Chapter V: Part 5

He had some curious tricks of the trade. Sometimes he instructed an understrapper to pretend to be making a trade with him. They would become very noisy, and at last Mike would say, in a very loud tone of voice, "I can't trade. I've no feed and no stabling; and, if I must give the horse away for a ducat, away he must go." Or he would pay some stupid farmer's lout to ride the horse up and down, and then observe, "If a man had that horse that knew what to do with it he might make something out of it. The build is capital: the bones are English. If he had a little flesh he would be worth his twenty ducats." If a purchaser turned up, he would undertake to get him the horse, stipulating a commission for himself for the sale of his own property. What he hated most was a warranty: rather than sign that he always agreed to throw off a ducat or two. Nevertheless, he had many a lawsuit, which eat up the horse and the profit; but the unsettled life he led had such a charm that he could not think of leaving it, and he always hoped that the profit on one speculation would compensate for the losses on another. His principle was never to leave the market without a bargain. The Jews of the markets were also his accomplices, and he would return their favors in kind.

Sometimes, in riding out on these excursions, or in coming home, he would pass his brother breaking stones on the road. He would look at him half in pity and half in contempt, saying to himself, "This poor devil works from morning to night for fifteen creutzers; and, if I have any luck, I clear fifteen florins."

Conrad, seeing a little of these thoughts in spite of his nearsightedness, would strike the stones until a thousand splinters flew on every side.

We shall see hereafter whether Mike or Conrad did better in the end.

Mike was what is called "good company." He could tell stories day and night, knew a thousand tricks, and was acquainted, as the German proverb has it, with God and the world. Not that his acquaintance with God was very intimate,--though he went to church now and then, as no one in the country can avoid doing; but he went, like many others, without thinking much about what he heard there, or endeavoring to act accordingly.

Conrad also had his faults, among which perhaps the greatest was his hatred of his brother and the manner in which he expressed it. When asked, "How's Mike comin' on?" he would answer, "He'll come to this some day," passing his hands under his chin as if to tie a knot, and then lifting them up and stretching out his tongue. Of course people were not chary in putting the question; and, whenever the standing answer came, it was the signal for peals of merriment. In other ways, also, people would try to keep the hatred of the brothers at the boiling-point, not so much from malice as for fun. Mike never did more than shrug his shoulders contemptuously when the "poor devil" was mentioned.

They never remained in the same room. When they met at the inn, or at their sister's, one of them always went away. No one ever thought of making peace between them; and whenever people lived at daggers' points it became proverbial to say, "They live like Mike and Conrad."

When they met at home they never spoke a word, nor even looked at each other. Yet, when one perceived that the other was lying ill in bed, he would go all the way to their sister's, who lived away off in Frog Alley, and say, "Go up: I guess he's poorly:" and then he would make as little noise as possible while he worked, so as not to disturb the other.

Out of doors, however, and among the neighbors, they kept up their feud without blinking; and no one would have thought of finding a spark of brotherly love in their hearts.

This had now lasted wellnigh fourteen years. Mike, with his traffic and dickering, had let the money received for his two acres slip through his fingers,--he scarce knew how. Conrad, on the contrary, had bought another field from an emigrant, and very nearly paid for it. Mike did a commission-business, and thought of selling another field to set himself afloat again.

"Now, there arose up a new king over Egypt," is a verse of which the people of the village might have made a peculiar application. The old parson was dead. He was a good man, but let things go their own way. The new parson was a young man of great zeal. He was bent upon righting all things, and did accomplish a great deal, until at last he got into a declared connection with Lisa, the Lamb Innkeeper's daughter; after which he ceased to meddle with people's private affairs,--for then he might have been told to sweep at his own door. But as yet he was in the full tide of reform.

One Sunday afternoon, when church was over, people sat about on the lumber brought for the new engine-house which was to be built near the town-house well. Mike was there too, sitting with his elbows on his knees and chewing a straw. Peter, Shackerle's John's boy, who was only five years old, was passing. Somebody cried, "Peter, I'll give you a handful of nuts if you'll do like Conrad: how does Conrad do?" The child shook his head, and was going on, for he was afraid of Mike; but they held him fast, and teased him till at last he did the tying of the knot, the pulling up, and the stretching out of the tongue. The shouts of laughter could have been heard through half the village. The boy called for his nuts, but the contractor was found unable to furnish them; so Peter kicked at him,--which made them all laugh again.

The new parson, who chanced to be coming down the little hill at the town-house, had stopped to see the whole transaction. When the boy was on the point of being pummelled for his indignant dunning, the parson stepped up quickly and took the boy away. The farmers all arose in great haste and pulled off their caps. The parson walked on, taking with him the image-keeper, who happened to be among the crowd. From him he heard the story of the feud between the brothers.

Next Saturday, as Conrad was breaking stones in the village, he was summoned to meet the parson next morning after church. He looked astonished: his pipe went out, and for two seconds the stone under his plank-soled foot remained unbroken. He was at a loss to think what could have happened at the parsonage, and would rather have gone there at once.

