No More Learning

The sun was high in the heavens when the two children woke. They
felt cold; but not far from their resting-place, on a hill, the sun
was shining through the trees. They thought if they went there they
should be warm, and Ib fancied he should be able to see his father's
house from such a high spot. But they were far away from home now,
in quite another part of the forest. They clambered to the top of
the rising ground, and found themselves on the edge of a declivity,
which sloped down to a clear transparent lake. Great quantities of
fish could be seen through the clear water, sparkling in the sun's
rays; they were quite surprised when they came so suddenly upon such
an unexpected sight.

Close to where they stood grew a hazel-bush, covered with
beautiful nuts. They soon gathered some, cracked them, and ate the
fine young kernels, which were only just ripe. But there was another
surprise and fright in store for them. Out of the thicket stepped a
tall old woman, her face quite brown, and her hair of a deep shining
black; the whites of her eyes glittered like a Moor's; on her back she
carried a bundle, and in her hand a knotted stick. She was a gypsy.
The children did not at first understand what she said. She drew out
of her pocket three large nuts, in which she told them were hidden the
most beautiful and lovely things in the world, for they were wishing
nuts. Ib looked at her, and as she spoke so kindly, he took courage,
and asked her if she would give him the nuts; and the woman gave
them to him, and then gathered some more from the bushes for
herself, quite a pocket full. Ib and Christina looked at the wishing
nuts with wide open eyes.

"Is there in this nut a carriage, with a pair of horses? " asked
Ib.

"Yes, there is a golden carriage, with two golden horses," replied
the woman.

"Then give me that nut," said Christina; so Ib gave it to her, and
the strange woman tied up the nut for her in her handkerchief.

Ib held up another nut. "Is there, in this nut, a pretty little
neckerchief like the one Christina has on her neck? " asked Ib.

"There are ten neckerchiefs in it," she replied, "as well as
beautiful dresses, stockings, and a hat and veil. "

"Then I will have that one also," said Christina; "and it is a
pretty one too. " And then Ib gave her the second nut.

The third was a little black thing. "You may keep that one,"
said Christina; "it is quite as pretty. "

"What is in it? " asked Ib.

"The best of all things for you," replied the gypsy. So Ib held
the nut very tight.

Then the woman promised to lead the children to the right path,
that they might find their way home: and they went forward certainly
in quite another direction to the one they meant to take; therefore no
one ought to speak against the woman, and say that she wanted to steal
the children. In the wild wood-path they met a forester who knew Ib,
and, by his help, Ib and Christina reached home, where they found
every one had been very anxious about them. They were pardoned and
forgiven, although they really had both done wrong, and deserved to
get into trouble; first, because they had let the sucking-pig fall
into the water; and, secondly, because they had run away. Christina
was taken back to her father's house on the heath, and Ib remained
in the farm-house on the borders of the wood, near the great land
ridge.

The first thing Ib did that evening was to take out of his
pocket the little black nut, in which the best thing of all was said
to be enclosed. He laid it carefully between the door and the
door-post, and then shut the door so that the nut cracked directly.
But there was not much kernel to be seen; it was what we should call
hollow or worm-eaten, and looked as if it had been filled with tobacco
or rich black earth. "It is just what I expected! " exclaimed Ib.
"How should there be room in a little nut like this for the best thing
of all? Christina will find her two nuts just the same; there will
be neither fine clothes or a golden carriage in them. "

Winter came; and the new year, and indeed many years passed
away; until Ib was old enough to be confirmed, and, therefore, he went
during a whole winter to the clergyman of the nearest village to be
prepared.

One day, about this time, the boatman paid a visit to Ib's
parents, and told them that Christina was going to service, and that
she had been remarkably fortunate in obtaining a good place, with most
respectable people. "Only think," he said, "She is going to the rich
innkeeper's, at the hotel in Herning, many miles west from here. She
is to assist the landlady in the housekeeping; and, if afterwards
she behaves well and remains to be confirmed, the people will treat
her as their own daughter. "

So Ib and Christina took leave of each other. People already
called them "the betrothed," and at parting the girl showed Ib the two
nuts, which she had taken care of ever since the time that they lost
themselves in the wood; and she told him also that the little wooden
shoes he once carved for her when he was a boy, and gave her as a
present, had been carefully kept in a drawer ever since. And so they
parted.

After Ib's confirmation, he remained at home with his mother,
for he had become a clever shoemaker, and in summer managed the farm
for her quite alone. His father had been dead some time, and his
mother kept no farm servants. Sometimes, but very seldom, he heard
of Christina, through a postillion or eel-seller who was passing.
But she was well off with the rich innkeeper; and after being
confirmed she wrote a letter to her father, in which was a kind
message to Ib and his mother. In this letter, she mentioned that her
master and mistress had made her a present of a beautiful new dress,
and some nice under-clothes. This was, of course, pleasant news.

