St. Nicholas/Volume 32/Number 4/Barry
Barry
By Mary Rowles Jarvis.
Away on the mountain’s shoulder, Where the storm-wind’s icy breath Blows keen over drift and boulder, A blast from the hills of death,
The lights of the Hospice glistened Far over the wastes of snow, And the monks, at their vespers, listened To the moan of the storm below.
For the snow-cloud’s awful curtain Had shrouded the Pass all day, And the pathway, at best uncertain, Deep buried in snow-drifts lay.
But safe in the courtyard herded, The dogs with their master stood, Till each broad neck should be girded With cordial and light and food.
Then away! every foe defying, Their noble work to perform, To search for the lost ones lying Asleep in the pitiless storm.
Not one had been known to tarry, Or falter at duty's call, But the king of the dogs was Barry, The bravest dog of them all.
For out of the drifts ensnaring, Where their tottering victim strives,By his deeds of noble daring He had rescued a score of lives.
That day, through the tempest climbing, Two travelers urged their way,The plan of their journey timing By night with the monks to stay.
But the snowflakes traveled faster, And soon in the whirl of the galeEach step threatened new disaster, And courage began to fail.
And one of them fumed in anger And said, as he paused at length,“A curse on this terrible languor! Let us drink to revive our strength:
“’T is well I ’ve a flagon handy.” But his comrade, in sore affright,Cried, “Man, if you taste of brandy, You ’re dead ere the morning light!”
In vain was his wrathful pleading, Entreaty, or threatening strong, For, warning and protest unheeding, The other drank deep and long.
It silenced his noisy grumbling: But soon, where the drifts lay deep, In drowsy confusion stumbling, He fell in a heavy sleep.
And over the mountain’s shoulder, The storm-wind’s icy breath In the murky gloom blew colder, A blast from the hills of death!
A ring at the Hospice gateway, And a voice that was like a groan, And the brethren opened straightway To a traveler there alone.
He told them, in tones unsteady, Of his comrade lost below, And Barry, alert and ready, Was summoned at once to go.
“Safe in the Courtyard Herded.”
Where the pall of the storm was rifted By the flickering lantern-shine,His beautiful eyes were lifted To watch for his masters’ sign—
Then away! through the cold and danger, By no false trail beguiled,To search for the outcast stranger Alone in the tempest wild.
And swiftly he tracked and found him, With a cry of brave delight,And pawed at the drifts around him, Still barking with all his might.
Then he licked the hand and harkened Till the traveler moved again,Awake, but with thought still darkened By the drink that had dulled his brain.
For he fancied, in drunken error, A wild beast faced him there;And with cries of abject terror, In a frenzy of despair,
He groped, in his stupid madness, For the clasp-knife in his coat,And while the dog whined for gladness, He plunged it in Barry’s threat!
But with pity and love unswerving, His noble task to fulfil,In spite of his ill-deserving The brave dog licked him still,
And mastered his dulled resistance And led him steadily on,Where, far through the frozen distance, The lights of the Hospice shone.
Still upward his footsteps urging, His slow, sad steps of pain,Though the heights around were surging And his life-blood fell like rain,
Safe home to the lighted gateway, Where the monks in wonder cried,He guided his slayer, and straightway Fell down at their feet and died!
“To search for the outcast stranger alone in the Tempest Wild.”
Right well had he won his guerdon Of love and eternal fame;But who may describe the burden Of pity, remorse, and shame
That filled one heart on the morrow, Or his sufferings who may say—For in pangs of a life-long sorrow It could not be purged away!
And still, as the nights grow colder, And the storm-wind’s icy breathBlows keen o’er the mountain’s shoulder, A blast from the hills of death,
The dogs go forth through the blindness And whirl of the driving snow,And carry their help and kindness To travelers lost below;
And still in the Hospice’ story Of courage and love sublime,One name hath a crown of glory That never shall fade with time;
“Then he licked the hand and harkened till the traveler moved again.”
For as long as the annals declaring His deed shall be handed down,As long as unselfish daring Inherits its sure renown,
The heart of the world shall carry, Where love keepeth watch and guard,The beautiful tale of Barry, The hero of St. Bernard!