Mike received the same invitation as he was "greasing his old nag's Sunday boots,"--as he termed getting up his hoof's for market. He whistled a naughty tune, but stopped in the middle of it, for he well knew what was coming. He was glad of the chance to prepare himself for a good counter-sermon, a few sentences of which he already mumbled between his teeth.

On Sunday morning the parson took for his text, "Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!" (Psalm cxxxii. 1.) He showed that all the happiness and joy of earth is void and vapid if not shared between those who have slept in the same mother's womb; he said that parents can neither be happy here nor at peace hereafter if their children are sundered by hatred, envy, or malice; he referred to Cain and Abel, and spoke of fratricide as the first venomous fruit of the fall. All this was uttered in a full, resounding voice, of which the farmers said, "It pries the walls apart." Alas! it is often almost easier to move stone walls than to soften the hard heart of man. Barbara wept bitter tears over the evil ways of her brothers; and, although the parson declared again and again that he did not allude to any one in particular, but desired one and all to lay their hands on their hearts and ask themselves whether the true love for their kindred was in them, yet every one was content to think, "That's for Mike and Conrad: the shoe fits them exactly."

The two latter stood near each other, Mike chewing his cap, which he held between his teeth, and Conrad listening with open mouth. Once their eyes met, and then Mike dropped his cap and stooped down quickly to pick it up.

The hymn at the close had a calm, pacifying influence; but, before the last sounds had died away, Mike was out of the church, and knocked at the door of the parsonage. Finding it locked, he went into the garden. He stood before the beehives, and watched their restless labor.

"They never know when Sunday comes."

And he thought, "I have no Sunday either, with my traffic; but then I have no real working-day." Again he thought how many hundred brothers lived together in a beehive, all working like the old folks. He did not dwell upon such reflections, however. He made up his mind that the parson should not bridle him; and when he looked at the graveyard he remembered the last words of Conrad, and his hand clenched.

In the parsonage he found the parson and Conrad in earnest conversation. The parson appeared to have given up the expectation of his coming. He offered him a chair; but Michael answered, pointing to his brother,--

"No offence to your reverence, but I never sit down where he is. Your reverence hasn't been long in the village yet, and don't know his tricks. He is a hypocritical doughface, but false and underhanded. All the children imitate him," he continued, gnashing his teeth: "'How's Mike coming on?'" and here he gave the well-known pantomime again. "Your reverence," he went on, trembling with rage, "he is the cause of all my mishap: he has ruined my peace at home, and so I have sold myself to the devil for horses. You've prophesied it, you bloodhound!" he roared at his brother: "I'll hang myself with a halter yet, but your turn shall come first."

The parson gave the brothers time to vent their wrath, only exerting his dignity so far as to prevent personal violence. He knew that after their anger was poured out love must appear also; yet he was half deceived.

At last the two brothers sat motionless and speechless, though breathing hard. Then the parson began to speak words of kindness: he opened all the secret corners of the heart, but in vain; they both looked at the floor. He depicted the sufferings of their dead parents: Conrad sighed, but did not look up. The parson gathered up all his powers; his voice surged like that of an avenging prophet; he told them how after death they would appear before the Lord's judgment-seat, and how the Lord would cry, "Woe be unto you, ye hardened of heart! Ye have lived in hatred, ye have withheld the grasp of a brother's hand from each other: go, and suffer the torments of hell, riveted together!"

There was silence. Conrad wiped his eyes with his sleeve, got up from his chair, and said, "Mike!"

The sound had been so long unheard that Mike started and looked up. Conrad went up to him and said, "Mike, forgive me." The hands of the brothers were firmly clasped, and the hand of the parson seemed to shed a blessing on them both.

All the village rejoiced when Mike and Conrad were seen coming down the little hill by the town-house, hand in hand.

They did not relinquish their grasp until they had reached home: it was as if they desired to make up for the long privation. But here they hastened to tear off the padlocks; then, going into the garden, they tore away the dividing hedge, heedless of the cabbage destroyed in the operation.

Then they went to their sister's, and sat side by side at the dinner-table.

In the afternoon they sat in church together, each holding one side of their mother's hymn-book.

They lived in harmony from that day forth.

IVO, THE GENTLEMAN.

1.
THE FIRST MASS.

One Saturday afternoon the busy sound of the hammer and of the adze was heard on the green hill-top which served the good folks of Nordstetten as their public gathering-place in the open air. Valentine the carpenter, with his two sons, was making a scaffolding designed to serve no less a purpose than that of an altar and a pulpit. Christian the tailor's son Gregory was to officiate at his first mass and to preach his first sermon.

Ivo, Valentine's youngest son, a child of six years of age, assisted his father with a mien which betokened that he considered his services indispensable. With his bare head and feet he ran up and down the timbers nimbly as a squirrel. When a beam was being lifted, he cried, "Pry under!" as lustily as any one, put his shoulder to the crowbar, and puffed as if nine-tenths of the weight fell upon him. Valentine liked to see his little boy employed. He would tell him to wind the twine on the reel, to carry the tools where they were wanted, or to rake the chips into a heap. Ivo obeyed all these directions with the zeal and devotion of a self-sacrificing patriot. Once, when perched upon the end of a plank for the purpose of weighing it down, the motion of the saw shook his every limb, and made him laugh aloud in spite of himself: he would have fallen off but for the eagerness with which he held on to his position and endeavored to perform his task in the most workmanlike manner.

