Chapter VII: Part 7

He staggered about the room as if he were tipsy. A good cup of coffee brought him to his senses.

The house was all astir; and Ivo took a weeping farewell of his brothers and sisters. Bart was already seated by Nat's side on the board, which had the bag of oats for a cushion: his mother was getting into the wagon, and Joe, his eldest brother, held the dun's head. Valentine lifted up his son and kissed him: it was the first time in his life that he gave him this token of love. Ivo threw his arms around his neck and wept aloud. Valentine was visibly touched; but, summoning up all his manhood, he lifted the boy into the wagon, shook his hand, and said, in a husky tone, "God bless you, Ivo! be a good boy."

His mother threw his father's cloak around them both; the dun started, and they were on their way through the dark and silent village. Here and there a taper was burning by the bedside of sickness, while the unsteady shadows of the watchers flitted across the window. The friends who lived in all these silent walls bade him no farewell: only the watchman, whom they met at the brick-yard, stopped in the midst of his cry and said, "Pleasant trip to you."

For nearly an hour nothing was heard but the horse's tread and the rattling of the wheels. Ivo lay on his mother's bosom with his arms around her. Once he made his way out of the warm covering and asked, "Bart, have you a cloak?"

"Yes: Nat gave me the horse-cloth."

Ivo again sank upon his mother's bosom, and, overpowered by sorrow and fatigue, he fell asleep. Blest lot of childhood, that the breath of slumber is sufficient to wipe all its bitterness away!

The road led almost wholly through forests. They passed through Muehringen, traversed the lovely valley of the Eiach, and left the bathing-place of Imnau behind, before ever it occurred to Ivo to look about him. Not until they came down the steep that leads into Haigerloch did he fairly awake; and he was almost frightened to see the town far down in the ravine encircled by the frowning hills. As day broke they felt the cold more keenly; for it is as if Night, when she arises to quit the earth, gathered all her strength about her to leave the traces of her presence as deep as possible.

They stopped at Hechingen, at the Little Horse, where a young girl was standing under the door. Perhaps this reminded Ivo of Emmerence; for he said, "Mother, shall we eat the duck now?"

"No: we'll have it for dinner at Gamertingen, and get them to make us a nice soup besides."

The bright sunshine in the Killer Valley, the constant change of scene, and the novel details of rural life which he saw in the "Rauh Alb" Mountains, cheered Ivo a little; and when he saw a large herd of cattle grazing he said to Nat, "Mind you take good care of my Brindle."

"There's an end of my care of him: your father has sold him to Buchmaier, and he is coming to fetch him to-day and break him in."

Ivo was too well acquainted with the stages of a domestic animal's life to be much grieved at this news: he only said, "Well, Buchmaier is a good man, and deals well by man and beast; so I guess he won't work him too hard. And, besides, he don't yoke two oxen into one yoke, but gives each his own, so they're not worried quite so much."

The sun was near setting when they reached the valley of the Danube. Nat became quite lively. With his head bent back, he told all sorts of stories of the neighboring town of Munderkingen, of which much the same jokes are told as are sometimes expended upon the Schildburgers; for these towns are to the Wurtembergers or Suabians what the Suabians are to the Germans outside of themselves, and something like what the Irish are to the English and Americans,--a tribe upon which every cobbler of wit patches a shred of his facetiousness in the cheap and durable form of a "bull." Ivo laughed heartily, and said, "I wish you and I could travel about together for a whole year."

But this was soon to cease; for they were at the gates of Ehingen. Ivo started and grasped his mother's hand. They put up at the Vineyard, not far from the convent. Hardly had they seated themselves, however, before the vesper-bell rang: Ivo's mother rose without speaking, took the two boys by the hand, and went to church.

There is a peculiar power in the universal visibility of the Catholic religion: wherever you go or stand, temples open wide their portals to receive your faith, your hope, your charity; worshippers are everywhere looking up to the same objects of veneration, uttering the same words, and making the same gestures; you are surrounded by brothers, children of the great visible holy father at Rome. Halls are always open to receive you into the presence of the Lord, and you are never out of your spiritual inheritance.

Thus Christina and the two boys knelt devoutly at the altar. They forgot that their home was far away; for the hand of the Lord had erected a dwelling around and over them.

With an invigorated confidence, the mother once more took the boys by the hand and sought the convent-gate. There was much stir here, and men and boys might be seen walking and running to and fro in all directions, dressed in all the various costumes of the Catholic portions of the country. The famulus at the entrance, having examined their passports, brought them to the director. This was an old man of rather querulous mien, who answered every remark and every question of Christina with "Yes, yes: right enough." He had been catechized so much that day that his taciturnity was not to be wondered at. Feeling Ivo pulling at her skirt, she took courage to request that his reverence would permit Ivo to sleep at the hotel for the coming night.

After some hesitation he said, "Well, yes. But he must be here before church in the morning."

