The Story of the Red Cross as told to The Little Colonel | Page 6

rising at her
approach, came forward joyfully wagging his tail.
The conversation was easy to begin, with Hero for a subject. There
were many things she wanted to know about him: how he happened to
belong to the Major; what country he came from; why he was called a
St. Bernard, and if the Major had ever owned any other dogs.
After a few questions it all came about as she had hoped it would. The
old man settled himself back in his chair, thought a moment, and then
began at the first of his acquaintance with St. Bernard dogs, as if he

were reading a story from a book.
"Away 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 top of his voice to attract the attention
of lost travellers. Many a time he dropped into the drifts exhausted;
with scarcely enough strength left to drag himself back to the hospice.
[Illustration: "HE PLUNGED OUT ALONE INTO THE DEEP
SNOW"]
"Forty lives saved is a good record. You may be sure that in his old age
Barry was tenderly cared for. The monks gave him a pension and sent
him to Berne, where the climate is much warmer. When he died, a
taxidermist preserved his skin, and he was placed in the museum at
Berne, where he stands to this day, I am told, with the little flask
around his neck. I saw him there one time, and although Barry was
only a dog, I stood with uncovered head before him. For he was as truly
a hero and served human kind as nobly as if he had fallen on the field
of battle.
"He had been trained like a soldier to his duty, and no matter how the
storms raged on the mountains, how dark the night, or how dangerous
the paths that led along the slippery precipices, at the word of
command he sprang to obey. Only a dumb beast, some people would
call him, guided only by brute instinct, but in his shaggy old body beat
a loving heart, loyal to his master's command, and faithful