At last the scaffolding was finished. Lewis the saddler was ready to nail down the carpets and hanging. Ivo offered to help him too; but, being gruffly repelled, he sat down upon his heap of chips, and looked at the mountains, behind which the sun was setting in a sea of fire. His father's whistle aroused him, and he ran to his side.

"Father," said Ivo, "I wish I was in Hochdorf."

"Why?"

"Because it's so near to heaven, and I should like to climb up once."

"You silly boy, it only seems as if heaven began there. From Hochdorf it is a long way to Stuttgard, and from there it is a long way to heaven yet."

"How long?"

"Well, you can't get there until you die."

Leading his little son with one hand, and carrying his tools in the other, Valentine passed through the village. Washing and scouring was going on everywhere, and chairs and tables stood before the houses,--for every family expected visitors for the great occasion of the morrow.

As Valentine passed Christian the tailor's house, he held his hand to his cap, prepared to take it off if anybody should look out. But nobody did no: the place was silent as a cloister. Some farmers' wives were going in, carrying bowls covered with their aprons, while others passed out with empty bowls under their arms. They nodded to each other without speaking: they had brought wedding-presents for the young clergyman, who was to be married to his bride the Church.

As the vesper-bell rang, Valentine released the hand of his son, who quickly folded his hands: Valentine also brought his hands together over his heavy tools and said an Ave.

Next morning a clear, bright day rose upon the village. Ivo was dressed by his mother betimes in a new jacket of striped Manchester cloth, with buttons which he took for silver, and a newly-washed pair of leathern breeches. He was to carry the crucifix. Mag, Ivo's eldest sister, took him by the hand and led him into the street, "so as to have room in the house." Having enjoined upon him by no means to go back, she returned hastily. Wherever he came he found the men standing in knots in the road. They were but half dressed for the festival, having no coats on, but displaying their dazzling white shirt-sleeves. Here and there women or girls were to be seen running from house to house without bodices, and with their hair half untied. Ivo thought it cruel in his sister to have pushed him out of the house as she had done. He would have been delighted to have appeared like the grown folks,--first in negligee, and then in full dress amid the tolling of bells and the clang of trumpets; but he did not dare to return, or even to sit down anywhere, for fear of spoiling his clothes. He went through the village almost on tip-toe. Wagon after wagon rumbled in, bringing farmers and farmers' wives from abroad: at the houses people welcomed them and brought chairs to assist them in getting down. All the world looked as exultingly quiet and glad as a community preparing to receive a hero who had gone forth from their midst and was returning after a victory. From the church to the hill-top the road was strewn with flowers and grass, which sent forth aromatic odors. The squire was seen coming out of Christian the tailor's house, and only covered his head when he found himself in the middle of the street. Soges had a new sword, brightly japanned and glittering in the sun.

The squire's wife soon followed, leading her daughter Barbara, who was but six years old, by the hand. Barbara was dressed in bridal array. She wore the veil and the wreath upon her head, and a beautiful gown. As an immaculate virgin, she was intended to represent the bride of the young clergyman, the Church.

At the first sound of the bell the people in shirt-sleeves disappeared as if by magic. They retired to their houses to finish their toilet: Ivo went on to the church.

Amid the ringing of all the bells, the procession at last issued from the church-door. The pennons waved, the band of music brought from Horb struck up, and the audible prayers of the men and women mingled with the sound. Ivo, with the schoolmaster at his side, took the lead, carrying the crucifix. On the hill the altar was finely decorated; the chalices and the lamps and the spangled dresses of the saints flashed in the sun, and the throng of worshippers covered the common and the adjoining fields as far as the eye could reach. Ivo hardly took courage to look at the "gentleman," meaning the young clergyman, who, in his gold-laced robe, and bare head crowned with a golden wreath, ascended the steps of the altar with pale and sober mien, bowing low as the music swelled, and folding his small white hands upon his breast. The squire's Barbara, who carried a burning taper wreathed with rosemary, had gone before him and took her stand at the side of the altar. The mass began; and at the tinkling of the bell all fell upon their faces, and not a sound would have been heard, had not a flight of pigeons passed directly over the altar with that fluttering and chirping noise which always accompanies their motion through the air. For all the world Ivo would not have looked up just then; for he knew that the Holy Ghost was descending, to effect the mysterious transubstantiation of the wine into blood and the bread into flesh, and that no mortal eye can look upon Him without being struck with blindness.

The chaplain of Horb now entered the pulpit, and solemnly addressed the "primitiant."

Then the latter took his place. Ivo sat near by, on a stool: with his right arm resting on his knee, and his chin upon his hand, he listened attentively. He understood little of the sermon; but his eyes hung upon the preacher's lips, and his mind followed his intentions, if not his thoughts.

