CHAPTER VI

HIGHER UP THE MOUNTAIN

About three weeks after Vinzi had come to his uncle’s house a good friend of his father, who had business in Domo, came to see him. He brought him and the Lesa family greetings from Vinzi’s parents. On his way home he expected to stop as he had promised to bring Vinzenz Lesa news of the boy. His parents wanted to hear how he took to the life on the mountain and how he got along with his relatives. They also wondered if he annoyed his relatives by his silent dreamy ways. The uncle and aunt were to decide when the boy was to come home. As soon as they were ready to let him go, they could entrust him to some companion or send word to Leuk where they could find one. The man was to return in five or six days, of which the fifth day had just passed by.

Lorenz entered the room. His wife had set the supper table and was quietly awaiting the return of the boys, when she could place their welcome meal before them.

“The man from Leuk won’t come today,” said Lorenz. “I suppose he’ll be here tomorrow early. We must let them know down there how much we like Vinzi.”

“Indeed we will,” agreed the wife. “I was just wondering to myself why they sent him here. I would keep such a lad at home. One usually sends a boy away when he isn’t quite as he ought to be, or if he has queer ideas in his head that he might lose among strangers. But there are very few boys like Vinzi. Since he has come here I hardly recognize our own. Take Russli, for instance. Every morning he had to be dragged by violence to the fountain, and while he got washed, he usually shrieked like mad. Now he runs over to the stream behind the hay-rick as soon as he is out of bed. He loves to wash himself there, he says, because Vinzi does it, too, and likes it. Russli rubs and scrubs himself cleaner than he would ever have let me do. He wants to look like Vinzi, whom every one likes to look at. Russli never comes home in tears the way he used to, either. One might have supposed that they had nearly killed him the way he carried on. When I ask him what has made the change in him, he answers that Faz is not allowed to beat him, because Vinzi takes his part. If I ask Faz how it is that he leaves Russli in peace he answers that Vinzi keeps him in order and he needs no beating. ‘I like it better that way,’ he says sensibly. ‘I wish Vinzi would stay with us always.’ Faz would never have said such a thing before, for he used to enjoy giving blows. Jos was the only one who never gave us much trouble.”

“Oh, I suppose the eldest sons are always considered models by their mothers.”

“Oh, well, Jos can show himself anywhere,” the woman continued. “I never saw a better-mannered boy than Vinzi, though. Jos has noticed that and has begun to imitate him, which suits him very well. He would only need a hat on his head and the kind of cloak around his shoulders that strangers on the stage-coach wear, to look like a gentleman’s son.”

“That’s not necessary,” interrupted the husband.

“And we never should have found out that Jos has such a beautiful voice if Vinzi had not started him with his music,” continued the wife. “And just think of our peaceful evenings with the lovely singing every day. We are not disturbed any more by one boy throwing the other under the table, while the third one is breaking his chair by riding on it. I think that the music has somehow tamed them. They are hardly the same boys! I just want to say one more thing. Why did your cousin Vinzenz send the boy up here instead of keeping him at home? I am sure his wife did not wish him to go--I guess that much. Tell me, what do you think?”

“You can be sure that Vinzenz had a good reason,” replied the husband. “I have asked myself the same question and have not been able to answer it. I remember his mentioning something to me about the boy. When the man from Leuk asked us if Vinzi did not annoy us with his long fits of silence, I recollect that he thought our boys were more merry at their work. As he wished his boy to be the same he thought the totally different surroundings here might help him. He was in the right, too. Vinzi is as gay as a lark, nowadays, and makes the others gayer than they ever were.”

The cheerful cries of the home-coming boys could now be heard. In order to assist them the father went outside while the mother turned towards the kitchen. The time had come to put everything on the table in order to avoid impatience on their part and burnt throats.

The next day the man from Leuk returned. After putting a glass of wine before him Lorenz Lesa sat down at his side.

“What shall I tell them?” asked the man.

“Tell my cousin Vinzenz that everything here is going well,” began Lorenz, “and that his boy is very happy. He sings and whistles like a bird in seed time, and we with him.”

“And that we love him as if he were one of us,” added the wife. “We want to keep him here till the very last day of autumn.”

