Chapter VII: Part 7

So she put the casket in her mother's lap, and lifted the beautiful carbuncle lid. And see! there flew thereout two tiny beings, all radiant with rainbow light, and they grew bigger and bigger, fluttering round her till they appeared two holy angels, who folded the child softly in their arms, then spread their wings and flew away with her, singing enchanting melodies, above the clouds!

THE PRUDENT COUNSELLOR.

Alois Zoschg was a peasant of the Sarnthal; his holding was inconsiderable, but it sufficed for all his needs; his cottage was small, but his family consisted of only himself and his daughter, and they found room for all their requirements.

Katharina was bright enough, however, to make any home happy. Though she shared the cottage with her father alone, she never seemed to feel the want of younger companions; thoughtful and prudent beyond her years, and thrifty and notable with all the work of the place, she was at the same time always ready with her joke and her song. It was no wonder that her father doated on her, and looked forward all through the day's toil to the evening spent in cheerful conversation with her.

There were thus the elements of a pleasant existence in Alois' lot, but there were two disturbing causes also. One was his own temper, which was violent and ungovernable at times, when he was seriously provoked. The other was the jealousy and animosity of a rich peasant neighbour, Andrä Margesin, the owner of a considerable Hof [69] situated at no great distance from Zoschg's cottage, auf der Putzen.

Circumstances had constantly brought the two neighbours into collision; the fault generally lay, in the first instance, on the side of the rich Andrä Margesin, who was grasping and overbearing, but Alois Zoschg once roused, would never let a quarrel rest, and his irritability and revengeful spirit were oftentimes enough to disturb the peace of the whole neighbourhood. No one could say where such quarrels might have ended, what crimes might perhaps have been the result, but for the wise interposition of Katharina, who knew how to soothe her father's ruffled spirit without ever exceeding the limits of filial respect, as well as how to conciliate the rich neighbour, without condescending to the use of any servile arts.

By her extraordinary good sense and good temper alone, she would, time after time, bring both the men back to sober reason from the highest reach of fury.

Once, however, they had a dispute which was beyond her competence to decide for them, for it involved a question of law. Andrä Margesin accused Alois Zoschg of an encroachment, while Alois Zoschg maintained he was justified in what he had done, by prescriptive right. The dispute raged high, but all Katharina could do in this case to restore peace, was to exact a promise from both parties that they would cease from all mutual recrimination, and carry the matter to be decided for them by the judge in Botzen.

When the day of hearing came on, the two disputants went up to Botzen to plead their cause; but each was so determined not to give way, and had so much to say in defence of his own position, and to the disparagement of his antagonist, that they carried their pleadings on for six days, and yet there seemed no chance of arriving at a decision which should be thoroughly justified by the evidence, so contradictory was it. At last, the judge, getting tired of the prolonged controversy, and finding it impossible to moderate the virulence of the combatants, told them that he could have no more wrangling, they had so confused the case with their statements and counter-statements, that it was impossible to say which of them was right, or, rather, which of them was least in the wrong; but he gave them one chance of obtaining a decision of the matter, and that was by accepting a test, which he would propound, of their ability and judgment, and whichever succeeded in that, he should pronounce was the one who was in the right in the original pleading.

The rivals looked somewhat disconcerted at this mode of procedure, but, as they found they could not get the affair decided on any other terms, they at last agreed to accept the proposal.

"You must tell me, then," said the judge, "by to-morrow morning at this hour, what is that which is the Strongest, the Richest, and the most Beautiful;" with these words he left the judgment-seat, and the two peasants were left standing opposite each other, looking very foolish, for they both thought that it would be impossible ever to answer such a question.

After a few moments' consideration, however, Andrä Margesin, who was a very vain man, bethought himself of an answer which, to his mind, seemed indisputably the right one. "To be sure! Of course! I wonder I didn't see it at once! There can be no doubt about it!" he exclaimed, aloud; and clapping his hands, and making other triumphant gesticulations, he stalked off homewards, telling all his friends that he had no doubt of the result.

But poor Alois Zoschg, the more he thought, the more puzzled he got, and the boasts of Andrä Margesin only made him more furious. There he stood, crying out against the judge, and against his ill-luck, against his poverty and the opulence of Margesin, till it became necessary to close the court, and his friends prevailed on him to go home. But all the way his passion grew more and more outrageous, and by the time he reached his cottage he was raging like a maniac; the other men could do nothing with him, and slunk away one by one, some in disgust, some in despair.

It was now Katharina's turn; and Katharina came out to meet him with her brightest smile and her filial greeting, just as if he had been in the best humour in the world.

But, for the first time, the sight of Katharina seemed rather to increase than allay his anger; for he found her dressed in all her festal attire--a proceeding which was quite out of character with his present disposition.

