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.