In Moidel’s tale we had almost forgotten our long walk back to the barn and the arrangement for supper previously at the huts.  Now, it curiously happened that whilst waiting for the tea-pan—­rather than tea-kettle—­to boil, I accidentally alighted upon a people’s calendar, published at Brixen for the current year, protruding its somewhat greasy pages from behind a churn; and after turning over long black-and red-lettered lists of fasts and feasts, came upon some pertinent advice to the Tyrolese farmers by Adolph Trientl, concerning Milzbrand.  He described it as a dreadful pestilence, the scourge of many a mountain-pasture.  Hundreds of cattle, he tells them, are sacrificed to it yearly.  Even the deer and lesser game die from the contagion, as well as human beings; death in the latter case being occasioned either by eating the meat of diseased animals or by having cuts or wounds which have come in contact with the victims.  Even the bite of a fly which has fed on the contaminated meat will propagate the malady.  Hides or reins made of the skins are known years after to reproduce Milzbrand.  Where the body of an affected animal has been buried the ground becomes contagious for a long run of years, the cattle pasturing there being attacked.  The only remedy consists in burning the contaminated body, and then keeping the live-stock from the place where the victim fell.  When Milzbrand appears the farmer feels he has no option between sacrificing his cattle and abandoning for a season his rich pastures.  And yet a little attention might soon cause a remedy, the evil often arising from the water of a particular pool or brook, which if carefully guarded against makes the rest of the Alp perfectly secure.

When I ventured to quote from the calendar to Moidel, suggesting that at Jagdhaus it might certainly be the water, she remained impervious to any new views on the subject.  “There was Milzbrand, and that might arise from the water, for all she knew, but at Jagdhaus it was a rod of God, which only prayer averted.”

Adolf Trientl appears to be a Tyrolese priest, who travels annually through his native land watching closely the agriculture and domestic economy, and trying, countenanced by government, to help his country people to an easier working life, healthier houses and more profitable land.  To the credit of the clergy of Brixen, his practical often pithy remarks are published in their church calendar.  He and his colleagues must, however, use almost supernatural patience and energy before they can move a Tyroler one jot from the beaten path which his ancestors have taken for a thousand years before him.  The people are perfectly content, it is pleaded, with the existing state of things:  why should they change their sowing or ploughing any more than the sun his course or the mountains their position?  Changes, like bad weather, breed discontent.

We had brought no books with us for our five days at the Olm, and in the pauses of our out-door enjoyment the calendar, greasy rather from contact with butter and milk than with fingers, afforded amusing, profitable reading:  a lecture may often be pleasant to hear when not addressed to one’s self.