Chapter VII: Part 7

For six years the Count of Kyburg kept this secret, but at the end of that time he gave a great banquet, to which he invited all his relatives and friends. In the middle of this meal, the eleven boys, richly dressed, were shown into the hall by his order. The guests all stared in amazement at these children, who were so exactly like one another, and like the supposedly only son of their host, that no one could doubt their parentage.

While they were still speechless, the Count of Kyburg suddenly inquired, in terrible tones, what punishment should be awarded to the person who had tried to murder eleven such promising young Welfs (Wolves)? At these words the guilty Countess suddenly fainted, and the guests were informed of the part she had played. When she recovered her senses, her husband generously forgave her, but the children he had rescued were known ever after by the name their father gave them when he first introduced them to his friends.

* * * * *

KING LOUIS II. of France is said to have promised one of the Welfs as much land as he could ride around in a golden wagon in one day. This Welf immediately decided to secure the boon by a subterfuge, since he could not get it otherwise.

By his orders, a tiny golden wagon was made, and sitting upon this toy, placed in a wagon to which were harnessed his quickest pacing oxen, he rode around a tract of land on either side of the Rhine, which included the site of Kyburg Castle. Thus he won the Kyburg estate where his three sons were born. In due time two of these became bishops, equally renowned for their learning and great piety.

One of them, in serving Mass at Easter, saw a huge poisonous spider fall into the chalice. Loath to disturb the communion service, he swallowed the spider with the wine, and after Mass sat down to table, where, however, he refused to partake of any food. Exhausted by a long spell of fasting, he soon fell asleep, and his drowsy head rested on the table, while his breath passed softly between his parted lips. His friends, watching him, suddenly saw the spider--an emissary of Satan--creep out of his mouth and slink away, having been unable to injure so good a man.

The two bishops once sat in the castle, before a well-spread board, on the eve of a solemn fast-day. Although food and wine lay in plenty before them, they partook of them but sparingly, and were so absorbed in pious conversation that they remained there hour after hour, quite unmindful of the flight of time. The castle clock had just pealed forth the midnight hour, and the solemn fast had begun, when their secretary stepped into the hall to inquire whether they still had need of his services. This man, envious of their reputation, had long been jealous of them, and anxious to catch them tripping so he could publish the fact abroad. When he therefore beheld them seated before a huge roast of boar’s flesh, with several bottles full of wine still before them, his eyes flashed with malicious pleasure. A moment later, however, he stood with lowered eyes and in subservient attitude before his superiors, who bade him go to rest, and, in the kindness of their hearts, gave him a big portion of meat and a bottle of wine to carry away with him.

The secretary meekly thanked the bishops, and took leave of them with apparent humility; but no sooner had he closed the door behind him, than he rushed off to a neighbouring convent, his heart dancing with fiendish glee. Rousing the brethren, he told them, with every mark of sanctimonious regret, that their shepherds were faithless, for they were even now, on a solemn fast-day, partaking of forbidden meat and drink!

He added that when they found themselves detected in this wrong-doing, they tried to silence him by giving him a portion of their viands, thus making him a partaker in their sin. In proof of this assertion, he produced the food they had given him, and the monks all crowded around, with long-drawn faces, to see and smell these evidences of their superiors’ guilt.

To the secretary’s surprise, however, they soon turned indignantly upon him, declaring that the so-called boar’s flesh was the fish served on the monastery table every fast-day; and the rich wine nothing but the small beer which invariably accompanied it. The secretary protested wrathfully, but when he, too, examined those articles carefully, he was forced to acknowledge the monks right, and to confess that Providence had worked a miracle to prevent two absent-minded saints from inadvertently committing a grievous sin.

LEGENDS OF ZUG

The Lake of Zug, the home of prehistoric lake-builders, is beautifully situated at the foot of the Rigi, and separated from the Lake of Lucerne by a narrow strip of land. At one end of this small sheet of water is the city of Zug, the capital of the canton of the same name, and at the other extremity, the pretty city of Arth, at the foot of the Rossberg.

This mountain is famous for its landslides, which have cost many lives and buried whole villages at its foot. The legend ascribes these cataclysms to the hard-heartedness of the people, who incurred the anger of the dwarfs by refusing them hospitality, as was the case at Roll on the Lake of Thun. The city of Zug has twice been undermined by the lake. The first time, in 1435, two whole streets sank down into the water; but while science attributes such accidents to perfectly natural causes, legend tries to account for them in a more poetic way.

In the centre of the lake, far down below the surface of the water, nixies and water-nymphs are supposed to dwell in a marvellous palace all hung with gleaming crystal stalactites, paved with silver and gold, and brightly lighted by the sparkle of precious stones encrusting its walls. The dainty inhabitants of this sub-aqueous palace seldom rise to the surface of the lake, except at night, when they are seen in the moonlight, dancing here and there over the waves, floating gently ashore, or hovering along grassy banks, where they love to spread out their mist like veils.

