to its mate. Do you not, yourself, think that the affection of the lover bird, thus shown, will increase mutual affection in your own house and brighten every Swiss home, and many more homes, beyond the sea?”

“I am sure it will. Thank you heartily,” said Soft Pudding.

Then the Fairy Queen held out before his gaze a lovely cuckoo clock, made of black walnut, with hands and face-figures cut out of the wood of the white birch tree.

When he woke up in the morning, out of his sleep, old Soft Pudding stretched out his hands to receive the gift, but it was daylight, and, of course, the fairy was gone. It was the common light of the sun, but he was very happy, even though he had only dreamed. He proceeded at once to turn his dream into reality, by constructing the clock.

Within a week, he had made the works. Then, he set them inside a black walnut case, with ivory figures on the dial. After several attempts, he succeeded with the wooden cuckoo, that would come out, flap its wings, and chirp the number of the hours, and go inside the shut doors, while the clock face also marked the proper point.

Then, he brought his whole family, one morning, near the moment when the minute hand was approaching the proper dot on the disc.

What was their surprise, when, without any one touching the little black house, which was set on the wall, the doors flew open, and out strutted a cuckoo, flapping its wings. It chirped out, ten times, and then bowed, went into its box again, and the little doors shut.

The children all clapped their hands and the mother embraced her husband in joy. By and bye, for ivory, which was very costly, Mr. Soft Pudding used white birch for the clock hands.

Then he set up a factory, and this gave work to many villagers, men and women, boys and girls. He soon made a fortune, and now, no one called him Soft Pudding, but every one saluted him with a title of respect.

When he died, he left his wealth to his family. To this day, his cuckoos flap their wings, and salute the hours, in every land. Because the wooden clock and bird were black, the time-telling cuckoo, which was sometimes hitched to a barometer, or set in a toy, to foretell the weather, was called the “rain-crow.” But, with this beginning, made by the cuckoo clock, Switzerland became a land of clocks, watches, and musical boxes.

X

THE CASTLE OF THE HAWK

The hawk is one of the children of Asia, the Mother Continent, in which almost all the fairy tales were first told. From the beginning, this sharp-eyed bird of prey has had the reputation of being very cruel, and of eating up the little birds. It has a curved beak, terribly sharp talons, and very large and strong wings. The young fowls in the barnyard are afraid, even of the hawk’s shadow, and they quickly run to cover. For the hawk, sometimes called a falcon, can fly up very high and then swoop down on the small, or tame birds, kill them at once and carry them off. Little chickens, to be safe, had better run at once under the wings of their mother. Sometimes, the old hen faces the falcon so bravely, that she can save her brood and fight hard, until a man comes with a gun and drives off this pirate of the air. In Switzerland, they call the big hawk the Mountain Condor, or the Robber Bird. It seizes many a lamb, kid, or puppy, and its nest is, most of the time, built in the midst of bones.

In the Far East, before rifles were invented, falcons were kept, fed, trained, and taught to hunt such birds as the crane, pigeons, ducks, geese and barnyard fowls, and the many little feathered fellows, that live in the woods and swamps. Men would go in among the rushes and the bushes, and drive out, from the covert, both the smaller and larger birds. Out in the fields, or on the hills, the falconer would be in waiting to let his trained birds fly at them, with beak and talons.

One man carried around his waist a wide hoop, kept a foot or so out from his body, and held by a strap from his shoulders. On this hoop, were a half dozen or so trained falcons, with their eyes covered by little caps or hoods held down over their heads. As soon as a bird was seen, the hunter would take off the hood and let one of the trained falcons free.

Flying straight up, high in the air, and swiftly descending, swooping down and striking the bird in the neck, with its sharp beak, the falcons brought down the game to their masters, until the hunting bags were full. Women, as well as men, loved this sport, and it was a gay sight, when a cavalcade of ladies and gentlemen, as they issued from the castle, and all on horseback, went out for a hunt, while the gamekeepers with the falcons and bush-beaters, with the dogs, followed. The men on foot carried a spear, in case they should meet a bear, or wild boar. On their return, the hunting party would have a feast in the castle.

Now it was the belief, in Asia, that a good person, after his death, was born again in another world, and became a still holier being or even an angel. But a bad person, after his death, if he had been a tale-bearer or deceitful, or told lies, would be changed into a snake. If he had been stupid, he might become a sheep or donkey, or a mule. Or, if he or she had been too proud, each was reborn as a peacock; if cruel, into a tiger or a hawk.

There were many girls in Japan, named Taka, which means a hawk, because of their bad temper, or their cruelty to puppies or kittens. Sometimes, however, the name was a compliment, because they were quick and smart, like falcons.

Now, according to these ideas, there was a very hard-hearted man, named Chicksha, who beat his children. When angry, he threw dishes at his wife and cursed his servants. One day, when in a fit of bad temper, he fell dead. No one was sorry, and some were even glad.

After this event, whenever people saw a falcon, with terrible shining eyes, and beak as sharp as two razors, and with claws and talons, like a steel meat hook, they said, “It must be Chicksha, come to life again.” Then they all ran out of their houses to see a thing so wonderful.

After they had become used to the sight, they noticed, one day, that the terrible creature had unfolded its wings, spread them out wide, and flown westward. After awhile, this falcon had soared so high and so far, that, in the distance, it became nothing more than a speck on the blue horizon. Then it disappeared behind the mountains. At this, everybody clapped their hands with delight. In fact, some of the more pious went to the village shrine and gave thanks to Great Buddha, for ridding the neighborhood of such a pest.

