Year: 1876

In a distant country, on small patch
Of mountain pasture, stood dwelling
built after the style of Swiss peasant


house. The broad roof projected il
deep caves that in summer gave cool
ness, and in winter defended the inmates
from wind and snow. A small stable


was attached to the house, having room


for a COW and two or three sheep and {
mountain goat, and in the loft over the
stable perches for domestic fowls tG
roOst. An old woman lived here alone
with her granddaughter, tending the
cow and lambs and fowls. Their way
Of living was so extremely simple that
those accustomed to more affiueni
fashions would have thought it poverty
but they were so used to the simple ex-
pedients of the poor that they thought
themselves well of. The holydays OF
the year were those times when the
young girl went down the mountain
path into the village below to exchange
butter, eggs, or honey for few things
they needed from the shops. One even
ing, as young Hilda returned up the
mountain on her way home from one
of these excursions she found dove
| lying wounded where it had fallen on
the road. A hawk had pounced upon
it. but, frightened or wounded by some
hunrsman's shot, had dropped its prey
and left the dove to die of its wound or
hunger, for its wing was broken. Hilda
saw the pitiful pleading in the eye of
the dumb creature, and taking hand
kerchief from her neck she stopped to
pick it up, and wrapped it softly in this
covering and bore it home. Grandmoth-
er, well pleased to have a sick bird to
nurse, bound up its wings skillfully be-
two splinters and poured some oint-
ment on. Soon the tired, hurt creature
fell asleep.


In the morning, while the mist lay
blue and ETHEREAL over Alpine fastnes-
ses, Hilda went forth into the woods
to seek tender and beautiful twigs or
whips, yellow, red, green and brown,
to make cage for the bird. They
were all of one length, Of one size, un-
knotted, and smooth, and of very hard
wood, that contracting very little in
drying would leave the bark unwrin-
kled. Hilda plated it roomy and long,
with door, window and perch, and the
dove, divining its intention, went in
and took possession of its dwelling.


1t came to be one of the family, COO
ing with soft and pleasant speech at
them as they piled their household tasks,
and they with voices as gentle addressed
it. When the broken wing was healed
it went forth into the pasture with Hill
da, perched upon her shoulder. Some
times it playfully pulled at the threads
of her long, bright hair, and sometimes
in its play the bird would hinder the
needles and the knitting. 1t seemed to
Hilda that at length she came to under
stand the speech of the dove. 1t told
her of other scenes-of towns, of roll
ling water and white-winged ships, of
countries far away, of broader and rich
er life, and it ever seemed to sing, "GO
down into the busy town, Hilda; 60
down."


"It Is a strange creature, spoke the
grandmother, and has brought good
luck to the PEASANTS cottage. The
lambs leave more wool on the briars
than ever before. and the birds drop
more feathers; the chestnut trees were
never SO loaded" At night the dove
sometimes left her cage to nestle by
Hilda's cheek on the pillow, end while
grandmother slept the dove still crOoned
Of other lands to the listening maiden.
So one day Hilda said, "Let us take the
bird, grandmother, and 60 down and
live in the town." but the old woman
replied, "We should miss the clear,
cold spring and the mountain rose, the
lambs and the goats, and the world be-
low is wicked"


One summer afternoon a storm cloud
rose in the east, but the west was full
of light, for the golden sun was near
its setting. Its glory seemed only to
increase the blackness of the cloud.
The rain poured down like golden shot,
every globule FURNISHED, yet out of the
black cloud sprang the wind and descen-
ded the lightning. The dove saw the
strange comingling and commotion, the
darkness and tne splendor, and flying
out of the open door of the cage and the
open door of the cottage, as if frightened,
it went on and up, through the glitter
ing raindrops, until they saw its wings
of silver flash against the blackness of
OF the cloud on and up, over the tree
tops and mountain spires, and they saw
it no more.


The grandmother died and Hilda,
after turning bees, cows, lambs, and fur
niture into the silver coin of the land,
went down into the village and learned
to make laces. She became so skillful
that she was sent to the cathedral town
to mend the torn altar laces. There she
became acquainted with dancers and
singers who strolled from place to
place. Herself as light as the antelope
she soon outdid the dancers, floating as
If in her native element.


She never could part with the old
wicker cage of the dove, but wherever
she went she carried it with her.


An old baron fell in love with Hilda
when he saw her dancing. She mar
ried him, and from her wedding day be-
came one of the great ladies of those
times. She told her husband the story
of the cage and he, well pleased with
the history of the tiny mansion, gave it
place of honor in Hilda's apartments.
Surrounded by ladies VIE embroidered
or sang on harpsichord or spinnet, she
Sometimes told them stories of her
mountain home, the wild rose and the
heather, the bees and birds, so that all
who ware acnuainted with I adv Hilda