When storytellers think of Switzerland they remember the story of William Tell, who refused to bow down to the hat of the Emperor of Austria, which the Austrian governor had set on a pole in the square in Tell’s village. Once a part of the Roman Empire, Switzerland became a confederation in 1291. Swiss history is dotted with battles against invading forces. Although they did not have equal numbers of soldiers, they had the knowledge and advantage of their mountainous homeland. Through the two World Wars it maintained neutrality and still does today and, like William Tell, is defiantly independent. Swiss folklore, culture and music are very much seated in its rural past and Maurus And The Goats is typical.

If you ever go to Switzerland you will notice that there are lots of high mountains and that all the cows and goats wear bells. In this story
you will discover why the animals wear bells. 

Maurus lives in Switzerland. In the summer he travels to the village where his grandmother, Oma Stina lives. It’s    a small village with only
Thirty houses and two streets. Where the two streets cross there is the market square with a fountain.

When Maurus stays with his Oma Stina he has a special job. He’s the goat herd. He looks after all the villagers’ goats. Every day he takes them high up the mountain to the summer pasture. All winter the mountain is covered in snow but in spring the snow melts and fresh grass grows.

Maurus gets up early. Pipsi, his dog is already bouncing and barking and ready to go. Oma Stina makes some sandwiches. Maurus packs them in his satchel and takes his stick and his raincoat and his horn.

“I’m ready,” he says to his Oma Stina. “Let’s fetch Bipsy, Bobba and Bella.”

Bipsy, Bobba and Bella are Oma Stina’s goats. Bipsy is as white as snow, Bobba is red brown like the earth and Bella is white with black spots.  The smallest of all the goats is Bella and she is Maurus’ favourite goat. She has a pretty little bell with such a sweet sound—cling-a-ling,  cling-a-ling.

Oma Stina lets the goats out of their stall and Maurus is already running to the square with Pipsi racing in front. Maurus stands on the fountain and blows his horn. Soon Maurus hears the trat-trat-trat of goats’ hooves on the cobblestones and the cling-a-lang, cling-a-lang of the goat bells. As the goats take a drink from the fountain, Maurus counts them.

“Four from Nonna Martina, seven from Uncle Peter, two from Aunty Celina, eight from Mr Gellieter and Bipsy, Bobba and Bella.”

They are all there. Up the mountain   they go, higher and higher through the dark forest where they see the Alter Tumasch’s hut. The Alter Tumasch is the woodcutter. All summer he cuts wood for the village. Chop! Chop! He is working. Maurus takes the goats higher, past the last trees up so high only grass and small wild flowers grow. Pipsi barks and runs ahead. Cling-a-lang, cling-a-lang, cling-a-ling. All the goats follow. At the top of the mountain is a large rock with a pile of stones on it. It’s called the Steinmannli which means ‘little stone man’. Maurus climbs right up onto the rock and sits down next to the Steinmannli.

He can see the goats enjoying the grass. Cling-a-lang, cling-a-lang cling-a-ling. What a beautiful place! All around he can see mountains. Far down below he can see a big lake which looks like a little pool. He watches two mountain crows chase a hawk away from their nest. He waves to a helicopter, which flies past. He notices clouds forming, billowing up into the sky.

“Pipsi, I think there’ll be a storm this afternoon,” he says and he stretches out to have a sleep. Cling-a-lang, cling-a-lang, cling-a-ling. The bells of the goats don’t keep him awake. They’re like music to Maurus.

Later he wakes up and stretches. Pipsi is still sleeping. Maurus opens his satchel and takes out his lunch. The smell of his sandwich wakes Pipsi and together they eat. While Maurus has been asleep the clouds have covered the sky.

“Time to check the goats,” he says and Pipsi jumps down, barking. “If there’s a big storm we’ll have to head back down to the village early.”

Maurus stands on the rock and counts:
“Four from Nonna Martina, seven from Uncle Peter, two from Aunty Celina, eight from Mr Gellieter and…”
There are three missing. He counts them again. No! Bipsy, Bobba and Bella are missing. Oh dear! Maurus jumps down from the rock and looks all around it. Pipsi barks and runs after him. Above, the clouds are dark grey and heavy with rain. Pit! Pat! Pit! Pat! The raindrops fall. There’s no sign of Bipsy, Bobba and Bella. What will his Oma Stina say? 

“We can’t go home without them.”

Maurus pulls his raincoat out of his
satchel and puts it on. 

“We must find them.” 

Pipsi barks and runs around Maurus’ legs. 

“Tumasch. We must go to the Alter Tumasch.” 