Bart took leave of Christina with a specimen of that verbiage of gratitude which he had learned by heart from frequent practice. This duty performed, he cheerfully followed the famulus to his room.

Ivo danced with joy at being allowed to stay with his mother. He continued chatting with her till late at night.

The next morning a beautiful clear Sunday was shining. An hour before church began, Ivo went to the convent with his mother, followed by Nat with the baggage and a bundle for Bart. She helped him to arrange his chattels in the press, counting over every piece, and often looking about sorrowfully to find that twelve boys were forced to live here in one room. At the sound of the convent-bell, mother and son separated, and the latter went to join his comrades.

After church his mother introduced herself to the stewardess, on whom as a woman she hoped to exercise some little influence. She begged her to give the boy a little something to eat between meals occasionally,--for he would certainly forget to ask for it,--and she would pay for it all honestly.

Ivo was permitted to join his mother again a little before dinner-time. She even tried to make interest with the hostess of the Vineyard, and implored her to give Ivo any thing he might ask for, and keep an account of it, and it would be punctually paid. The busy hostess attended to every thing, though she well knew that she could do nothing.

Ivo ate with a good appetite: he knew that his mother was with him. But after dinner he walked sadly to the Vineyard; for now the inevitable leave-taking was to come.

"Well, Nat," said he, "you'll always be my friend, won't you?"

"You may swear to that as if it was gospel," replied he, pushing the collar over the horse's head: he did not turn around, wishing to conceal his emotion.

"And you'll give my love to all the people that ask about me?"

"Yes, yes; indeed I will: only don't grieve so much about being far away from home. Why, it's pleasant to take leave when you know that there are people at home who love you dearly, and when you haven't done any harm." Nat's voice gave out; his throat was parched up, and his neck swelled. Ivo saw nothing of this, but inquired,--

"And you'll mind the pigeons till I come back again, won't you?"

"Sha'n't lose a feather. There now: go to your mother, for we must be off, or to-morrow will be lost too. Keep up your spirits, and don't let it worry you too much: Ehingen isn't out of the world, either. Hoof, dun!"

He led the horse up to the car, and Ivo went to his mother. Seeing her weep so bitterly, he suppressed his own tears, and said, "Mustn't be so sad: Ehingen isn't out of the world, either, and I'm coming home at Easter, and then we shall be so glad: sha'n't we?"

His mother bit her lips, bent over Ivo, embraced and kissed him. "Be pious and good" were the last words she sobbed out. She got on the car; the dun started, after looking around at Ivo, as if to take leave also; Nat nodded once more, and they were gone.

Ivo stood with his hands folded and his head sunk upon his breast. When he raised his tearful eyes and saw nothing of the loved ones, he ran out into the street to get one more look at the car: from the town-gate he saw it speeding on the dusty road. He stopped and turned to go back. Everybody around seemed so cheerful, and he alone was sad and a stranger! In the car his mother took her rosary and prayed,--

"Dear, holy Mother of God! Thou knowest what a mother's love is: thou hast felt it in sorrow and in joy. Preserve my child; he is the jewel of my heart. And, if I do a sin in loving him so much, let me atone for it, not him."

When Ivo reached the convent it was time for the afternoon service; but he found no devotion this time: his heart trembled too much with weariness. For the first time in his life he found himself in church without knowing it: he sang and listened unthinkingly.

This one circumstance was a feature of the life on which he was about to enter: the actions of his own will fell into the background; directions and precepts dictated his steps. His existence now became legally and strictly monotonous. The story of one day is the story of all.

The boys slept in large halls under the supervision of an usher. At half-past five in the morning a bell rang, which brought in the famulus, who lighted the lantern hanging from the roof and summoned them all to prayers. Then there was breakfast at the common table, succeeded by hours of private study which lasted till eight o'clock. The schools now began, and continued until dinner-time, after which there was an hour of "recreation,"--that is, of a walk taken under the eye of a functionary. After some more hours of instruction the boys were permitted to play in the yard, but never without being watched by a person in authority. The constraint indicated by the enclosed space was never relaxed even during "free time;" nowhere was there room for a spontaneous pleasure to spring forth, _nowhere a moment of unreconnoitred solitude_.

At home Ivo had been the pet of the family: when he sat at his books, his mother made it her especial care to see that no noise was made near him; scarcely was any one permitted to enter the room, and an impression was made as if a saint was engaged in working miracles there. Here, on the contrary, when the studies were resumed after supper, whispers would be heard here and there, which distracted his attention and took away the edge of his industry. Those who know the inscrutable power that often animates the soul which mirrors itself in its own thoughts or drinks in the thoughts of others, who are acquainted with that mute intellectual commerce which extends its organs and spreads its fragrance like a budding flower, will appreciate the regret of Ivo at never being left to himself. He was no longer his own property: a society moved him as if he had been one of their fingers or teeth.

At nine o'clock there were prayers once more, after which every one was compelled to go to bed. Here, at last, Ivo returned to himself, and his thoughts travelled homeward, until sleep spread its mantle over him.