There was he, worn out with the long dispute, the weariness of the delayed decision, the provocation of his enemy's insulting mien, and still more, perhaps, by his own ill-humour; and there she stood, all smiles and bright colours, as for a joyful occasion--the white Stotzhaube [70] coquettishly set on her braided hair, the scarlet bodice tightly embracing her comely shape, with "follow-my-lads [71]" streamers from her shoulder-knot, the bright red stockings showing under her short black skirt, and the blue apron over it, in place of the white apron of working days! Could any thing be more incongruous? was it not enough to increase his madness?

Nevertheless, Katharina's judgment so uniformly approved itself to his better reason, that, the first impulse passed, he gulped down the rising exclamation of annoyance until he had heard what Katharina had to say.

"Well, father, so you're all right! and I'm the first to congratulate you," she cried, and flung her arms round him with an embrace, of which, even in his present state of excitement, he could hardly resist the tenderness and effusion, and as if she did not perceive the traces of his ill-humour.

"'Right,' wench! what mean you? all wrong you should say."

"No, no, I mean it is all right; and it only remains for you to hear it pronounced by the judge to-morrow--and haven't I put on my gala suit to celebrate your success?"

"Success! speak! what mean you?" cried Alois, eagerly, his stormy vexation melting away before the sunbeam of her encouragement.

"Why, what has the judge told you to do, to decide the case?" asked Katharina, who had heard it all from a neighbour who came home hours before, while Alois was still standing perplexed in the court.

"That I should tell him by to-morrow morning," replied Alois, softened already by her consoling manner, "what it is which is the strongest, the richest, and the most beautiful--and how am I ever to guess all that? And what's more," he continued, relapsing into his former state of vexation, "that fellow Andrä Margesin has guessed it--guessed it already! and is gone off proclaiming his triumph!"

"No, father!" exclaimed Katharina, with a mocking laugh, all of fun, however, not of scorn; "you don't mean to say you believe that great bully Andrä Margesin could have guessed the right answer?"

"But he said so! he went off telling every one so," rejoined Alois, positively.

"Oh, you dear, good, simple father! do you really believe it is so because he boasts of it? Do rest easy; he's not got it."

"Well, but if he hasn't, I haven't either. How am I to guess such captious absurdities? Why couldn't the man judge the thing on its merits, instead of tormenting one to this extent?" and Alois was getting cross again.

"Why, it is the best chance in the world, you couldn't have been more favoured! As to Andrä, he'll never guess it. Now just think what answer you'll give."

"Oh, I should never guess any, if I thought till doomsday! But you"--and he started with the clever thought--"you, of course, who always find a way out of every thing--what do you say?"

"Why," answered Katharina, readily, "what is Stronger than the earth on which we stand, which bears up our houses and buildings, our rocks and mighty mountains, which all our united efforts could not suffice to move one inch from its place, and on which we all rest secure, confident that none is strong enough to displace it? What more Beauteous than spring, with its fresh, soft tints on sky and mountain, on alp [72] and mead, on blossom and flower--spring, with its promise and its hope? And what Richer than autumn, with its gifts which make us glad for all the year--its bursting ears of grain, its clustered grapes, its abundant olives and luscious fruits?"

"Katharina, girl, I believe you've found it!" said her father, with enthusiasm. "My bonny girl has saved me this time also!" and he clasped her in his arms. Though misgivings would come back when he recalled Andrä's assurance, he yet went to bed happy in the consciousness of at least having a good chance of not being beaten.

In the morning he was up betimes, and, having taken great pains to learn what he had to say from Katharina, who walked a good stretch of the way through the valley with him, he arrived at the court in tolerably good humour.

Andrä was there before him, and in high good humour too; taking for granted that, as the richer and more important man, and, moreover, as the victor (so he felt assured), he had the right to speak first. As soon as the judge had taken his seat, and even before he had called on him for his answer, he began,--

"Sir judge, I have the answer to your enigma; and as soon as I have told it, you will please give judgment in my favour. It was indeed easy enough to find, so I claim no merit in the discovery," he added, with the pride that apes humility. "The most Beautiful thing on earth is my wife, of course; the Strongest, are my oxen; and the Richest, am I."

The judge listened without moving a muscle of his countenance, as became a judge, and for those who were too obtuse to perceive the fine irony of the smile with which he bowed to the speaker at the conclusion of his harangue--and among these was certainly Andrä himself--it seemed as if he was quite satisfied with the answer. Nevertheless, he turned to Alois, and said,--

"Well, my man, and what is your answer?"

"But the judgment, good sir judge! would your honour be pleased to pronounce the sentence in my favour, seeing I have given your worship the answer?" interposed Andrä Margesin, fussily.

"Gently and fairly!" replied the judge; "wait only a little: we must hear what friend Alois has to say. He might have an answer, you know; and, anyhow, we must give him the opportunity."