Maurus herds the goats back down into the forest. They follow the path to the Alter Tumasch’s hut. The rain is pouring down and lightning and thunder flash and growl across the sky. Maurus knocks on the hut door. 

“Maurus! What are you doing out in such weather?” The Alter Tumasch leans out his window. “Come in and dry yourself and have a hot tea.”

But Maurus doesn’t have time to sit and drink tea.

“Did you see any goats in the forest today?” he asks.

The Alter Tumasch strokes his beard  and puffs on his pipe. He shakes his head slowly. 

“But I did hear bells from the other side of the Wildbach.”

“Thank you! Can I leave the other goats here?” Maurus asks and when the Alter Tumasch nods, he’s off at a gallop with Pipsi at his heels. 

The lightning and thunder have moved further away and the rain is falling gently. Deep in the forest Maurus stops to listen. He hears a squirrel scampering up the side of a tree. He hears the Wildbach (the wild mountain stream), rushing and gurgling. He sees a family of deer. No
sign of Bipsy, Bobba and Bella. 

“Come on, Pipsi.” Maurus starts to run. 
The Wildbach rushes and foams between the rocks. Maurus looks across. It’s wide and dangerous. He looks down at the jumping, splashing water. If he falls he’ll be washed away.

“Bipsy! Bobba! Bella!” he calls and listens. 

Pipsi is listening too. Suddenly she barks as if to say, “Did you hear? Did you hear the bells?”

Maurus listens again. This time, sure enough he can hear the cling-a-ling, cling-a-ling of a bell through the sound of the rushing water.

“Well, Pipsi somehow those goats have got across,” he says looking up and down the rocky bank. “And somehow we have to get across.”

Maurus climbs to a spot where the rocks jut out and the jump isn’t so far. He scoops Pipsi up in his arms.

 “Are you ready?” 

He jumps and they fly over the wild water and land on the other side, safe again. Maurus climbs up away from the water’s edge with Pipsi
climbing behind him. All the time he’s listening. Cling-a-ling, cling-a-ling. That’s Bella’s bell! He reaches a narrow ledge and crawls toward the sound of the bell, Pipsi out in front. Cling-a-ling, cling-a-ling. Pipsi barks.  Around a rocky outcrop are the three goats. They’ve found a nice little field of grass all of their own. Bipsy and Bobba are sleeping. Their bells are quiet. But Bella has discovered that there’s salt in the rock and she’s licking it. Her bell is ringing bright and clear.

“How did you get here?” Maurus scolds the goats. 

They look up and come to him. They’re ready to go home. Maurus knows they must have come another way and he looks in the soft ground for the goats’ hard little footprints. Sure enough        the footprints lead the way and soon Maurus spots a fallen pine tree which has made a bridge across the Wildbach. Maurus leads the goats across and heads back to the Alter Tumasch’s hut.

“Stay and have a bite to eat,” says the Alter Tumasch. But again Maurus shakes his head.

“I must get back or Oma Stina will be worried.”

By the time Maurus is back in the village it’s already dark. The sound of the goat’s bells, cling-a-lang, cling-a-lang, cling-a-lang, cling-a-ling brings all the villagers out. They’ve been waiting and listening for Maurus’ return.

Later that night when Bipsy and Bobba and Bella are safe in their stall and Maurus is snuggled down in his bed, he tells his Oma Stina about his
adventure and how her three goats went missing and how he found them.

“Well, Maurus you’re a very good, brave goat herd,” says Oma Stina and smiles. But Maurus is already asleep.

Monica Oppen
 
 

                                                            * * *

Hans Christian Andersen was born on April 2, 1805 in Odense, Denmark. His father was a poor shoemaker and his mother a washerwoman. He started his working life in a factory but his writing skills were always evident. In 1819 he went to Copenhagen to the Royal Theatre hoping to find work as an actor or playwright. His plays were rejected. After three years of living in wretched conditions the Director of the Royal Theatre, Jonas Collins, became his benefactor. With Collins’ help Andersen was able to attend university in Copenhagen. Later he travelled Europe and across to India and wrote travel books. He was a friend of Charles Dickens and was courted by royalty and intellectuals of the time. The Royal Theatre did finally accept a play from Andersen, The Mulatto, in 1840.

Hans Christian Andersen wanted to be known as a serious writer but it was his fairy tales, not taken seriously at the time, which brought him fame. He published his first volumes of fairy tales in 1835. He often read his fairy tales to audiences of close to 1000. He died in 1875 and is now known as one of the world’s greatest storytellers, still best known world wide for fairy tales, such as The Ugly Duckling, The Princess and The Pea, The Emperor’s New Clothes and others. His stories can be understood on many levels and this story What The Old Man Does Is Always Right has perhaps acquired even more levels in today’s context.
 