Thus it happened that for some days Ivo felt as if he had been sold into slavery. Nowhere was there a trace of free will; every word and every thought was hedged in by injunctions and commandments; the _inflexibility of the law_ raised a cold high wall before him wherever he turned. It is a consistent deduction from the essence of every Church which has reached the development of a fixed and unchanging form of ritual and tenet, to begin in early youth with the task of tapping the fountain-head of individual self-regulation in the hearts and minds of its pupils, and of clapping them into the iron harness of its unbending forms. But the highest effort of education should be to draw out this self-regulating principle, and not to repress it; to educe the laws of right and wrong from the workings of the young mind, and not to nail a foreign growth upon the stock after having deadened the source from which alone a healthy fruitage could spring.

Ivo was so low-spirited that a single harsh word sufficed to bring tears to his eyes. Some of the naughtiest of his companions discovered this, and teased him in all sorts of ways. Many of these boys were of the coarsest stamp,--had left the most humble abodes behind them, and found every thing their hearts desired in the good food and the care taken of all externals. They noticed that Ivo was easily disgusted, and often amused themselves by getting up a conversation at the table which made it impossible for the poor boy to taste a morsel. At such times his mother's arrangement with the stewardess was of the greatest service to him.

Over-government always leads to circumventions of the law which the supervisors are forced to wink at: some of these tricks are handed down by a sort of secret tradition; others are invented with the occasion. Ivo never took part in these irregularities, nor in the practical jokes sometimes attempted to be played on the teachers and overseers. He was quiet and retiring.

His letter to his parents gives a vivid picture of his state of mind. It was as follows:--

"DEAR PARENTS, BROTHERS, AND SISTER:--I did not wish to write before I had learned to feel at home here. Oh, I have lived through so much in these three weeks that I thought I should die! Indeed, if I had not been ashamed I would have run away and come back to you. I often thought that I was just like the cow that father bought: she could not eat any thing either until she had become accustomed to the rest of the cattle. We have very good eating here,--meat every day except Friday, and wine on Sunday. The stewardess is very kind to me. I cannot go to see the landlady at the Vineyard, as we are not allowed to go to taverns. We are kept strictly in all things:--we are not even permitted to take half an hour's walk by ourselves after dinner. If I only had wings, to come and fly over to you! What I like best is to walk in the road by which we came here: then I think of the future,--when I shall travel this road again in the holidays. It is very cold here, too. Would you please send me a flannel jacket, dear mother, slashed with green in front? I feel the cold much more here than when I used to go to Horb: there I could do as I liked; here I don't seem to belong to myself at all. Oh, my head is often so heavy with crying that I feel as if I were going to be sick! But don't grieve about it, dear mother: all will go on very well soon, and I am really in good health now: only I must pour out my heart before you. I will study very hard, and then God will make all things go rightly: I depend on Him, on our Savior, on the holy mother of God, and on all the saints: others have gone through with it all before me, and why should not I? Be happy among yourselves, and love each other dearly; for, when one is away, one feels how much those should love each other who are privileged to be together: I would certainly never be quarrelsome or discontented now, and dear Mag would not need to scold me. Good-bye. Give my love to all good friends, and believe me your loving son,

"IVO BOCK.

"P.S.--Dear mother, a new usher has just come,--Christian the tailor's son Gregory; but his sister does not keep house for him now, it seems: there is somebody else with him. Please get Christian the tailor to write to him to be a little kind to me.

"Dear Nat, my best love to you, and I think of you very often. The cattle here are almost all black; and whenever I see a farmer at work in the fields I can hardly help running up to him to help him. The steward has pigeons too, but he kills them all in winter.

"Bart lives in a different room from mine. He is very happy: he has never been so well cared for in his life. Poor fellow! he hasn't such a dear good mother and father as I have. If I only had one companion to my liking here--

"In the evenings we are allowed to visit in families: many of the boys do so, but I know nobody to go to. Oh, if I were only in Nordstetten----

"Pardon my scrawling. If I were only with you! I have many things on my heart still, but will close now: the night-bell is ringing. Think of me often."

This letter made a great impression at home. His mother carried it in her pocket, and read it again and again, till it fell to pieces. The High-German dialect in which it was written came so strangely from her child that she could hardly realize the fact: but then he was a "scholar," and the minister preached in the same way in church. The numerous dashes tried her patience sorely. What could the boy have been thinking of when he made them?

Nat at once offered to walk all night to Ehingen, to bring Ivo the things he had asked for and news from home. Walpurgia, the pretty seamstress, was taken into the house and set to work. Christina treated her to the best of fare, for it seemed as if she were feeding the jacket. Often she said, "Don't save any thing: it is for my Ivo." As it was near Christmas, some "hutzelbrod" was baked, being kneaded with kirschwasser and filled with dried apples, pears, and nut-kernels. This, with a great quantity of fruit, some money, and other knickknacks, was packed into a bag and laid upon the shoulders of the devoted Nat, who trudged out of the village late in the evening.