These nymphs occasionally appear at village dances, where they can be distinguished from mortal maidens by their superior beauty, and by the ever wet hem of their long white gowns. One of these nymphs fell violently in love with the handsome young son of a magistrate of Zug, and besides meeting him at dances on the green, held nightly trysts with him on the edge of the lake.

The youth was deeply enamoured with the dainty nymph, and when she rose out of the waves one evening with reddened eyelids, he insisted upon knowing the cause of her grief. The sprite now told him that her father, having discovered her infatuation for a mere mortal, had forbidden her to have any further intercourse with him, unless he were willing to follow her down into her father’s abode and live with her there in happy wedlock. The young man, on hearing this, vowed he would be only too happy were such a course possible to him, but gently explained that the element in which she lived was not adapted to human lungs. The nymph, however, declared such an obstacle could easily be removed, and immediately proffered a magic draught, which would enable him to breathe in the water as easily as in the air. The enamoured youth quickly seized the cup she tendered, and after quaffing the crystal clear, tasteless fluid it contained, sank with her down into the depths of the lake.

Delighted with his new powers, and with the wonders he saw on all sides, the youth was very happy for a while, but homesickness finally seized him in the crystal palace. When the nymph tenderly inquired what was the matter, he sadly confessed that he longed to see his parents and friends once more, and that he would never be entirely happy unless he could attend divine service regularly in his parish church.

At these words the nymph’s sweet face darkened, but it was soon illumined again by a brilliant idea which she vowed she would put into immediate execution. That evening, for the first time, she left her beloved, and stealing into the sleeping city, replaced all the drinking water in the houses of two streets by the same magic fluid she had given to the youth. Then, plunging into the lake again, she called all her father’s minions to her aid, and gently and noiselessly undermined those houses. When the people were sound asleep the next night, she drew them softly down to the bottom of the lake.

On awakening in this new element, on the morrow, they found all their surroundings unchanged, and took up their life where they had left it off when they went to sleep the night before. The youth could now hold constant intercourse with his former neighbours and friends, attend service whenever he pleased, and he and all the others are still as happy as the day is long, for the magic draught has endowed them with the immortality which all water spirits enjoy.

When the waters are very clear, you can still see the spire of the sunken church and the gables of the old houses, and people gifted with particularly keen eyes and lively imaginations can detect the stir of busy life in the streets, catch the sound of ringing bells, and the deep solemn tones of an organ, gently accompanying the chants of the sunken congregation.

* * * * *

ON the spot where the boundaries of Zürich, Zug, and Schwyz converge, stands the Hohe Rhonen, the goal of charming excursions; for from the top of this mountain one can enjoy a fine view of the lake, the Sentis, and the Toggenburg and Glarus mountains.

Part of the Hohe Rhonen consists of fine pastures, and a legend claims that a miser once tried to cheat a widow and several orphans out of their portion of this soil. To establish his claim to the pastures, the wicked man not only resorted to forgery, but as the judge still seemed doubtful of the justice of his claims, boldly volunteered to swear on the spot itself that it was rightfully his. The judge accepted this offer, and accompanied by plaintiff, defendant, and several witnesses, wended his way up the mountain to the disputed alp. Standing on a huge granite boulder which lay there, the miser took his oath, holding up three fingers as usual, and when the judge cried, “Woe upon thee, if thou swearest falsely!” boldly added, “If I have committed perjury, may these fingers sink into this hard stone as easily as into water!”

Saying these words, he thrust his fingers downward, and to his horror and dismay felt them sink into the stone up to the second joint! But although they entered so easily, he could not draw them out again, and standing there, a convicted perjurer, had to confess his sin. He had scarcely ceased speaking, when he was hidden from sight by a dark cloud, a terrible cry was heard, and when the rock again became visible to the amazed spectators, the man had disappeared, carried off to Hades by the Devil. But the stone, with the imprint of his perjured digits, is still known as the Three Finger Stone, and remains there as a constant warning against falsehood and treachery.

* * * * *

NOT very far from the Hohe Rhonen, but in the canton of Schwyz, stands the church of Einsiedlen, a famous place of pilgrimage ever since the ninth century. The legend claims that the spot is particularly holy because Our Lord once drank from the fountain with fourteen mouths, while journeying through the country to preach the gospel.

Besides, Meinrad, Count of Sulgen, having vowed to spend the rest of his life in prayer, came to this lovely valley long years ago. Here he built a little chapel to contain a wonder-working image of the Virgin, which he had received from one of the princess-abbesses of Zürich. Meinrad also built a small hut close by this chapel, and as this was generally called his hermitage (Einsiedelei), its name was given to the town which has since arisen on that spot.

Meinrad was known far and wide for his piety as well as for his charity, and all the gifts he received from strangers were immediately lavished upon the poor. Years were spent by the hermit in penance, prayer, and works of mercy, and when very old, the death angel suddenly appeared to him one day in the chapel, to announce that his end was near.

Meinrad, who had longed for Heaven for many a year, received this warning with solemn joy, and after returning thanks went out of the chapel, to feast his eyes once more upon the lovely landscape. While he sat near his hermitage, two tame ravens which he had brought up came to nestle in his lap, and he gently stroked them with his aged and trembling hands. While he sat there quietly, two robbers suddenly sprang out of the thicket, and exclaiming that they had come for the treasures accumulated during all these years, drove their daggers deep into his heart.

