y up in the Alpine Mountains, too high for trees to grow, where
there is only bare rock and snow and cutting winds, climbs the road that
is known as the Great St. Bernard Pass. It is an old, old road. The
Celts crossed it when they invaded Italy. The Roman legions crossed it
when they marched out to subdue Gaul and Germany. Ten hundred years ago
the Saracen robbers hid among its rocks to waylay unfortunate
travellers. You will read about all that in your history sometime, and
about the famous march Napoleon made across it on his way to Marengo.
But the most interesting fact about the road to me, is that for over
seven hundred years there has been a monastery high up on the bleak
mountain-top, called the monastery of St. Bernard.

"Once, when I was travelling through the Alps, I stopped there one cold
night, almost frozen. The good monks welcomed me to their hospice, as
they do all strangers who stop for food and shelter, and treated me as
kindly as if I had been a brother. In the morning one of them took me
out to the kennels, and showed me the dogs that are trained to look for
travellers in the snow. You may imagine with what pleasure I followed
him, and listened to the tales he told me.

"He said there is not as much work for the dogs now as there used to be
years ago. Since the hospice has been connected with the valley towns by
telephone, travellers can inquire about the state of the weather and the
paths, before venturing up the dangerous mountain passes. Still, the
storms begin with little warning sometimes, and wayfarers are overtaken
by them and lost in the blinding snowfall. The paths fill suddenly, and
but for the dogs many would perish."

"Oh, I know," interrupted Lloyd, eagerly. "There is a story about them
in my old third readah, and a pictuah of a big St. Bernard dog with a
flask tied around his neck, and a child on his back."

"Yes," answered the Major, "it is quite probable that that was a picture
of the dog they call Barry. He was with the good monks for twelve years,
and in that time saved the lives of forty travellers. There is a
monument erected to him in Paris in the cemetery for dogs. The sculptor
carved that picture into the stone, the noble animal with a child on his
back, as if he were in the act of carrying it to the hospice. Twelve
years is a long time for a dog to suffer such hardship and exposure.
Night after night he plunged out alone into the deep snow and the
darkness, barking at the t