THE FALL OF A MOUNTAIN.

BY DAVID KER.

Some seventy years ago an old man sat at the door of his cottage in the Swiss village of Goldau enjoying the warmth of the summer sunshine, and the view of the fresh green valley dappled here and there with dark clumps of trees. All around the great purple mountains stood up against the sky, as if keeping guard over the pretty little village in their midst, with its tiny log-huts clustered beneath the shadow of the neat white church, like chickens nestling under the wing of the mother hen.

A big, florid, jolly-looking man came striding up the path, and held out his hand to the old peasant, with a hearty "Good-day, Neighbor Kraus."

"Good-day, Neighbor Schwartz. Fine weather to-day."

"Beautiful. We'll have a famous harvest this year, please God."

"I hope so, neighbor. Won't you sit down a minute? It's warm walking."

"Thanks; I will. Holloa! what's the matter over yonder?"

Right opposite them, five thousand feet overhead, towered the dark mass of the Rossberg, the highest of the surrounding mountains. Just as Schwartz spoke, its huge outline seemed to be agitated by a slight tremulous motion, like the nodding of a plume of feathers.

"Well, my friend, what are you staring at? Did you never see the trees shaking in the wind before?"

"Of course; but it seemed to me somehow as if it wasn't only the trees that shook, but the whole mountain."

"You're easily scared," chuckled the old man. "I suppose you're thinking of the old saying that the Rossberg is to fall some day. Bah! they've been saying so ever since I was a child, and it hasn't fallen yet."

Schwartz laughed, and the two friends went on talking. But suddenly the visitor started up with a look of unmistakable terror; and no wonder. His spiked staff, which he had stuck carelessly into the ground beside him when he sat down, was moving to and fro of itself!

"Good gracious! do you see that, Father Kraus? And look at those birds yonder, flying screaming away from the trees on the Rossberg! Something is wrong, say what you will."

At that moment Hans Godrel, the miller, came flying past, shouting: "Run for your lives! The stream's dried up, and that always comes before an earthquake or an avalanche. Run!"

"Pooh! I'll have time to fill my pipe again," said old Kraus, coolly producing his tobacco pouch.

But Schwartz was too thoroughly frightened to wait another moment. Down the hill he flew like a madman, and had barely got clear of the village when the earth shook under his feet so violently as to throw him down. He sprang up again just in time to see poor old Kraus's cottage vanish in a whirl of dust like a bursting bubble.

The next moment there came a terrific crash, followed by another so much louder that it seemed to shake the very sky. In a moment all was dark as night, and amid the gloom could be heard a medley of fearful sounds—the rending of strong timbers, the hollow rumble of falling rocks and gravel, the crash of wrecked buildings, the shrieks of the doomed inmates, and the roar of angry waves from the lake below, as if all its waters were breaking loose at once.

The last house of the village, on the side farthest from the Rossberg, was that of Antoine Sepel, the wood-cutter, who at the first alarm snatched up two of his children, and made for the opposite hill-side, calling to his wife to follow with the other two. But the youngest, Marianne, a little girl of six, had just run back into the house, and before her mother could reach her, the first crash came. The terrified woman seized the other girl, and fled without looking behind her.

But the old servant, Françoise, could think of her little favorite even under the shadow of coming destruction. She darted into the house, and had just caught the child in her arms, when the tremendous din of the final crash told her that it was too late. In an instant the house was lifted bodily from its place, and spun round like a top. The child was torn from her clasp, and she felt herself thrown violently forward, the strong timbers falling to pieces around her like a pack of cards. Still, however, the brave woman struggled to free herself; but the weight that kept her down defied her utmost strength. For her own safety she cared little, although a violent pain in her head and a numbness along her left arm told her that she was severely hurt. But where was the child?

"Marianne!" cried she, in desperation.

"Here I am," answered a tiny voice, seemingly not far from her. "I'm not hurt a bit, only there's something holding me down; and I can see light overhead quite plain. Won't they come and take us out soon?"

"No, there's no hope of that," said the old woman, feebly; "this is the day of doom for us all. Say your prayers, darling, and commend yourself to God."

And upward through the universal ruin, amid shattered rocks and uprooted mountains, stole the child's clear sweet voice, praying the prayer that she had learned at her mother's knee. It rose from that grim chaos of destruction like Jonah's prayer from the depths of the sea, and like it was heard and answered.

How long the two prisoners remained pent up in that living grave they could never have told; but all at once Marianne thought she heard a voice calling her name, and held her breath to listen. Yes, she was not mistaken; there was a voice calling to her, and it was the voice of her father!

Sepel, having seen his wife and the other three children placed in safety far up the opposite hill-side, had hurried back to seek the missing girl. But it was in vain that he looked for any trace of the village or even of the valley itself. The green, sunny uplands, where the laborers had been working and the children frolicking but a few hours before, were now one hideous disorder of fallen rocks, bare gravel, and black cindery dust, amid which he wandered at random, calling despairingly upon his lost darling.

But the answer came at last: a clear, musical call, which rose from a shapeless heap of ruin that even he had failed to recognize as his pretty little cottage. Hurrying to the spot, he began to tear away the rubbish with the strength of a giant, and speedily drew forth the child unhurt, the falling timbers, as if by miracle, having formed a kind of arch over her, completely protecting her from injury.

Brave old Françoise had been less fortunate. Her left arm was so badly hurt that she never recovered the use of it, and to the end of her life she was always timid and nervous from the effects of that terrible night. But, compared with the rest of the ill-fated villagers, she might well esteem herself fortunate. Four-fifths of them were killed on the spot, many more crippled for life, and those who escaped found themselves reduced to absolute beggary. Of Goldau itself nothing remained but the bell of its steeple, which was found more than a mile away. The lower end of Lake Lowertz, farther down the valley, was completely choked up by the falling rocks; and the water thus dislodged rushed in a mighty wave seventy feet high over the island in the centre, sweeping away every living thing upon it. The once happy and beautiful valley is still a frightful desert, and here and there among the surrounding hills you may find some white-haired grandfather who himself witnessed the calamity and will tell you, in his quaint mountain speech, how the Rossberg fell upon Goldau.

AN UNEXPECTED THANKSGIVING DINNER.