The old man fell to the ground lifeless, the ravens flew croaking away, and the thieves, picking up the corpse, threw it into the chapel, so as not to have it continually under their eyes while they made their search. With feverish haste they next turned over every article in the little hermitage, ripped open the straw pallet, peered into the depths of the one crock, and dug up the floor; but to their chagrin no treasure was forthcoming. Thinking the holy man might have concealed his wealth in the chapel, they now betook themselves thither; but no sooner had they crossed the threshold than they paused aghast, feeling their hair slowly rise up on end.

The chapel, which had been so dark a while ago, was now illumined by lights burning on the altar; the corpse was carefully laid out at its base, with tapers burning all around it, and close by stood the two crows, mounting solemn guard over their dead master. But when the murderers, recovering a little from their first surprise and terror, ventured to take a step forward, these faithful birds forsook their post, and so furiously attacked the intruders with beak and claws that they soon drove them out of the chapel.

Terrified by this attack, the robbers fled over the mountains to Zürich, and did not feel quite safe until seated in a little inn where they were wont to linger for hours. They were drinking hard, hoping to forget their recent uncanny experiences, when in through the open window suddenly flew two ravens which circled wildly around their heads, croaking loudly and threatening to pick out their eyes. The criminals, with a common impulse, ducked their heads, and groaning aloud, exclaimed: “Meinrad’s watchers! Meinrad’s watchers!”

These words, and the mysterious behaviour of the birds, which could not be driven away for some time, so aroused the suspicions of the city magistrates, that they sent both men to prison until they could ascertain whether Meinrad were still safe. That same evening, however, a traveller reported the murder of the hermit, whom he had found dead in the chapel, and when the judges summoned the prisoners they had to confess their crime. In punishment for slaying a hermit whom all revered like a saint, the murderers were first broken on the wheel and then burned at the stake.

A monastery was soon erected on the site of Meinrad’s hermitage; and since then a beautiful church, a fine abbey, and many inns and hotels have been built for the accommodation and edification of tourists and pilgrims who visit Einsiedlen in great numbers.

THURGAU

The canton of Thurgau, bordering on the Lake of Constance, is less frequently visited by tourists than almost any other, because it consists principally of arable land and thriving manufacturing towns. It is not, however, without romantic interest; but most of its legends are only slight variations of those already mentioned in connection with other places.

In the days of Charlemagne a Thurgau giant named Kisher joined the imperial forces, and went with them to fight against the Huns and Avars. Such was the size and strength of this warrior that he waded across every river, however deep, and when his horse hesitated to follow him, dragged it after him by its tail, crying, “Comrade, you must come along too!”

In presence of the enemy this mighty giant remained unmoved, and placing himself at the head of the army, mowed down the foe as calmly and steadily as if he were cutting hay in his native country. The battle over, Kisher strung seven or eight of his victims on his lance, and flinging it across his shoulder, tramped home as coolly as if returning from a day’s hunt with his game. Such were his prowesses that Charlemagne declared that, as he was a host in himself, his name should be changed from Kisher to Einheer, which means an army.

* * * * *

IN going from Romanshorn to Constance, one passes the village of Güttingen with its old castle. The lords of this place, equally noted for their wealth and avarice, had several other castles, one of which stood so near the lake that the waves constantly dashed against its walls.

Once, when there was a great famine in the land, the starving people, knowing their lords had great quantities of food stored away in their granaries, surrounded the castle and began to clamour loudly for grain. The lords of Güttingen, who were living on the fat of the land themselves, would not give anything to the poor, and, weary of their importunate cries, determined to get rid of them once for all.

They therefore bade their hungry vassals assemble in an empty old barn, where they assured them their pangs would soon be stilled. The people, thinking their masters were about to distribute food, thronged into this place; but when it was full, almost to overflowing, the cruel lords of Güttingen bade their servants close the doors and set fire to the building. When the bright flames rose all around them, the poor victims loudly begged for mercy; yet although their pitiful cries would have touched any one else, the lords of Güttingen quietly sat there on their steeds, and laughed aloud when one of them sarcastically cried, “Just hear those mice squeak!”

Before long the roof fell in and the clamours ceased; but from the smoking ruins suddenly came hosts of mice, which, running straight to the Güttingen castles, devoured everything they could find. The lords themselves, terrified at the sight of these pests, fled to their Wasserburg, or Castle in the Water. But the mice pursued them there too, and having disposed of everything else, pounced upon them. In a few moments heaps of clean picked bones were all that was left of these heartless lords, whose castle shortly afterwards sank into the lake. There its ruins can be seen when the water is very low, and some people claim you can still hear mice gnawing the bones of those cruel men if you listen very attentively.[14]

[14] For similar legends of Bingen and others of this
section, see the author’s “Legends of the Rhine.”

