above on the exposed mountain side, it could not have escaped
being blown straight down into the valley without a moment's
warning.

Here lived Peter, the eleven-year-old boy, who every morning
went down to Dorfli to fetch his goats and drive them up on to
the mountain, where they were free to browse till evening on the
delicious mountain plants.

Then Peter, with his light-footed animals, would go running and
leaping down the mountain again till he reached Dorfli, and
there he would give a shrill whistle through his fingers,
whereupon all the owners of the goats would come out to fetch
home the animals that belonged to them. It was generally the
small boys and girls who ran in answer to Peter's whistle, for
they were none of them afraid of the gentle goats, and this was
the only hour of the day through all the summer months that Peter
had any opportunity of seeing his young friends, since the rest
of his time was spent alone with the goats. He had a mother and a
blind grandmother at home, it is true, but he was always obliged
to start off very early in the morning, and only got home late in
the evening from Dorfli, for he always stayed as long as he could
talking and playing with the other children; and so he had just
time enough at home, and that was all, to swallow down his bread
and milk in the morning, and again in the evening to get through
a similar meal, lie down in bed and go to sleep. His father, who
had been known also as the goatherd, having earned his living as
such when younger, had been accidentally killed while cutting
wood some years before. His mother, whose real name was Brigitta,
was always called the goatherd's wife, for the sake of old