By and bye autumn began, and although the evening-red is more glowing and brilliant then, than in any other part of the year, it is also accompanied by fresh breezes, so that the inhabitants of the Alps get ready to decamp into their lowly dwellings in the valleys, and no wolf's skin then can prevent a man's teeth from chattering.
Fresh snow was glistening on all the peaks around, and was evidently not intending to melt again that year. Ekkehard had preached his last sermon to the herdsmen. After it, Benedicta sauntered past him.
"Now 'tis all over with our merry-making up here," said she, "for to-morrow man and beast will betake themselves to their winter quarters. Where are you going, mountain-brother?"
The question fell heavily on his heart.
"I should like best to remain here," said he.
Benedicta struck up a merry peal of laughter. "One can well see, that you have not spent a winter up here; else you would not wish for another. I should like to see you snowed up in your hermitage, with the cold creeping in at every chink and crevice, so as to make you tremble like an aspen leaf, whilst avalanches come thundering down round about you, and the icicles are growing right into your very mouth.... And when you attempt to go down into the valley to fetch some provisions, then the snow blocks up the path as high as a house; one step and you sink down to the knees,--a second--traladibidibidib! and the cowl is all that is left, and one does not see more of you than of a fly that has fallen into a pot of milk. Besides we have had so many great tit-mice this year,--that means a severe winter. Ugh--how pleasant the long winter-evenings will be! Then, we sit around the warm stove, and spin by the light of the pine-chips. How the wheels fly about, and the fire crackles, and we relate the most beautiful stories, and all good boys may come and listen. 'Tis a pity that you have not become a herdsman, mountain-brother, for then I could take you also with me to our spinning-room."
"'Tis a pity," said Ekkehard.
The next morning they went down the valley in gay procession. The old herdsman had put on his finest linen shirt, and looked like some jolly old patriarch. With a round leathern cap on his head, and the handsomest milk-pail on his left shoulder, he walked ahead, singing the "ranz-des-vaches" in a clear fresh voice. Then came Benedicta's goats; the skirmishers of the great army; their keeper amongst them, wearing in her dark locks the last Alpine roses, which already showed some yellow leaves. Then came the big large-spotted Susanna, the queen of the herd, wearing the heavy bell round her neck, in sign of her high rank. Dignified and proud was her gait, and whenever one of the others ventured to outstrip her, she gave her such a contemptuous and threatening look, that the presumptuous cow instantly fell back. Slowly and heavily the rest of the herd marched downhill. "Farewell thou dainty Alpine-grass," was probably thought by many a plump cow, as it cropped a stray flower here and there, on the way-side.
The bull carried the milking-stool between his horns, and on his huge back sat the goat-boy, with his face to the tail, holding up the outstretched fingers of both his hands to his not over delicately formed nose, and calling out the following doggrel-verses: