The inn-keeper, Herr Schmidt, was a big, raw-boned man with a red face and a jolly air. He was a genuine Wirthe or inn-keeper of the old-time; and after supper, as they all sat in the great sitz-saal together, he told them wonderful tales of the country round about, which so abounded in legends and folk-lore. As the position of Wirthe descends from father to son, for generations back, as long as there remains any sons to occupy that honored position, naturally, too, the legends are passed from one to the other, so that no one is quite so well able to recite these as our hearty friend Herr Schmidt.

"If it were not so late," remarked Herr Hofer, while the men sat and smoked their long, curious pipes, "I should continue on to Volders, for it looks as if to-morrow might be stormy."

"Oh, you need have no fear as to that," replied the host. "I noticed Frau HÜtte did not have her night-cap on."

Ferdinand looked at his little cousin with his face so puckered up with glee and merriment, that Leopold laughed outright.

"Do tell Ferdinand about Frau HÜtte, father!" said the child.

"No, I think Herr Wirthe better able to do that. Bitte," and he saluted the inn-keeper in deference.

"And have you never heard of Frau HÜtte, my boy?" asked the host.

"No, sir," replied the boy. "You know I live in Vienna."

"Well, everybody knows her," replied the inn-keeper; "but then, you are a little young yet, so I will tell you."

"Very long ago, in the time of giants and fairies,— But then you don't believe in fairies, do you?" and the fellow's eyes sparkled keenly.

"Oh, yes, I do," exclaimed the boy hastily, for fear if he denied the existence of such beings, he should miss a good story.

"Well, then, there was a queen over the giants who was called Frau HÜtte."

"Oh," interrupted the lad, "then she isn't a real person?"

"Oh, yes, she was; but that was long ago," continued the story teller. "Well, Frau HÜtte had a young son who was very much like any other little child; he wanted whatever he wanted, and he wanted it badly. One day, this giant child took a notion he should like to have a hobby horse. Without saying a word to any one, he ran off to the edge of the forest and chopped himself a fine large tree. But evidently the child did not know much about felling trees, for this one fell over and knocked him into the mud. With loud cries, he ran home to his mother. Instead of punishing him, she bade the nurse wipe off the mud with a piece of white bread. No one but the very richest could afford the luxury of white bread, black bread being considered quite good enough for ordinary consumption, so no wonder the mountain began to shake and the lightning to flash, just as soon as the maid started to obey her mistress' command.

"Frau HÜtte was so frightened at this unexpected storm that she picked up her son in her arms and made for the mountain peak some distance from her palace. No sooner had she left the palace than it disappeared from view, even to the garden, and nothing was ever seen of it again. But even in her retreat the wasteful queen was not secure. When she had seated herself upon the rock, she became a stone image, holding her child in her arms. And there she sits to this day. When the clouds hover about her head then we know there will be a storm, but when Frau HÜtte does not wear her night-cap," and the Wirthe's eyes sparkled, "then we are certain of clear weather."

"Ever since then, the Tyrolese have made Frau HÜtte the theme of a proverb 'Spart eure Brosamen fur die Armen, damit es euch nicht ergehe wie der Frau HÜtte,' which really means 'Spare your crumbs for the poor, so that you do not fare like Frau HÜtte,' a lesson to the extravagant."

There were endless more stories, all of which delighted the boys immensely, but we could not begin to relate them all, for Tyrol is so overladen with the spirit of the past, and with the charm of legend, that the very air itself breathes of fairies and giants, and days of yore, so that in invading its territory one feels he is no longer in this work-a-day world, but in some enchanted spot.

Early the next morning, up with the sun, all were ready for the drive home. As Herr Wirthe had predicted, the day was fair; as they drove away from the Inn, they caught a glimpse of Frau HÜtte in the distance beyond Innsbruck, and, sure enough, there she sat on her mountain peak, with her great son safely sheltered in her arms.

"Shall we go to the salt mines, father?" asked Leopold, as they made their way along the mountain road.

"No, we cannot take the time; mother will be waiting for us and the women folks are impatient to visit, I know."

"They have wonderful salt mines at Salzburg," said Ferdinand. "Perhaps we may go there some time to visit them."

"Perhaps," replied his father. "But, while we are on the subject, did it ever occur to you that Salzburg means the 'town or castle of salt?'—for, in the old times, all towns were within castle-walls, to protect them from depredations of the enemy."

"Isn't it curious?" meditated Ferdinand.

The Inn River crossed, they continued to climb. Herr Hofer stopped to rest the horses; he glanced about him at the panorama below, and chuckled mirthfully.

"What's the matter, uncle?" asked Ferdinand.

"Oh, nothing much; but every time I see the towns of Hall and Thaur, just over there," and he pointed with the handle of his whip, "I think of the Bauernkrieg."

"But there isn't anything very funny about a war, is there, uncle?" asked the serious little fellow.