When the procession returned to the church amid the renewed peal of the bells and triumphant strains of music, Ivo clasped the crucifix firmly with both his hands: he felt as if new strength had been given him to carry his God before him.

As the crowd dispersed, every one spoke in raptures of the "gentleman," and of the happiness of the parents of such a son. Christian the tailor and his wife came down the covered stairs of the church-hill in superior bliss. Ordinarily they attracted little attention in the village; but on this occasion all crowded around them with the greatest reverence, to present their congratulations. The young clergyman's mother returned thanks with tearful eyes: she could scarcely speak for joyous weeping. Ivo heard his cousin, who had come over from Rexingen, say that Gregory's parents were now obliged to address their son with the formal pronoun "they," by which strangers and great personages are spoken to, instead of the simple "thee and thou," by which German villagers converse with each other.

"Is that so, mother?" he asked.

"Of course," was the answer: "he's more than other folks now."

With all their enthusiasm, the good people did not forget the pecuniary advantage gained by Christian the tailor. It was said that he need take no further trouble all his life. Cordele, Gregory's sister, was to be her brother's housekeeper; and her brother was a fortune to his family and an honor to all the village.

Ivo went home, each of his parents holding one of his hands.

"Father," said he, "I wish Gregory was pastor here."

"That won't do: nobody ever becomes pastor where he was born."

"Why not?"

"Confound your why and why not: because it is so," said his father. But his mother said, "He'd have too much bias in the village, and wouldn't be impartial." She either did not know or could not explain to the child that in the case of a native of the village the sanctity of the office and the reverence of the minister's person would suffer, his human origin and growth being so familiarly known.

After some time Valentine said again, "A minister's life is the best, after all. His hands are never sore with ploughing, nor his back with reaping, and yet the grain comes into his barn: he lies on a sofa and studies out his sermon, and makes his whole family happy. Ivo, if you are good you can be a gentleman. Would you like to?"

"Yes!" cried Ivo, looking up at his father with his eyes opened to their full width. "But you mustn't say 'they' to me," he added.

"Plenty of time to see about that," replied Valentine, smiling.

After dinner Ivo stood on the bench behind the table, in the corner by the crucifix, where his father had been sitting. At first he only moved his lips; but gradually he spoke aloud, and made a long, long sermon. With the most solemn mien in the world, he talked the most rambling nonsense, and never stopped until his father laid his hand kindly on his head, and said, "There! that's enough, now."

His mother took Ivo upon her lap, hugged and kissed him, and said, almost with tears, "Mother of God! I would be content to die if our Lord God would let me see the day on which you held your first mass." Then, shaking her head, she added, in a low voice, "God forgive me my sins! I am thinking too much of myself again." She set down the boy, and placed her other hand on his head.

"And Mag shall be my housekeeper, sha'n't she?" said Ivo; "and I'll have city dresses made for her, just as the parson's cook wears."

Madge, Ivo's cousin from Rexingen, rewarded him for his sermon with a creutzer. Then he ran out to Nat the ploughman, who was sitting under the walnut-tree at the door, and told him that he was going to be a gentleman. Nat only shook his head and pushed the glowing tobacco down into his pipe.

The afternoon service was not so well attended as usual: the morning had absorbed all the devotion of the worshippers. Toward sundown the young minister, with the chaplain of Horb and some other clergymen, took a walk through the village. All the people who sat before their houses arose and greeted them: the older women smiled on the pastor, as if to say, "We know you and like you. Do you remember the pear I gave you? and I always said Gregory would be a great man some day." The young men took their pipes out of their lips and their caps from their heads, and the girls retreated into a house and nudged each other and looked out stealthily. The children came up and kissed Gregory's hand.

Ivo came also. Perhaps the young clergyman perceived the boy's tremor and the pious warmth of his kiss; for he held his hand a while, stroked his cheek, and asked, "What's your name, my dear?"

"Ivo."

"And your father's?"

"Valentine the carpenter."

"Give my love to your parents, and be good and pious."

Ivo remained spell-bound long after the men had passed on: it seemed as if a saint had appeared and conversed with him. He looked upon the ground in wonder; then, hastening home in long leaps, he told the whole adventure.

The family were seated on the timbers under the walnut-tree, Nat not far from them, upon a stone by the door. Ivo went to him and told him what had happened; but the ploughman was out of humor that day, and Ivo sat down at his father's feet.

It had grown dark, and little was spoken. Once only Koch the cabinet-maker said, "I'd like to see you get money under five per cent."

Nobody answered. Ivo looked up at his father with a silent light beaming out of his eyes: no one could guess what was stirring in that infant soul.

"Father," said Ivo, "does Christian the tailor's gentleman sleep just like other folks?"

"Yes; but not as long as you do: if you want to be a gentleman you must get up early and mind your prayers and your books. Off with you now to bed."

Ivo's mother went with him; and in his evening prayer he included the name of the minister as well as those of his parents and his sister.

The ceremony was not without immediate results. The next day, our old friend Hansgeorge, of the pipe of war, called, with his son Peter, on the chaplain at Horb; and rich Johnny of the Bridge, sometimes called Mean Johnny, brought his son Constantine, a bright, quick-witted lad. Both of them were admitted to the grammar-school at once: Ivo was yet too young.

