AMONG THE COWS ON THE MOUNTAIN PASTURES—THE WOMEN DO ALL THE MILKING AND BUTTER-MAKING.
From a Photograph.
The constant tramping along rough mountain ways and following cows over dangerously narrow ledges, the cutting of hay on inclines so acute as to be seemingly almost perpendicular, the going in search of lost sheep in thickets and snowdrifts, are but a few of the things which make the tyranny of skirts altogether impossible. These women do not seem to mind in the least being stared at and questioned as to their clothes. In fact, they rather feel the pride of distinction their garments confer upon them. “We have never known any others,” they say quite simply, “so why should we feel queer in them? Besides, we all prefer them to skirts.”
A BE-TROUSERED MILKMAID.
From a Photograph.
The most surprising thing is that, in spite of their male attire, the women do not walk or sit in the masculine manner. Anyone can see at a glance that they are women in men’s clothes, though some green—very green—tourists often make ridiculous mistakes. At a mountain hut I once heard an English traveller declare that he never heard of men doing the family knitting until he came over the pass where these people live. He had evidently not the faintest suspicion that he had come across the men-garbed women of the mountain region, for they often sit knitting as they herd the sheep and cows on the hillsides.
Another thing that strikes one absurdly is that, while wearing trousers, these women nearly always sit sideways on horseback and get over fences by first mounting to the top rail and sliding down women-fashion, instead of striding over man-fashion. In truth, I observed no end of evidence that the inconsistency of the weaker sex cannot be quenched by anything so delectable as clothes.
One morning, when a heavy mist hung over the mountain-tops, quite obscuring everything, I sat outside the comfortable little chalet where a happy family of four sturdy daughters, with their mother, donned trousers every morning and disappeared up the mountain-side to work, while their stalwart “Pap,” as they called him, pottered round the house, pipe in mouth.
I could hear the women sharpening their scythes now and again, and catch snatches of mountain ditties as they sang at their mowing. Later on, as the mist lifted, I walked up to where they were working, and the first thing I noticed was that their trousers were so long as to be quite dripping with mud, just as their skirts would have been had they worn them. When the old man went out he turned his up.
