grass, or hard labor, that the beast of destruction may sleep in safety.
In his home in Appenzell, they already had that which they whispered so carefully in Paris. He thought of his circumspect uncles, their cows and calves, their fields and Alps. It is surely the Paradise of the human race, my dear Switzerland, thought the sergeant—and—thus deep in thought, without knowing what he was doing, he sang the kuhreihen.
There it was and done for.
The news from America had put more rage into people’s hearts than my honest great, great grandfather Primus could estimate.
For a long time discipline in the army had been neglected. There were men of his own country in the regiment, and a dozen joined softly the refrain of my great grandfather’s song, so that the kuhreihen rang far and loud. No one had sung it before for decades, and therefore no one had been punished. But now it sounded quite differently than in the olden days. Not a song of exile and homesickness! No; now it was a song of defiance. They reveled, and shouted the song. But although my grandfather stole away when he saw they were destroying the spirit of his song, and although only a couple of Appenzell cow-herds ran away and deserted, he was the one who had started it. They arrested him. According to law, he must be punished with death. The death penalty was about the only thing that bound the subjects to their king in those days. I do not know of