Ivo could hardly believe his eyes when, as the class were taking their afternoon stroll, he saw Nat coming up the road. He ran to meet him, and fell upon his neck. Many of the boys gathered round wondering.

"Bock," asked one, "is that your brother?"

Ivo nodded, unwilling to say that Nat was only a servant.

"What an old buck your father must be!" said another boy. The rest laughed,--all except Clement Bauer, a boy from the principality of Hohenlohe, who said, "For shame, you jealous daws! Why, a'n't you glad his brother's come to see him?" He ran to the usher in command and obtained permission for Ivo to go home with Nat alone. Ivo was delighted beyond measure to meet with such a fine boy. The thought awoke in his mind that perhaps Nat had helped him to a friend.

Hand in hand they turned toward the convent, Ivo talking and rejoicing incessantly. When the things came to be unpacked, he shouted with delight. He immediately laid up a reserve for the good Clement; but when the other room-mates returned he shared his treasure with them all. Nat had also brought a letter for Gregory, the tailor's son, which Ivo immediately carried to him, and received an invitation to come to him often and call upon him for aid and counsel.

In the evening he was allowed to go to the inn with Nat, where there was no end of their chatting. When the bell rang for prayer, Nat escorted him back to the convent. Ivo ascended the stairs as lightly as if an unseen hand supported him. He was quite at home here now, since all Nordstetten, in the person of its most acceptable envoy, had come to see him. Besides, he now had both a friend and a patron, all owing to dear good old Nat.

From this time forth Ivo's life was sustained by industry, cheerfulness, and friendship. His mother hardly suffered a bird to pass without charging it with something kind for her son. His chest was never without some little delicacy, nor his heart without some secret pleasure. A brighter light fell on all things around him, much of which was owing to the encouraging influence of Clement. Still, the two did not become intimate so quickly as might have been expected: an extraordinary occurrence was necessary to bring this about. The other boys, seeing that Ivo was in favor with Mr. Haible,--such was Gregory's surname,--left him unmolested, and even sought his good-will.

The study of music afforded Ivo particular pleasure. An orchestra was organized to perform at the church-festivals. Ivo chose the bugle as his instrument, and soon acquired considerable skill.

The principal once conceived the idea of giving the boys, who were condemned to such a dismal barrack-life, a taste of family comfort. So, after catechism, he invited twelve of the most advanced--Ivo among them--to come to his room in the evening. This invitation was understood as a command, and the boys marched in at the appointed hour, in the order of their seats at school, bowing and scraping.

The principal, who lived with his old maiden sister, had tea ready for them, to which they were helped, and of which they bashfully partook. The good old gentleman had unfortunately forgotten all about family comfort and domestic enjoyment himself; so, instead of asking questions about home, he conversed about books and studies. Once only, when he told a magnificent joke of the perplexity into which he was thrown in early childhood by finding two leaves of his Bible sticking together, a suppressed giggle passed around the room. He immediately went on to argue, however, that whenever we find it hard to understand any thing in the Bible we might be sure there was a leaf pasted down somewhere.

At nine o'clock he said, "Now let us pray." They prayed, and then he said "Good-night," and the boys went their way. They were not much the better for their taste of family comfort.

Thus the winter passed by. Sometimes it made Ivo sad to see the town-boys sledging or throwing snow-balls. When the snow thawed, however, and nature began again to thrive, his heart reverberated to the pulses which beat all round him. He yearned for his free sunny home.

8.
THE HOLIDAYS.

For several weeks before the holidays none of the boys had their minds fixed upon their studies; all skipped and danced with joy at the thought of going home. Ivo and Clement often walked hand in hand, telling each other stories of home. Clement was the son of a scrivener or actuary,--the lowest grade of those officials who form the great political and legal hierarchy of the continental states of Europe. He had had no settled home in his childhood, as his father had been transferred from town to town three or four times during his life.

On the last evening all the boys were packing their trunks, as if on the eve of a march or a retreat. In the morning there was divine service, and, though the singing was loud, it is to be feared that more thoughts were directed to earthly homes than to the heavenly one.

After taking an affectionate leave of Clement, Ivo set out, taking short steps at first, according to the rule among pedestrians, all impatient as he was. Bart kept him company: he was going to an aunt. He was an unpleasant companion, for he wanted to stop at every tavern-sign which showed itself. Ivo never assented until they had reached the valley of the Lower March, where their roads parted. Fortunately he here found some Jewish horse-jockeys from Nordstetten. They were very glad to see him, and he them. They took him in their car and gave him a lift of many miles. He heard of all the births, marriages, and deaths. Ivo thought that these were the three fates between which vibrates the life of the children of men; and, without halting at the redundant spondee, he quoted to himself

"Clotho colum retinet, et Lachesis net, et Atropos occat."[9]

When the road was up hill the travelling traders took their prayer-straps out of their pouches, fastened them to their foreheads and arms and offered up their long devotions. Ivo compared the breath which rose from their moving lips in whiffs of fume, to the incense of the Bible: he honored every creed, and particularly the Jewish one, as the oldest of all. He even glanced into the open prayer-book of his neighbor, and pleased him by showing that he was able to read Hebrew. Ivo admired the ease with which these horse-jockeys read the language: even the principal could not have kept pace with them.