"Well," rambled on his uncle, "there was about this one. You see, in early times, when Tyrol was not quite so peaceful as it is to-day, these two cities were most jealous of each other, and were always at feud. A watchman stood on the tower, day and night, to prevent any surprise from his neighbor. One night, in midsummer,—and a very hot night it was, too,—the people of Hall were roused from their slumbers, if they had been able to sleep at all in such heat, by the voice of the watchman calling them to arms.

"'What is the trouble, watchman?' cried one and all, as they appeared at their windows.

"'Oh,' exclaimed the frightened fellow, 'hasten, friends, hasten! The whole town of Thaur is at our gates; and not only are they advancing toward us, but each man boldly carries a lantern.'

"Such audacity was never heard of before. In utmost consternation the people gathered in the village square and held a consultation. It was finally arranged that Herr Zott, the steward of the salt mine, and therefore a most important personage in the village, should meet the enemy with a flag of truce and demand the reason for this unexpected attack. The inhabitants of Hall, in fear and trembling, awaited Herr Zott's return.

"The truce-bearer left the city gates and proceeded into the plain, which separated their village from the enemy's. On and on he went; but not one soul did he meet. The great army of men, each carrying a lantern, had disappeared as if by magic. Finally he reached the walls of Thaur, where all was as quiet as it should be at that time of the night.

"He turned his horse's head homeward. The night was very still, and over the plain flashed the lights of thousands of fireflies, reveling in the warm summer breeze. It was not until he had reached the very gates of his own town that Herr Zott realized what had caused all the excitement. The watchman had mistaken the fireflies for lanterns; and naturally, as some one must carry the lanterns, who more probable than their enemy, the people of Thaur?

"The townsfolks betook themselves to their beds again, laughing heartily over the mistake; and even to this day we laugh over the incident which has become a by-word in Tyrol; Bauernkrieg, or the peasant's war."

"But I don't see how peasant's war can mean anything now," said Ferdinand.

"Well, when one becomes excited over nothing," returned his uncle, "they exclaim 'Bauernkrieg.' Some day you will hear it, and then you will recollect the origin of it."

Not long after this tale, the carriage stopped in front of a most charming home on the mountainside. The first story was stuccoed, while across the entire front and two sides of the second and third stories ran a wide wooden balcony. Boxes of red and white geraniums decked the top of the fancy balustrade, while vines trailed themselves far over, giving the house a most "homey" appearance. The lower story receded far behind the overhanging second story, which formed a convenient space for sheltering the cattle. There is little available space in Tyrol for outbuildings, the mountains rising so precipitously that there is but little level. But, as stone floors separate the house from the stable, odors do not penetrate as much as one would imagine.

At the front of the house stood a woman of middle age, her hair carefully drawn back under an immense head-dress, so tall it seemed as if she would be unable to enter the doorway. She wore a black skirt, so very full it had the appearance of being a hoop-skirt; but this effect was produced by her ten extremely full petticoats. The reputation of a Tyrolese woman depends, in a great degree, to the number of petticoats she wears; sometimes young girls, who value modesty highly, wear as many as fifteen or more.

Over the black skirt, which showed to advantage the white stockings and low shoes with their shining buckles of silver, was a most elaborately embroidered black apron, the work of many hours of tedious labor for the housewife. About her waist was twined a bright yellow sash which brightened up the dark bodice, with its short sleeves tied fantastically with bright yellow ribbons.

The woman nodded to the travelers; Herr Hofer pulled up his horses and descended from the carriage.

"Well, meine liebe frau, here we are," said he, as he greeted his wife.

Such hugging as followed! Ferdinand was clasped time and again against the ample bosom of Frau Hofer, and even Herr MÜller came in for a goodly share, while as for the greeting that Frau MÜller received, no words may convey its warmth.

The party made its way up the narrow stairway with carved balustrade, which led from the ground floor to the second story, upon the outside of the house. This is the most convenient manner of building staircases in Tyrol, because it does not track mud and dirt through the corridors, and saves much interior space.

The guest-room was certainly restful looking. Its dark polished floor of pine had been newly polished until it fairly radiated; the big bed of wood, painted a vivid color of green, also had received scrupulous polishing; two small home-made rugs, one at the bedside, the other at the washstand, had been scrubbed and beaten until it seemed as if there would be nothing left of them. At the side of the canopied bed stood a tiny foot-stool: the Tyrolese beds being extremely high make the use of a stool necessary. No doubt the object of this is to avoid draughts, as none of the floors are carpeted, many being of cement. Immaculate white curtains hung at the casement windows, those dear little windows, unlike anything we have in America, which open into the room and give such a cosy character to the home. A basin of Holy Water was hung in its accustomed place, and the image of the Virgin hung over the table; for, you must know, the Tyrolese are devout Roman Catholics, as, in fact, are nearly all the natives of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.