“Yes, and tell my cousin,” the uncle continued, “that we should like to keep him for the winter if he has no objection. He has not annoyed a soul up here, on the contrary he has made every one happy.”

“Vinzenz Lesa will be glad to hear that. I’ll carefully give him your message,” said the man. “Mrs. Lesa also wants to know how the boy is looking. She wants me to tell her exactly, but I suppose he is not to be seen.”

“No, for the boys are all on the pasture from six in the morning till six at night. They sing and whistle and could not have a better time,” said Lorenz. “My cousin will approve of that, I am sure, for he would certainly not like him to stay at home.”

“And tell Mrs. Lesa that she need not worry,” the woman went on. “Her boy looks as well and sprightly as a cricket. If he should be ill I’ll see to him as if he were my own.”

“Well, that’s splendid,” said the messenger from Leuk. He was satisfied with the news he could bring to Mrs. Lesa, for she had pressed him to inquire into the smallest details, many of which he had quite forgotten.

Vinzi had kept his promise in carving Faz and Jos each a beautiful pipe, and both were hard at work practicing. Pipe-playing had grown to be their sole amusement, for it was their dearest wish to imitate Vinzi as much as possible.

Both realized that Vinzi’s playing was vastly superior to theirs, but they did not give up and tried to learn whatever they could. As soon as they reached the pasture in the morning, the piping began, and while the cows were grazing peacefully they would devote themselves to music. Jos and Faz were usually leaders of the other boys in their sports. When these did not appear they were very much missed by their comrades. So the other boys came over to them, and soon this enthusiasm about music proved catching. Each boy wanted to try his talent for piping and thought he could imitate Vinzi’s playing better than any other. But they all agreed in pronouncing him their master, for each pipe took on a different quality when Vinzi blew it.

After the pipes had continuously been whining, howling and squeaking the boys always begged Vinzi to play. They wanted to see how he did it, and Vinzi was only too glad to do so. He played as long as they liked to hear him, while they actually crowded around him and eagerly watched his fingers. The melodies seemed to come somehow of themselves. All he did was to let his fingers leap lightly over the holes, and it looked childishly simple. After watching him each thought that he could now do it, too, and it made every boy eager to try afresh. If one seemingly succeeded fairly well, another boy would say that he could do it as well if only he had his own pipe and took time to practice. This was impossible now, because one could not keep the precious instrument more than a few minutes at a time. There were already ten more who clamored for it.

Therefore one boy after another would come to Vinzi saying, “I wish you would cut me a nice pipe, Vinzi; I’ll give you something for it.”

Vinzi answered always most obligingly, “I’ll make you a pipe and you needn’t give me anything. But you’ll have to wait for it, because I have promised to make others first.”

Vinzi was kept very busy, because every day brought him new requests for pipes. Some of his time was taken up by playing, and Russli did not give up his demands upon him, either. But Vinzi felt happy and satisfied. Whatever he could do he did gladly, and it gave him great satisfaction to be able to spread such joy about him.

The uncle was delighted to hear about the daily gatherings on his pasture. He liked this pursuit of music and it pleased him that boys who lived as far up as the hospice should come down to learn the art of piping. By cutting several pipes every day Vinzi finally supplied nearly every pasture ground with two or three. But this did not suffice. As soon as a boy had succeeded in giving forth a few satisfactory sounds another immediately wanted to try his talent, too. It took considerable practice and patience before they could attempt to play a tune, for it was even hard to make smooth, pleasant sounds.

The supreme wish of each boy had become to own a pipe which Vinzi had carved himself, for no one else could do it so well.

Among the boys who met daily there were about ten or twelve who were called the Tower Boys. Vinzi never knew exactly how many of them there were, because only some of them could come down to the Lesa pasture at a time, the others staying behind to mind the cows. Vinzi had first believed them all to be brothers. But he found out that they were cousins and came from three different households. He had given two of them pipes already, for they had been very eager for them. One of them who was called Black Vereli, on account of his black, curly hair and dark complexion, had teased and begged him for a pipe so insistently that Vinzi could not resist his pleading. He gave him one which was already finished despite the fact that the other boys cried jealously, “The Tower Boys have two already.”