Andrä chafed, but could not resist; and, at an encouraging word from the judge, Alois stood forward and repeated word for word the answer Katharina had taught him.

Though the judge had preserved his imperturbability through the expression of Andrä's silly bombast, this answer of Alois was too much for his composure. He had only proposed the enigma as the means of getting rid of a perplexing case. He had no idea but that both peasants would bring an answer of which he could easily expose the folly; and thus, neither having fulfilled the prescribed terms, the case would fall through of itself, and he be saved from further trouble. But he saw nothing to reply to Alois' solution of his question, nor any means of escaping from giving judgment in his favour. Every body acquiesced in the justice of the decision; and even Andrä himself had nothing to say, but, crestfallen, and in very different style from his confidence of the day before, he made his exit while people were yet engaged with the discussion of Alois' success, so as to avoid alike scorn and condolence.

The session over, the judge called Alois aside, and inquired how he had come to find so accurate an answer; upon which Alois, who burnt to proclaim the merit of his child, at once referred the honour to Katharina.

"That is it, is it?" replied the judge. "I have often seen the girl at church, and am not surprised that so comely a form is inhabited by so clever a mind. Now, go home, and tell your daughter that if she finds out the way to come to me without any clothes on, and yet not naked; not by day, and yet not by night; and by a way which shall be neither a high-road nor yet a by-path, I shall take the opportunity of her so coming to ask her to be my wife."

Alois lost no time in returning home to tell the good news to his daughter. "I suppose you'll find one of your clever ways of doing it, though, for myself, I confess I don't understand a word of it."

"But do you really mean that that good, noble, handsome judge really means to make his wife of a poor peasant girl like me?"

"He might do worse," answered her father, with archness and pride. "But there is no doubt he was in earnest. You should have seen the fire in his eye when he spoke!"

"In that case, you may depend I will find the way to fulfil his directions: trust me for that!"

Nor was she long in finding a way which satisfied the judge completely. She took off all her clothes, and then covered herself with fishing-nets; this for the first condition. Then, for the second, she timed her journey in the dusk of evening, which is neither called day nor night; and, for the third, she had previously had the road covered with boards, and upon these she walked, so that she neither trod the high-road nor yet a by-path.

Delighted at acquiring such a prize, and having so clever a maiden for his future companion through life, the judge married Katharina before the end of the month. There were great rejoicings at the wedding, to which all the country-side was invited; and then the poor peasant girl was installed in the judge's house. The judge, however, had exacted of her one condition, which was that she should never interfere with any of her clever suggestions in any case brought before him for decision, but let justice take its free and uninterrupted course.

Years passed by happily enough. The judge rejoiced more and more every day over the wisdom of his choice, and Katharina sedulously observed the condition imposed upon her, and never interfered with her husband's dealings in the court.

Nevertheless, it happened one day that a peasant whom she had known from her infancy had a case before the judge which was nearly as perplexed as that of her father had been, and, despairing of making his right apparent, the peasant came to Katharina, and begged her, by their lifelong friendship, to give him one of those good counsels for which she had been so famous at home in the days gone by.

Katharina urged her promise to her husband, and for a long time refused to break it; but the wily peasant contrived to work on her vanity so effectually, that at last, in an evil moment, she consented this once to give her advice, exacting first a promise he would never tell any one she had done so.

The case was this. Her friend's Senner [73] had been visited in the night by a Saligen Fraulein [74], who had promised to milk his cow for him, and every one knew that when a Saligen Fraulein milked a cow, it gave three times as much milk as the wont. But being a poor man, and having only one cow, he eked out his living by taking in cows to graze on his allotment; and he also only had one milking-pail. The Saligen Fraulein, therefore, when she had milked his pail full, had been obliged to take a pail belonging to the man to whom the other cows belonged, who was a rich man, and had a store of all sorts of utensils. But the milk being in one of his pails, his Senner swore that it had been milked from one of his cows, and refused to give it up, though he had no right to it whatever; and he had declined payment for the use of the pail.

Though the case had been argued since the first thing that morning, they were no nearer arriving at a decision. Now the disputants had been ordered to stand back while another case was called, but it would come on again immediately; and in the meantime the poor peasant entreated Katharina's counsel as his only chance of rescuing his milk before it turned sour.

"I see one means, I think, of bringing him to his senses," said Katharina, after she had yielded to her poor friend's importunity. "When your case is called on again, show as much indifference about the result as you have hitherto shown anxiety; then tell your adversary that during this interval, which you spent in the shade of the woods, a Saligen Fraulein had appeared to you and advised you not to use any of the milk the one who appeared to the Senner had milked for you, because she was a mischievous one, and the milk she milked was bewitched, so that all who drank of it, or of any milk mixed with it--were it only one drop of it--would be turned into asses. Then add, 'But of course, if your pailful is really the milk of your own cow, you have nothing to fear; so there's an end of the dispute.' Then he will probably be so frightened by the threat of this calamity that he will probably have nothing more to do with the pail; and that will suffice to prove that it is not the milk of his cow, and expose his deceit."