We shall probably meet with both of these boys again. For the present we must remain with Ivo and watch the progress of his boyhood as closely as we can.

2.
THE TEACHER.

The schoolmaster of the village was a clear-headed man, but of a violent temper. His fancy and his strong point was music. He had but little influence on Ivo,--which is not surprising, as he had a hundred and twenty boys to attend to. The boy's best teacher--though you would not have thought it--was Nat, who could not write, and hardly read.

Even in towns the servants of a household may be called the "lesser Fates" of the family. In a village this is doubly the case, for the whole house is there a community of labor and repose. When in such close contact with their employers, bad servants become insupportable and are not long retained: one, therefore, who is good enough to be a servant of the family is generally good enough to be intrusted with the company and unconscious education of the children. Nat, at all events, was safe enough. In the crib and on the hay-loft he would erect his professional chair, answer the eager questions of his pupil or tell him wonderful stories.

Nat liked to be with the animals on which he waited; yet, though he could speak to them, and though the dun horse at least was as sensible as a man, they could not give a satisfactory answer to what was told them. Ivo, on the contrary, was always able and willing to clap his hands and say, "Oh, my!" So Nat was never tired of Ivo's company. As a colt runs by the side of the horse, bounding and frisking, so did Ivo skip around Nat wherever he went.

Sometimes they would sit quietly together on the straw, Nat telling the story of Firnut Pete, of the juniper-king, or of the charmed lady of Isenberg; while the muffled noise of the feeding horses and cows accompanied the story with a mysterious undertone. Firnut Pete--who wantonly pulled the crests from the young firs while they were still bleeding--is doomed, as a restless ghost, to haunt the heath of Eglesthal; and the juniper-king has one gray and one black eye, which exchange their colors every year. These stories Nat had to tell again and again; for children are not so spoiled as to be always craving for something new.

But these repetitions gave Nat some trouble; for as often as he had forgotten a little of the story, or wished to tell it in a different way, Ivo would say, "Why, that isn't the way it was." Nat would take him on his lap, saying, "You're right: I didn't exactly remember. There's a good many other things in my head, you see." Then Ivo would tell the rest of the story with great interest, so that Nat was delighted at the aptness of his pupil.

Often, also, they would speak of the fortunes of life, and things of which children brought up in towns have little idea or knowledge until they grow older,--of poverty and wealth, honesty and knavery, trade and barter, and so on; for the life of a village is a life in public: the inmost recesses of every house are known to all the inmates of every other.

One day, as Ivo was going home with his father from the place where the latter had been at work, "Father," he asked, "why didn't our Savior make the trees grow square and save all the trouble of chopping?"

"Why? You stupid boy, there wouldn't be any work for carpenters then, and no chips."

Ivo said nothing; and his father reflected that, after all, the boy had a good head, and that it was not right to speak so harshly to him. So he said, after some time, "Ivo, you must ask your teacher in school, or his reverence the parson, about such things: remember that."

This was well done in Valentine. Few parents are sufficiently shrewd and conscienscious to hit upon this only means of escape from their own ignorance.

But Ivo, instead of going to the schoolmaster or the parson, asked Nat, and received for answer, "Because trees are wanted for a great many things besides building."

Ivo was astonished: that, he thought, was an answer worth giving.

A consequence of his intimacy with Nat was that Ivo had no companion of his own age. But then Nat regarded him as his confidant, and would call him, caressingly, a "good old soul." In particularly-favored moments he would tell him of his dog Singout, who had been with him when he had watched the sheep, and who "had more wit than ten doctors." "I tell you," Nat asseverated, "Singout used to understand my secret thoughts: if he only looked at me he knew what I wanted immediately. Did you ever look at a dog right sharp? They often have a face on which grief is poured out, just as if they meant to say, 'I could cry because I can't talk with you.' When I looked at Singout then, he would bark and howl till my heart ached. If I said a single cross word to him, he wouldn't eat a morsel for a whole day. The dumb beast was too good for this world."

"Do dogs go to heaven?" asked Ivo.

"I don't know: there's nothing written about it."

What pleased Nat most of all was Ivo's love for animals; for both old people and children, who do not know exactly what to love, make animals the objects of their affections. These pets make no pretensions, exact no duties; and never contradict us, which is particularly distasteful to young and old children.

"What a poor beast piggy is!" said Ivo at one time: "she isn't in the world for any thing but to be killed: other beasts are of some use while they're alive." Nat nodded complacently. After a while he said, "Perhaps that's the reason a pig squeals worse than any other beast when they kill it."

His merry questions, remarks, and odd speeches gained for Ivo throughout the village the reputation of a "smart, quick-witted boy." Nobody surmised to whom this early activity of his mind was to be ascribed. The schoolmaster was displeased with him because he never went home from school quietly, as the rules prescribed, but always screamed and whooped like an Indian. Poor children! For hours they are compressed into themselves: when released at last, how can they be blamed for shaking themselves and greeting the free air to which they return? That is the reason that eleven o'clock in a village often seems to be the hour for the Wild Huntsman to make his round.