Full of gratitude and enthusiasm, Vereli ran away with his precious gift.

The next day he appeared again and quickly ran to Vinzi. “I have to mind the cows today, but the others can stay,” he said breathlessly. “But I have a message for you. I showed grandfather the pipe and he made me play on it. When he said I didn’t know how to play, I told him that you could do it better than anybody else. So he wants you to come and play for him sometimes. Won’t you come some day when I have to stay up there? Please come tomorrow, if you can,” Vereli called back as he ran away.

“I must ask uncle first. Where shall I go if he lets me?” Vinzi called after the boy.

But he got no answer from Vereli, who was already far away.

“You go up to the Tower Boys,” replied Russli. He was as usual close to Vinzi’s side and so had heard his question.

“But I don’t know where they live,” replied Vinzi.

“In the tower, of course,” said Russli.

“Is that the reason why you call them the Tower Boys?”

“Of course,” Russli calmly informed him.

The old gray tower that had filled him with such grave misgivings rose before Vinzi’s eyes now. In his wild state of fear it had seemed to him no less than a prison in which his uncle might be living and where he might be obliged to live, too. But besides the tower he had a vague recollection of a bright meadow with shining flowers surrounding the building. His glance had hardly rested on these things in his foolish terror. Now he felt suddenly seized by an intense desire to wander up along the highway to see how all the things looked that had grown so dim in his recollection.

That evening he repeated Vereli’s words to his uncle, asking at the same time what he was to do.

“Go up to the tower tomorrow, boy,” answered the uncle. The grandfather was the oldest man on the whole mountain-side and one had to do his bidding.

“Whose grandfather is he?” asked Vinzi.

“Oh, the grandfather of all the so-called Tower Boys,” replied the uncle, “and of a huge family besides who stay at home. Only the boys who attend to the cattle go up there. He is in fact their great, or even great-great grandfather. But as that is much too complicated to say all his relatives on the mountain call him grandfather. He has an enormous number of grand and great-grandchildren.”

“Yes, Black Vereli is decidedly the worst of the whole bunch,” added Faz.

“How so?” asked the father, who saw not the slightest connection between his own statement and the words which had followed.

“Oh, I mean that the Tower Boys always start the worst mischief and Black Vereli invents most of their tricks,” Faz explained. “Jos always takes his part because he can jodel so well.”

“Yes he can do it like no one else and I love to hear him,” affirmed Jos. “I think that the invention of naughty tricks is beginning to die down a bit. Vereli is needed for that, and he has something else in his head now. Vinzi has made him a pipe, which he has wanted for ages, and he is so determined to learn how to play that nothing will stop him. You know that if he wants a thing he never gives up till he has it.”

“Those pipes are a real blessing for the whole mountain, it seems to me. They are toning down even the worst boys,” said the mother, comfortably leaning back in her chair. She knew what peace it had brought to her own evenings and was already waiting for the tones of the pipe which so quieted them.

When the boys were ready to set out to the pasture with their cattle next morning, the uncle said to Vinzi. “Go right up to the tower, for the grandfather is sure to be up by now. He sits from early morning till evening on the bench before his house sunning himself. You will have to judge when it will be time to leave. Be sure to stay as long as he wants you to.”

They set out, Russli, as usual, staying a little behind Vinzi. He had attentively listened to his father’s words.

“You must come back soon,” he said. “You must come down as soon as you have played something for the grandfather.”

“Didn’t you hear what your father said, Russli?” retorted Vinzi. “I have to do what the grandfather wants me to. I’ll have to stay all morning if he wishes me to.”

“Then I’ll tickle the cows again,” Russli asserted grimly.

“That is wicked of you, Russli,” cried out Vinzi full of indignation. “I always thought that you were a nice boy. Didn’t I stay with you all the time and tell you all sorts of stories? Didn’t I play for you as much as ever you wanted me to? I never believed Faz when he told me naughty things about you and now I find that what I thought untrue was true after all. Do you know what I am going to do? I’ll stay with Jos and Faz from now on and you can stay by yourself and I’ll never come near you any more.”

