So all these folks, in the caves and mines, got to like this hunter. Even the chamois, that he chased, knew that he was not cruel. Besides, they heard good things about him from the birds, that could talk the languages of goats, ibexes and chamois.
Occasionally Walter the hunter shot a bear, and then he had a big fur robe, out of which to make a bed, besides bones for all his dogs to gnaw upon. Moreover, he was looked upon by the village people as a hero, and his sons felt very proud of their father.
Yet it was not so easy, as some might think, to feed his large family, for each of these youngsters seemed to have a cave, growing in their stomachs, which, three times a day, apparently enlarged, as meal time drew near. Only a few potatoes and cabbages could be grown in their garden, and every wisp of hay, and all the dry leaves, had to be saved, to keep warm in the Swiss winter, which lasted eight or nine months.
Buttermilk and potatoes, and corn meal, boiled in goat’s milk, was what was on the bill of fare for Walter’s family, most of the time. They [[134]]were too poor to live down in the valleys, or villages, where the land was all owned by well-to-do people. So the entire family, old and young, were kept busy at work, every moment of daylight in summer, when the snow was off the ground. There were many things to do, to get fuel, to keep the roof from leaking, and to prepare for the awful cold, from September to May.
Walter’s chief trouble was with his poor gun, the barrel of which was a smooth bore, which could not shoot a bullet straight forward, very far, so that the hunter could not be sure of hitting anything that was over fifty yards away.
Sometimes, Walter would spend many hours, or even a whole day, while out hunting, in climbing over rocks and up the steep mountain sides, to get even a distant shot at a chamois, only to miss his aim. Or, what was even worse, to this kind-hearted hunter, the leaden ball, going out of its course, only wounded the poor animal, so that it ran away, to suffer a long time and then die in pain. In this manner, Walter very often lost a dinner for himself and his hungry children, while he grieved over inflicting pain upon innocent creatures. More than once, he threw down the gun, in his anger, calling it names, as if it were an animal, or, at the worst, a “blunder buss.”
Now, so many of the chamois had complained [[135]]to their friends and protectors, the dwarfs, about the cruelty of hunters, and the sufferings of their fellows, especially the doe and fawn, that all these little people held a congress, in a cave, and to see what could be done. Nearly a hundred dwarfs attended the meeting, and both graybeards and youngsters were invited to give their opinions. All agreed that men were stupid fellows, and had to be helped out, in all their needs and plans, as well as to have their wits sharpened, by the dwarfs.
“Here is a really good and kind hunter, Walter. He is using a blunderbuss, because he has nothing better. He ought to help him improve his weapon. But what can be done?”
“We must first find out the reason why this fellow Walter, and others like him, inflict so many wounds upon the chamois; for we know he is our friend, and is full of pity for the animals,” said a venerable old chap, who seemed to be chairman of the meeting.
The talk went on for hours. At last a good looking dwarf, with a big head and very long white beard, slowly arose to speak. Usually, he never said a word, but listened carefully, until every one else had had his say. Then, if asked, he would give his own opinion, which always proved to be the sense of the whole meeting. Every one wondered how his head could carry all [[136]]he knew, and how he could remember what each one had said. So he was generally known, by one or the other of two names, which, in the dwarf language, mean “Thought Includer,” or “Clarifier of Ideas.”