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A COUNT of Seeheim eloped with a maiden of Kyburg because her father objected to their union. The lovers, dreading the Count of Kyburg’s wrath, placed themselves immediately under the protection of the Abbot of Reichenau, who promised to aid and watch over them, and pronounced their nuptial benediction.

The bride, having a fortune of her own, soon built a castle near the boundary of her father’s land, carefully providing it with strong walls so that he could not molest her or her beloved spouse. For some time after the two families lived on a war footing, but in course of time a complete reconciliation took place.

In memory of this feud and of its happy termination, the town which rose around the new castle received the name of Frauenfeld, and the coat of arms of that city still bears the effigy of the faithful woman. She is represented controlling a lion, which fierce animal is intended to represent the race from which she sprang, and whose wrath she successfully defied and subdued.

ST. GALL AND APPENZELL

St. Gall, capital of the canton of the same name, which entirely surrounds that of Appenzell, is noted for the famous abbey founded in 614 by St. Gallus, an Irish monk. He had come into this unsettled region to preach the gospel, and when his disciple Hiltiboldus urged that they would be exposed to the attacks of the bears, wolves, and boars, quietly answered, “If God is with us, who can be against us?”

The snakes which had infested that region departed for good and all at the saint’s command, and his disciple soon discovered that even the wild beasts of the forest stood in awe of so holy a man. One evening, while Gallus was praying at the foot of a rustic cross, a bear came down the mountain to devour his provisions. St. Gallus, perceiving the theft, quietly bade the bear earn the food he had eaten, by bringing wood to keep up his fire. The crestfallen Bruin humbly fulfilled this penance, and when the saint told him henceforth to remain on the heights, never ventured down into the valley again.

One day Gallus’s disciple discovered an apple-tree far up the mountain, and climbing up shook down some fruit to carry home to his master. But when he slid to the ground again, he was dismayed to find a huge bear on the other side of the tree greedily munching the fallen apples. The disciple’s first impulse was to flee, but remembering that his master was fond of fruit, he determined to secure some for him. Taking his staff, therefore, he scratched deep marks at right angles with the tree, and then gravely informed the bear that while he was welcome to the apples on his side of the line, those which fell on the other were reserved for St. Gallus. Strange to relate, the bear understood this speech, and as long as the apples lasted never ventured to touch one on the saint’s side of the line, although he devoured all those on his own!

The cell and cross of St. Gallus were the nucleus of a monastery and school, which for several centuries had no rival in Europe. Kings and emperors were wont to visit it, and the abbey, enriched by their gifts and concessions, daily increased in importance and wealth.

Within the walls of this edifice dwelt men noted for their learning, and countless scribes spent their lives there, patiently copying and illuminating manuscripts which, but for their efforts, might have been lost to mankind. Some of these manuscripts still remain in the abbey library; among others, a thirteenth century copy of the Niebelungenlied, Germany’s famous epic. Innumerable scholars visited the school and abbey at St. Gall, which is said to have been the scene of a comical encounter between the abbot and Charlemagne, almost an exact counterpart of the story of King John and the Archbishop of Canterbury.[15]

[15] See the author’s “Legends of the Rhine.”

The old monastery life so ably depicted in “Ekkehard,” by Von Scheffel, with its descriptions of the herdsmen and hermit on the Sentis, have surrounded that region with a halo of romance for all who have enjoyed the perusal of the book.

* * * * *

THE Sentis, with its cap of snow, is the highest mountain in Appenzell, and the goal for travellers who wish to make a whey cure or to enjoy an excursion to its summit. From the top of this mountain the view embraces the Lake of Constance, southern Germany, the Tyrolean Mountains, and the Alps in Glarus and Bern. All the way up are various pastures with their low châlets, where butter and cheese are constantly made and carried down the steep paths for consumption in the valleys. The Sentis, like all other mountains where cattle go to pasture, is supposed to be haunted by mountain-folk, who, when well treated, always helpful to mortals.

The Devil, too, plays his part in the Sentis legends, for one of them claims that a lazy herdsman once called upon him to take his cattle, so that he need no longer run after them when they strayed into dangerous places. The words were no sooner uttered than a hurricane swept down the mountain, and the terrified peasant saw Satan, riding on the wind, drive his cows over the edge of the abyss. In sudden repentance he made a sign of the cross, fell on his knees, and cried that he had sinned grievously. At those words the wind ceased, the Devil vanished; but ever since then the pasture, which had been known as the Glücksalp, or Lucky Alp, has been called Im Fehlen, or In Sin.

* * * * *

ANOTHER legend claims that the Devil once came striding across northern Switzerland with a huge bag slung over his shoulder. In this sack he had packed away a large number of houses, together with their inhabitants, and was carrying them away with the intention of removing them for ever from Swiss soil. While taking a leap over the Sentis, however, he burst a hole in his bag, and the houses all tumbled down in Appenzell, where they still stand in irregular groups, just as they fell.