“Then I won’t do it,” said Russli, half obstinately and half repentantly.

“That’s right, Russli,” said Vinzi, already reconciled, “and I’ll promise to cut you something on the way every time I leave you. What do you want? A walking stick?”

“No,” came the decided answer.

“Do you want a flag-pole?”

“No.”

“What do you want?”

“A pipe.”

“But I gave you one ages ago,” suggested Vinzi.

“I don’t care. I want a pipe and then another and still another every time you want to make me something,” Russli said stubbornly.

“All right, you shall have a pipe,” Vinzi promised.

When the boys came to the pasture they turned their herd to the right of the road towards the larch trees. But Vinzi continued on his way. Every time his three cousins called to him, “Come back soon,” he answered by waving his cap to them. He felt so well and strong now that he threw his cap high into the air and caught it again with a loud shout. Vinzi had never been so wonderfully happy before. The sun was shining from a cloudless sky over the green fields, pastures and rugged mountains, against which the dark spruces were sharply outlined. He remembered having come that way, but how different it all looked now! The scene constantly grew more entrancing. The high snow-mountain stood out completely behind the wooded heights, and its great and mighty summit shimmered faintly in the sunlight. Suddenly a miracle seemed to happen. A broad stream, gleaming like silver in the early morning light, spread right across the whole mountain, but it made not a sound or motion. It was not rushing water, but a glorious, broad glacier. Vinzi had to stand still as he watched a strange blue fire flash across the expanse. He lingered a while, unable to go further. How strange that he should not have taken in all this beauty before!

Going on again he was repaid by hearing sounds as of a rustling wood in the distance. He wondered what it might be, because he knew that there was no forest here. Foaming white and roaring loudly, there suddenly appeared before him a waterfall which leaped down over steep rocks and right across the way he saw a second. Here and there gurgling mountain streams rushed down from the rocky walls, and the air that blew into his face was so deliciously fresh that he had to pause again and take deep breaths. But what was the glowing red field which stretched a short distance from him down the slope? Eagerly Vinzi ran along as if he had wings and the bracing air made him forget how steep was the slope he was climbing.

Sometimes, as the road made a curve, the red field would vanish for a while only to reappear again much nearer and still more brilliant in the sunlight. Now a well-known sound of cow-bells greeted his ears, and he wondered where the cattle were.

He had to stop again in order to look about him. At his left, below the road he could see the herd peacefully grazing in a fresh green meadow. He saw cows of different colors and quite a number of boys. Some lay flat on the ground while others stood together in little groups. In the middle of the valley rose a gray stone tower. That was the old tower he had seen on his trip and his cousins had described to him. Also the grandfather sat leaning his back against the ancient walls exactly as his uncle Lorenz had told him he would do. The old man with the bright sun shining down upon him was gazing up at the blue sky. He wore no hat on his snow-white head and a heavy white beard fell down to his chest. The old man sitting in the sun with the cows quietly grazing about him made the most peaceful scene. Even the old tower which had frightened him so seemed to be quite a cosy abode, and Vinzi could picture all the Tower Boys leading a very happy existence there with the grandfather. He was anxious to inspect it from near, but first he had to see the red mountain-side. It could not be far from here now.

Vinzi hurried along. After a curve of the road the red, sparkling field lay before him.

Climbing over the rocky edge of the road, he went deep into the green leaves which were covered with bright red alpine roses. They spread over the whole slope as far as he could see, and he could not help saying, “How beautiful!” to himself, over and over again.

Carefully going on, he discovered a little spot free of plants. Here he could sit down in the middle of the flowers without hurting them. In silent rapture he gazed at the glory about him.

The sun was beating down from a cloudless sky but the fresh mountain breeze fanned his cheek and made him bless the hot rays. The dark blue sky stretched close over the gleaming field of roses, the gray ranges and green, sunny slopes. The mighty snow peak opposite rose high into the air and thundering streams flung their snow-white foam sunwards, so that they sparkled in a thousand colors.

