Thus encouraged, Marie Madeleine went on spinning until the building was completed, and as most of the stones were purchased with the proceeds of her industry, the workmen carved spindles and spinning-wheels all over the church. On the festival of Ste. Marie Madeleine, illuminations and processions are the order of the day in Geneva, and the statue of a spinner is carried along all the principal streets of the town, to the rhythmic chant of the old distich, which commemorates alike the maiden’s piety and her extreme diligence.
LEGENDS OF VAUD AND VALAIS
Late in the spring, when the grazing down in the valley is pretty well exhausted, farmers in Switzerland are wont to drive their cows up to the mountain pastures, which by this time are all covered with luxuriant grass and gemmed with dainty wild-flowers. The day set for the departure of the cattle is always a gala day. The people, dressed in their Sunday best, assemble in the villages through which the herds must pass, to exchange merry jests with the herdsmen, bid them God speed, and admire the fat sleek cows, wearing around their necks bells of different sizes and varying tones.
The head herdsman proudly walks in front of his cattle, wearing a bunch of gay ribbons or of fresh flowers in his hat or cap. His blue cloth coat, with its short sleeves, sets off a dazzlingly white shirt of coarse linen, and his costume is completed by knee-breeches, thick woolen stockings, and shoes whose soles are elaborately studded with bright nails. This man carries a bag full of salt, and an umbrella slung across his back; and from time to time, as he strides joyfully ahead of the herd, he offers a handful of salt to the foremost cows. Leaning on his stout staff, he sturdily climbs the mountain, giving vent to those long-drawn musical cries known as “huchées” or “jodels,” according to the section of the country in which they are heard.
Close behind the herdsman comes the bull, with a ring in his nose, or a fine cow, the queen and leader of the cattle. Conscious of the honour of wearing the largest and deepest-toned bell, this animal steps proudly along, tossing a shapely head decked with bunches of bright flowers on either horn, and between them rests the milking-stool, a sign of particular distinction.
Cow after cow slowly files past, greeted by calls and loving pats from proud owners, and amid the tinkling of bells, the trample of hoofs, the lowing of kine, and the cheers of the people sound the resonant cracks of the herdsmen’s whips, which they snap incessantly to show their proficiency in that greatly admired branch of their calling.
The sight of such a herd going up the mountain invariably reminds the old people of happy summers long gone by, and while sitting on the benches in front of their stone or wooden houses at twilight, they entertain the younger generation with reminiscences of the joyful past, and a regretful sigh always heaves their aged breasts when they finally mention the Golden Age of Switzerland.
According to tradition, this was the time when none of the mountains—not even the highest—were ever veiled in cold mists, or covered with ice and snow. Neither were there any barren and rocky heights such as we see now. Luxuriant grass grew all the way up the steepest slopes, carpeting even the topmost ridges, and the climate was so genial that cattle dotted the hillside pastures during nine or ten months of the year. The cows were then far larger and fatter than any we see now, and their milk was so abundant that they were milked thrice a day into huge ponds, or tanks, where the herdsmen went about in skiffs to do the skimming.
One of these men is said to have once lost his balance and fallen head first into a lacteal lake, but although his mourning companions diligently sought for his corpse, and even dredged that huge natural milkpan, they could find no trace of him. When churning-day came round, however, and the big vats of thick cream were poured into a churn as large and tall as a castle tower, the dead man was suddenly discovered imbedded like a fly in the thick cream. The dairymen and milkmaids then mournfully laid his corpse to rest in a huge cave, lined with honeycombs so tall and massive that none was smaller than the city gates.