On setting him down again, where they travelled in a direction different from his home, they made him promise not to go all the way to Nordstetten that day, so that he might not injure his health. Walking on silently, Ivo praised his beloved native village, in which every one, Christian and Jew, appeared to be equally good.

Although his thoughts all tended homeward, he was very observant of things around him, and even found time for some general reflections. More than once, when a distant village-spire hove in sight, he said to himself, "How well it is that the church-steeple is always the first thing to be seen as you approach a village! It shows that Christians live there, and that they dedicate their best and finest house to God."

At another time he thought, "These fruit-trees around every village are the best friends of man. Man comes first, cattle next, and then the orchard-trees,--for they also need the special care of man to prune and graft them and remove the caterpillars. How strange it is! All around is grass and puny herbage, and suddenly a great stem rears itself aloft and its crest is all white with blossoms.

"God's earth is full of wondrous beauty,
A lovely place to dwell upon;
Then to rejoice shall be my duty
Till in the earth I make my wonne."

Though so well entertained by communing with himself, he entered into conversation with more than one of the travellers he overtook, or who overtook him. They all were pleased with his open, kindly talk; and he quite rejoiced to find the world full of such good-humored people.

It was dark when he reached Hechingen. Though it was but five hours' walk to his home, and he felt no fatigue, he kept his promise to his friends. He wished, moreover, to come home in the daytime. "It was dark when I went away," he said to himself as he sat at the inn, "and it must be light when I return." He was even vain enough to wish that his father's house was at the other end of the village, so that his green knapsack and student's dress might attract universal attention.

The sun shone brightly when Ivo awoke. It was a happier waking than that on which the lantern of the convent used to look down. It was a beautiful day,--a day of jubilee for the birds in the air and the buds on the trees.

He longed for wings; and, in default of them, he flung his cap high in the air as he walked briskly along. He suddenly stopped, sat down on the wayside, and, repeating the words of Exodus iii. 5,--"Put off thy shoes from off thy feet; for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground,"--he obeyed the precept. Like an unshod colt, he 'bounded along for a time; but soon he found that the life of the convent had unfitted him for such exercise. Compressing his lips with pain, and resuming his shoes, he again thought of the beautiful Psalm,--"He shall give his angels charge over thee, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone." Psalm xci. 11, 12.

At Haigerloch he bought two "pretzels,"--one for his mother and the other for Emmerence. "Didn't she give me the duck when I went away?" he argued to himself, to quiet his ecclesiastical conscience. He avoided the short turns which the footpaths offered, and followed the highroad, fearing to miss his way: besides, he had more of the village to pass through on this route than in going by the way of Muehringen. The nearer home he came, the more his heart bounded within him. Sometimes it all seemed too good to be true, and he dreaded some unforeseen disaster, or even that the weight of his exultation would drag him down: at such times he would sit down to recover his strength.

People were wrong in saying that it was but two hours' walk from Haigerloch to Nordstetten. "The fox must have measured this road and thrown in his tail," said Ivo, repeating the old German proverb: "it is eight hours' walk at least."

Near the beech farm he saw his Brindle pulling a plough. Running up to the ploughman, he asked how Brindle worked, and rejoiced to hear him praised. The brute had forgotten him, however, and let his head droop earthward under the yoke. Ivo was tempted to give him one of the pretzels to eat, but was ashamed of showing his weakness to the workman, and went on.

At the brick-yard he met Hansgeorge's Peter, the one-eyed, who shook his hand sadly, and said, "Constantine came last night."

Welcomed on every side, Ivo passed on. Every thing warmed his heart,--the things which moved, and those which moved not: every hedge, every stack of wood, looked like a friend, and seemed to be telling a good old story: when his father's house stood before him it trembled in his eyes, for the tears were running down his cheeks.

Emmerence sat under the walnut-tree with the school master's child on her lap. Instead of coming to meet him, she ran into the house, crying, "Ivo's come! Ivo's come!"

His mother left the wash-tub, rushed down the stairs, and, with her hands but half dried on her apron, embraced her darling. His father, Mag, and his brothers also came up in high glee; and his mother, with her arms still round his neck, almost carried him into the house.

Emmerence now came up also, saying, "I knew you were coming to-day. Constantine came yesterday. I saw him first, though,--didn't I, aunty?" she added, turning to his mother.

Nat now made his appearance, and, with a hearty "God bless you," he helped Ivo off with his shoes and brought him a pair of slippers.