Vinzi must have been sitting there dreaming a long while. Suddenly he became conscious of the sun being nearly above his head, which meant that it was practically noon. Starting up at once, he ran in big leaps over the flowery field, putting his feet down so that he did not crush a single rose. Then he crossed the road and still kept on running across the other meadow to the old tower. Vinzi planted himself immediately in front of the grandfather, who was still sitting on his wind-sheltered bench in the sunshine. But he had to take a deep breath before he could attempt to speak.

“What is it, boy? Why are you in such a hurry?” calmly asked the grandfather.

“I am a bit late. I meant to be here much sooner,” replied the boy, having at last gained his breath. “Black Vereli sent me here because you wanted to hear me play the pipe.”

“Oh, I see, you are the boy who carves the pipes and who is supposed to play so well,” said the old man. “It is nice of you to come here. Sit down beside me on the bench and tell me where you come from and to whom you belong.”

Vinzi, after sitting down, told the old man about his family and that he was staying for a while with his uncle Lorenz Lesa.

“I know him,” said the grandfather. “He is a splendid man. Did he object to your coming up here?”

Vinzi answered that his uncle had bidden him to go and stay as long as the grandfather wished.

“Oh, I am glad; then you can play something for me. But I think we had better have some food first.” With these words the old man rose, but changing his mind suddenly, he resumed his seat again.

“I don’t think it would be unseemly if the young one brought the lunch while the old one remained seated,” he said, kindly patting Vinzi’s shoulder. “Go around the corner here, open the door and go to the shelf. You’ll find a jug of milk and everything else ready. Go and bring it.”

Vinzi was gone in a minute and quickly returned with the required articles. The food was placed between them on the bench and the grandfather cut pieces of bread and cheese, inviting Vinzi to do the same.

But the boy slightly hesitated. All morning he had done only what he had felt like doing, instead of coming early and playing to the grandfather. Therefore he could not begin with a clear conscience.

“Eat, eat, boy! What’s the matter? There is more than enough for us both. Why don’t you begin?” asked the old man after a while with such a kindly glance from his eyes that Vinzi would have felt like doing a more difficult bidding.

“How do you like it here on our mountain?” asked the old man after a little while.

Vinzi’s eyes fairly flashed. “Oh, it is wonderful here. I never saw anything more beautiful in my life!” he exclaimed, still filled with his recent impressions.

At this the grandfather patted him on the back again. “Neither did I, neither did I,” he said full of satisfaction. “You think just what I think. I’d like to know where it could be finer. Where do they have such golden sunshine as we have up here and pure air like that which simply fills one with health? Every one can breathe as much of it, too, as he can hold. And what strength this air and sunshine give one! I tell you I know something about it. Of course my strength is beginning to give out a bit. I am still well but not young any more. How old do you think I am, boy?”

“Maybe seventy,” said Vinzi.

“Oho, is that what you think! I was seventy twenty and a few odd years ago and I was young still at that time. I thought nothing of going with heavy loads on my back down into the valley and coming up again with more. But I can’t do such things now, and no more do they want me to. All the young people ask of me is to keep peace among the boys while they stay in the tower during summer. They are on the pasture during the day, but when they come home in the evening they need some one to keep them in order; otherwise things go amiss. I sit here in the sunshine all day and that gives me ample time to think over all the blessings I have to thank our Lord in Heaven for during my long life. Since I passed my ninetieth year I do not count any more. I take every fine day as a splendid gift and looking up to Heaven in the evening, I say from the bottom of my heart, ‘Thanks for it, good Father in Heaven, thanks!’ And when the time comes for me to go, I won’t have far to go. Look what a short distance I will have to fly. That’s one of the reasons I love it here on the mountain. It’s very close to Heaven and so open that one can look about in all directions. One’s thoughts easily strive upwards and make one happy, either living or dying.”

Vinzi had followed the grandfather’s words with keen attention. The boy was sorry when the speaker was silent at last, for he would have liked to know much more about the grandfather’s solitary existence.

“What are you thinking about so earnestly?” asked the grandfather after a considerable silence between them.

“I was longing for you to tell me about your life in winter when the boys have gone home. I wonder if you stay in the tower all alone or if you have to leave despite your being so happy here,” replied Vinzi.