On wings, which seemed to be tireless, this bird of evil flew on and on, farther and farther away, until in a strange land, it perched, tired and hungry, on a very high rock, beneath which was a lordly castle.

In this stronghold lived a count and countess, in whose castle-yard was a skillful gamekeeper, whose ring of falcons was the most noted in all the land. Flying down among the falcons, the soul of Chicksha, now a hunting bird, at once felt at home among these winged creatures, that fed on the blood of their fellows.

When taken out on hawking expeditions, few, even of the strongest falcons, equaled, and none excelled, Chicksha, in striking down, what the good Saint Francis called, “our little brothers of the air.” So Chicksha became the favorite of his owner, the Count.

But one day, tired of being hooded and kept inactive in the cages, in the castle yard, or, when taken out on the hoop and often, when hooded, kept from having the chance to kill and cause suffering, Chicksha, the falcon, leaped up from its keeper, when its cap dropped off, and flew away. Proud of its freedom, the bird never stopped, until it perched upon a mountain named the Wülpelsberg, in Switzerland.

On this lofty pinnacle, far above the river torrent, in the Aare valley, there stands today a lonely ruin, which is all that is left of what was once a spacious and magnificent castle.

Meanwhile, the Count, who was loath to lose his best bird, went off to hunt for his lost favorite. Hoping, at every climb, to find his prize, he went up higher and higher into the forest. Emerging from the woods, he caught sight of the hawk resting on the jagged rock. Approaching stealthily, he put out his hand, captured the bird and quickly slipped the hood on its head.

On turning his eyes, to survey the scene, the count had before him a splendid view of the grandest scenery upon which he had ever looked. It was the valley of the Aare, with its wonderful glacier and ice-cold river, and its romantic wild and rocky gorge, where now are villages and hotels, while its healing sulphur baths are among the most famous in Switzerland.

The nobleman at once felt that here was the spot on which to build his castle. Returning home, he summoned an architect, made his plans, and set about the enterprise. When he had finished it, he named the lordly structure, Hapsburg; which means the Castle of the Hawk. Here, one of the most renowned princely families of rulers, including kings and emperors, that wore crowns on their heads, was founded. They took for their emblem a double-headed bird of prey, as if they would seize double the amount of land, and oppress twice the number of people, commonly ruled over by monarchs. It is astonishing how rulers, in the past, have chosen birds and beasts of prey as symbols of their government—all so different from the Good Shepherd.

In course of the centuries, this house of Hawk Castle gained a greater amount of power and spread their sceptre over more countries than any other. Yet this was done, more by marrying their daughters, princesses, to kings and princes, than by victories in war. So this dynasty of rulers became famous for its matchmaking, in which the mothers and aunts had much to say.

Now, when the time came, that the young prince of the Hawk Castle House must seek a bride, he went into the country now called Belgium, and sought in marriage the hand of a lovely princess, named Eleanor. Then, the usual medieval custom was followed, in regard to royal ladies who left their own land to marry the prince of another country, and to live among strangers.

In this case, also, the Prince having been summoned to Rome, on business that could not be put off, had first to be married by proxy; that is, one of his officers must make the journey to Belgium and take his place at the ceremony.

For, while she, the promised bride, was perhaps the most beautiful of the princely daughters in all Europe, as she certainly was the richest heiress, he, the betrothed groom, was one of the poorest of titled rulers. There were beggar princes, then, as well as wealthy ones, and the needy bridegroom wanted to use some of the money of her dowry at once, for he was hard pressed to pay his debts. So he sent one of his high officers into Belgium.

The ceremony was one of great magnificence, like a pageant. It was held in the largest hall of the palace, which was brightly lighted by hundreds of candles and the walls were hung with tapestry in brilliant colors. A train of bridesmaids brought in the princess, arrayed in her fairest robes, and decked with jewels.

Then the prince’s officer, who, in his splendid garments, was in uniform, with decorations for the occasion, like his master, and looked like him, came in the hall. He had on his head a crown, and at his side a sword, spurs on his boots, and jewels on his breast. He took his place on the right, for the bride must always be near the husband’s heart. In each corner of the room, was a sentinel in armor, and with his sword drawn. Then a notary appeared. He was in his scarlet robes of office, with the legal documents in his hand to secure the signatures. The witnesses were ranged around the hall and the nuptial service was read. The wedding was made legal by the loyal officer making answer for his august master, and the notary writing a record, attested by witnesses.

The next day, attended by her ladies in waiting, her maids, cooks and serving women, the princess travelled in state to the frontier at the Rhine. In a great house, standing on the boundary line, half in Belgium and half in France, the preparations were made, by which the princely daughter ceased forever to be a Belgian maiden. After this ceremony of disrobing, she was ever afterwards to be an Austrian wife, for this was the time, when the Hapsburgs ruled over Switzerland in which epoch also the story is told of Gessler and William Tell.

In one room, she left behind her all the wardrobe and whatever was Belgian. She then stepped into the next room, which was all Austrian in its furniture and treasures. It was full of dainty clothes, fluffy and gauzy for summer wear, the time of flowers; but there was also more, in plenty, of garments that were fur-lined, for winter warmth. With garments for wear next to the skin, that were white as an edelweiss, and thicker wraps for her body, that were crimson and purple, like the Alpine rose, she was met by the Swiss chaperone and the maidens awaiting her, who completed her costume. Then she stood forth as a bride, ready for the other ceremony of wedding, which took place in the cathedral, where, with bell and book, in the holy bonds of matrimony, they were to be joined by the bishop. There, the prince met his lovely princess and the two were married, and they and their children lived happily ever afterwards.

XI

THE YODEL CARILLON OF THE COWS

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.