OUR BOYS & GIRLS.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 932, 10 January 1890, Page 5

OUR BOYS & GIRLS.

THE STORY OF TURKBy F. H. Throop. I wish I could tell this Btory to you as it was told to me, by the light of a great log fire, making ever-changing pictures on the rough walls around , with the wind whistling outside ; the low whine of the dogs and the flash from the lantern In the refuge tower Btartling you suddenly every now and then, as it startled us that night on the mountain ; with ‘ Turk’s ’ skin beneath our feet, and his photograph on the shelf above, how real it would be to you ! And how it all comes back to me now—the grim old hospice of St. Bernard, the quaint prints on the walls, the eager faces of the group, and the firelight. These surroundings made the story very real; and before it was finished the young monk who repeated it buried his face in his hands and shuddered. This was le Pere Joseph Luisier, the youngest and bravest of all the brave monks of St. Bernard ; and well he may have shuddered, for he and a boy were the only survivors of that terrible night. Tnrk saved them, as Turk had saved many another—Turk, the beautiful, brave St. Bernard dog. Away up among the highest mountains of Switzerland there is a narrow defile, or opening in the solid mass of rock, leading from northern Italy to the Rhone valley where the hills are covered with vineyards and the fields overflow with corn and grain. For many centuries this pass has been used by poor peasants, usually labourers on foot who can not afford other means of crossing the mountains. Unprepared for the difficulties of a mountain climb, without much food, thinly clad, wretched and ignorant, they start on a journey which would often end in death, save for the charity of a company of monkfl who devote their lives to saving travellers.

In the monastery situated at the highest point of the pass are fifteen or twenty Augustine monks, most of them under thirty years of age ; for after fifteen years of service the severity of their duties compels them to descend to a milder climate. Their office is toreceiveandlodge strangers ‘ without money and without price,’ and to render assistance to travellers in daDgsr during the snowy season, which here lasts about nine months. They are aided by the famous St. Eernard dogs, whose keen scent enables them to discover travellers buried in the snow. ‘ Have you ever heard of Turk ?’ I asked the guide, a lank fellow in blue blouse and bonnet, who was strapping upon my mule’s

back a heavy woollen coat. He dropped the strap as I spoke—his eyes filled with tears. • I was two years at the kennels, sir,’ he answered. ‘ Turk and I were confreres, and when he was gone I could not longer stay. I act as guide to show visitors about the place now and then. I can’t go far away, but I can’t stay now Turk is no more. You know the story, sir? No? Well, they’ll tell it to you there,’ and he pointed across the dreary waste. We paused on our way, for a moment, at the stone ob&lets, where the monks made butter and cheese for winter use—a true Alpine dairy, fresh, neat, and clean. Here the road ends. We buttoned our coats tightly and crossed the plain to the dreary ‘ Valley of Death ’ beyond. The sun was obscured; the cold was intense. From the great rocky basin in front of us there seemed no escape. I wondered how our guide could pick his way. Any of the opening paths about us looked surer than the rough, winding one he chose. As if answering my thought, he fell behind the forward mule he was leading, and pointed ahead to a jagged opening far up the ravine. ‘ That Is our landmark. If we lose sight of the further crag we might be lost. That is where Napoleon, crossing in 1800 with thirty thousand men, nearly lost his life by the slipping of his mule on the verge of the precipice. The mule fell and was killed. Napoleon was saved only by his guide, who caught him by the coat ; and right here, sir, is where they dismounted the cannon, set them in the hollow trunks of trees, which half of the soldiers dragged up the mountain, while the other half carried the gnns and luggage of their comrades. Those were good old soldiers. I wish they would come back again.’ He Bpoke impatiently. ‘Ah, sir! 1 wish t could see the world ! I have never been beyond St. Pierre, but I have crossed the pass to Aosta, and some day I will go to Italy, if ever Napoleon passes this way again.’ My heart was touched for this poor peasant lad living all his life in the lonely valley, with his hope for the future centred in the expectation that Napoleon’s army would ‘ pass that way again !’ A little later we stopped by a heap of stones. A wooden cross leaned from the centre and upon it was rudely cut the word ‘Turk.’ ‘I did that,’ he said proudly. ‘ Turk is not there, but tl e peasants are. There is where Turk found them, and the veurra* caught the monks !’ Again I urged him to tell the story, but he declined as before. Evidently the subject was too painful. ‘ I must watch the path,’ he answered. On we went, over ruts and stumps of fallen trees. At last, hidden among great boulders, we found the pass, half choked with drifted snow in the middle of July ! We crossed icy streams—small glaciers in their way, the frozen surface firm, while water rushed beneath scrambled over broken masses of rock, hurled by some freak of nature from the heights above ; and toiled up through ragged defiles. Before long, turning a bend in the gorge, we saw the monastery of St. Bernard—ra mass of cold

gray stone against the purple sky. Unutterably lonely, weird, desolate among bare rocks, ico.bound cataracts, and snow- 1 crowned mountains—we were chilled from head to foot in July. What must jt be in winter? At first, it appeared like some ruined ch&teau. There were beggars hanging on the outskirts, and paupers gathered about the arched doorway; young Italians with their packs on their backs ; mountaineers returned from the hunt, with guns and game-bags; guides, young Englishmen ‘ tramping it ’ through the Alps; and wanderers like ourselves, all alike welcomed by the great glowing lantern which shed its rays far into the pass on both sides, I was not astonished when the young priest told me, later, that often they have lodged six hundred strangers in a night under that hos* pi table roof. Le P6re Joseph Luieier was in charge ; a young man full of life and energy in every line of the figure draped in the long black cassock. He cama courteously forward to meet us. Had he been a polished man of the world, receiving guests in his home, he could not have welcomed us more graciously ; and yet, as he did so, he had not an idea where he should put us for the night. Asking us to wait a moment, he went away with a perplexed look, rubbing his chin. He soon returned, running lightly down the stone stairs, three steps at a time, like a boy. This quick step was characteristic, as was also the laugh (the merriest I ever heard) with which he explained his perplexities. It had stormed steadily for two days ; visitors had stayed on ; more had arrived, and some Italian priests on their way to France were spending a few days. Every nook and corner was full, but these priests had offered us their apartments, and would lodge with the Brothers. Thus it was arranged, and we found ourselves in the rooms of honour, comfortably furnished, and with beautiful St. Bernard dog-skin rugs on the floor. They sent us dry shoes and clothing, offered us hot drinks, and rig&t royally reoeived the American strangers. After dinner the room was cleared, except for a few of us arouud the flaming logs, listeningdo the crackling of pine-cones within and the roaring wind outside, while Pere Luisier told of their winter life, the dreariness of their lone vigils when all the wayfarers are poor, the cold is intense, the snow is at great depths, and fierce storms are ever threatening their strong monastery. ‘ And our dogs? —God bless them ! Why, without them we should be helpless, indeed. Let in the puppies, Jean. I must show these Americans my jewels.’ (To be continued.)