No one doubted that Ivo would be a good parson in time, he was so orderly and well-behaved. Valentine once boasted at the Eagle that his Ivo would go far ahead of George's Peter and John's Constantine.

We shall see.

3.
CHILD'S LOVE.

Next door to Valentine lived Mike Shackerle, a poor man, whose sole wealth was in his children, the youngest of whom was called Emmerence: the carpenter's wife was her godmother, and Emmerence spent almost all her time at. Valentine's house, ate and drank there, and only slept at home. She was of Ivo's age exactly, and the two children were inseparable. Although his ungallant schoolfellows called him "girl-runner," he stuck to Emmerence. They had a partnership in a lot of fruit they had buried in the hay-loft. Over this treasure they would often sit with quiet joy. Ivo showed himself as a man in being able to count up to a hundred. Emmerence listened devoutly and spoke the numbers after him. The damaged and the odd pieces were consumed in equal portions. Disputes were not wanting; when the partnership-goods were divided at once. But the separation never lasted longer than a day; for, if they did not "go joints," how could they talk to each other of their fortune?

Great changes took place, however. Ivo received from Nat the present of a whip, and Emmerence learned to knit. In towns children are presented with drums or with toy-shops, to play soldier and trader until life begins in earnest: in the village they begin to play farmer with a whip. Ivo would stand before the empty wagon, smack his whip at the bare pole, and cry, "Whoa! Gee! Get up!" The moment he came home from school, his slate and ruler were laid upon the footstool behind the stove, his whip cracked, and the geese and chickens routed up and down the road. While thus roystering about one day, he saw Emmerence sitting under the walnut-tree with her knitting. Her little kitten lay near her, purring and puffing in the sun. The plump little yellow-haired girl was taking up her stitches with a zeal which kept her eyes riveted to her work; her lips were pressed together with an air of determination, as if she was bound to make a woollen jacket for old Winter himself.

Ivo stood quietly looking at her for a while, and then asked, "Are you knitting stockings for your puss?"

Emmerence took no time to answer, but went on knitting. The spirit of mischief tickled Ivo, and he pulled the needle out of her fingers.

Emmerence got up to throw a stone after him as he ran away; but, girl-like, she never lifted it over her shoulder, but let it fall immediately at her own feet. Having gathered up her needles, she went home crying.

In the afternoon Ivo soon obtained forgiveness for his cruelty by presenting Emmerence with a piece of a broken blue-glass bottle. They looked at the sun through it by turns, exclaiming, "Oh, my! how pretty!" Ivo wrapped the gem in a piece of paper and left it with Emmerence.

From time to time the village was visited by a man who, like the bold Ratcatcher sung by Goethe, always had the children at his heels. It was the "saint-man," who would sell pictures of the saints to the children for broken glass. Ivo always ransacked the house until the glittering coin was found, and then brought Emmerence the prize.

Not in the sunshine alone, but also in the storm, we find the children together.

Old Valentine looked out of the window with a pleased expression in his face,--for it is easy to look pleased during a fine summer shower, even when there is not much to think about: body and soul are played upon as with a gentle dew, and the drops fall from the eaves of the opposite houses like the ripples of a stream: all around us--even the flood of the silent air itself--has acquired a voice and a meaning.

Ivo and Emmerence had taken refuge in the open barn: little Jake, the squire's son, who was but three years old, was there also. The chickens had betaken themselves to the same asylum: they stood beside the children, with drooping tails, often shaking themselves. The black kitten also crept along under the eaves of the house so softly that its coming into the barn was not perceived until the chickens cackled: it dived down into the stable immediately.

At first it dripped so slightly that you could only see the rain by looking at the dark windows opposite; but soon the drops swelled and pattered, and Ivo said, "Ah, this is first-rate for my pinks in the garden." "Pinks in t' garden," repeated little Jake. Again Ivo said, "Ah, that'll be a big puddle." "Big puddle," re-echoed little Jake. Ivo looked at him grimly.

Farmers drove by with empty sacks on their heads, crying out and trying to escape the storm: the children laughed at them and cried out, "Whew!" Emmerence stood with her head a little on one side, and her hands under her apron: just when it rained hardest, Ivo pushed her out under the eaves. Little Jake sprang out of his own accord, as if to challenge the rain, but still he shut his eyes and held down his head, so as not to get the very worst of it. With her apron over her head, Emmerence now did her best to get under cover again; but Ivo was on the look-out, and never let her in till she began to cry.

The rain at last stopped: the sun came forth brightly, and the children rushed out with unspeakable joy. The human plants seemed to derive as much benefit from the freshened air as any others. Yellow torrents poured down along the road: the children launched chips upon them, and waded about in the water, looking for bits of iron. Ivo, who always had extended projects, wished to build a mill; but long before the mill was ready the water had run off. How often do we build up machines to be moved by the stream of our lives, and ere the machinery is half constructed the water-course is empty and dry!