One day, in the following spring, there came a knock at the door
of the house where Ib's old mother lived; and when they opened it,
lo and behold, in stepped the boatman and Christina. She had come to
pay them a visit, and to spend the day. A carriage had to come from
the Herning hotel to the next village, and she had taken the
opportunity to see her friends once more. She looked as elegant as a
real lady, and wore a pretty dress, beautifully made on purpose for
her. There she stood, in full dress, while Ib wore only his working
clothes. He could not utter a word; he could only seize her hand and
hold it fast in his own, but he felt too happy and glad to open his
lips. Christina, however, was quite at her ease; she talked and
talked, and kissed him in the most friendly manner. Even afterwards,
when they were left alone, and she asked, "Did you know me again, Ib? "
he still stood holding her hand, and said at last, "You are become
quite a grand lady, Christina, and I am only a rough working man;
but I have often thought of you and of old times. " Then they
wandered up the great ridge, and looked across the stream to the
heath, where the little hills were covered with the flowering broom.
Ib said nothing; but before the time came for them to part, it
became quite clear to him that Christina must be his wife: had they
not even in childhood been called the betrothed? To him it seemed as
if they were really engaged to each other, although not a word had
been spoken on the subject. They had only a few more hours to remain
together, for Christina was obliged to return that evening to the
neighboring village, to be ready for the carriage which was to start
the next morning early for Herning. Ib and her father accompanied
her to the village. It was a fine moonlight evening; and when they
arrived, Ib stood holding Christina's hand in his, as if he could
not let her go. His eyes brightened, and the words he uttered came
with hesitation from his lips, but from the deepest recesses of his
heart: "Christina, if you have not become too grand, and if you can be
contented to live in my mother's house as my wife, we will be
married some day. But we can wait for a while. "

"Oh yes," she replied; "Let us wait a little longer, Ib. I can
trust you, for I believe that I do love you. But let me think it
over. " Then he kissed her lips; and so they parted.

On the way home, Ib told the boatman that he and Christina were as
good as engaged to each other; and the boatman found out that he had
always expected it would be so, and went home with Ib that evening,
and remained the night in the farmhouse; but nothing further was
said of the engagement. During the next year, two letters passed
between Ib and Christina. They were signed, "Faithful till death;" but
at the end of that time, one day the boatman came over to see Ib, with
a kind greeting from Christina. He had something else to say, which
made him hesitate in a strange manner. At last it came out that
Christina, who had grown a very pretty girl, was more lucky than ever.
She was courted and admired by every one; but her master's son, who
had been home on a visit, was so much pleased with Christina that he
wished to marry her. He had a very good situation in an office at
Copenhagen, and as she had also taken a liking for him, his parents
were not unwilling to consent. But Christina, in her heart, often
thought of Ib, and knew how much he thought of her; so she felt
inclined to refuse this good fortune, added the boatman. At first Ib
said not a word, but he became as white as the wall, and shook his
head gently, and then he spoke,--"Christina must not refuse this
good fortune. "

"Then will you write a few words to her? " said the boatman.

Ib sat down to write, but he could not get on at all. The words
were not what he wished to say, so he tore up the page. The
following morning, however, a letter lay ready to be sent to
Christina, and the following is what he wrote:--

"The letter written by you to your father I have read, and see
from it that you are prosperous in everything, and that still better
fortune is in store for you. Ask your own heart, Christina, and
think over carefully what awaits you if you take me for your
husband, for I possess very little in the world. Do not think of me or
of my position; think only of your own welfare. You are bound to me by
no promises; and if in your heart you have given me one, I release you
from it. May every blessing and happiness be poured out upon you,
Christina. Heaven will give me the heart's consolation. "

"Ever your sincere friend, IB. "


This letter was sent, and Christina received it in due time. In
the course of the following November, her banns were published in
the church on the heath, and also in Copenhagen, where the
bridegroom lived. She was taken to Copenhagen under the protection
of her future mother-in-law, because the bridegroom could not spare
time from his numerous occupations for a journey so far into
Jutland. On the journey, Christina met her father at one of the
villages through which they passed, and here he took leave of her.
Very little was said about the matter to Ib, and he did not refer to
it; his mother, however, noticed that he had grown very silent and
pensive. Thinking as he did of old times, no wonder the three nuts
came into his mind which the gypsy woman had given him when a child,
and of the two which he had given to Christina. These wishing nuts,
after all, had proved true fortune-tellers. One had contained a gilded
carriage and noble horses, and the other beautiful clothes; all of
these Christina would now have in her new home at Copenhagen. Her part
had come true. And for him the nut had contained only black earth. The
gypsy woman had said it was the best for him. Perhaps it was, and this
also would be fulfilled. He understood the gypsy woman's meaning
now. The black earth--the dark grave--was the best thing for him now.

Again years passed away; not many, but they seemed long years to
Ib. The old innkeeper and his wife died one after the other; and the
whole of their property, many thousand dollars, was inherited by their
son. Christina could have the golden carriage now, and plenty of
fine clothes. During the two long years which followed, no letter came
from Christina to her father; and when at last her father received one
from her, it did not speak of prosperity or happiness. Poor Christina!
Neither she nor her husband understood how to economize or save, and
the riches brought no blessing with them, because they had not asked
for it.