The peasant was so delighted with the wise counsel that he hardly knew how to thank his benefactress, and readily gave her the promise she required of not letting any one know he had even seen her.

He had scarcely got back to the court when the case was called on again. The peasant carried out the advice he had received with great shrewdness, and found it answer completely. Every body applauded the craft by which he had confounded his would-be oppressor, and the judge himself was very much pleased to see the end of such a troublesome case.

A few minutes' thought, however, suggested to him that there was more than a peasant's shrewdness in the matter, and he was not slow to discern the guiding of his wife in it; so he called the peasant apart, and had little difficulty in wringing from the simple clown a confession of who had been his prompter.

The discovery made the judge set off homeward in great anger. His wife had broken her promise--the fundamental condition of their union; and he would have nothing more to say to her! Out of his house she must go, whithersoever she would, but far away out of his sight.

Katharina, who had so often calmed her father's anger by her prudent reasoning, exerted herself to the utmost to bring her husband back to a better mind; but in vain. And all the concessions he would yield were, to consent that they should eat their last dinner together, and that she should take away with her one thing out of the house, whatever she had most fancy for. It was not much to obtain when required to part for ever from her home, and her hopes, and all to which she had grown united and attached--but it was all she could obtain.

Dinner-time came, and the judge, who was devotedly fond of his wife, seemed lost in sorrow at the calamity about to befall him; still he would not yield. Though she caressed him and entreated him to forgive her, he still said he could not depart from his word, and he would not allow her to speak of it. They sat down to their silent meal; and as the time of separation drew nearer he grew more sombre and sad, and at last determined to console himself with the red wine that sparkled by his side. Katharina encouraged him to drink, and as his bottle got exhausted deftly replaced it by a full one, so that he was quite unconscious of the depth of his potations.

Presently the steward came into the room ready to drive Katharina to whatever destination she should select, and, as he had heard it stipulated that she was to take with her whatever she liked best, proffered his services to assist in the removal--for she had won the respect and affection of all her dependants, and they delighted to be occupied for her.

Katharina rose to depart, thanked the man for his attention, and, in answer to his question as to the object she would take with her, pointed to her husband, who now lay helpless across his settle, his head drooping over the table.

The steward could scarcely believe his eyes, but Katharina had a way of giving orders which did not admit of being questioned. The first surprise over, too, it struck him as a capital device, and he entered heartily into the spirit of the scheme. With the help of a couple of serving-men the judge was deposited safely in the lumbering old carriage, and Katharina having taken her place beside him, they drove away by her direction over one of the worst and most uneven roads in the neighbourhood. The shaking of the vehicle presently awakened the sleeper, who was, of course, quite at a loss to conceive where he was, but, perceiving that he cut a rather silly figure, was ashamed to ask his wife, who sat by his side as if there was nothing amiss, and said nothing.

At last his curiosity got the better of his self-respect, and he begged her to tell him what all this trundling and shaking meant.

Katharina in a few words recalled to him his cruel decree, at the same time reminding him of his promise that she might take with her what she liked best, and, throwing her arms round him, asked him if there could be any doubt as to what that could be.

The judge perceived that his wife had once more shown her sense and judgment, and was not sorry to find she had contrived this opportunity of making up their difference. On renewing her petition for forgiveness, he frankly gave her his pardon; and they drove back home to live together in love and union to the end of their days.

THE GEESEHERDS.

There was once a peasant who had three sons, Karl, Stefan, and Josef; but, as he was very poor, they often had scarcely enough to eat, and were always complaining. So one day he told them that they should go out, one at a time, into the world, and see whether they could do better for themselves than he could do for them; and, having drawn lots which should go first, it fell upon the youngest.

Josef was not altogether sorry to see a little of what the world was made of, and started with break of day next morning on his travels. He went begging about the country, but for a long time could find nothing to make a living by. At last he came to a splendid mansion on the borders of a large forest. When he asked his usual question, whether there was any place vacant for him, the servants took him into the big house; and, after conducting him through a number of apartments, each more beautiful than the other, he was ushered into a vast hall, all panelled round with carved wood, with windows of painted glass, and filled with handsome furniture. Reclining in an easy-chair, sat an aged nobleman, the owner of the mansion, who, when he heard Josef's request, took compassion on him, and told him he would take him into his service, beginning with giving him a very easy employment, and if he proved himself faithful in that, he would promote him to something higher. At first, then, he would only have to keep his geese; but there was one condition he would bid him observe.

Josef was so delighted with the prospect that he hastily interposed a promise of obeying it, before it was even uttered.