 

I will tell you a story that was told me when I was a little boy. Every time I thought of this story, it seemed to me more and more charming; for it is with stories as it is with many people—they become better as they grow older.

I have no doubt that you have been in the country, and seen a very old farmhouse, with a thatched roof, and mosses and small plants growing wild upon it. There is a stork’s nest on the ridge of the gable, for we cannot do without the stork. The walls of the house are sloping, and the windows are low, and only one of the latter is made to open. The baking-oven sticks out of the wall like a great knob. An elder-tree hangs over the palings; and beneath its branches, at the foot of the paling, is a pool of water, in which a few ducks are disporting themselves. There is a yard dog too, who barks at all comers. Just such a farmhouse as this stood in a country lane and in it dwelt an old couple, a peasant and his wife. Small as their possessions were, they had one article they could not do without, and that was a horse, which contrived to live upon the grass, which it found by the side of the high road. The old peasant rode into the town upon this horse, and his neighbours often borrowed it of him, and rendered the old couple some service in return for the loan of it. After a time they thought it would be as well to sell the horse, or exchange it for something which might be more useful to them. But what might this something be?

“You’ll know best, old man,'” said the wife. “It is fair-day to-day so ride into town, and get rid of the horse for money, or make a good exchange. Whichever you do will be right to me, so ride to the fair.”

And she fastened his neckerchief for him, for she could do that better than he could, and she could also tie it very prettily in a double bow. She also smoothed his hat round and round with the palm of her hand, and gave him a kiss. 

Then he rode away upon the horse that was to be sold or bartered for something else. Yes, the old man knew what he was about. The sun shone hotly down, and not a cloud was to be seen in the sky. The road was very dusty; for many people who were all bound for the fair were driving, riding, or walking upon it. There was no shelter anywhere from the sunbeams. 

Among the rest a man was trudging along, and driving a cow to the fair. The cow was as beautiful a creature as any cow could be. 

“She gives good milk, I am certain,” said the peasant to himself. “That would be a very good exchange—the cow for the horse. Hallo there! You with the cow,” he said. “I tell you what; I dare say a horse is of more value than a cow but I don’t care for that—a cow will be more useful to me. If you like, we’ll exchange.”

“To be sure I will,'” said the man and they exchanged accordingly.

So that was settled, and the peasant might have turned back for he had done the business he came to do. But having made up his mind to go to the fair, he determined to proceed, merely to have a look at it, so he went on to the town with his cow. 

Leading the animal, he strode on sturdily, and after a short time, overtook a man who was driving a sheep. It was a good fat sheep, with a fine fleece on its back. 

“I should like to have that fellow,” said the peasant to himself. “There is plenty of grass for him by our palings, and in the winter we could keep him in the room with us. Perhaps it would be more practical to have a sheep than a cow. Shall we exchange?”

The man with the sheep was quite ready, and the bargain was quickly made. And then our peasant continued his way on the high road with his sheep.

Soon after this, he overtook another man, who had come into the road from a field, and was carrying a large goose under his arm.

“What a heavy creature you have there!” said the peasant. “It has plenty of feathers and plenty of fat, and would look well tied to a string, or paddling in the water at our place. That would be very useful to my old woman. She could make all sorts of profits out of it. How often she has said, ‘If now we only had a goose!’ Now here is an opportunity, and, if possible, I will get it for her. Shall we exchange? I will give you my sheep for your goose, and thanks into the bargain.”

The other had not the least objection, and accordingly the exchange was made, and our peasant became proprietor of the goose.

By this time he had arrived very near the town. The crowd on the high road had been gradually increasing, and there was quite a rush of men and cattle. The cattle walked on the path and by the palings, and at the turnpike-gate they even walked into the toll-taker’s potato-field, where one fowl was strutting about with a string tied to its leg, for fear it should take fright at the crowd, and run away and get lost. The tail feathers of the fowl were very short, and it winked with both its eyes, and looked very cunning, as it said ‘Cluck, cluck.’ What it thought as it said this I cannot tell you; but directly our good man saw it, he thought, ‘Why that's the finest fowl I ever saw in my life. It’s finer than our parson’s brood hen. On my word, I should like to have that fowl. Fowls can always pick up a few grains that lie about, and almost keep themselves. I think it would be a good exchange if I could get it for my goose. 

“Shall we exchange?” he asked the toll-taker. 