Years passed; and for many summers the heath was covered with
bloom; in winter the snow rested upon it, and the rough winds blew
across the ridge under which stood Ib's sheltered home. One spring day
the sun shone brightly, and he was guiding the plough across his
field. The ploughshare struck against something which he fancied was a
firestone, and then he saw glittering in the earth a splinter of
shining metal which the plough had cut from something which gleamed
brightly in the furrow. He searched, and found a large golden armlet
of superior workmanship, and it was evident that the plough had
disturbed a Hun's grave. He searched further, and found more
valuable treasures, which Ib showed to the clergyman, who explained
their value to him. Then he went to the magistrate, who informed the
president of the museum of the discovery, and advised Ib to take the
treasures himself to the president.

"You have found in the earth the best thing you could find,"
said the magistrate.

"The best thing," thought Ib; "the very best thing for me,--and
found in the earth! Well, if it really is so, then the gypsy woman was
right in her prophecy. "

So Ib went in the ferry-boat from Aarhus to Copenhagen. To him who
had only sailed once or twice on the river near his own home, this
seemed like a voyage on the ocean; and at length he arrived at
Copenhagen. The value of the gold he had found was paid to him; it was
a large sum--six hundred dollars. Then Ib of the heath went out, and
wandered about in the great city.

On the evening before the day he had settled to return with the
captain of the passage-boat, Ib lost himself in the streets, and
took quite a different turning to the one he wished to follow. He
wandered on till he found himself in a poor street of the suburb
called Christian's Haven. Not a creature could be seen. At last a very
little girl came out of one of the wretched-looking houses, and Ib
asked her to tell him the way to the street he wanted; she looked up
timidly at him, and began to cry bitterly. He asked her what was the
matter; but what she said he could not understand. So he went along
the street with her; and as they passed under a lamp, the light fell
on the little girl's face. A strange sensation came over Ib, as he
caught sight of it. The living, breathing embodiment of Little
Christina stood before him, just as he remembered her in the days of
her childhood. He followed the child to the wretched house, and
ascended the narrow, crazy staircase which led to a little garret in
the roof. The air in the room was heavy and stifling, no light was
burning, and from one corner came sounds of moaning and sighing. It
was the mother of the child who lay there on a miserable bed. With the
help of a match, Ib struck a light, and approached her.

"Can I be of any service to you? " he asked. "This little girl
brought me up here; but I am a stranger in this city. Are there no
neighbors or any one whom I can call? "

Then he raised the head of the sick woman, and smoothed her
pillow. He started as he did so. It was Christina of the heath! No one
had mentioned her name to Ib for years; it would have disturbed his
peace of mind, especially as the reports respecting her were not good.
The wealth which her husband had inherited from his parents had made
him proud and arrogant. He had given up his certain appointment, and
travelled for six months in foreign lands, and, on his return, had
lived in great style, and got into terrible debt. For a time he had
trembled on the high pedestal on which he had placed himself, till
at last he toppled over, and ruin came. His numerous merry companions,
and the visitors at his table, said it served him right, for he had
kept house like a madman. One morning his corpse was found in the
canal. The cold hand of death had already touched the heart of
Christina. Her youngest child, looked for in the midst of
prosperity, had sunk into the grave when only a few weeks old; and
at last Christina herself became sick unto death, and lay, forsaken
and dying, in a miserable room, amid poverty she might have borne in
her younger days, but which was now more painful to her from the
luxuries to which she had lately been accustomed. It was her eldest
child, also a Little Christina, whom Ib had followed to her home,
where she suffered hunger and poverty with her mother.

"It makes me unhappy to think that I shall die, and leave this poor
child," sighed she. "Oh, what will become of her? " She could say no
more.

Then Ib brought out another match, and lighted a piece of candle
which he found in the room, and it threw a glimmering light over the
wretched dwelling. Ib looked at the little girl, and thought of
Christina in her young days. For her sake, could he not love this
child, who was a stranger to him? As he thus reflected, the dying
woman opened her eyes, and gazed at him. Did she recognize him? He
never knew; for not another word escaped her lips.

* * * * *

In the forest by the river Gudenau, not far from the heath, and
beneath the ridge of land, stood the little farm, newly painted and
whitewashed. The air was heavy and dark; there were no blossoms on the
heath; the autumn winds whirled the yellow leaves towards the
boatman's hut, in which strangers dwelt; but the little farm stood
safely sheltered beneath the tall trees and the high ridge. The turf
blazed brightly on the hearth, and within was sunlight, the
sparkling light from the sunny eyes of a child; the birdlike tones
from the rosy lips ringing like the song of a lark in spring. All
was life and joy. Little Christina sat on Ib's knee. Ib was to her
both father and mother; her own parents had vanished from her
memory, as a dream-picture vanishes alike from childhood and age. Ib's
house was well and prettily furnished; for he was a prosperous man
now, while the mother of the little girl rested in the churchyard at
Copenhagen, where she had died in poverty. Ib had money now--money
which had come to him out of the black earth; and he had Christina for
his own, after all.