After the vaulted chambers of the convent, the rooms of the farmhouse seemed no larger and no higher than the nests of a pigeon's cote: he stretched himself to reach the ceiling; but, much as he had grown, this was still out of the question. His mother hastened to make a soup for him and a "parson's roast," as a pancake is called in those parts, because it is the dish generally got up for sudden and unexpected visitors at a parsonage.

Having given his mother one of the "pretzels," Ivo went to the stable to talk to Nat. The beasts seemed to recognise him: the cow particularly was pleased to turn her head toward him and let him tickle her forehead.

"Haven't you brought me any thing?" asked Nat, smiling. Ivo found the remaining pretzel in his pocket and handed it to him in silence. He was thus relieved of the scruple which troubled him, that it might be wrong for him to make Emmerence a present: on returning to the kitchen, however, he heard Emmerence say,--

"Well, aunty, what are you going to give me for bringing you the good news?"

"Take the pretzel he brought for me: Ivo knows I am as thankful as if I had eaten it, but my teeth are giving out."

Ivo was but too well pleased to know that Emmerence had something from him, and highly indignant that the squalling baby forthwith laid her under contribution for half the prize. The baby found but little favor in his eyes at any time: it was so large that when Emmerence carried it--as it always insisted on her doing--she seemed in constant danger of losing her balance and falling. So he said, with some solemnity,--

"You do a sin against yourself and against the baby, Emmerence, if you drag it about all the time: it has strong feet, and ought to learn to walk; and you will drag yourself crooked if you go on so."

She set the child down instantly, and did not take it up again in spite of its crying. Wasn't Ivo a young parson now? and hadn't he said it was a sin?

This little reprimand was almost the only interest Ivo manifested in her to the end of the holidays. So much, he thought, his conscience could not possibly disapprove; but he would not go further. The eyes of the girl were often fixed on him, as if to inquire the cause of his studied indifference. Once only, in a favored moment, he asked, "What has become of your puss?"

"Why, only think, that tinker Caspar, 'the Dog Caspar,' stole it and took its pretty black hide off, and ate poor pussy."

In the afternoon Ivo enjoyed the full honor of being welcomed by all the villagers. He loved to stop at every door; it did his heart good to see people walk up to him as to one who had been in foreign parts, take him by the hand and admire his healthy appearance. Nor was it mere vanity that afforded him this gratification: he felt that he had a nook in the hearts of the eager welcomers, he was more or less beloved; and thus the prevailing desire of his nature was gratified.

At night the most delicious home feeling always overcame him when his mother visited his bedside and saw that he was well covered.

"Christmas white, Easter bright," had come true this year. The day after he came home was Easter Sunday. Every thing was doubly fresh and green. Once more Ivo stood under the walnut-tree, the leaves of which were just peeping out of their buds; once more he was wrapt in contemplation of his pigeons: he could not sing this time, for that would have been unbecoming his station.

When the afternoon service was over, Ivo set out on a walk to Horb. At the "Scheubuss," at Paul's Garden, he found several women seated on the little bridge by the weeping willow which droops its green arches over the runnel. They all rose reverentially at Ivo's greeting: one of them, however, stepped up to him, and, after rubbing her hand very hard on her apron, took that of Ivo. We have not forgotten her, though she has grown quite old: it was the gawk's mother, Maria.

"God bless you, Ivo!" she said. "How you have grown! I won't call you Mr. Bock until you are at the seminary in Rottenburg."

"You must always call me Ivo, aunty."

"No, no: that would never do."

The other women approached, and regarded the young "gentleman" with great attention; but not one ventured to open her mouth.

"How are Matthew and Aloys coming on in America?" asked Ivo.

"Now, how nice that is in you to think of them! I've just had a letter from Aloys. You know he's been married this long time to Mechtilde, the daughter of Matthew of the Hill: they have two children. Oh, if I could only have just one blessed look at them! It's like being half dead to be so uncommon far apart. I must see Mat's children, and Aloys'; and Matthew's wife, the American, I don't know at all. My boys are all the time writing to come and come: if it only wasn't so shocking far to that America! They say they will meet me at New York; and, if it's God's will, I think I _shall_ go off after Whitsunday with some emigrants from Rexingen. If our Lord God wishes to take me away He will always know where to find me. Isn't it so?"

Ivo nodded; and Maria, taking from her pocket a paper which was very carefully wrapped up, went on:--"See, here's the last letter: how kind it would be of you to come in and read it to me once more! The schoolmaster is tired of it, and the Jew schoolmaster has read it three or four times too. There's a word in it that neither of 'em can make out: you can, though, I'm sure; for you've got learning."

Ivo went into the house with her, the other women following, first with hesitation and then with an air of great firmness and resolution. All sat down, prepared to listen attentively. Many of the gawk's old friends will be pleased to hear his letter also:--

"NORDSTETTEN ON THE OHIO, AMERICA,
October 18, 18**.

"DEAR MOTHER:--As you don't know how I'm getting along, I will write you all about it. At first I never wrote to you what a hard time I had of it; but now, with God's help, that's all passed and gone. I always thought, 'What's the use of making poor mammy fret about it? she couldn't do any good, anyhow;' so I swallowed it all down, and worked hard and tried to whistle."