And that condition was, that if at any time he should hear any music or singing in the forest, he should never listen to it, however much he might be inclined, for that if he did, he would inevitably lose his place.

Josef repeated his promise, and swore that he would never listen to the music. He was then led down to the place where the other servants were gathered for supper, and as there was a whole crowd of them, and plenty of good food and drink, Josef began to think that he had fallen on to his feet indeed!

After supper, Josef was shown into a tidy little room as big as his father's whole cottage, where was a nice little white bed, and a suit of clothes ready to put on when he got up. Though Josef liked good food and a good bed, he was by no means an idle boy, but rose very early in the morning for his new employment; and, having received from the cook his breakfast, and his wallet of provisions for the midday meal, turned out the geese, and drove them before him to the meadow skirting the forest.

Josef had never seen so many geese together before, and all the morning long he was never tired of looking at them, and counting them, observing their ways, fancying he discerned various peculiarities in each, by which to know one from another henceforth; and he began to give them all different names. When one showed an inclination to stray, what fun it was to drive her back, and see her flap her great, soft, white, awkward wings, and stretch out her great yellow bill, as with awkward gait she shambled back to the flock! So the morning went by; and it was long past the hour of dinner before Josef found any need of it, but when he did, he was astonished at the abundant supply which had been provided for him. "Truly, I did well to come out into the world," he thought, as he lounged upon the greensward, eating the good food. "What a contrast between having this splendid mansion to live in, and my father's poor cabin; between the dry crusts we had to eat there, and the princely food allowed to us here; between the toil and slavery there, and this easy kind of work, which might more properly be called a pastime! My father thought to punish me for grumbling, he would be astonished if he could see what a fine exchange I have made!" and he laughed aloud, though all alone. But presently the effects of the full meal, the heat of the afternoon, and the excitement of his new position brought on sensations of lassitude and somnolence--and soon you might have seen him stretched upon the grass at full length, and snoring to his heart's content.

It is uncertain how long he had slept, but erewhile his slumber was disturbed by the sound of the most enchanting strains of music. Josef raised himself on his elbow, and listened; he had never imagined any thing so beautiful! and when he had listened a little while, he grew so rapt that he could not forbear going a little way into the forest to hear it better, and then a little farther, and farther, till, by the time it ceased, he was a long way from his charge. Then, as he perceived this, for the first time he remembered the condition his master had laid upon him, and his own positive promise to observe it! In shame and confusion he hasted back; but in place of his splendid flock of geese, there were but half a dozen, and those the worst favoured, to be seen! It was vain he called after them, and tore his hair, and ran hither and thither--no geese appeared! and as it began to get dark, he found his best plan was to hurry home with the few that remained.

When he arrived a servant was waiting to conduct him to the master. He no longer wore the benevolent smile with which he had first instructed Josef in the terms of his service. He looked so black and angry that the boy was frightened to approach him--too frightened to find a word in his defence.

"I had pity on you," said the master, "because you entreated me to try you: you have broken your word, and I can trust you no more. I told you the penalty; now you have chosen to incur it, you must go."

Josef could do nothing at first but cry, as he contemplated this sudden extinction of his dreams of ease and plenty, but he took courage to throw himself on his knees, and entreat one more trial. The master was inexorable--only, as he was rich and generous, he would not let him go away empty-handed, and he took out of a casket before him a gold pin, as a memorial of his good intention, and dismissed the boy with a gesture which admitted of no further parleying.

Josef was allowed to sleep in the mansion that night, but the next morning, instead of carrying on his agreeable occupation of geeseherd, he had to leave the place ignominiously, his rags being returned to him in place of the smart livery of the castle. Uncertain whither next to bend his steps, he determined to go home in the first instance and show his gold pin, and then take a fresh start in search of another chance.

As he toiled up a steep Joch [75], feeling so thirsty that his eyes went searching every where for a cottage where he might beg a sup of milk, a hay-maker turned off the Hoch Alp [76] on to the road just in front of him, with a cartload of hay he was hastening to take home before rain fell. But, for all his urging, the oxen could not turn the cart, and there it stuck in the edge of the road. Seeing our stout youth coming along, the man called to him to help him lift the wheel, promising him a bowl of milk in return. Josef was a good-natured lad, and, as we have said, by no means indisposed for exertion, so he set to work with a will, and the team was very soon put in motion. He travelled on by the side of the cart, and when they reached the Hof for which it was destined, Josef received a bowl of milk, which refreshed him for the rest of the journey.

As he got near his father's cottage he went to take out the gold pin with glee, to have it ready to display. Great was his vexation, therefore, at discovering he had it no longer--nor could his searching bring it back any more than the geese! Josef burst into tears, and joined the family meal at home, which was just prepared as he arrived, with his head low bowed, as if he sought to hide himself for very shame.