* * * * *

THE same story which is told of the Alphorn at Meiringen is also told of the heights near the much frequented baths of Ragatz, in the southern part of the canton of St. Gall. Not very far from this resort, and on the same wild stream, the Tamina, are the no less noted baths of Pfäfers, and farther up the gorge an ancient abbey of the same name, to which legend ascribes the following origin:--

In the beginning of the eighth century St. Pirminius and his disciple Adalbert preached the gospel in the eastern part of Switzerland. Their efforts were rewarded with such success that they determined to build a chapel and monastery in this part of the country. Wishing to secure the Pope’s consent and blessing for this undertaking, Pirminius set out for Rome, bidding Adalbert in the meantime select a suitable site and begin clearing ground.

After much search Adalbert decided upon a lovely sheltered valley, where the sun shone brightly, where grass and fruit-trees were abundant, and where limpid waters flowed gently through meadows and forests. He and his converts now began felling trees, but while doing so Adalbert’s axe suddenly slipped, inflicting a deep wound in his sandalled foot. The blood gushed forth, staining the chips around, and while all were trying to check its flow, a white dove suddenly alighted near them, and catching up a gory chip, flew off to a neighbouring tree. At the same moment Adalbert’s blood stopped running, the wound closed, and in a moment he felt no more pain.

This miraculous cure seemed to all connected in some way with the dove; so when the bird flew slowly away with the chip, Adalbert determined to follow it. Flitting from tree to tree and from rock to rock, the dove entered the cold and dark Tamina gorge, and penetrating ever farther, finally perched on a sombre pine, and dropped the bloody chip at its foot. Returning to his companions, Adalbert now told them he must await Pirminius’ return, and relate these marvels to him so that he might interpret them if he could.

When the saint came back from Rome and learned what had happened, he immediately cried that Providence had sent them a sign, wishing them to build a church and abbey on the spot where the dove had dropped the bloody chip. He added that such a wild, desolate region was more fitted to encourage a life of constant penance, labour, and prayer than the valley flowing with milk and honey first chosen by Adalbert. By his orders the Abbey of Pfäfers was begun, and to this day its seal bears a white dove carrying a bloody chip in its beak, in memory of the miracle to which it owes its location.

GLARUS AND GRISONS.

Near the city of Chur or Coire, and at the foot of the majestic Calanda, are the ruins of several castles, among others that of Haldenstein. Not very far from its crumbling walls is a fine spring of clear water, where people claim a charming vision was often seen. Dressed in a long white gown which fell in classic folds to her feet, this lovely maiden was wont to linger on the sunniest spot by the edge of the spring, dabbling her hands in its cool waters. A hunter once came to this place, saw the beautiful maiden, and heard her weeping softly. He immediately drew near and looked at her so compassionately that she told him if he would only hold her hand and not let it go until she bade him, he would release her from the baleful spell which caused her tears.

The young man unhesitatingly took her slender white hand between his own sunburned palms, but started at finding it as cold as ice. While he held it tight, trying to communicate a little of his own warmth to the chilled fingers, a tiny old man came out of the castle and silently offered him a diamond basket full of gold. Although he could easily have secured this treasure by stretching out one hand, the young huntsman continued the task he had voluntarily undertaken, and was soon rewarded by feeling a little warmth steal into the slender hand he held so firmly. At the same time the girl’s sad eyes beamed with pleasure, a slight flush stole into her pallid cheeks, and looking up at him, she joyfully exclaimed,--

“I see I was not mistaken. You have proved trustworthy; so you may now let go my hand, and take that basket as a token of my gratitude.”

The maiden softly drew her hand from his, gave him the treasure, and vanished with a seraphic smile.

Since then the White Lady of Haldenstein has never been seen by mortals, but the spring over which she mounted guard became known far and wide for its curative properties. These lasted for many a year; but although the spring still flows as clear as ever, it is said to have now lost all its healing powers.

* * * * *

ON the way from Coire to Castiel one passes the awful Tobel, where a huge dragon once took up its abode. Such were the ravages it made in that region that the people of Castiel, Calfriesen, and Lüen solemnly pledged themselves to provide it with a human victim every year on condition that the monster left them unmolested the rest of the time.

The dragon in the Castieltobel agreed to this arrangement, and the yearly victim was chosen by lot from each of the villages in turn. Now it came to pass that a tall, muscular stranger soon came to settle there with his only daughter, and when the lot fell upon her, he boldly declared he would accompany her to the monster’s den, and slay it or perish with her.

Leading the maiden by one hand, and holding his trusty sword tight in the other, the brave man advanced cautiously, followed at a safe distance by all the people, who wished to witness his encounter with the dragon. They did not have to wait long, for, ravenous after a whole year’s fast, the monster rushed eagerly forward to swallow its prey. It had already opened wide its capacious jaws, when the desperate father rushed toward it, thrust his sharp blade right into its throat, and inflicted such a severe wound that the dragon expired a moment later.

Overcome with joy at having saved his beloved daughter, the father now fell on his knees, and raising his hands to Heaven, gave solemn thanks for her preservation. While he was in that attitude, a drop of dragon-blood fell from his sword upon his head, and such was the deadly nature of the venom that it instantly killed him. The village people were so grateful to him for delivering them from this dragon, however, that they generously provided for his daughter, and erected a church on the very spot where he had breathed his last.

