proofreading team. html version by al haines. the pedler of dust sticks by mrs. follen with illustrations by billings contents the pedler of dust sticks. "on the grave of the good, great man." the mighty deeds of abc. what day is it? the child at her mother's grave. evening prayer. the sabbath is here. to a butterfly. the pedler of dust sticks. one day i went to visit a friend, a lady, who came from hamburg, in germany. i was much pleased with a portrait which was hanging up in her room, and i was particularly struck by the ornamental drawings with which the picture was surrounded. they consisted of whip handles, canes, piano keys, mouth-pieces for wind instruments, all sorts of umbrellas, and many more things, of every sort, made of cane and whalebone. the arrangement was so ingenious, the designs so fanciful, and the execution so good, that nothing could be prettier. but what of course was of the most importance, was the face and head that they were meant to ornament. "what a benevolent, what a beautiful face!" i said. "who is it?" "my father," the lady replied; "and he is more beautiful than the picture, and he is still more kind than he looks there." "what is the meaning of all these bits of bamboo and these little canes, so fancifully arranged around the picture?" i asked. "these little sticks," she replied, "tell the story of my father's success, and of the beginning of his greatness. he began his noble and honorable life as a little pedler of dust sticks." "pedler of dust sticks?" "yes," she said; "if you would like to hear his history, i will relate it." i replied that nothing could please me better; that i considered the life of a good, great man the most beautiful of all stories. "i will tell it to you just as it was; and you may, if you please, repeat it for the benefit of any one." when i had returned home i wrote the story down, just as i remembered it, as she had given me leave to do. the christian name of our hero was henry, and so we will call him. his parents lived in hamburg, in germany. they were very poor. his father was a cabinet maker, with a very small business. henry was the second of eight children. as soon as he was eight years old, his father, in order to raise a few more shillings to support his family, sent him into the streets to sell little pieces of ratan, which the people there use to beat the dust out of their clothes. henry got about a cent and a half apiece for the sticks. if he sold a great number of these little sticks, he was allowed, as a reward, to go to an evening school, where he could learn to read. this was a great pleasure to him; but he wanted also to learn to write. for this, however, something extra was to be paid, and henry was very anxious to earn more, that he might have this advantage. there is a fine public walk in hamburg, where the fashionable people go, in good weather, to see and be seen; and where the young men go to wait upon and see the ladies. these gentlemen were fond of having little canes in their hands, to play with, to switch their boots with, and to show the young ladies how gracefully they could move their arms; and sometimes to write names in the sand. so little henry thought of making some very pretty canes, and selling them to these young beaux. he soaked his canes for a long time in warm water, and bent the tops round for a handle, and then ornamented them with his penknife, and made them really very pretty. then he went to the public walk, and when he saw a young man walking alone, he went up to him, and with a sweet and pleasant voice, he would say, "will you buy a pretty cane, sir? six cents apiece." almost every gentleman took one of the canes. with the money he got for his canes he was able to pay for lessons in writing. this made him very happy, for it was the reward of his own industry and ingenuity. as soon as henry was old enough, his father employed him to carry home the work to customers. the boy had such a beautiful countenance, was so intelligent, and had such a pleasant manner, that many of the customers wanted to have him come and live with them, and promised to take good care of him; but henry always said, "no, i prefer staying with my father, and helping him." every day the little fellow would take his bundle of dust sticks and little canes in a box he had for the purpose, and walk up and down the streets, offering them to every one who he thought would buy them. and happy enough was he when he sold them all and brought home the money to his poor father, who found it so hard to support a large family. all the evenings when henry was not so happy as to go to school, he worked as long as he could keep his eyes open. he was very skilful, and made his canes so pretty, and he was such a good boy, that he made many friends, and almost always found a good market for his sticks. the poor fellow was very anxious to get money. often his father's customers gave him a few pence. once he came near risking his life to obtain a small sum. he was very strong and active, and excelled in all the common exercises of boys; such as running, jumping, &c. one day he got up on the top of a very high baggage wagon, and called to the boys below, and asked them how many pence they would give him if he would jump off of it to the ground. some one offered two. "two are too few to risk my life for," he replied. they then promised to double the number; and he was upon the point