“I have not gone to the valley for at least ten years and I do not care to,” said the grandfather, inhaling a deep breath of the sunny mountain air. “I could neither stand the heavy air nor the crowds of people who get in each other’s way. I don’t have to live alone in the tower because the monks in the hospice up there are my good friends. You know where it is, don’t you?”

“No,” replied Vinzi, “and I don’t even know what kind of place it is.”

“It is a good place,” said the old man. “They receive there in winter poor travellers who cannot go on for the cold and the masses of snow, and whom they often find lying outside half frozen. The good monks who live in the hospice fetch them in to a warm fire, then give them strengthening food and drink till they are able to travel on their way. They are my very best friends, and when the boys drive the cattle home in the autumn, I go up to live with them. You may have seen the hospice, for it is just a little way up in that direction.”

“Oh, yes, I remember it now,” exclaimed Vinzi, for the picture of a big stone house on the road rose before him. He remembered having seen it on his walk and he recalled how still and dead everything about it had seemed, exactly as if no one lived there.

“A warm chimney corner is always ready for me there,” continued the old man. “I sit there all winter long and hear many a good word from the monks. Once in a while I see a poor wretch who would have perished miserably but for their help. After being cared for he is able to take up his load again with fresh courage. I hear things about the world once in a while that make me glad that I am so far away.”

“I can well believe it,” replied Vinzi understandingly.

“How would it be if we made a little music now?” asked the grandfather after a pause. Then he set the empty pitcher, the plate and knife under the bench in order to make more room. “What would you like best to play?”

Vinzi, taking up his pipe, had begun to play a melody.

It pleased his listener so much that he had to repeat it straightway. As soon as he had finished it the second time the grandfather said, “That was a beautiful thing. Was it a hymn?”

“Yes,” said Vinzi.

“How did you learn that? Boys usually whistle quite different tunes. Where did you find it?” the old man wanted to know.

“I didn’t find it. I play the tune as I hear it sung. Mother sings such a song with us at home every night,” Vinzi declared.

“Do you know more like that?” the grandfather inquired.

“Oh yes, lots more,” Vinzi assured him.

“I’d love to know if you could play me a song I heard only once in my life. I would give a great deal if I could hear it again. But all I know about it is the refrain at the end of each verse; perhaps you could recognize it from that.”

“It would be better if you could sing me parts of it,” said Vinzi.

“No, no, boy, I can’t sing any more,” the grandfather remonstrated, “but I can tell you what the song was about and how the ending went. You see I was not always as happy as I am now. Of course when I was young like you I was happy, for I had a mother who watched over me as yours apparently does who teaches you such nice songs. My father was dead and I had comrades who wanted me to go out with them into the world to seek adventures. As I wanted to go so much, I had to do it against her will. We went and travelled far, sometimes as soldiers, sometimes as workmen. It was a wild life, but you couldn’t understand that yet. Finally, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I begged them to turn back and start a new existence. But they would not hear of it, so I returned alone. It had been a long time since I had written to my mother or heard from her. When I came home I found that she was dead. ‘She wouldn’t have gotten sick if you had stayed at home,’ our neighbor said to me. These words were deeply burnt into my soul. I wanted to begin a new life and redeem myself. But I could find no joy in anything. My conscience constantly reproached me and troubled me, and I realized I could never atone for her death. One night when I couldn’t sleep for remorse I cried aloud to Heaven: ‘Oh, mother, you were always ready to help me before! Please help me now, or don’t I deserve it?’ On awakening in the morning I clearly heard my mother’s voice saying, ‘Go to church, Klaus, the bells are ringing.’ She had always said this to me every Sunday morning during her life-time. I jumped out of bed and found that it was really Sunday. I hadn’t been to church for a long while, but that day I went again. At first I could not follow the pastor’s words. But suddenly I heard, ‘And our Lord came down from Heaven to bring us mercy and forgiveness and keep us from perishing in our misery. And He gave us back our joy!’ That was clearly meant for me and it went through me like a ray of sunshine. Then came the song I spoke of. I could understand every word of it because it told exactly how I felt at that moment. At the end of every verse came the following refrain:

‘For the blessed song of mercy Thrills our hearts forevermore.’

“I have never forgotten it. From then on I went to church whenever the bells called me and I heard many comforting words there that made me glad again. Do you think you could play me the song now?”

