THE VIOLIN VILLAGE.

By Edith Hawkins.

On the borders of the Tyrol and the lovely district known as the “Bavarian Highlands,” there is a quaint little village called “Mittenwald,” which at first sight appears shut in by lofty mountains as by some great and insurmountable barrier.  The villagers are a simple, industrious people, chiefly occupied in the manufacture of stringed musical instruments, the drying of which, on fine days, presents a very droll appearance.  The gardens seem to have blossomed out in the most eccentric manner; for there, dangling from lines like clothes, hang zithers, guitars, and violins, by hundreds, from the big bass to the little “kit,” and the child’s toy.

In this valley, one clear morning in August, as the church clock struck five, a lad issued from the arched entrance of one of the pretty gabled houses along the main street.  He was not more than twelve years of age, yet an expression of thoughtfulness in his clear, blue eyes, gave and added an older look to his otherwise boyish face.  His costume was a gray suit of coarse cloth, trimmed with green; his knees and feet were bare, but he wore knitted leggings of green worsted.  A high-crowned hat of green felt, adorned with some glossy black cock’s feathers, a whip and a small brass horn slung by a cord from his shoulder completed the outfit of the village goatherd.  He hastened along by the green-bordered brook crossed by planks, over one of which Stephan—­for that was our hero’s name—­leaped as he came up to the simple wooden fountain, which, as in most Bavarian villages, stood in the middle of the road.

A piece of black bread and a long draught from the fountain was Stephan’s breakfast, which being speedily finished, he broke the morning stillness with repeated blasts from the horn, which seemed to awake the valley as by magic; for scarcely had the more distant mountains echoed the summons, than from almost every door-way scampered one or more goats.  All hurried in the direction of the water-tank, where they stood on their hind legs to drink, jostled one another or frisked about in the highest spirits, till fully two hundred were assembled, rendering the street impassable.  A peculiar cry from the boy and a sharp crack of the whip were the signals for a general move.  Away they skipped helter-skelter through the town, along the accustomed road, high up the rocky mountain-side.  The little animals were hungry, so stopped every now and then to nibble the attractive grassy tufts, long before the allotted feeding ground was reached.  There was, however, little fear of losing them, as each wore a tiny bell round the neck, which, tinkling at every movement, warned the boy of the straggler; a call invariably brought it back, though often by a circuitous route, enabling the animal to keep beyond the reach of the whip, which Stephan lashed about with boyish enjoyment.