THE ICE MAIDEN

I. LITTLE RUDY

We will pay a visit to Switzerland, and wander through that
country of mountains, whose steep and rocky sides are overgrown with
forest trees. Let us climb to the dazzling snow-fields at their
summits, and descend again to the green meadows beneath, through which
rivers and brooks rush along as if they could not quickly enough reach
the sea and vanish. Fiercely shines the sun over those deep valleys,
as well as upon the heavy masses of snow which lie on the mountains.

During the year these accumulations thaw or fall in the rolling
avalance, or are piled up in shining glaciers. Two of these glaciers
lie in the broad, rocky cliffs, between the Schreckhorn and the
Wetterhorn, near the little town of Grindelwald. They are wonderful to
behold, and therefore in the summer time strangers come here from
all parts of the world to see them. They cross snow-covered mountains,
and travel through the deep valleys, or ascend for hours, higher and
still higher, the valleys appearing to sink lower and lower as they
proceed, and become as small as if seen from an air balloon. Over
the lofty summits of these mountains the clouds often hang like a dark
veil; while beneath in the valley, where many brown, wooden houses are
scattered about, the bright rays of the sun may be shining upon a
little brilliant patch of green, making it appear almost
transparent. The waters foam and dash along in the valleys beneath;
the streams from above trickle and murmur as they fall down the
rocky mountain's side, looking like glittering silver bands.

On both sides of the mountain-path stand these little wooden
houses; and, as within, there are many children and many mouths to
feed, each house has its own little potato garden. These children rush
out in swarms, and surround travellers, whether on foot or in
carriages. They are all clever at making a bargain. They offer for
sale the sweetest little toy-houses, models of the mountain cottages
in Switzerland. Whether it be rain or sunshine, these crowds of
children are always to be seen with their wares.

About twenty years ago, there might be seen occasionally, standing
at a short distance from the other children, a little boy, who was
also anxious to sell his curious wares. He had an earnest,
expressive countenance, and held the box containing his carved toys
tightly with both hands, as if unwilling to part with it. His
earnest look, and being also a very little boy, made him noticed by
the strangers; so that he often sold the most, without knowing why. An
hour's walk farther up the ascent lived his grandfather, who cut and
carved the pretty little toy-houses; and in the old man's room stood a
large press, full of all sorts of carved things--nut-crackers,
knives and forks, boxes with beautifully carved foliage, leaping
chamois. It contained everything that could delight the eyes of a
child. But the boy, who was named Rudy, looked with still greater
pleasure and longing at some old fire-arms which hung upon the
rafters, under the ceiling of the room. His grandfather promised him
that he should have them some day, but that he must first grow big and
strong, and learn how to use them. Small as he was, the goats were
placed in his care, and a good goat-keeper should also be a good
climber, and such Rudy was; he sometimes, indeed, climbed higher
than the goats, for he was fond of seeking for birds'-nests at the top
of high trees; he was bold and daring, but was seldom seen to smile,
excepting when he stood by the roaring cataract, or heard the
descending roll of the avalanche. He never played with the other
children, and was not seen with them, unless his grandfather sent
him down to sell his curious workmanship. Rudy did not much like
trade; he loved to climb the mountains, or to sit by his grandfather
and listen to his tales of olden times, or of the people in Meyringen,
the place of his birth.

"In the early ages of the world," said the old man, "these
people could not be found in Switzerland.
They are a colony from the
north, where their ancestors still dwell, and are called Swedes. "

This was something for Rudy to know, but he learnt more from other
sources, particularly from the domestic animals who belonged to the
house. One was a large dog, called Ajola, which had belonged to his
father; and the other was a tom-cat. This cat stood very high in
Rudy's favor, for he had taught him to climb.

"Come out on the roof with me," said the cat; and Rudy quite
understood him, for the language of fowls, ducks, cats, and dogs, is
as easily understood by a young child as his own native tongue. But it
must be at the age when grandfather's stick becomes a neighing
horse, with head, legs, and tail. Some children retain these ideas
later than others, and they are considered backwards and childish
for their age. People say so; but is it so?

"Come out on the roof with me, little Rudy," was the first thing
he heard the cat say, and Rudy understood him. "What people say
about falling down is all nonsense," continued the cat; "you will
not fall, unless you are afraid. Come, now, set one foot here and
another there, and feel your way with your fore-feet. Keep your eyes
wide open, and move softly, and if you come to a hole jump over it,
and cling fast as I do. " And this was just what Rudy did. He was often
on the sloping roof with the cat, or on the tops of high trees. But,
more frequently, higher still on the ridges of the rocks where puss
never came.