Ivo paused a moment. He seemed to be drawing a lesson for his own guidance from what he was reading. He continued:--

"Now things are all put to rights; and it isn't a trifle, either, to build yourself a house, and clear all your fields and turn them over for the first time, and no help or counsel nowhere from a living soul: but now it looks nicer here than at Buchmaier's. Our arms and legs get stiff now and then; but we're all in good health, and that's the best of it. Many of our countrymen are here, and worse off than at home, and have to work at the canals and railroads. There's lots of swindlers here, that tell you all sorts of stories when you first come into the country, until you've spent the last cent in your pocket, and then they're nowhere. There are great hypocrites here as well as there: the voyage cleans, out their stomachs, but their souls are as dirty as ever. But the steamboat-man in Mayence gave us a good introduction to a society of fine men,--all Germans,--who tell you where it's best to go and what's best to be done: so none of us were ruined. I want you to tell all those that talk of coming over not to trust anybody but that man and that introduction. At first, when I used to go away from my guide a little, and run about in New York, while we were waiting for Mat to come on, I used to feel just as if I'd got among a herd of cattle,--God forgive me!--they were men just as much as I am; but they jabbered together just like that French simpleton, Joe, in Frog Alley: he talks a sort of hotchpotchcomambulation too. But it's English what they talk to each other. I can speak it a little too by this time: it's just like German sometimes, only you must handle your mouth as if you'd got your teeth twisted round a green apple. We were a large company at first; but one's gone here and another there. That's all wrong: we Germans ought to stick together. I always used to think only the Wurtembergers were my countrymen; but here they call us all Dutchmen; and when I see one from Saxony I feel just as if he were from the Lower Neckar Valley. I guess I'm writing all sorts of things you don't want to read; but this sort of thoughts go about in my head so much that they pop out before I know what's what.

"Now, I must tell you something else. Did you notice that I wrote 'Nordstetten' at the top of my letter? Yes; so it is, and so it shall be. I've put up a post not far from my house, with a board and with 'Nordstetten' marked on it in large letters. It won't be long before other people 'll come and settle here, and then they'll keep the name. Then we're going to build a church, just like the church at home: I've picked out the hill for it already, right opposite my barn: we call it the Church Hill now. Then we'll send for a parson from Germany. And my fields have just the same names they used to have at home. I and my Mechtilde often talk about it nights how it'll all come some time or other. If we don't live to see it, why, our children will; and then it'll all be my doing, after all. If one of the Nordstetten students would only come here and be our parson, he'd have a nice place of it; but he'd have to work in the fields some. We choose our own parsons here: we take those we like best, and none of your consistories has any thing to say to us. So the parsons are not the lords over us, neither: here all are equal; they're no better than we are, only that they've got learning and been ordained. Three hours' walk from here we have one: he was born in Rangendingen. The swallows have built nests around my house already. Last year I wrote on a bit of paper, 'God bless you all over there,' and my name under it, and tied it to one of their necks. I thought, in my foolishness, they'd fly to Nordstetten with it some day; but--lo and behold!--she came back again, and she had another bit of paper, with [Greek: chaire] on it. Nobody can tell me what that means: it looks just like kaibe;[10] and that would be a shame, wouldn't it?"

"Do you know what it means, Ivo?" asked Maria.

"Yes, Chaire: it is Greek, and means 'Hail.'"

The women lifted up their hands in amazement at Ivo's learning.

"But where did the swallow winter?" asked Maria, again.

"Among the Firelanders, I suppose," answered Ivo; and after a pause he read on:--

"I never knew till I got away from home how finely the larks sing. Only think! there are no larks here at all, and no nightingales either: but a great many other fine birds there are, and splendid pine and oak trees, and the tallest sort of timber.

"Dear mother, I wrote all this a week ago, and when I look over it I think I'm writing stuff and nonsense; but just now I feel as if I was sitting with you before Jacob the blacksmith's house at the well, and people passing by and saying, 'Ha' ye good counsel?' and my heart is so full that I don't know what I ought to say first and what last. We are all in very good health, thank God: we like what we eat and drink, and it feeds us well. We've had to widen all the clothes we brought with us from Germany. It's a good thing Mechtilde has learned to sew.

"Whenever I eat a good dinner I think how nice it would be if my poor mother was here: I could just lay out the best bits for her, and say, 'There, mother: that's for you to help yourself; there's a choice morsel;' and I know you would like living in our house.

"Our Bat is getting on finely: he never had any thing to ail him yet. Oh, if that dear little Maria was living yet! She would have been a year old next Michaelmas. She was a sweet little angel; she was only three weeks old, but when you called her by name she would look at you so cunning, and grab at your eyes. On All-Souls' day we are going to put an iron cross on her grave. Oh, my! oh, my! the dear child is in heaven now, and heaven is the real America, after all!