of jumping, when he felt a smart slap on his back. "that's what you shall have for risking your life for a few pence," said his father, who, unobserved by henry, had heard what had passed, and climbed up the wagon just in time to save henry from perhaps breaking his neck, or at least some of his limbs. henry was very fond of skating, but he had no skates. one day, when the weather and ice were fine, he went to see the skaters. he had only a few pence in his pocket, and he offered them for the use of a pair of skates for a little while; but the person who had skates to let could get more for them, and so he refused poor henry. there was near by, at the time, a man whose profession was gambling; and he said to henry, "i will show you a way by which you can double and triple your money, if you will come with me." henry followed him to a little booth, in which was a table and some chairs; and there the man taught him a gambling game, by which, in a few minutes, he won a dollar. henry was going away with his money, thinking with delight of the pleasure he should have in skating, and also of the money that would be left to carry home to his poor father, when the gambler said to him, "you foolish boy, why won't you play longer, and double your dollar? you may as well have two or three dollars as one." henry played again, and lost not only what he had won, but the few pence he had when he came upon the ice. henry was fortunate enough that day, after this occurrence, to sell a few pretty canes, and so had some money to carry to his father; but still he went home with a heavy heart, for he knew that he had done a very foolish thing. he had learned, by this most fortunate ill luck, what gambling was; and he made a resolution then, which he faithfully kept through his whole after life, never to allow any poverty, any temptation whatever, to induce him to gamble. henry continually improved in his manufacture of canes, and he often succeeded in getting money enough to pay for his writing lessons. there were jews in the city, who sold canes as he did, and he would often make an exchange with them; even if they insisted upon having two or three of his for one of theirs; he would consent to the bargain, when he could get from them a pretty cane; and then he would carry it home, and imitate it, so that his canes were much admired; and the little fellow gained customers and friends too every day. the bad boys in the city he would have nothing to do with; he treated them civilly, but he did not play with them, nor have them for his friends. he could not take pleasure in their society. henry was a great lover of nature. he spent much of his life out in the open air, under the blue skies; and he did not fail to notice what a grand and beautiful roof there was over his head. the clouds by day, the stars by night, were a continued delight to him. the warm sunshine in winter, and the cool shade of the trees in summer, he enjoyed more than many a rich boy does the splendid furniture and pictures in his father's house. one beautiful summer afternoon he was going, with his canes on his shoulder, through the public promenade on the banks of the little bay around which was the public walk. the waves looked so blue, and the air was so delicious, that he was resolved he would treat himself to a row upon the sparkling waters; so he hired a little boat, and then got some long branches from the trees on the shore, and stuck them all around the edges of his boat, and tied them together by their tops, so as to make an arbor in the boat, and got in and rowed himself about, whistling all the tunes he knew for his music, to his heart's content. he went alone, for he had no companion that he liked; and he would have none other. at last what should he see but his father, walking on the bank. henry knew that his father would be very angry with him, for he was a severe man; but he determined to bear his punishment, let it be what it would, patiently; for he knew, when he went, that his father would not like it; and yet he said, in telling this story to a friend, "i was so happy, and this pleasure was so innocent, that i could not feel as sorry as i ought to feel." henry bore his punishment like a brave boy. it was too bad for the poor fellow to have no pleasures; nothing but work all the time. this was especially hard for him, for no one loved amusement better than he. he relished a piece of fun exceedingly. in the city of hamburg there was a place where young girls were always to be seen with flowers in their hands to sell. he had observed that the jews, of whom he bought the pretty canes, were often rude to them, and he determined to punish some of them. there was one who wore a wig, with a long queue to it. the girls had their long hair braided and left hanging down behind. one day this man was sitting in this flower market, with his back to one of these girls, and henry took the opportunity, and before either knew what he did, he tied the two queues together; the young girl happened not to like her seat very well, and got up rather suddenly to change it, and off she went with the jew's wig dangling behind her, much to the amusement of the spectators, and especially of henry, who saw and enjoyed it all highly, though pretending to be very busy selling a cane to a gentleman, who joined in the general laugh. lucky it was for henry that the jew did not discover who it was that