"Higher, higher! " cried the trees and the bushes, "see to what
height we have grown, and how fast we hold, even to the narrow edges
of the rocks. "

Rudy often reached the top of the mountain before the sunrise, and
there inhaled his morning draught of the fresh, invigorating
mountain air,--God's own gift, which men call the sweet fragrance of
plant and herb on the mountain-side, and the mint and wild thyme in
the valleys. The overhanging clouds absorb all heaviness from the air,
and the winds convey them away over the pine-tree summits. The
spirit of fragrance, light and fresh, remained behind, and this was
Rudy's morning draught. The sunbeams--those blessing-bringing
daughters of the sun--kissed his cheeks. Vertigo might be lurking on
the watch, but he dared not approach him. The swallows, who had not
less than seven nests in his grandfather's house, flew up to him and
his goats, singing, "We and you, you and we. " They brought him
greetings from his grandfather's house, even from two hens, the only
birds of the household; but Rudy was not intimate with them.

Although so young and such a little fellow, Rudy had travelled a
great deal. He was born in the canton of Valais, and brought to his
grandfather over the mountains. He had walked to Staubbach--a little
town that seems to flutter in the air like a silver veil--the
glittering, snow-clad mountain Jungfrau. He had also been to the great
glaciers; but this is connected with a sad story, for here his
mother met her death, and his grandfather used to say that all
Rudy's childish merriment was lost from that time. His mother had
written in a letter, that before he was a year old he had laughed more
than he cried; but after his fall into the snow-covered crevasse,
his disposition had completely changed. The grandfather seldom spoke
of this, but the fact was generally known. Rudy's father had been a
postilion, and the large dog which now lived in his grandfather's
cottage had always followed him on his journeys over the Simplon to
the lake of Geneva. Rudy's relations, on his father's side, lived in
the canton of Valais, in the valley of the Rhone. His uncle was a
chamois hunter, and a well-known guide. Rudy was only a year old
when his father died, and his mother was anxious to return with her
child to her own relations, who lived in the Bernese Oberland. Her
father dwelt at a few hours' distance from Grindelwald; he was a
carver in wood, and gained so much by it that he had plenty to live
upon. She set out homewards in the month of June, carrying her
infant in her arms, and, accompanied by two chamois hunters, crossed
the Gemmi on her way to Grindelwald. They had already left more than
half the journey behind them. They had crossed high ridges, and
traversed snow-fields; they could even see her native valley, with its
familiar wooden cottages. They had only one more glacier to climb.
Some newly fallen snow concealed a cleft which, though it did not
extend to the foaming waters in the depths beneath, was still much
deeper than the height of a man. The young woman, with the child in
her arms, slipped upon it, sank in, and disappeared. Not a shriek, not
a groan was heard; nothing but the whining of a little child. More
than an hour elapsed before her two companions could obtain from the
nearest house ropes and poles to assist in raising them; and it was
with much exertion that they at last succeeded in raising from the
crevasse what appeared to be two dead bodies. Every means was used
to restore them to life. With the child they were successful, but
not with the mother; so the old grandfather received his daughter's
little son into his house an orphan,--a little boy who laughed more
than he cried; but it seemed as if laughter had left him in the cold
ice-world into which he had fallen, where, as the Swiss peasants
say, the souls of the lost are confined till the judgment-day.

The glaciers appear as if a rushing stream had been frozen in
its course, and pressed into blocks of green crystal, which,
balanced one upon another, form a wondrous palace of crystal for the
Ice Maiden--the queen of the glaciers. It is she whose mighty power
can crush the traveller to death, and arrest the flowing river in
its course. She is also a child of the air, and with the swiftness
of the chamois she can reach the snow-covered mountain tops, where the
boldest mountaineer has to cut footsteps in the ice to ascend. She
will sail on a frail pine-twig over the raging torrents beneath, and
spring lightly from one iceberg to another, with her long,
snow-white hair flowing around her, and her dark-green robe glittering
like the waters of the deep Swiss lakes. "Mine is the power to seize
and crush," she cried. "Once a beautiful boy was stolen from me by
man,--a boy whom I had kissed, but had not kissed to death. He is
again among mankind, and tends the goats on the mountains. He is
always climbing higher and higher, far away from all others, but not
from me. He is mine; I will send for him. " And she gave Vertigo the
commission.

It was summer, and the Ice Maiden was melting amidst the green
verdure, when Vertigo swung himself up and down. Vertigo has many
brothers, quite a troop of them, and the Ice Maiden chose the
strongest among them. They exercise their power in different ways, and
everywhere. Some sit on the banisters of steep stairs, others on the
outer rails of lofty towers, or spring like squirrels along the ridges
of the mountains. Others tread the air as a swimmer treads the
water, and lure their victims here and there till they fall into the
deep abyss. Vertigo and the Ice Maiden clutch at human beings, as
the polypus seizes upon all that comes within its reach. And now
Vertigo was to seize Rudy.