"I must write more about my household-matters. I oughtn't to think of the child so much; it works me too hard. I say, as the parson said, 'The Lord hath given, the Lord hath taken away: the name of the Lord be praised.'

"If the Lord will only keep us all in good health now! The Lord has always been very gracious to me: as far as the cattle go, I haven't lost one of them yet. There's nothing I like to think of more than that the cattle always have plenty to eat here. To the last day of my life I shall never forget what a misery it was when feed was so scarce, just the day before I went to Stuttgard, when there wasn't hardly a blade of grass on the ground. Do you remember what it used to be to get up in the morning and not give the poor beasts a quarter of a good breakfast, and then to see the flesh falling off their ribs? I often felt so unked I could have run away. Here the cows run about pasturing all the year round, and never know what it is to want; and yet I never had to kill one of them for having overeaten itself. Over there they stand in the stable all the year round, and then, when they do get into a clover-field, they eat till they burst. And just as it is with the cattle, so it is with men. Over there they have to stand in a stable, tied down by squires and clerks and office-holders, until their talons get so long that they can't walk any more, and the minute you let 'em out they go capering about like mad. This is what somebody was saying very finely in a public meeting the other day. Mother, it's a fine thing, a public meeting: it's just as if you were to go to church. And yet it isn't just so, neither; for everybody may speak there that can and likes: all are equal there. I want to tell you how they do it, and yet I believe I can't, exactly: only I must tell you that our Matthew is one of the principal speakers: they've put him on the committee two or three times, and the name of Matthew Schorer is one for which the people have respect. I have spoken in public once or twice too. I don't know how it is; at first my heart thumped a little, but then I just felt as if I was speaking to you, just free 'from the liver,' as we used to say in Germany. What they were disputing about was, a German, a Wurtemberger, or, as we say over here, a Swobe,[11] came here, and he'd been an officer, and the king had pardoned him; he'd got up a conspiracy among the military, and afterward he betrayed all his comrades: here he gave himself out for a friend of freedom; but a letter came from over there to say that he was too bad for the gallows, and the devil had kicked him out of his cart. So they disputed about it for a long time whether he could be an officer here or not, and at last I said, 'I can find a handle to fit that hoe. Let him show a letter from his comrades to say that he did the fair thing by them: I can't believe that any Wurtemberger could be so mean as to betray his king first and his comrades afterward.' And they agreed to do just what I told them; but, when I looked at the fellow's face again, I thought, 'Well, that trouble's for nothing: he looks as if he'd stolen the horns off the goat's head.'

"I'm an officer in the militia,--a lieutenant: they chose me because I was in the military over there and understand the business. We choose our own officers here, for here every thing is free. The squire in Nordstetten was only a corporal, after all. If I was to come home---- No; come to think of it, I wouldn't dress like an officer, neither. I'm a free citizen, and that's better than to be an officer or a general. I wouldn't swop with a king. Mother, it's a great country is America. You've got to work right hard, that's a fact; but then you know what you're working for: the tithes and taxes don't take the cream off your earnings. I live here on my farm, and no king and no emperor has any thing to say to me; and as for a presser, they don't know what that is hereabouts, at all. Good gracious! When I think how he used to travel through the village with the beadle, with a long list in his hand, while the people in the houses were weeping and wailing and slamming their doors; and then he would bring a pewter plate, a copper kettle, a pan, or a lamp, from a poor Jew's house to the squire! It is a shame there's so much suffering with us: it seems to me it might easily be done-away with. And yet I wouldn't coax anybody to come over. It's no trifle to be so far away from home, even if you're ever so well off. Every now and then something makes me feel so soft that, when I think of it, I am ashamed of myself; and then I want to bundle up right-away and go to Germany. I must see it once more while I have an eye open to look at it. I can't tell you how I feel: sometimes I almost go to pieces, and feel like howling as if I was a dog. I know that that would never do for a man, but then I can't help feeling so, and I needn't conceal any thing from you, you know. I think, after all, maybe it only comes of longing to see you so much. More than a thousand times I've said to myself, 'If only my mammy was here too,--my dear, good mammy; if she'd only once sit on that bench there!' How glad you'd be to see the big milk-pans! and, oh, to think of your seeing little Bat, and the one that's coming soon! If I have ever done you any harm, forgive me; for you may be sure there's not a living soul on earth that loves you more than I do.

"I have been resting a little, and now I'm going on. What a fine thing it is that we've learned to read and write properly! I'm always grateful to you for having made me learn it. But you mustn't think I'm out of spirits. To-be-sure, I'm not so full of fun as I sometimes was, years ago, but then I've grown older, and had a good deal of experience; but still, sometimes I am so glad, and feel so kindly for every thing in the world, that I begin to whistle and dance and sing. Sometimes I feel a little pang when I call something to mind; but then I say, 'Whoa!' and shake myself like a horse, and away with it. I and Mechtilde live as happy as two children, and our Bat has bones in him as strong as a young calf, and muscles like the kernel of a nut.