h the passing
seasons, the old well with its moss covered roof jewels the terrace with
its emerald green; through the chapel windows the painted light streams
over walls where in silver on scarlet still flies the Grue. On the clock
tower, still circling, the hands mark the passing of time and the bells
in the church still ring out their summons to prayer. At Easter the
"Benichons" bring the people together for their old dances and songs,
and in the long "Veillees" the lads and the maids through the summer
nights or in winter beside their bright fires, watch the dawning of
love. The maidens, like Juliet, lean from low vine-covered windows, and
with beckoning candles invite their lovers to climb. The spring pastures
still blossom with marjolaine and narcissus, with cowslips and rue, the
orchards still redden in autumn with ripe fruit which falls with the
breeze, with tressed wheat, goats, and cows black and white; the green
fertile country abounds, and as in Provence a Mireille is the poet's
dream of its maids, so is "_Marie la Tresseuse_" in poems and tales the
wheat weaving girl of Gruyere. The "Armaillis" still drive their herds
to the mountains, still singing "_Le ranz des vaches_," the song which
among all others best reveals the soul of their race. "Lioba," "Lioba,"
one should hear the refrain as it echoes from the valleys and hills, the
same cry, musical, lingering, melancholy, which through century after
century has been sung by generations of Gruyere herdsmen.

"Le Ranz des Vaches."

The herdsmen of the Colombettes,
To milk the cows arose.
Ha! Ha! Lioba.

Come! Come! Large and small,
The black, the white, the short, the tall,
Starry forehead, red and gold,
All the young and all the old.
Under the oak tree come!
Ha! Ha! Lioba.

Bells came first,
Jet black came last,
But at the stream they stopped aghast.
Ha! Ha! Lioba.

Alas, poor Pierre! what will you do?
Trouble enough you have, 'tis true.
Ha! Ha! Lioba.

At the Cure's door
You now must tap,
He'll tell you how to cross the gap.
Ha! Ha! Lioba.

And what should I to the Cure say?
A mass shall I beg, or will he pray
To help my cows go over?
Ha! Ha! Lioba.

The Cure he, of a cheese was fain,
"A creamy cheese, or your cows remain
On the other side, 'tis very plain."
Ha! Ha! Lioba.

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