The mountain dwarfs could always be trusted to see to everything, provided the Föhn, or south wind, did not blow. But whenever the breath of that strong wind swept over the glaciers, they one and all crept far down into the bowels of the earth; whence they did not emerge until it ceased to rage.
Once, while the herdsman was on the opposite side of the lake, the Föhn suddenly broke loose with such fury that although he made frantic efforts to cross the water, it was four whole days before the waves subsided enough to enable him to return home. During all that time the dwarfs had cowered down in the depths of the earth; so nearly all the cattle had perished from hunger and thirst. When the peasant entered his stables and saw this sad state of affairs, he tore his hair, and in his despair even cursed his little friends. The latter, who in ordinary times would have resented the slightest approach to bad language, patiently bore all his reviling, and when he was somewhat cooler, offered to teach him the art of making cheese from sweet milk. This would enable him to use much produce generally lost because it did not thicken in time for use.
The herdsmen, on hearing this offer, reluctantly admitted that if it were possible to make cheese from sweet milk, he might yet retrieve his fortunes. So the dwarfs bade him kill his old goat, showed him how to curdle milk by using its stomach, as rennet, and taught him to make the excellent cheese for which the Seelisberg is still noted. Thanks to the secret revealed by the repentant dwarfs, the peasant soon became rich again, and when he died at a good old age, he left behind him fine pastures, countless heads of cattle, and the invaluable receipt which he had learned from his little friends, and which his descendants still use.
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In going over the Klausen Pass, and in crossing the boundary of the cantons of Glarus and Uri, one is reminded of the famous old quarrel concerning this frontier. Both cantons once claimed the best pastures along it, and as the herdsmen often came to blows over this matter, it was finally arranged to settle the dispute once for all.
The jury before whom the matter was laid, composed of the most honest and influential citizens in both cantons, decreed that as the matter could not be settled satisfactorily otherwise, it should be decided by a race. According to their minute directions, each canton was to select a cock and a champion. On an appointed day, at their respective cocks’ first crow, these champions were to start from Altorf and the Linth valley, and running with all their might, fix the boundary line for ever on the spot where they finally met. This wise decree pleased both cantons; cocks and champions were duly chosen, and the day for the race was eagerly expected.
The people of Glarus, thinking their rooster would be most likely to wake early if well fed and tended, lavished every care upon him, while those of Uri kept theirs half starved, declaring he would sleep little if hungry and thirsty.
When fall came and the time appointed for the race, the Urner’s conjectures proved correct, for their skinny rooster awoke at the very first gleam of dawn. His hoarse crow had scarcely been uttered, when their champion set out from Altorf for his race to the frontier.
Over in Glarus, however, matters were less promising, for while all the people of the Linth valley stood in expectant silence around their cock, he slept on and on, until all the changing tints of dawn had coloured the sky in turn, and the sun rose triumphant above the horizon. Then he gave a lusty crow; but although the Glarus champion ran his best, he had set out so long after his rival that he soon saw him coming rapidly down the Grat.
When they met, the Urner triumphantly cried: “Here is the boundary!”