Much as Ivo loved to tease Emmerence, he never permitted anybody else to harm her. Once he was returning home from school, armed, as usual, with his buckler the slate, and his sword the ruler, when he saw Emmerence pursued by two evil spirits in the shape of old gray geese. Crying and screaming, the poor girl fled, with her eyes turned upon her foes. Already had one of them seized her gown and was tugging at it, when Ivo rushed upon them, and a hard-fought battle ensued, out of which Ivo at last came forth victorious. With the consciousness of heroism, he helped Emmerence up from where she had fallen, and walked triumphantly by her side, armed as he was. Nat had told him stories of knights rescuing poor, helpless damsels from giants and dragons: he now felt as if he was something like one of these knights himself.

4.
BRINDLE AND THE GOSLINGS.

The purchase of a horse or a cow is an event of absorbing interest in the family of every farmer; but, when it is remembered that in the Black Forest the dwelling-house, the stable, and the barn, are all parts of one and the same building, it is clear that the importance of such an occurrence is doubly great, for it makes a change, if not in the family itself, at least in the household.

An event of this kind took place one day when Valentine came home from the fair in the upper village with a fine heifer. Before it was taken into the house it was examined and praised by all the neighbors and passers-by. Ivo and his mother, and Nat, received the stranger at the door. A wooden horse fell to Ivo's share as his "fairing," and Valentine placed the end of the tether into Nat's hands, looked round with an air of triumph, and then dismissed the "cattle" into the stable with a good-humored stroke on the hocks. It was indeed a fine beast, just what farmers like to call a smart, strutty sort of cow.

Ivo, with his wooden horse on his bosom, hastened to help Nat prepare the stranger's supper. "Short feed" was heaped in the trough; but she would not open her mouth except to growl gloomily. Ivo passed his hand gently over her sleek hide: she turned her head and looked fixedly at the boy for a long time.

Ivo then played with his wooden horse, which showed no reluctance to make his acquaintance, but seemed at home everywhere and always carried its head high.

At night Ivo was waked out of his sleep by a wailing note which shook his soul. The poor heifer seemed to pour out her very bowels with lamentation.

Ivo lay awake a long time listening to the sounds which went forth so mournfully into the stillness. Whenever they ceased he held his breath, hoping that they would come no more; but the poor cow always began again.

At last Ivo waked his father.

"What's the matter?"

"The new heifer's crying."

"Let her cry, and go to sleep, you foolish boy: the heifer's homesick, and it can't be helped."

Ivo shut his ears with the pillows and fell asleep again.

For nearly three days the heifer refused to eat a morsel; but at last she grew accustomed to the other cattle in the stable, and ate quietly like the rest. But a new trouble arose when the claws of her fore-feet came off. She was only used to walk on soft pasture, but not to travel so much on hard roads as was necessary in passing between the stable and the fields.

Ivo often helped Nat to bind up the heifer's hoofs, and gave the greatest proofs of sympathy and tenderness; nor did she fail to return his kindness as far as she could, and Nat, who knew all about cows and their ways, used to say, "The herdsboy that minded her before must have looked like you, Ivo; be sure of that."

While the cow gave him so much pleasure, the wooden horse became a source of grief. It had become quite soiled. So, one morning, without saying a word about it to anybody, he ran down to the pond and gave it a good scouring, but returned home with loud wailing, for he found that all the color came out of it. Thus early did he discover how little artificial favorites are to be trusted.

But fate soon gave him ample compensation for his loss. Once more, late in the night, the whole house was astir on account of the heifer: she was calving. Ivo was not allowed to go into the stable: he only heard a low, distant wail,--for the curse is on animals also, and they must "bring forth with pain."

At dawn of day Ivo hurried into the stable. A fine brindled calf was lying at the dam's feet, and she kissed and licked it with her tongue. No one could go near it without setting the cow into a storm of rage; only when Ivo stepped up and timidly touched the calf she was quiet. Her first-born was a son, and Ivo never ceased to beseech his father to raise the calf until he consented.

From this time on Ivo was always in the kitchen when warm food or drink was being prepared for the mother, and no one but he had leave to hold the pail for her to drink.

But Ivo was destined to find that no pleasure is to be enjoyed without interruption. One day, coming home from school, he saw a large dog on the threshold. Passing him carefully, he went on to the stable. There he found a man in a blue smock and red and yellow checked neckcloth, which hung in a loose knot to his neck. In his hand he held a hawthorn stick with a handle of brass thread.

Ivo saw at once that he was a butcher. His father, who stood by him, was just saying, "For eight florins you may have it; but it's a pity to kill it with such fine hoofs."

"I'll give seven."

His father shook his head.

"Well, split the difference and say done."

Ivo saw what it all meant in an instant. Leaving his slate and books against the wall, he rushed into the stable, fell upon the calf's neck and cried, embracing it tenderly, "No, no, Brindle! they sha'n't stab your poor neck." He cried aloud, and could hardly pronounce the words, "Why, father, father, you promised me!"

The calf bleated with all its might, as if it knew what was about to happen, and the cow turned her head and growled without opening her mouth.