Vinzi would gladly have done the grandfather’s bidding, but he did not know the song.

“Then play me one of your own, I love to hear them, too,” said the grandfather comfortingly, for he realized the boy was not able to fulfil his wish.

Vinzi did so willingly and kept playing one piece after the other until loud calls and cries from the distance showed him that the boys were starting to come home.

Quickly rising, Vinzi asked the grandfather’s leave to go. The latter agreed that it was high time. He could not comprehend, however, how quickly the afternoon had flown. “Can you come soon again?” he asked, and added, “Please tell your uncle Lorenz that I shall expect you soon again. Just let me say one more word. I wish you could teach our boys to play, too. That would give me something worth hearing when you are gone.”

Vinzi told the old man that he was already teaching them. Unfortunately they always failed to play the melodies smoothly. They were much better at singing and quickly learned to sing new songs.

“All right, teach them some of your songs then. I suppose that you know others beside the hymns?”

“Yes, I have heard some from uncle Lorenz. If I only had words to one I know, I could teach them that,” answered Vinzi.

“Then you are like me. I forget the words, too, but you are still too young to do that,” was the old man’s opinion.

“I haven’t forgotten them. I never knew them,” said Vinzi seriously.

The old man measured him with a penetrating glance, trying to see if this was meant to be a joke. But Vinzi looked far too earnest. “How can you know a song if it has no words?” he asked.

“I know a few words of it and the way it should sound, but it is so hard to make up enough words for a whole song, and I can’t do it. When I was sitting among the roses this morning, I heard the song and I could sing it, except for the words. If only some one could write me a song.”

Vinzi looked longingly up to the grandfather.

“Maybe I know a person who could do it,” replied the latter, very pleased at the possibility of helping Vinzi. “What would your song be about?”

“About the alp-roses and the sunshine on them. The sunshine on the mountains and the foaming water and all the beautiful things I saw there.”

Vinzi’s eyes sparkled as he eagerly described this. The melody he had heard kept going in his head and he could barely keep himself from singing it aloud.

“I’ll let Pater Silvanus know about this and we’ll see what he can do.”

With this the grandfather shook Vinzi’s hand once more. Then the boy ran down the mountain without stopping once till he had reached his uncle’s house. Loud cries came from the pump where his three cousins were just going through their daily ablution. All rushed towards him and wanted to know what he had done all day, at the same time telling him about their own happenings. In the middle of it all Russli pulled his jacket confidentially, for he had an important communication to make. Finally, he was able to make himself heard. “I did not pinch any all day, not even one.”

For reward Vinzi drew a beautiful new pipe from his pocket.

Vinzi had acquired such skill in carving pipes that he had rapidly made it that morning while sitting among the roses.

Uncle Lorenz and his aunt greeted him as heartily as if they had not seen him for a long while. After he had given the grandfather’s message to his uncle, the latter replied, “Yes, yes, go up there as often as you please, only be sure to come home to us in the evening.”

The aunt joined in, too, adding, “It would suit me best if things should never change and Vinzi could stay with us always.”

When Vinzi soon after sat on his threshold he had a great many things to think over. His thoughts kept him so busy that he would have liked to dispense with sleeping altogether and sit there all night.

He was still filled with the grandfather’s story, which had made a tremendous impression upon him. While listening to it he had had an idea, which since then had grown more vivid. Now the time seemed to have come to carry it out.

Raising the pipe to his lips he quietly began to play to himself. Sometimes he paused, silently listening to what he heard. Then he hummed again as the melodies were slowly taking shape. Vinzi looked about him. All the houses round about were dark, but all the stars sparkled down on him so radiantly that he finally grew silent and looked in pious awe at the joyfully gleaming sky above.

“Oh, now I know it!” he cried suddenly. Raising his pipe again he lured from it the most tripping, happy tunes. Quite satisfied he at last closed his little door and lay happily down on his fragrant couch of hay.

The music seemed really to begin now, for he felt that whole choruses of angels were singing down to him from the shining stars. But Vinzi only heard this in his slumbers, for as soon as he had touched his pillow he was fast asleep.