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FANCIERS' JOURNAL AND POULTRY EXCHANGE. 



THE GREAT ST. BERNARD. 



By the pass of the Great St. Bernard travelers cross the 

 Pennine Alps (Penn, a Celtic word, meaning height) along 

 the mountain road which leads from Martigny, in Switzer- 

 land, to Aosta, in Piedmont. ; On the crest of the pass, 8200 

 feet above the sea level, stands the Hospice, tenanted by 

 about a dozen monks. This is supposed to be the highest 

 spot in Europe inhabited by human beings. The climate is 

 necessarily rigorous, the thermometer in winter being often 

 twenty-nine degrees below zero, whilst sixty-eight degrees 

 Fahr. is about the highest range ever attained in summer. 

 Prom the extreme difficulty of respiration, few of the monks 

 ever survive the period of their vow, which is fifteen years, 

 commencing at the age of eighteen. This hospice is said to 

 have been first founded in the year 962, by Bernard, a Pied- 

 montese nobleman. It will be remembered that it was over 

 this pass Napoleon, in May, 1800, led an army of 30,000 men 

 into Italy, having with them heavy artillery and cavalry. 



For poor travelers and traders the hospice is really a place 

 of refuge. During winter, crossing this pass is a very dan- 

 gerous affair. The snow falls in small particles, and remains 

 as dry as dust. "Whirlwinds, called " tourmentes," catch up 

 this light snow, and carrying it with blinding violence 

 against the traveler, burying every landmark, at once put 

 an end to knowledge of position. Avalanches, too, are of 

 frequent occurrence. 



After violent storms, or the fall of avalanches, or any other 

 unusual severity of winter weather, the monks set out in search 

 of travelers who may have been overwhelmed by the snow 

 in their ascent of the pass. They are generally accompanied 

 in their search by dogs of a peculiar breed, commonly known 

 as the St. Bernard's Dog, on account of the celebrated mon- 

 astery where these magnificent animals are taught to exer- 

 cise their wondrous powers, which have gained for them and 

 their teachers a world-wide fame. On their neck is a bell, 

 to attract the attention of any belated wayfarer, and their 

 deep and powerful bay quickly gives notice to the benevo- 

 lent monks to hurry to the relief of any unfortunate tra- 

 veler they may find. Some of the dogs carry, attached to 

 their collars, a flask of spirits or other restorative. Their 

 wonderfully acute sense of smell enables them to detect the 

 bodies of persons buried deeply beneath the surface of the 

 snow, and thus direct the searchers where to dig for them. 

 The animal's instinct seems to teach it, too, where hidden 

 chasms or clefts, filled with loose snow, are, for it carefully 

 avoids them, and thus is an all-important guide to the 

 monks themselves. 



"We have stories without number as to what these dogs ac- 

 complish on their own account, how they dig out travelers, 

 and bring them sometimes, unaided by man, to the hos- 

 pice. A few years ago, one of these faithful animals might 

 be seen wearing a medal, and regarded with much affection 

 by all. This noble dog had well deserved the distinction, 

 for one stormy day he had saved twenty-two individuals 

 buried in their snowy envelope. Unfortunately he met, at 

 a subsequent period, the very fate from which he had res- 

 cued so many persons. At the worst season an Italian 

 courier was crossing the pass, attended by two monks, each 

 escorted by a dog (one being the wearer of the medal), when 

 suddenly a vast avalanche shot down upon them with light- 

 ning speed, and they were all lost. 



Another of these dogs, named "Barry," had served the 

 St. Bernard convent during twelve years, and had saved the 



lives of fifteen persons during that time. "Whenever the 

 pass was obscured by fogs and wintry snow-storms, he would 

 go forth in search of lost travelers. It was his practice to 

 run barking till he lost his breath, and he would venture 

 into the most dangerous places. If, as sometimes happened, 

 he did not succeed in drawing out from the snow some tra- 

 veler stiffened with cold or overcome with exhaustion, he 

 would run back to the convent and fetch some of the monks. 

 One day this brave dog found a little child in a half-frozen 

 state. He began directly to lick him, and having succeeded 

 first in restoring animation, and next in the complete resus- 

 citation of the boy, he induced the child, by his caresses, 

 to tie himself on his back. "When this was effected, he 

 transported the poor child, as if in triumph, to the hospice. 

 "When overtaken by old age, the glorious dog was pensioned 

 off by way of reward, and after his death his body was stuf- 

 fed and placed in the museum at Berne. 

 . It is said that dogs of this variety inherit the faculty of 

 tracking footsteps in snow. A gentleman once obtained a 

 pup which had been produced in London by a female of the 

 St. Bernard breed. The young animal was brought to 

 Scotland, where it was never observed to have any particu- 

 lar tokens of a power of tracking footsteps until winter. 

 Then, when the ground was covered with snow, it showed 

 the utmost inclination to follow footsteps ; and such was its 

 power of doing so, that though its master might attempt to 

 confuse it by walking in the most irregular fashion, and by 

 inducing other persons to cross his path in all directions, 

 yet it always followed his course with great precision. — 

 Cottager and Artisan. 



THE DOG OF ST. BERNARD'S. 



They tell that oa St. Bernard's mount, 



Where holy monks abide, 

 Still mindful of misfortune's claim, 



Though dead to all beside ; 



The weary, wayworn traveler 

 Oft sinks beneath the snow; 



For, where his faltering steps to bend, 

 No track is left to show. 



'Twas here, bewildered and alone, 

 A stranger roamed at night; 



His heart was heavy as his tread, 

 His scrip alone was light. 



Onward he pressed, yet many an hour 



He had not tasted food ; 

 And many an hour he had not known 



Which way his footsteps trod ; 



And if the convent's bell had rung 



To hail the pilgrim near, 

 It still had rung in vain for him — 



He was too far to hear ; 



And should the morning light disclose 



Its towers amid the snow, 

 To him 'twould be a mournful sight — 



He had not strength to go. 



Valor could arm no mortal man 

 That night to meet the storm — 



No glow of pity could have kept, 

 A human bosom warm. 



But obedience to a master's will 

 Had taught the Dog to roam, 



And through the terrors of the waste, 

 To fetch the wanderer home. 



And if it be too much to say 



That pity gave him speed, 

 'Tis sure he not unwillingly 



Performed the generous deed. 



For now he listens — and anon 

 He scents the distant breeze, 



And casts a keen and anxious look 

 On every speck he sees. 



And now deceived, he darts along, * 



As if he trod the air- 

 Then disappointed, droops his head 



With more than human care. 