“Exchange,” repeated the man. “Well, it would not be a bad thing.”

And so they exchanged—the toll-taker at the turnpike gate kept the goose, and the peasant carried off the fowl. Now he had really done a great deal of business on his way to the fair, and he was hot and tired. He wanted something to eat, and a glass of ale to refresh himself, so he turned his steps to an inn. He was just about to enter when the hostler came out, and they met at the door. The hostler was carrying a sack.

“What have you in that sack?” asked the peasant.

“Rotten apples,” answered the hostler. “A whole sackful of them. They will do to feed the pigs with.”

“Why that will be terrible waste,” he replied. “I should like to take them home to my old woman. Last year the old apple tree by the grass plot only bore one apple, and we kept it in the cupboard till it was quite withered and rotten. It was always property, my old woman said, and here she would see a great deal of property—a whole sackful. I should like to show them to her.”

“What will you give me for the sackful?” asked the hostler.

“What will I give? Well, I will give you my fowl in exchange.”

So he gave up the fowl, and received the apples, which he carried into the inn parlour. He leaned the sack carefully against the stove, and then went to the table. But the stove was hot, and he had not thought of that. Many guests were present—horse dealers, cattle drovers, and two Englishmen. The Englishmen were so rich that their pockets quite bulged out and seemed ready to burst; and they could bet too, as you shall hear. 

‘Hiss-s-s, hiss-s-s.’ What was that by the stove? The apples were beginning to roast!

“What is that?” 

“Why, do you know…” said our peasant.

And he told them the whole story of the horse, which he had exchanged for a cow, and all the rest of it, down to the apples.

“Well, your old woman will give it you well when you get home,” said one of the Englishmen. “Won’t there be a noise?” 

“What! Give me what?” said the peasant. “Why, she will kiss me, and say ‘What the old man does is always right’ ”
“Shall we wager?” said the Englishman. “We’ll wager you a ton of coined gold, a hundred pounds to the hundred-weight.”

“No, a bushel will be enough,” replied the peasant. “I can only set a bushel of apples against it, and I’ll throw myself and my old woman into the bargain—and I fancy that’s piling up the measure.”

“Done—taken!” 

And the bet was made. The host’s carriage came to the door, and the two Englishmen and the peasant got in, and away they went, and soon they arrived and stopped before the peasant’s hut.

“Good evening, old woman.”

“Good evening, old man.”

“I’ve made the exchange.”

“Yes, you understand what you’re about,” said the woman.

Then she embraced him, and paid no attention to the strangers, nor did she notice the sack.

“I got a cow in exchange for the horse.”

“Heaven be thanked!” said she. “What glorious milk we shall now have, and butter and cheese on the table! That was a most capital exchange!”

“Yes, but I changed the cow for a sheep.”

“Ah, better still!” cried the wife. “You always think of everything. We have just enough pasture for a sheep. Ewe’s-milk and cheese and woollen jackets and stockings! The cow cannot give those and her hairs will only come off. How you think of everything!”

“But I changed away the sheep for a goose.”

“Then this year we shall really have roast goose to eat. You dear old man, you are always thinking of something to please me. How charming that is! We can let the goose walk about with a string tied to her leg, and she’ll grow fatter still before we roast her.”

“But I gave away the goose for a fowl.”

“A fowl! That was a good exchange,” replied the woman. “The fowl will lay eggs and hatch them, and we shall have chickens. We shall soon have a poultry-yard. Oh, that’s just what I was wishing for.”

“Yes, but I exchanged the fowl for a sack of shrivelled apples.”

“What! I must positively kiss you for that!” exclaimed the wife. “My dear, good husband! Now I’ll tell you something. Do you know, almost as soon as you left me this morning, I began to think of how I could give you something very nice this evening. I thought it should be pancakes with savoury herbs. I had eggs and bacon, but I wanted the herbs, so I went    over to the schoolmaster’s—they   have herbs there, I know—but the schoolmistress is a mean woman, though she looks so sweet. I begged her to lend me a handful of herbs. ‘Lend!’ she answered me; ‘I have nothing to lend—nothing at all grows in our garden, not even a shrivelled apple. I could not even lend you a shrivelled apple, my dear woman.’ But now I can lend her ten, or a whole sackful. That I’m very glad of; that makes me laugh!” And then she gave him a sounding kiss.

“Well, I like all this,” said both the Englishmen together. “Always going down the hill, and yet always merry. That’s worth the money.”

So they paid a hundredweight of gold to the peasant, who, whatever he did, was not scolded, but kissed.