"Seize him, indeed," cried Vertigo; "I cannot do it. That
monster of a cat has taught him her tricks. That child of the human
race has a power within him which keeps me at a distance; I cannot
possibly reach the boy when he hangs from the branches of trees,
over the precipice; or I would gladly tickle his feet, and send him
heels over head through the air; but I cannot accomplish it. "

"We must accomplish it," said the Ice Maiden; "either you or I
must; and I will--I will! "

"No, no! " sounded through the air, like an echo on the mountain
church bells chime. It was an answer in song, in the melting tones
of a chorus from others of nature's spirits--good and loving
spirits, the daughters of the sunbeam. They who place themselves in
a circle every evening on the mountain peaks; there they spread out
their rose-colored wings, which, as the sun sinks, become more flaming
red, until the lofty Alps seem to burn with fire. Men call this the
Alpine glow. After the sun has set, they disappear within the white
snow on the mountain-tops, and slumber there till sunrise, when they
again come forth. They have great love for flowers, for butterflies,
and for mankind; and from among the latter they had chosen little
Rudy. "You shall not catch him; you shall not seize him! " they sang.

"Greater and stronger than he have I seized! " said the Ice Maiden.

Then the daughters of the sun sang a song of the traveller,
whose cloak had been carried away by the wind. "The wind took the
covering, but not the man; it could even seize upon him, but not
hold him fast. The children of strength are more powerful, more
ethereal, even than we are. They can rise higher than our parent,
the sun. They have the magic words that rule the wind and the waves,
and compel them to serve and obey; and they can, at last, cast off the
heavy, oppressive weight of mortality, and soar upwards. " Thus sweetly
sounded the bell-like tones of the chorus.

And each morning the sun's rays shone through the one little
window of the grandfather's house upon the quiet child. The
daughters of the sunbeam kissed him; they wished to thaw, and melt,
and obliterate the ice kiss which the queenly maiden of the glaciers
had given him as he lay in the lap of his dead mother, in the deep
crevasse of ice from which he had been so wonderfully rescued.


II. THE JOURNEY TO THE NEW HOME

Rudy was just eight years old, when his uncle, who lived on the
other side of the mountain, wished to have the boy, as he thought he
might obtain a better education with him, and learn something more.
His grandfather thought the same, so he consented to let him go.
Rudy had many to say farewell to, as well as his grandfather. First,
there was Ajola, the old dog.

"Your father was the postilion, and I was the postilion's dog,"
said Ajola. "We have often travelled the same journey together; I knew
all the dogs and men on this side of the mountain. It is not my
habit to talk much; but now that we have so little time to converse
together, I will say something more than usual. I will relate to you a
story, which I have reflected upon for a long time. I do not
understand it, and very likely you will not, but that is of no
consequence. I have, however, learnt from it that in this world things
are not equally divided, neither for dogs nor for men. All are not
born to lie on the lap and to drink milk: I have never been petted
in this way, but I have seen a little dog seated in the place of a
gentleman or lady, and travelling inside a post-chaise. The lady,
who was his mistress, or of whom he was master, carried a bottle of
milk, of which the little dog now and then drank; she also offered him
pieces of sugar to crunch. He sniffed at them proudly, but would not
eat one, so she ate them herself. I was running along the dirty road
by the side of the carriage as hungry as a dog could be, chewing the
cud of my own thoughts, which were rather in confusion. But many other
things seemed in confusion also. Why was not I lying on a lap and
travelling in a coach? I could not tell; yet I knew I could not
alter my own condition, either by barking or growling. "

This was Ajola's farewell speech, and Rudy threw his arms round
the dog's neck and kissed his cold nose. Then he took the cat in his
arms, but he struggled to get free.

"You are getting too strong for me," he said; "but I will not
use my claws against you. Clamber away over the mountains; it was I
who taught you to climb. Do not fancy you are going to fall, and you
will be quite safe. " Then the cat jumped down and ran away; he did not
wish Rudy to see that there were tears in his eyes.

The hens were hopping about the floor; one of them had no tail;
a traveller, who fancied himself a sportsman, had shot off her tail,
he had mistaken her for a bird of prey.

"Rudy is going away over the mountains," said one of the hens.

"He is always in such a hurry," said the other; "and I don't
like taking leave," so they both hopped out.

But the goats said farewell; they bleated and wanted to go with
him, they were so very sorry.

Just at this time two clever guides were going to cross the
mountains to the other side of the Gemmi, and Rudy was to go with them
on foot. It was a long walk for such a little boy, but he had plenty
of strength and invincible courage. The swallows flew with him a
little way, singing, "We and you--you and we. " The way led across
the rushing Lutschine, which falls in numerous streams from the dark
clefts of the Grindelwald glaciers. Trunks of fallen trees and
blocks of stone form bridges over these streams. After passing a
forest of alders, they began to ascend, passing by some blocks of
ice that had loosened themselves from the side of the mountain and lay
across their path; they had to step over these ice-blocks or walk
round them. Rudy crept here and ran there, his eyes sparkling with
joy, and he stepped so firmly with his iron-tipped mountain shoe, that
he left a mark behind him wherever he placed his foot.

