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.