Valentine was puzzled. He took off his cap, looked into it, and put it on again. Smiling on Ivo, he said at last, "Well, let it be so; I don't want to fret the child. Ivo, you may raise it, but you must find the food for it."

The butcher walked away, his dog barking as he ran before him, as if to give vent to his master's vexation. He made a rush at Valentine's geese and chickens, and scattered them in all directions: it is the way with underlings to expend their ill will on the dependants of their master's foes.

The thought that he had saved the calf's life made Ivo very happy; yet he could not but feel sore at the idea that, but for an accident, his father would have broken the promise he had made him. He forgot all this, however, when the time came for him to lead his pet out into the grass and watch it while grazing.

One afternoon Ivo stood holding Brindle by the tether while it browsed. With a clear voice he sang a song which Nat had taught him. The tones seemed to tremble with half-suppressed yearnings. It was as follows:--

"Up yonder, up yonder,
At the heavenly gate,
A poor soul is standing
In sorrowful strait.

"Poor soul of mine, poor soul of mine,
Come hither to me,
And thy garments shall be white
As wool to-see.

"As white and as pure
As the new-driven snow,
And, hand in hand, together
Into heaven we'll go.

"Into heaven, into heaven,
Upon the heavenly hill,
Where God Father, and God Son,
And God the Spirit dwell."

Hardly was the song ended when he saw Emmerence coming toward him from the brick-yard. With a dry fir-twig she was driving some young ducklings before her. On coming up to Ivo she stopped and began to talk.

"Oh, you can't think," said she, "what trouble I had getting my four ducklings out of the puddle in the brickyard. Four gray ones and two white, you see. They're just a week old now. Only think, my mother made a hen sit on the eggs, and now the hen won't take care of 'em: they run about, and nobody looks after 'em at all."

"They're orphans," said Ivo, "and you must be their mother."

"Yes, and you don't know how pitifully they can look at you one-sided,'--this way." She laid her head on one side, and looked up at Ivo prettily enough.

"Look at them," said he: "they can't be quiet a minute, they keep splashing and floundering about all the time. It 'ould make me giddy to go on that way."

"I can't see," said Emmerence, looking very thoughtful, "how these ducklings found out that they can swim. If a duck had hatched 'em out, she might show 'em; but the hen never looked at 'em; and, for all that, as fast as they could waddle they toddled on till they got into the water."

Here the thoughts of two infant souls stood at the mysterious portal of nature. There was silence a little while, and then Ivo said,--

"The ducklings all keep together and never part. My mother said we must do so too; and brothers and sisters belong together; and, when the cluck culls, all the chickens run up."

"Oh, the nasty chickens! The great big things eat up all I bring my poor ducklings. If it would only rain right hard once more and make my ducklings grow! At night I always put 'em in a basket,--they're too soft to take in your hand,--and then they crowd up to each other, just as I crowd up to my grandmother; and my grandmother says when they grow up she'll pull out the feathers and make me a pillow."

Thus chatted Emmerence. Ivo suddenly began to sing,--

"Far up on the hill is a white, white horse,
A horse as white as snow;
He'll take the little boys that are good little boys
To where they want to go."

Emmerence fell in,--

"The little boys and the good little boys
Sha'n't go too far away;
The little girls that are good little girls
Must go as far as they."

Ivo went on:--

"Far up on the hill is a black, black man,
A man as black as a coal;
He open'd his mouth and he grit his teeth,
And he wanted to swallow me whole."

Then they sang on, sometimes one beginning a verse, and sometimes the other.

"Sweetheart, see, see!
There comes the big flea:
He has a little boy on his back,
And a little girl in his ear.

"Don't you hear the bird sing?
Don't you hear it say,
In the wood, out of the wood,
Sweetheart, where dost thou stay?

"Don't you run over my meadow,
And don't you run over my corn,
Or I'll give you the awfullest waling,
As sure as you were born."

Many such little rhymes did the children sing, as if each tried to outdo the other in the number of songs they knew. At length Ivo said, "Now you drive your duckies home; I'm coming soon too." He was a little ashamed of going home with Emmerence, though conscious of nothing but the fear that his silly comrades would tease him. After she had been gone for some time he followed with his calf.

It gave Ivo pain to see that, as soon as the calf was weaned, the heifer, its dam, seemed to care no more about it. He did not know that the beasts of the field cling to their young only so long as they actually depend on and are in bodily connection with them. It is only while young birds are unable to fly and get their own food, only while the young quadruped sucks its dam's milk, that any thing like childlike or parental love subsists. This connection once severed, the old ones forget their young. Man alone has a more than bodily relationship to his child, and in him alone, therefore, the love of offspring continues through life.

5.
LIFE IN THE FIELDS.

Ivo's life was rich in suggestions, not only at home, among men and beasts, but also with the silently-growing corn and in the rustling orchard. All the world, with its glories and its noiseless joys, entered the open portals of his youthful soul. If we could continue to grow as we do in childhood, our lot would be replete with all the blessings of Heaven; but a time comes when the sum of all things breaks upon us in a mass, and then the remnants of our lives are occupied in the dreary labor of dissecting, puzzling, and explaining.