had played this roguish trick. henry saw how difficult it was for his father to support the family, and was very earnest to get money in any honest way. one day the managers of a theatre hired him to take part in a play, where they wanted to make a crowd. he was pleased at the thought of making some money to carry home; but when he went behind the scenes, and saw all that the actors did, he ran away and left them, caring not for the money, so he could but get away from such disgusting things. thus did henry live, working from early morning till night, going to school with a little of the money he had earned, when his father would allow him to take it; keeping himself unstained by the wickedness that he often saw and heard in his walks through the city; observing every thing worth noticing, and making friends every where by his honesty, purity, and kind-heartedness. at this time the french were in hamburg, provisions were dearer than ever, and henry's father, with all the help he received from his son, could not support his family in the city. one day he called henry, and said, "do you think you could support your mother and younger sister and brother in some other place?" henry replied directly, "yes, dear father, i can; at least, i will try." so his father sent him with this part of his family to a cheaper place, about fifty miles inland. he gave him five dollars and his blessing, as they parted. here was our friend henry in a strange town, a small place, with no friends there, but just fifteen years old, and with his mother, and brother, and sister depending upon him for their daily bread. henry was a brave boy; so he did not allow himself to fear. with his five dollars he secured small, cheap rooms for a week, bought some bread and milk for the family, and after a good night's sleep set out, the next morning, to obtain work. he went into the street, and after a while read upon a sign, "furniture varnished." he went into the shop and asked for work. the man asked him if he could varnish well. henry replied, "yes, i can." he was very skilful, and he had varnished his canes sometimes, and he felt sure he could. "you came from hamburg?" "yes, sir." "perhaps you know some new and better way than we have of varnishing?" "what method do you take?" asked henry. the man told him. here henry's habit of observing was the means of his getting bread for himself and family. he had noticed a new and better way that varnishers employed in hamburg, and though he had not tried it with his own hands, he was sure he could imitate what he had seen. he said that he knew a better way. the man engaged him for a week, and was much pleased with his work; he did not want him long, but gave him a recommendation when he parted with him. after this henry went to the baker of whom he had bought bread for the family, and asked him for employment. the baker told him he wanted his house painted, and asked him if he could do it. "yes," said henry, "i can do it well, i know." the baker liked him very much, and gave him the job without any hesitation. the baker's apprentices had noticed what a good fellow henry was, and would often give him, in addition to the loaf for the family, some nice cakes to carry home. so he was, as you see, now working among friends. henry had never painted before; but he had observed painters at their work, and he did it well. he soon became known to all the people of the town, and made many friends. he was never idle. he made canes when he had no other work. he varnished, or painted, or did anything that he could get to do, and supported the whole family comfortably for two years. at the end of this time, his father sent to him to bring the family home to hamburg. henry left without a single debt, and in the place of the five dollars carried home ten to his father. i must tell you of a piece of henry's economy and self-denial. he grew very fast, and his boots became too small for him. while he was getting every thing comfortable for others, he denied himself a pair of new boots, and used to oil the old ones every time he put them on, so as to be able to get his feet into them, and never complained of the pain. our hero--for i am sure he was a true hero--was now seventeen. the french had left hamburg when he returned, but it was still necessary to have a body of soldiers to protect it, and he joined a corps of young men. they made him distributer of provisions. his office was one given only to those known to be honest and worthy of confidence. the citizens began even then to show their respect for the little pedler of dust sticks and canes. we shall see what he was yet to be. henry returned to cane-making, to which he and his father soon added work in whalebone. they were pretty successful, but, as they had very little money to purchase stock and tools, could not make a great business. it was about this time that henry became acquainted with one who was to form the greatest happiness of his life. there was a poor girl in hamburg who was a seamstress, and who not only supported herself but her mother by her needle. her name was agatha. she had a lovely face and very engaging manners; her character was still more lovely than her face; and she had only these to recommend her, for she was very poor. henry became strongly attached to her, and she soon returned his love. henry's father and mother did not approve of this connection because the girl