When his father saw him in such melancholy plight, his compassion warmed to him, and he asked him kindly what had befallen. Josef told all his adventures, crying afresh as he came to the narration of how he had lost on the way the gold pin, to display which he had come home before starting in search of another chance of employment.

"Such chances don't grow as thick as black-berries," said Stefan, the second son: "instead of your going in search of another, I'll go to the same grand house; and I won't lose such a fine situation for the sake of 'tweedle-dum,' I can tell you! And whatever I get for wages, you may depend, I won't stick it in my belt where it is sure to be brushed away, but on the brim of my hat, to be sure!"

Josef, who had had enough of trying to provide for himself, and was not sorry to be at home again, even with its scanty means, made no objection, and their father, thinking it well Stefan should have his experience of life too, approved the plan.

Stefan set out next morning, therefore; and by following Josef's directions soon discovered the stately palace for which he was bound. The noble owner received him as kindly as Josef, and sent him out to the same employment, first binding him to observe the same condition. Stefan readily promised to keep it, and was formally installed into his office of geeseherd.

All went well enough at first, as with Josef; but it was at an even earlier period of the day than with him that his curiosity was roused by the fairy-like music. Then he, too, followed it through the forest; and when it ceased at sound of the church bells ringing the Ave, he found not more than three or four geese left of all his flock!

On his return the master was full of anger at his breach of trust, and inexorably resolved to turn him away; but not to let him go empty-handed, he gave him a little lamb to take home.

Stefan was pleased enough with his prize, but was somewhat embarrassed as to the manner of carrying it safely home. He had declared that whatever he got he would bring home on his hat, and though he had never thought of so embarrassing a present falling to him, at the time he spoke, he resolved to keep his word, and so used his best endeavours to fix the little creature round the brim.

He carried it thus great part of the way in safety, but having to cross a somewhat rapid stream, a projecting bough of a tree lifted his hat from his head--and both hat and lamb fell in, and were carried fast away by the torrent!

Stefan came back even more crestfallen than Josef; and, having told his story, Karl, the eldest, with great indignation at the carelessness of his brothers, declared that he would make the trial next. He would not stick his prize in his belt or his hat, not he! he would carry it by a string, and then it couldn't get loose; and as for the music, he had no fear of being led away by that. Josef, indeed, had had some excuse, as the strains took him by surprise, but to be so foolish as Stefan, after the warning example of another, was perfectly contemptible. He couldn't be so silly as that, not he!

He started on his way betimes, and toiled along not without some misgivings lest he should find so good a post already occupied by another. But it was not so: the owner of the mansion gave him the same reception, the same charge, and the same warning as the other two; and, full of confidence in his superiority, he went forth to his work.

The weather was cool, and he had no need to seek the shade of the forest trees; and for more than a week he brought the full tale of geese home day by day. "What idiots those were to throw away their place for the sake of a little music!" he thought to himself one day later. "I told them I should not be so foolish--not I! I told them I shouldn't be led away by it, and I haven't been."

But it was hotter that day, and in the afternoon, when the sun's power was greatest--forgetting the warning of his brothers' example, or rather setting it at defiance, with the assurance that though he sought the shade he need not listen to the music--he crept within the border of the cool forest, and lay down.

He had hardly done so when his senses were rapt by the delicious but deceitful strains. "The woods must be full of fairies!" he cried; "this can be no earthly music--I must follow it up and see what manner of instruments they are, for never on earth was heard the like!" But as he went on, the music always seemed farther off, and farther again, till at last the church bells rang the Ave, and the music ceased.

Then Karl woke to a sense of his weakness and folly; and though he ran every step of the way back to his geese, only two were there! Though he had now found the same fate befall himself as his brothers, in all particulars, yet he could not forbear searching for the lost geese; but of course it was in vain, and he had to return to the castle with but two. Nothing could look more miserable, or more ludicrous, than this diminished procession--Karl at the head of his two geese, who had gone out in the morning with such a goodly flock.

He would have gladly slunk away without exchanging a word with any one, but he could not escape being taken before the master, who scolded him in the same words in which he had chided his brothers, but gave him a fine rich cake to take home.

The cake was round, and it was very inconvenient to attempt to secure it by means of a string, but Karl had declared he would bring home his reward that way, and so it was a point of honour with him to do it. But passing by a Hof, on his way home, where was a large and powerful watch-dog on guard, he set off running to escape its grip. This was the very way to attract the beast's notice, however; and off it set in pursuit, much faster than Karl's legs could carry him away--and then, having jumped upon him and knocked him down, seized his cake, and devoured it before his eyes!

Karl had now to go home as empty-handed as his brothers, and as full of tears; but his father comforted him, and checked the rising gibe of his youngers by reminding them that all had failed equally; so they all joined in a good-humoured laugh in which there was nothing of bitterness.

