From the little village of Brunen, whose red chimneys were visible
above a group of oak and beech trees, the sound of the evening bell
was heard, reminding the pious peasants, engaged in cutting and
garnering their golden corn, of the hour for devotion.

With the sweet sounds of the bell mingled the joyous mountain yodel
of the cowherd, who had just descended the little hill yonder, with
his herd straying here and there, in picturesque confusion. Upon the
green meadow in the foreground, the flocks of the village were
pasturing, strictly guarded by a large white dog, whose stern,
martial glance not the slightest movement among his army contrary to
discipline, escaped. As soon as one of the sheep committed to his
care left the fold and approached the field where the reapers were
mowing the corn, which was bound at once in sheaves by busy maidens,
the stern Phylax barking, growling, and snarling, rushed after the
audacious wanderer who sought to appease the anger of his inexorable
overseer by a speedy return.

The old shepherd, sitting not far off upon a little wooden stool,
with his long, silver hair falling about him, was engaged in weaving
a graceful basket of some meadow roots; at every bark of his Phylax
he looked up and smiled his approval at his faithful steward;
occasionally he gazed across the meadow at the reapers and busy
maidens, then there came upon his venerable old countenance an
expression of great interest. And well he might be pleased with what
he saw there; for that tall, sturdy youth, standing in the wagon,
waiting with outstretched arms to catch the sheaves which are
skilfully thrown him; that youth with the bright rosy face, the
sparkling eye, the full red lip, upon which there is always a merry