* * * * *

ABOUT half-way between Castiel and Davos is the village of Arosa, where grows a fine tree from beneath whose roots gushes a living spring. According to popular superstition, lucky people can find a golden key in the hollow whence this water flows from the ground. As soon as secured, one suddenly perceives a passage-way barred by an iron door, which can only be opened by means of this golden key.

A herdsman, who once came to refresh himself at this spring, discovered this key by great good fortune, and boldly opening the locked door, found himself in a vast cave. There a dwarf bade him choose between a heap of gold and diamonds, which would make him the wealthiest man in the country; a golden cow-bell which would assure him the possession of the finest cattle for miles around; or a lovely girl, whose eyes were fixed imploringly upon him, and who softly whispered that he would find true happiness only with her.

The young man hesitated, but as he had a passion for fine cows, he finally left the cave with the golden bell. He felt so weary upon leaving this place, however, that he lay down to rest a moment near the spring, and soon fell asleep. When he awoke, the magic key had vanished, and he might have believed the whole adventure a mere dream, had not the golden bell still lain beside him.

On returning to his post, he found his herd miraculously increased, and all his cows were so handsome that his neighbours soon became jealous of him, and refused to have anything more to do with him. The young herdsman, therefore, left alone with his cattle, often regretted he had not chosen an intelligent companion to share his solitude; but although he frequently tried to find the golden key again, and thus secure the fair maid he had once seen, it was all in vain. Within a year from that time, he lost all his fine cattle, because he brooded continually over his loneliness instead of taking care of them, and before long he committed suicide by flinging himself down from the top of one of the sharp peaks near there.

* * * * *

EAST of Coire and south of the lovely Prätigau, is Davos Platz, so charmingly located near the top of a pass, where it is well sheltered from the northeast winds. Besides its interest as a health resort visited by many noted people, and the beautiful scenery and healthful climate, this place derives additional charms from its legends. On the western slope of the Davos Schwartzhorn, for instance, there is a place generally known as the Dead Alp. Not a shrub or blade of grass is seen there now; so it offers a striking contrast to the many other fine pastures in that vicinity.

In olden days this desolate spot was the finest grazing-ground for miles around, for it was then thickly covered with heavy grass, and watered by springs of the freshest water. At one time the land belonged to a rich young dairy maid, who came down into the valley one fine Sunday afternoon to dance on the village green. She had so many partners, and so thoroughly enjoyed herself with them, that she did not want to go home, although she knew that it was time to milk the cows. Duty warned her to return; but the delights of dancing proved so tempting that she determined to linger, and tried to silence the voice of conscience by recklessly cursing both pasture and kine. This malediction had scarcely left her lips, when her fruitful alp was turned into a desert, her cows all vanished, and she suddenly found herself deprived of all the worldly goods she had so little known how to appreciate!

* * * * *

OTHER Davos herdsmen, as pleasure-loving as she, once cursed the Icelandic moss or Cyprian herb which was then so rich in milk-producing qualities that they had to milk their cows several times a day. No sooner was the curse uttered than the luscious herb dried up, and ever since then it has been the poorest sort of fodder, which no animal will eat as long as something else can be found to satisfy its hunger.

* * * * *

NOT very far from the Dead Alp, you can see, summer and winter, a broad field of snow, far below the usual snow-line. This, too, was once a luxuriant pasture, where herdsmen were kept very busy tending their cows, and making butter and cheese from the milk they gave in such profusion.

The owner of this alp was so good and generous that the poor were in the habit of going up there for food whenever they were hungry, and there was much wailing among them when he grew ill and died, and they heard the pasture now belonged to an avaricious man. They soon found the new proprietor was even worse than they expected, for he was very cruel too, and drove all beggars away with curses and hard blows.

A poor but numerous family, travelling through the country, climbed up these heights one cold and foggy day, to beg for the food and shelter no one else could have denied them. But when they drew near the châlet, cross dogs rushed out to meet them, barking, snarling, and showing their teeth in the fiercest way. The poor people nevertheless made their way to the door, where they stood, humble suppliants, while the oldest among them described their pitiful plight and asked for aid.

The hard-hearted herdsman would not listen to him, however, roughly bade him begone with all his family, and seeing he did not immediately obey, called out to his men to drive the beggars away. This order was only too promptly obeyed. The rough servants rushed out, and falling upon the poor family, lashed them with their long whips, threw stones at them, and laughed with uproarious glee when their fierce dogs began to chase the beggars down the mountain.

Besides several old people, there were weak women and puny little children among these poor fugitives; still these cruel men felt no respect for age or sex, and merely urged on their dogs worse than ever. Their inhumanity proved too much for an old man, who, as he tottered last down the path, with torn garments and bleeding limbs, suddenly turned around and cursed their alp, wishing it might soon be hidden beneath a covering of snow that might rest upon it for ever.