The father then asked them if any of them wished to go out into the world and seek fortune again; but they all agreed that there was nothing to be gained by the move, and that though there were positions which at first sight seemed more brilliant and more delectable than their own, yet that each had its compensatory trials, and that they were best where God had placed them.

Henceforth, however, they were ashamed of renewing their grumblings, but, each making the best of his lot, they became noted as the most contented and, therefore, happiest family of the whole valley.

ST. PETER'S THREE LOAVES [77].

In the days when our Lord and Saviour walked this earth with His apostles, it happened one day that He was passing, with St. Peter for His companion, through a secluded valley, and that discoursing, as was His wont, of the things of the Kingdom of God, and raising the mind of His disciple from the earthly to the heavenly, they noticed not how the hours went by. Nevertheless, they had been walking since daybreak over rough mountain tracks and across swollen torrents many a weary mile, and had eaten nothing all day, for their way had led them far from the haunts of men; but as noon came down upon them they approached the precincts of a scattered hamlet. The bells of all the large farm-houses were ringing to call in the labourers from the field to their midday meal, and announced a community of sensations in the world around akin to those with which St. Peter had for a long time past been tormented. The heat increased, and the way grew more weary, and St. Peter found it more and more difficult to keep his attention alive to his Master's teaching.

The merciful Saviour was not slow to perceive what ailed His disciple, and kept on the look-out for any opportunity of satisfying him as anxiously as if the need had been His own; and thus, while St. Peter was still wondering how long he would have to go on fasting, He remarked to him the smell of fresh-baked loaves proceeding from a cottage at the bottom of the valley.

St. Peter could as yet perceive neither the scent nor the cottage. Nevertheless, used as he was to trust his Lord's word implicitly, he started at His bidding, following the direction pointed out just as if both had been patent to himself.

The way was so steep and rough that St. Peter, in his eagerness, had many falls, but at last, without much damage, reached nearly the foot of the mountain range along the side of which they had been journeying; and then suddenly the smell of a wood fire, mingled with the welcome odour of fresh-baked bread, greeted him. The roof of the cottage was just beneath his feet, and the smoke was curling up through the chimney, telling of a well-provided stove, burning to good purpose, close at hand. One or two more winds of the road, and only one more slip over the loose stones, brought him to the door.

A comely peasant wife opened it at his knock with a cheerful greeting: "Gelobt sei Jesus Christus [78]!"

The apostle, having given the customary response, "In Ewigkeit! Amen," the peasant wife asked him to come in and rest--an offer which St. Peter gladly accepted.

The peasant woman wiped a chair, and presented it to him, and, with some pleasant words about his journey, returned to her occupation at the fire. The moment had just arrived when she should take her loaves from the oven, and nothing could smell more tempting to a man whose appetite was seasoned by a long walk in the fresh mountain air.

"Good woman, I come from far, and the whole of this blessed morning," he exclaimed, speaking as one of the people, "I have tasted nothing! ... nor my companion," he added, with some embarrassment lest he should seem encroaching, yet full of anxiety to provide for his Master's needs as well as his own.

"Tasted nothing all this morning!" exclaimed the compassionate peasant wife, scarcely leaving him time to speak; "poor soul! Why didn't you say so at first? Here, take one of these loaves; they are the best I have, and, if humble fare, are at all events quite fresh. And your companion too, did you say? Take one for him also;" and then, as if she found so much pleasure in the exercise of hospitality that she could not refrain from indulging it further, she added, "and take this one too, if you will; maybe you may want it before the journey is out."

St. Peter thanked her heartily for her generosity, and hasted to take the loaves to the Master, that He might bless and break them. But as they were hot, being just out of the oven, he had to wrap them in the folds of his coarse grey mantle, to be able to hold them without burning his hands.

As he toiled up the steep, the thought came to him, "It will most likely be long before we have a chance of meeting with provisions again, and I always seem to want food sooner than the Master; I might very well keep this third loaf under my cloak, and then in the night, while He is lost in heavenly contemplation, and I am perishing with hunger, I shall have something to satisfy it. I do Him no wrong, for He never feels these privations as I do--at all events," he added, with some misgivings, "He never seems to."

With that he reached the place where he had left the Saviour. He was still kneeling beneath the shade of a knoll of pines. As St. Peter approached, however, though He was not turned so as to see him coming, He rose, as if He knew of his presence, and, coming to meet him, asked him cheerfully what success he had in his catering.

"Excellent success, Lord," replied St. Peter. "I arrived just at the right moment. The woman was taking the loaves out of the oven, and, being a good-hearted soul, she gave me one; and when I told her I had a companion with me, she gave me another, without requiring any proof of the assertion; so come, and let us break our fast, for it is time." But he said no word about the third loaf, which he kept tight in a fold of his mantle under his arm.

They sat down on a rock by the side of a sparkling rivulet, hasting along its way to swell the far-off river, and its cool crystal waters supplied the nectar of their meal.

