Ludmila by Paul Gallico. Part 8.
Watch on KineScope.
At last the udders were emptied, the second pail was nearly filled and taken away to be tested for fat and butter content, darkness fell, supper was eaten and the men gathered about the fire, and once again the Mountain Ave rang out —“O-ho! O-ho! A-ve! Ave Maria!” —when the herdsman whose duty it was to watch by night by the stables came running into the circle, pale and out of breath:
“Alois! Father Polda! The one with the white muzzle, the little Weakling that was milked last tonight! I heard her complaining and went with the lantern to look. Her udders are filled again. She must be milked at once. Come and see if you do not believe me.”
It was true. Scarce three hours had passed, but the milk sacs were again distended and heavy with their burden. A milker was hastily summoned, and again the rich, yellowish liquid thundered into the pail; once more a second receptacle had to be fetched to hold the yield.
Father Polda crossed himself again and cried: “Holy Saint Ludmila, a miracle, a miracle indeed. Well, Alois, what have you to say now?”
But the chief herdsman did not reply. He only stared bewildered at this amazing thing, though it was noted that he crossed himself likewise.
In the meantime, a layer of heavy, yellowish cream, six inches deep, and so thick that one might have stood up a spoon in it without its falling over had gathered at the top of the first two pails that the little Weakling had filled earlier.
Here was butter fat and a wealth of it such as had not been seen produced on the high pasturage within living memory.
All through the night and the next day and the next after that it went on. Replenishing herself, it seemed, with no more than copious draughts from buckets of water, the Weakling continued to give of her so long withheld riches every three or four hours, wearing out relays of milkmen whose arms became heavy and fingers cramped as they worked to relieve her of her sudden treasure. Word began to travel of the miracle that was taking place and mountaineers and woodcutters, keepers of hostels and charcoal burners from the neighboring peaks and valleys came over to the milking shed in Malbun to see for themselves, and soon there was no room inside for everyone and so the gentle little creature with the white muzzle, thin flanks, and tender eyes was moved out into the open where all could see her and watch the fabulous torrents of milk that poured from her.
She stood there then in a kind of daze, wrapped in the glory of bestowing and the fulfillment of that part of her yearning that had to do with udders filled with life-giving food and drink that now was hers to share.
On the third day, the head dairyman came bustling from the cheese and butter factories next to the milking shed in a state of excitement, shouting: “One more pail, and the little one will win best of her group. She already has heart and cross won and needs only another gallon to catch up and surpass the best of her herd. It does not seem possible.” It was Father Polda who replied: “Oh, yes. With a miracle, everything is possible, when there is faith in goodness and belief in the Creator whose will has called forth greater things even than this. She may even, who knows, be the first cow through the tunnel at Steg, bearing the bell and garland of victory—”
But here Alois and his hard head were heard from. “That cannot be,” he said. “Schädler’s Luzerner has won the right of first cow by many tens of pounds. It will be impossible for the little one to overtake her. For the woodcutter who has just arrived over the Bettlerjoch tells me that the first snow has appeared on the Panülerkopf and the Hornspitz. Tomorrow we return to the valley.”
Father Polda sighed and said nothing, for the word of the chief herdsman in all things pertaining to the herds entrusted to his care was law, and no one dared question his commands.
But it being Father Polda’s first personal miracle, he wished to see it taken to a climax.
At that, the Weakling barely made the final pail that was needed to give her the honor of the milking stool. For the great and miraculous flow seemed at last to come to an end, and it was all that the milkers could do to wring the last drops from her fabulous udders. Yet achieve it she did though the effort left her weak and spent and she was led on tottery legs to the shelter of the stall, fed and watered and allowed to rest for the great event of the descent the following day.