THE CHALET.
Carl's father opened the door and looked carefully around to see if everything had remained safe since the summer before. Yes, it was all right; no one would know from the appearance that people had not been inside the room for eight months at least.
There was the stove over which the milk would be heated before it could be made into cheese. The rough table stood in the corner, while at the farther end was a supply of hay to be used in case the cattle had need of it.
It was a large room, but there were many low windows, so it would be bright and cheerful when the shutters had been taken down. Just back of this room was the stable, where the cows could find shelter at night.
Shouldn't you think Carl would be lonely here? No other houses could be seen, no matter in what direction he turned. He might not look upon any human faces except those of Franz and his father and mother for days at a time. In whatever way he might turn, his eyes would meet mountains,—mountains everywhere. But he loved to be here; he loved these mountains with all his heart. They gave him a feeling of freedom and of strength, and he would often say to himself:
"Ah! the good God has given us a wonderful world to live in, and we are a part of it all."
Day after day of the short summer Carl and Franz would drive the cows higher and higher in search of new feeding-grounds. At last they would come to the bare, brown rocks near the summit, and they would know that the season's work was nearly over.
The villagers who had come with the family had a picnic dinner at the chalet, as the Swiss call a mountain cottage like Carl's. Then a few songs were sung with a hearty good-will. The time passed so quickly that the people came near forgetting how late it was growing when one of the party, standing in the doorway, heard the clock strike four.
"Good friends, we must start homeward at once," he cried. "Think of the long climb down and the dark path through the woods."