St. Peter, who had now long studied in the school of mortification of his Master, was quite satisfied with this frugal repast, and, no longer tortured by the cravings of nature, listened with all his wonted delight and enthusiasm to every word which fell from the Lord's lips, treasuring them up that not one might be lost. It was true that he could not suppress some little embarrassment when the thought of the third loaf occurred to him; "But," he said, to himself, "there could be no possible harm in it; the woman had clearly given it to him; his Lord didn't want it, and he was only keeping it for his needs. True, if He were to suspect it, He would not quite like that; but then, why should He? He never suspects any one."

Never had the Saviour been more familiar, more confiding. St. Peter felt the full charm of His presence and forgot all his misgivings, and the cause of them, too, in the joy of listening to Him. Then came a friendly bird, and hopped round Him, feeding on the crumbs that had fallen. The Saviour, as He watched its eagerness, fed it with pieces from His own loaf. Another bird was attracted at the sight--another, and another, and another, till there was a whole flock gathered round. The Saviour fed them all, and yet He seemed to take His own meal too.

"It is just as I thought," St. Peter reasoned with himself; "His needs are not as our needs. Decidedly I do Him no wrong in keeping the loaf for my own." And he felt quite at ease.

The simple repast was at an end; the birds chirped their thanks and flew away; and the disciple and the Master rose from their rocky seat.

St. Peter, leaning on his staff, set out to resume the journey, but the Lord called him back.

"Our Father in heaven has fed us well, shall we not thank Him as is our wont?"

St. Peter laid aside his staff, and cheerfully knelt down.

"But as He has dealt with particular loving-kindness in the abundance with which He has provided us this day, let us address Him with arms outstretched, in token of the earnestness of our gratitude," continued the Saviour; and as He spoke He flung His arms wide abroad, as if embracing the whole universe and its Creator, with an expression of ineffable love.

He knelt opposite St. Peter, who was not wont to be slow in following such an exhortation.

"He only suggested it; He didn't command." reasoned St. Peter to himself. "I need not do it."

But a furtive glance he could not repress, met the Master's eye fixed upon him with its whole wonted affection--there was no resisting the appeal. With the spontaneity of habitual compliance, he raised his arms after the pattern of his Lord; but the loaf, set free by the motion, fell heavily to the ground beneath the Master's eye.

The Master continued praying, as though He had perceived nothing, but St. Peter's cheeks were suffused with a glow of shame; and before they proceeded farther he had told Him all.

THE TWO COUSINS OF ST. PETER [79].

St. Peter had two young cousins whom he sought to bring up in the way of righteousness according to Christian doctrine. As they were very docile, and listened gladly to his word, he strove to lead them in the way of all perfection; and to this end counselled them to give themselves up entirely to serve God in a community of His handmaidens, where they should live for the Divine spouse of their souls, and for Him alone.

The work of the Church called St. Peter away from the East, and he was already gone to establish the faith in Rome before the maidens had decided as to their vocation. It was not till many years after that St. Peter heard, to his surprise, on occasion of St. Timothy coming to visit St. Paul in Rome, that while the youngest indeed had fulfilled his expectations, and had given herself up to the religious life, the elder had married and established herself in the world, and become the mother of a large family.

During his long confinement in the dark dungeon of the Mamertine prison, St. Peter's thoughts would often revert from the immense cares of his sublime office to the quiet hours he had passed in the lowly dwelling by the Lake of Tiberias, where his pious cousins had so often sat at his feet listening to his instructions. And he found a peaceful pleasure in recalling the way in which they had responded to them; the spontaneity with which they had apprehended the maxims of the new religion; their fervour in applying them to their own rule of life; their readiness to go beyond what was bidden them, that so they might testify their love for their Divine Master; their delight in all that reminded them of God and His law.

"And to think that one of them should have gone back from all this! should have been content to give up these exalted aspirations! How sadly her ardour must have cooled! What could have worked this change?" the apostle would muse, in his distress, and pray silently for her forgiveness and guidance; but his thoughts would revert with greater affection and satisfaction to the more favoured state of the soul of the younger sister.

It was not long before the terrible decree of Nero consigning St. Peter to the death of the cross was pronounced, and from the height of the Janiculum he was received into the celestial mansion to keep the gate of the Kingdom of Heaven.

He had not exercised this office many years when our Lord called him to Him one day, and bid him open the gate of heaven to its widest stretch and deck its approaches as for a high festival, for that one of the holiest of earth and the dearest to Himself was to be received into the abode of the Blessed.

"That must be my youngest cousin," said St. Peter, "there is no doubt; she who generously gave up a world in which she was so well adapted to shine, to live a life of perfection with God above only for its object;" and he strained his eyes to see far along the approach to Paradise, that he might catch the first glimpse of her glorified soul and greet it with the earliest welcome.