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THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



use; and, in case of need, many of the 

 men can themselves shoulder a small can- 

 non on a day's climb. 



the; spirit of the; mountaine;er 



At Innsbruck one sees them literally in 

 "Sunday best," standing at ease before the 

 door of the Hofkirche, where a company 

 or two attend mass on Sundays and feast 

 days, or marching through the public 

 gardens ; but to see them at work one 

 must meet them on the mountain roads 

 or along the frontiers. A hardy, healthy- 

 looking lot, rarely ill. According to their 

 surgeon, "If one did not break a leg or 

 mash a hand now and then, I should have 

 nothing to do." Inured to the hardest of 

 beds and of fare, imbued with a deep 

 love of country, pious almost to supersti- 

 tion and superstitious almost to the point 

 of uncanny fear, fond of a rough joke 

 and rougher dancing, singing marvelously 

 sweet and true, not very quick-witted 

 possibly, but swift-footed and thorough, 

 they are an effective body of men, both 

 in appearance and service. 



AN inte;nse; love of their mountains 



We were told repeatedly that they 

 served only their "own country" — that is, 

 Tyrol ; that men from other States might 

 never be sent there, nor they to defend 

 other States. A marked exception to the 

 rule of military service in Germany or 

 Austria, it was a necessary concession, so 

 said a Tyrolean officer, to a people in- 

 tensely loyal to their Emperor "in their 

 own land." 



War breaks all rules. We heard last 

 autumn that the Kaiser jager were serv- 

 ing on the Austro-Russian frontier ; that 

 German troops were massed on the 

 Austro-Italo border. Is it true? It is 

 said the Kaiser jager would far rather 

 fight Russia than Italy, and perhaps vol- 

 unteered for that service when, as then 

 seemed inevitable, Italy must join the 

 Allies. North Tyrol is quite Austrian, 

 but the South borders Italy. In the Am- 

 pezzo-tal, where Cortina lies, the people 

 speak a curious dialect, more Italian than 

 German ; and while the schools teach 

 German and all the people are able to use 

 that tongue if they will, they revert to 

 Italian whenever the stranger can under- 

 stand it. "Si, signora, si — I speak Ger- 



man, but Italian is my mother-tongue; 

 the German, it is a stepmother." 



A distinction and a difference 



But their land, that is their real 

 mother, and how narrowly they describe 

 it. Toiling one day up that loveliest and 

 steepest of roads leading from Cortina to 

 Tre Croci, "Jorg," I asked idly, "Jorg, 

 do you love your country?" 



And Jorg, the ever-cheerful, trusty 

 companion of many a mountain excur- 

 sion, answers, beaming, "Ach ja, gnadige 

 Frau," while the red mounts darkly 

 under his sunburnt skin. Then his face 

 saddens. "But this, this is not my coun- 

 try, dear lady; I am a stranger here." 

 We are coming under Monte Cristallo 

 and I look up and around for soldiers. 

 "What ! have we already crossed the 

 Italian frontier?" "Nein, nein, das nicht, 

 gnadige Frau ; but it is in Cortina that I 

 am a stranger ; my home is at Buchen- 

 stein." Now Buchenstein lays in an- 

 other valley, but a fairly close neighbor 

 to Cortina ; one pass alone and 20 hilly 

 miles separate them. But Jorg is a 

 stranger in Ampezzo-Tal, and "his land," 

 of which he is so fond, is merely the 

 green ravine of the Cordevole. "A moun- 

 tainous land makes tribes ; a plain welds 

 a nation." The Tyrolean loves his coun- 

 try, but it is his own corner of it; he 

 serves his Kaiser and his flag there; he 

 pines of homesickness elsewhere. And I 

 doubt other legs and lungs could long de- 

 fend its mountains. One must be born 

 to them. 



Jorg is still marching head erect, shoul- 

 ders back, step springy beside my car- 

 riage, while the horses strain at the traces 

 on the steepest part of a steep road. It 

 is that one which rises from Cortina 

 (4,000 feet) through the hamlets of La- 

 retto and Alvera, the lovely Bigontina 

 Valley, straight to the pass of Tre Croci 

 (5,930 feet). Two things do greatly en- 

 dear it to us : its unmatchable loveliness 

 and its lack of motor-cars. A true Tyro- 

 lean road, narrow, steep, and stony, go- 

 ing to its destination by the straightest 

 possible line. Each summer morning a 

 long procession of carriages and pedes- 

 trians starts up it, and while it accommo- 

 datingly spreads great carpets of forget- 

 me-nots, huge clumps of Alpine roses, 



