In a beautiful valley in Switzerland there lived a rich farmer, named Pierre, with his wife Mary, and son Anselmo. When Pierre was very young, he had been found, almost dead, in the snow, by one of the monks of St. Bernard, and his dog; and he felt so grateful that, now he was rich, he had sent to the Convent of St. Bernard for one of those large dogs which are so famous for saving people that are lost in the snow; for Pierre was a good man, and he wanted to have one of the dogs himself, so as to be able to save any traveller who might have lost his way. So one of the monks who had taken care of him brought him a little puppy, and he trained it so well, that even in the first year he had brought home several travellers; but the first life he saved was Pierre’s own son, Anselmo.

The little fellow had been sent across the hill to a distant village; it was a clear, frosty day, and if he had minded what his mother had said, and come home quickly, he might have been home long before dark; but Anselmo did not think of this;—now he stopped to make snow-balls, and roll them before him, till they were larger and higher than himself; then he would push them over the rocks, and watch them, as they bounded from one part to another, breaking to a thousand pieces on their way; now he wandered from the path to follow the track of an Izard, that perhaps had passed hours before, and that he well knew would never allow him to come within sight of it. And so the time passed on, and when he ought to have been there, he was not even half-way. When he did reach the village, there were too many little boys ready to play with him, for Anselmo to leave it soon; so that it was already getting dark when he stood alone on the top of one of the highest hills between him and his home.

The wind had begun to blow, and the snow was drifting around him; he grew cold and frightened, and at last sat down and burst into tears. Now, for the first time, he thought of all his kind mother had told him, and remembered that in disobeying her, he had offended God. The longer little Anselmo sat in the snow the more cold he became, until at last he seemed to fall asleep—a sleep from which he would never more awake, had not God, from whom he had asked forgiveness for his disobedience, watched over him in the hour of danger.

Many hours before this, his mother had gone, again and again, to look for his return, and now when the wind began to blow, and the grey light of evening come on, she trembled to think that her child was alone on the hills, with snow on every side.

Pierre had been away from home two days; he was to return that night. And oh! how she feared it might be to find Anselmo gone, his little boy lost to him for ever; for she thought that if he should miss the path in the drifting snow, he would never find it again.

“Here, St. Bernard,” said she to the dog, “go and find Anselmo; go and seek for my child, my brave dog!” and she burst into tears, and threw her arms round his neck. Well did St. Bernard understand her words; he sprang from her hold, and darting through the door, was out of sight in a moment.

The poor woman smiled. “It will be a comfort to him,” she said, “to see his good dog, and will cheer his heart and give him strength for the rest of the way.” Poor Mary! little did she think that already her boy was stretched upon the snow, stiff and cold, and almost without life.

An hour had passed; but neither Pierre, Anselmo, or St. Bernard, had yet returned. Again and again she wandered round the house and looked down the path. At last a figure was seen, and as it came nearer, she saw it was Pierre, and that he had his child in his arms, and that St. Bernard was at his side. “Thank God! thank God!” she said; and she ran down the hill to meet them. Anselmo is tired with his long walk, thought she, and no wonder. Pierre must be tired too; I’ll carry the boy myself. But as she came near, she stopped; for a sudden fear seemed to have struck her, and she covered her face with her hands.

“He is not dead, Mary,” shouted Pierre; “he is better already; see, he looks up to you,” and the child tried to raise his hand, but it fell by his side.

Anselmo was laid in a warm bed—they rubbed his hands and feet; and soon he began to revive, and to look about him, and then to thank his father and mother, and to tell them that he felt better.

After Pierre and Mary had knelt by the bedside of their child, and thanked God for his mercy in restoring him to them, his mother for the first time asked how it had all happened, and where he had been found.

Anselmo turned his face away, and for a moment did not answer; then he said: “Mother had sent me to the village, and I staid too long there; I had played by the way too as I went. So it was getting dark, and I lost my way, and was cold long before I could reach home; so I sat down, meaning to rest a little, and began to cry, but I do not know anything after that. I think I remember feeling very sleepy, and I suppose I did fall asleep, but I do not know; my father can tell you best, mother, for he found me.”

“No,” said Pierre, “I did not find you, my dear boy; I was close to the foot of the hill, thinking that I should meet you all well, and at home, when I saw something moving on the snow; it stopped; and then I heard St. Bernard’s bark; it seemed wanting my help, and I hastened up the hill. He was coming to meet me, his head high in the air; his step through all the drifting snow was firm and sure, and I saw that he carried a child in his mouth; but when he laid the child at my feet, I saw it was Anselmo, my own son!”

“Then it was St. Bernard, good, kind, St. Bernard,” cried the boy, “who carried me all the way from the top of that high hill, for I am quite sure it was there I sat down.”

Whether this lesson cured the little boy of loitering on his way, I cannot tell. I hope and think it must have done so, but this I know, St. Bernard became more than ever a favourite,—more than ever loved and valued by the whole neighbourhood, and he continued showing his wonderful instinct and bravery, in many ways.

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