That wish was fulfilled the self-same night, for huge masses of snow and ice fell down upon the pasture, transforming it into a wintry waste, which well deserves its name, the Cursed Alp. Since then, whenever a storm rages, or whenever fog envelops the mountain, the buried herdsmen rise from their shroud of snow, and one can again hear them snapping their whips, exciting their dogs, and hotly pursuing ghosts of beggars whom they are condemned to chase for ever in punishment for their sins.

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IN the centre of the Grisons arises a reddish peak known as the Rothhorn, which towers above all the other heights around it, and from whence a fine view can be enjoyed.

It is said that the people of Plurs once exploited the gold mines in this mountain, and thus became very rich. All this prosperity was not owing to their exertions alone, but due mainly to the fact that they had won the good graces of the gnomes, who, at noon every day, poured a canful of liquid gold down into a vein which they could easily reach.

Unfortunately, the people of Plurs did not make a wise use of this wealth, but drank, gambled, and led vicious lives. This fact so incensed their former friends, the mountain spirits, that they slyly loosened great masses of stones and dirt, and hurled them down upon the city one dark night in 1618.

Only one of the inhabitants, a pack-driver, escaped from general destruction. He had arrived in the village late, intending to tarry there overnight, but his leading mule refused to stop at the inn, and passing on was dutifully followed by all the rest, although the driver tried to stop them. Three times this man drove his train back to the inn, but three times they passed by, and the pack-driver had to follow.

When they had gone some distance from the city for the third and last time, the man suddenly heard a terrible noise, and, looking behind him, witnessed the landslide and the total destruction of the once prosperous little city.

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THE Engadine Valley, noted for its bracing climate, is rather bleak, for, according to a popular saying, it boasts nine months of winter and three of cold.

In the seventh century St. Florinus with one disciple came to Rémus, in the northern part of this valley, to preach the gospel. Feeling very weak and ill one day, the saint bade his faithful companion beg some wine at a neighbouring castle to restore his failing strength.

The disciple obeyed, and having secured a crockful, slowly wended his way home. He soon met a poor woman weeping bitterly, and inquiring the cause of her sorrow, learned that her husband had been very ill, and that she had no money to buy the wine he needed to restore his strength. Touched by her tears, the disciple poured all he had received into the vessel she held, and then went back to the castle to beg for more. But the people up there, having seen him give the wine to the poor woman, now reproved him harshly, and sent him empty-handed away. The disciple departed sadly, regretting his generous deed; and, fearing to present himself before his master with an empty crock, he filled it with water at a wayside spring. As soon as St. Florinus saw him standing at his bedside, he reached up eagerly, seized the crock, and took a long deep draught. The disciple, who fully expected an exclamation of bitter disappointment, was dumfounded to hear the saint declare he had never tasted such good and strengthening wine; and, when invited to try it also, he discovered that the miracle of Cana had been repeated, for the Lord had again turned water into wine. This transformation took place, as long as the saint needed a tonic; but when he was quite well, the crock was found to contain nothing but water as before.

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THE people of the Engadine valley are very simple indeed; so simple that a legend claims they were often cheated, and never could decide what it was best to do. A traveller, hearing the people of Sils complain, mischievously suggested that they ought to buy a little wisdom, and when they seriously inquired what it was and where it could be procured, he gravely informed them that it was a precious herb, purchasable only in Venice.

The people, believing him implicitly, took up a collection and sent an emissary to Italy to buy the rare plant. After a long painful journey, this man came home, having purchased from a charlatan the only sprout of the herb of wisdom still to be had in that city. The people all crowded eagerly around their emissary to see and admire the wonderful herb, compared it exhaustively with those which grew around them, and although they could perceive but little difference, planted it carefully on their village green. But, while they were indulging in a great jollification to celebrate the advent of wisdom among them, an old donkey came straying along, and before they could prevent it, ate up the precious plant!

Since then, the people of Sils have never been able to secure another specimen, and it is said they still grievously mourn their great loss.

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THE scene of the above legend is located in the Upper Engadine or Inn Valley, south of the much frequented towns of St. Moritz and Pontresina.

From there, you can see the dazzling snow top of the Bernina, a high mountain between Switzerland and Italy, with a much travelled pass leading from the Engadine to the Valteline Valley. Journeying from Poschiavo over the Bernina, one passes a desolate spot formerly occupied by the small town of Zarera. The inhabitants of that place are said to have taken advantage of their position on the highway between Italy and Switzerland, to extort money from all the pack-drivers and travellers who passed through there. In fact, they enriched themselves by such unlawful and questionable means that they finally incurred the wrath of Heaven. One night, when the moon was partly veiled by shifting clouds, a maiden dressed in white rode slowly around their town on a snowy palfrey, calling to them to repent while it was still time. But this admonition fell upon ears that would not hear, and the predicted retribution soon came. Dark clouds gathered around the top of the mountain, vivid flashes of lightning zigzagged through the ever-increasing gloom, and soon the rain came down in such torrents that rocks and trees were swept down the mountain like pebbles and chips. In a few minutes the once prosperous town of Zarera was completely annihilated, and only the fragments of ruined houses could still be detected here and there. All the people perished in this flood, with the exception of a mother and daughter, noted for their piety, who dwelt at some distance from the wicked town.