Yes, it always pays, when the wife sees and always asserts that her husband knows best, and that whatever he does is right.

That is my story. I heard it when I was a child; and now you have heard it too, and know that ‘What the old man does is always right.’ 

Twice Bitten! 

swag of yarns summer 1997

 So one of the Australians said, real friendly like, “So where ya’ off to, mate?” 

“We’re going bush, old chap. We‘d like to experience life in the wild, camp under the stars, that sort of thing,” said one of the little fellows. 

Glances were exchanged at the bar. 

“You blokes better watch out for them mosquitos out there. Mosquitos out there are as big as kookaburras they are. Nothin’ they like better than lily white skin and good English blood. Better watch out for ‘em mate.” 

“It’s the snakes you’ll have to watch out for,  mate. Snakes out there will kill ya’ in thirty seconds flat. Lie in the long grass waitin’, they do. They’re biggins too.” 

 “Yeah, too right, mate. Snakes out there are big. The other day Charlie was just about to cut up this log lyin’ on the ground. Big log  it was, enough for  ten, twelve sleepers, maybe. Just as he starts to cut into it, the bloody thing takes off! Big black snake it was!” 

And so the locals continued to give the pommies some sound advice on survival in the bush. After  a while the two pommies, Eric and Claude,  were their names, I think, took off across country with their packs. 

“Do you think that’s  true, Claude, about the snakes I mean?” 

 “I don’t think so, old chap. I do rather think they were just having a chuckle with us.” 

They did ,however  each pick up a stick, just in case ,and as they walked through the bush they were careful to peer into the grass  before taking too many steps. 

Now, they came to a fence, an old wooden fence it was back in them days. Eric went over the fence first and Claude, well,  as he was hoisting himself up he heard a rustling  in the grass behind him.  He got a bit panicky like, remembering the stories about snakes hiding in the grass. In his haste to get over that fence fast, his boot got caught in the fence and came off . He was wearin’ black socks, sensible colour for the bush.. Then his big toe got caught in a knot-hole in the fence post. One leg had made it to the other side but the other was caught. 

 “Eric, quick, old chap. It’s a snake. It’s got me," he said as calmly as he could, but inside he was in sheer panic.* 

 “I say,” said Eric. “What rotten luck.” 

Eric was quick to his friend’s rescue. He spun around with his stick raised. He saw the dark head wiggling through the knot-hole and brought the stick down on it with all his might. Poor Claude let out an almighty yell! It could be heard for miles around. You’d never believe a yell like that could come from an Englishman.  Then he cried out to his friend. 

 “For pity’s sake, Eric, do something. It’s just bitten me!” 

 * * *

What a Bummer

swag of yarns summer 1997

Two swaggies met up by the river one night. They decided to make camp together. They were catching fish and sharing their rations. Then after a bit they settled down by the fire with a pack of cards and the night wore on.  It was nearly midnight when one of these swaggies has to ‘go ‘. When you’re on the road and campin’ out and ya’ gotta go, well ya’ gotta go behind a tree and that’s all there is to it.  So he disappeared into the bush to find a suitable tree and his mate waited by the fire . This swaggie  came runnin’ back to the camp, swearin’ and cussin’ like nobody’s business, and tryin’ to hitch his pants up.

 “What happened,” his mate said.

 “I’ve been bitten! Snake, I reckon!” He added a few other words too.

His mate got the torch and held it close to the appropriate section of the other’s anatomy . Sure enough there were two puncture marks in the pink skin.

 “Quick,” he said. “ Lay down on ya’ belly. I’ll see to it.”

He got a razor from his bluey and set to work as quickly as he could.  He cut the flesh on the appropriate section of his mate’s anatonomy and sucked out the poison. Then he tied it up as best he could. He knew he was supposed to make a tourniquet to stop any poison from reaching the heart but he wasn’t too sure where to tie that tourniquet in this case. Anyway he did his best.

When his mate was comfortable he picked up a heavy stick from the ground.

 “I’ll see if I can find ‘im and kill ‘im,” he said.

Off he went into the bush with his torch and stick. After a bit he came back to the camp, laughing his head off. His poor mate wasn’t too impressed.

 “What’s the big joke,” he asked, not too pleasantly.

His mate held up a belt the other bloke had been wearing. It was one o’ them flash varieties he’d picked up from some gent at some stage. Well, the buckle had double prongs. It had   fallen off when the swaggie had pulled his pants down, and lodged on a small rock. That’s what  had bitten him. He’d sat on his own belt! And that was all he sat on for some time after that.

* * *
Glossary