The earth was black where the mountain torrents or the melted
ice had poured upon it, but the bluish green, glassy ice sparkled
and glittered. They had to go round little pools, like lakes, enclosed
between large masses of ice; and, while thus wandering out of their
path, they came near an immense stone, which lay balanced on the
edge of an icy peak. The stone lost its balance just as they reached
it, and rolled over into the abyss beneath, while the noise of its
fall was echoed back from every hollow cliff of the glaciers.

They were always going upwards. The glaciers seemed to spread
above them like a continued chain of masses of ice, piled up in wild
confusion between bare and rugged rocks. Rudy thought for a moment
of what had been told him, that he and his mother had once lain buried
in one of these cold, heart-chilling fissures; but he soon banished
such thoughts, and looked upon the story as fabulous, like many
other stories which had been told him. Once or twice, when the men
thought the way was rather difficult for such a little boy, they
held out their hands to assist him; but he would not accept their
assistance, for he stood on the slippery ice as firmly as if he had
been a chamois. They came at length to rocky ground; sometimes
stepping upon moss-covered stones, sometimes passing beneath stunted
fir-trees, and again through green meadows. The landscape was always
changing, but ever above them towered the lofty snow-clad mountains,
whose names not only Rudy but every other child knew--"The
Jungfrau," "The Monk and the Eiger. "

Rudy had never been so far away before; he had never trodden on
the wide-spreading ocean of snow that lay here with its immovable
billows, from which the wind blows off the snowflake now and then,
as it cuts the foam from the waves of the sea. The glaciers stand here
so close together it might almost be said they are hand-in-hand; and
each is a crystal palace for the Ice Maiden, whose power and will it
is to seize and imprison the unwary traveller.

The sun shone warmly, and the snow sparkled as if covered with
glittering diamonds. Numerous insects, especially butterflies and
bees, lay dead in heaps on the snow. They had ventured too high, or
the wind had carried them here and left them to die of cold.

Around the Wetterhorn hung a feathery cloud, like a woolbag, and a
threatening cloud too, for as it sunk lower it increased in size,
and concealed within was a "fohn," fearful in its violence should it
break loose. This journey, with its varied incidents,--the wild paths,
the night passed on the mountain, the steep rocky precipices, the
hollow clefts, in which the rustling waters from time immemorial had
worn away passages for themselves through blocks of stone,--all
these were firmly impressed on Rudy's memory.

In a forsaken stone building, which stood just beyond the seas
of snow, they one night took shelter. Here they found some charcoal
and pine branches, so that they soon made a fire. They arranged
couches to lie on as well as they could, and then the men seated
themselves by the fire, took out their pipes, and began to smoke. They
also prepared a warm, spiced drink, of which they partook and Rudy was
not forgotten--he had his share. Then they began to talk of those
mysterious beings with which the land of the Alps abounds; the hosts
of apparitions which come in the night, and carry off the sleepers
through the air, to the wonderful floating town of Venice; of the wild
herds-man, who drives the black sheep across the meadows. These flocks
are never seen, yet the tinkle of their little bells has often been
heard, as well as their unearthly bleating. Rudy listened eagerly, but
without fear, for he knew not what fear meant; and while he
listened, he fancied he could hear the roaring of the spectral herd.
It seemed to come nearer and roar louder, till the men heard it also
and listened in silence, till, at length, they told Rudy that he
must not dare to sleep. It was a "fohn," that violent storm-wind which
rushes from the mountain to the valley beneath, and in its fury
snaps asunder the trunks of large trees as if they were but slender
reeds, and carries the wooden houses from one side of a river to the
other as easily as we could move the pieces on a chess-board. After an
hour had passed, they told Rudy that it was all over, and he might
go to sleep; and, fatigued with his long walk, he readily slept at the
word of command.

Very early the following morning they again set out. The sun on
this day lighted up for Rudy new mountains, new glaciers, and new
snow-fields. They had entered the Canton Valais, and found
themselves on the ridge of the hills which can be seen from
Grindelwald; but he was still far from his new home. They pointed
out to him other clefts, other meadows, other woods and rocky paths,
and other houses. Strange men made their appearance before him, and
what men! They were misshapen, wretched-looking creatures, with yellow
complexions; and on their necks were dark, ugly lumps of flesh,
hanging down like bags. They were called cretins. They dragged
themselves along painfully, and stared at the strangers with vacant
eyes. The women looked more dreadful than the men. Poor Rudy! were
these the sort of people he should see at his new home?


III. THE UNCLE

Rudy arrived at last at his uncle's house, and was thankful to
find the people like those he had been accustomed to see. There was
only one cretin amongst them, a poor idiot boy, one of those
unfortunate beings who, in their neglected conditions, go from house
to house, and are received and taken care of in different families,
for a month or two at a time.