These two women had been very busy that day, doing their semi-annual baking; for, like most of the people around there, they made bread only twice a year. In spite of the serious work on hand, they prayed as long and read their Bible as diligently as usual, and even while setting the bread to rise, commented reverently upon the teachings contained in Our Lord’s mentions of leaven and flour.

From time to time one or the other gazed out into the garden, where chestnut-trees three hundred years old overshadowed their little house. The southern exposure and the protection afforded by the mountain against the cold winds from the north and east, made their peach and apricot trees bloom already in February, allowed fresh figs to grow close at hand, and made their vines as productive as those in the Valteline. The two women were very grateful for all these blessings, and would have been perfectly happy with their lot, had they not sorely missed their husband and father, who had died three years before.

While taking the huge loaves of sweet-smelling fresh bread out of the oven, they thrice heard the melancholy, wailing note of the storm bird, but they were so absorbed in their occupations that they paid no heed to it, until the tempest fairly broke over their heads and the rain began to fall with violence.

All through that awful storm, which wrecked the town of Zarera, they knelt in prayer, and when morning came and the downpour ceased, they found their garden transformed into a stony waste, and all their trees uprooted and swept down into the valley.

In spite of the losses which suddenly deprived them of their means of existence, these two women returned fervent thanks for their preservation, and seeing that their house was now unsafe, and that it would be useless to remain on the mountain, they picked up their few remaining possessions, and wended their way down into the valley. There they soon found shelter, and by dint of hard work finally managed to retrieve their shattered fortunes; but, as long as they lived, they both remembered the awful storm in which they would surely have perished had it not been for the hand of God stretched out in protection over them.

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FOLLOWING the Rhine’s devious course toward its source in the St. Gothard mountain, we come to the junction of two branches of this stream at Disentis.[16] Here stands an abbey, dating from the seventh century, when its monks served as missionaries to the people around them.

[16] For other data, see the author’s “Legends of the Rhine.”

The heathen from the banks of Lake Constance once made a raid down this valley, and visiting every castle, church, convent, and hut, destroyed almost everything they could not carry away. Laden with booty, they were slowly making their way north again, when they were surprised at Disentis by the exasperated Swiss. The latter there attacked the heathen with such fury that all those who were not killed were only too glad to seek safety in precipitate flight.

The brave Swiss were so weary, when the battle was over, and so parched with thirst, that they longed for a drink. As there was no spring near by, and as their extreme exhaustion would not permit their going in search of one, their venerable old leader made a short but fervent prayer, and then thrust his sword into the ground up to the very hilt. When he slowly drew it out again a moment later, a strong jet of water shot straight up into the air, and falling down again on the rocky soil, soon formed a pool and brook where all could drink. This spring still flows as freely as ever, and its limpid waters possess medicinal properties which have since attracted many visitors to this picturesque spot.

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THE line between Glarus and Grisons was long undetermined, so the shepherds from either canton often indulged in raids and cattle-stealing, which not infrequently resulted in violence and bloodshed.

Once the men of Glarus suddenly came over the border, and noiselessly surrounding a large pasture, drove away all the cows, after tumbling the herdsmen head first into the great kettles of boiling milk where they were busy making cheese. Only one of these men managed to escape death by hiding in the hay. As soon as the raiders vanished, he determined to sound the alarm. Taking his horn, he therefore climbed up into a pine-tree, just above the great Flimser Rock, and calling through this instrument with all his might, told his beloved Trubina, who dwelt on another alp, of the misfortune which had occurred. The strain was such, however, that the unhappy youth burst a blood-vessel, and sank dying from the top of the tree. His life blood ran in a thin stream over the great rock, where it made an indelible red streak, which can still be seen, and which serves to remind people of his heroic deed.

The timely warning he had given enabled Trubina to start a party of Grisons herdsmen after the cattle, which they followed down the mountain to the village of Flims. By careful reconnoitring, they soon ascertained that the cows had been turned into an enclosed orchard, just beside the inn where the raiders were celebrating their capture in the most convivial way.

Stealing unseen into this orchard, the Grisons men slyly fastened all the cow-bells to one steer, which they left in the enclosure, while they noiselessly drove all the rest of the herd home. The revellers, hearing the constant tinkle of cow-bells, deemed their prizes quite safe, and were therefore greatly surprised and chagrined, when after their carousal they found only one bull calf in the enclosure, and saw how cleverly they had been duped.

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ON the frontier between Glarus and Uri, and not far from the Klausen Pass, where the great Boundary Race took place, rises a majestic glacier known as the Claridenalp. The people around there claim that this mountain was once fine pasture-land up to the very top, where a small ice-cap served to feed the many streams trickling down through the rich alps into the valley.

Most of the grazing on the Claridenalp once belonged to a young herdsman, who, although he revelled in plenty, cruelly let his old parents starve in the valley below him. This young man was, however, lavish enough when it suited him to be so, for he daily sent rich presents to his sweetheart, who, on the whole, was as selfish and heartless as he.