Poor Saperli had just arrived at his uncle's house when Rudy came.
The uncle was an experienced hunter; he also followed the trade of a
cooper; his wife was a lively little person, with a face like a
bird, eyes like those of an eagle, and a long, hairy throat.
Everything was new to Rudy--the fashion of the dress, the manners, the
employments, and even the language; but the latter his childish ear
would soon learn. He saw also that there was more wealth here, when
compared with his former home at his grandfather's. The rooms were
larger, the walls were adorned with the horns of the chamois, and
brightly polished guns. Over the door hung a painting of the Virgin
Mary, fresh alpine roses and a burning lamp stood near it. Rudy's
uncle was, as we have said, one of the most noted chamois hunters in
the whole district, and also one of the best guides. Rudy soon
became the pet of the house; but there was another pet, an old
hound, blind and lazy, who would never more follow the hunt, well as
he had once done so. But his former good qualities were not forgotten,
and therefore the animal was kept in the family and treated with every
indulgence. Rudy stroked the old hound, but he did not like strangers,
and Rudy was as yet a stranger; he did not, however, long remain so,
he soon endeared himself to every heart, and became like one of the
family.

"We are not very badly off, here in the canton Valais," said his
uncle one day; "we have the chamois, they do not die so fast as the
wild goats, and it is certainly much better here now than in former
times. How highly the old times have been spoken of, but ours is
better. The bag has been opened, and a current of air now blows
through our once confined valley. Something better always makes its
appearance when old, worn-out things fail. "

When his uncle became communicative, he would relate stories of
his youthful days, and farther back still of the warlike times in
which his father had lived. Valais was then, as he expressed it,
only a closed-up bag, quite full of sick people, miserable cretins;
but the French soldiers came, and they were capital doctors, they soon
killed the disease and the sick people, too. The French people knew
how to fight in more ways than one, and the girls knew how to
conquer too; and when he said this the uncle nodded at his wife, who
was a French woman by birth, and laughed. The French could also do
battle on the stones. "It was they who cut a road out of the solid
rock over the Simplon--such a road, that I need only say to a child of
three years old, 'Go down to Italy, you have only to keep in the
high road,' and the child will soon arrive in Italy, if he followed my
directions. "

Then the uncle sang a French song, and cried, "Hurrah! long live
Napoleon Buonaparte. " This was the first time Rudy had ever heard of
France, or of Lyons, that great city on the Rhone where his uncle
had once lived. His uncle said that Rudy, in a very few years, would
become a clever hunter, he had quite a talent for it; he taught the
boy to hold a gun properly, and to load and fire it. In the hunting
season he took him to the hills, and made him drink the warm blood
of the chamois, which is said to prevent the hunter from becoming
giddy; he taught him to know the time when, from the different
mountains, the avalanche is likely to fall, namely, at noontide or
in the evening, from the effects of the sun's rays; he made him
observe the movements of the chamois when he gave a leap, so that he
might fall firmly and lightly on his feet. He told him that when on
the fissures of the rocks he could find no place for his feet, he must
support himself on his elbows, and cling with his legs, and even
lean firmly with his back, for this could be done when necessary. He
told him also that the chamois are very cunning, they place
lookers-out on the watch; but the hunter must be more cunning than
they are, and find them out by the scent.

One day, when Rudy went out hunting with his uncle, he hung a coat
and hat on an alpine staff, and the chamois mistook it for a man, as
they generally do. The mountain path was narrow here; indeed it was
scarcely a path at all, only a kind of shelf, close to the yawning
abyss. The snow that lay upon it was partially thawed, and the
stones crumbled beneath the feet. Every fragment of stone broken off
struck the sides of the rock in its fall, till it rolled into the
depths beneath, and sunk to rest. Upon this shelf Rudy's uncle laid
himself down, and crept forward. At about a hundred paces behind him
stood Rudy, upon the highest point of the rock, watching a great
vulture hovering in the air; with a single stroke of his wing the bird
might easily cast the creeping hunter into the abyss beneath, and make
him his prey. Rudy's uncle had eyes for nothing but the chamois,
who, with its young kid, had just appeared round the edge of the rock.
So Rudy kept his eyes fixed on the bird, he knew well what the great
creature wanted; therefore he stood in readiness to discharge his
gun at the proper moment. Suddenly the chamois made a spring, and
his uncle fired and struck the animal with the deadly bullet; while
the young kid rushed away, as if for a long life he had been
accustomed to danger and practised flight. The large bird, alarmed
at the report of the gun, wheeled off in another direction, and Rudy's
uncle was saved from danger, of which he knew nothing till he was told
of it by the boy.

While they were both in pleasant mood, wending their way
homewards, and the uncle whistling the tune of a song he had learnt in
his young days, they suddenly heard a peculiar sound which seemed to
come from the top of the mountain. They looked up, and saw above them,
on the over-hanging rock, the snow-covering heave and lift itself as a
piece of linen stretched on the ground to dry raises itself when the
wind creeps under it. Smooth as polished marble slabs, the waves of
snow cracked and loosened themselves, and then suddenly, with the
rumbling noise of distant thunder, fell like a foaming cataract into
the abyss. An avalanche had fallen, not upon Rudy and his uncle, but
very near them. Alas, a great deal too near!