was very poor; and as their son was so handsome and agreeable, had now many friends, and was very capable, they thought that he might marry the daughter of some rich man perhaps, and so get some money. but, although henry was ready to jump from a wagon twenty feet high for a few pence, and would walk the streets of the city twelve hours a day for money, he would not so disgrace himself as to give that most precious of all things, his heart, for gold, and so he told his parents. "i shall," said he, "marry my dear agatha, or i shall never marry any one. she is good, and gentle, and beautiful; and if i live, she shall have money enough too, for i can and will earn it for her. i shall work harder and better now than i ever did before, because i shall be working for one whom i love so dearly." henry's parents saw that it was in vain to oppose him, that it would only drive him out of the house, and that they should thus lose him and his work too; so they gave the matter up. from this time henry worked more industriously, if possible, than ever. he did the same for his father as before; but he contrived also to find some hours in which he might work for himself exclusively. all that he earned at these times he devoted to his new and dearest friend. he would purchase with the money he earned some pretty or comfortable thing to wear that she wished and had denied herself; or sometimes he would get some nice thing for her to eat; for she had delicate health, and but little appetite. after work was done in the shop, and the family had gone to bed, henry used to hasten to his dear agatha, and pass two or three happy hours with her. they both had fine voices, and many an hour they would sing together, till they would forget the weariness of the day, and the fact that they had nothing but their love for each other to bless themselves with in this world. they worked harder, they denied themselves more than ever, they were more careful to be wise and good for the sake of each other; and so their love made them better as well as happier. at last, when henry was nineteen, his parents consented to his marrying and bringing his wife home to their house. as there was no money to spare, they could only have a very quiet wedding. they were married with-out any parade or expense, and never were two excellent beings happier than they. the young wife made herself very useful in her husband's family. she worked very hard,--her husband thought harder than she ought to work,--and he was anxious to be independent, and have a house of his own, where he could take more care of her, and prevent her injuring herself by labor. there was some money due his father in bremen; and, after living at home a year or so, henry took his wife with him, and went there to collect the money. there they lived two years, and there they suffered severely. they were very poor, and they met with misfortunes. at last henry's wife and their two children took the small-pox; but they all lived and got well, and their love for each other was only made more perfect by suffering; for they learned patience and fortitude, and were confirmed in what they both before believed, that they could bear any trouble if they could share it together. at the end of the two years, they returned to hamburg. during their absence, henry's mother had died, and his father had married a woman who had a little property. henry now felt no longer anxious about his family, and set up for himself in the cane and whalebone business. he took a small house, just big enough for his family, and they invited his wife's sister to live with them and assist in the work. henry was very desirous of setting up a cane and whalebone factory, and doing business upon a larger scale, but had not the means to obtain suitable machinery. he wanted a large boiler, but it was too expensive, and he knew not what to do. here his excellent character was the cause of his success. a gentleman who had known him from the time when he used to carry about dust sticks to sell came forward and offered him a large boiler, and told him that he might pay for it whenever he could conveniently. henry accepted the kind offer, and commenced business directly. his old customers all came to him, and in a short time he was able to hire a man to help him. it was not long before he wanted another, and then another man. every thing prospered with him. he made money fast. his business grew larger constantly. he did all sorts of work in whalebone and cane; now he added ivory, umbrella sticks, keys for pianos, canes, and whip handles, and made all sorts of things in which these materials are used. henry was so well acquainted with his business, so industrious and faithful, was known to be so honest and just in his dealings, and was so kind in his treatment of his workmen, that all who wanted what he could supply went to him, and his success was very great. he grew rich. it was not a great while before he was able to build a large factory in the neighborhood of the city. the little pedler of dust sticks was now one of the richest men in hamburg. he had four hundred men in his employ, had a large house in town, and another in the country. he was thus able to indulge his love for nature. after a hard day's work, he could come home and enjoy the beautiful sunset, and look at the moon and stars in the evening, and hear the nightingale sing, and join with his agatha in the song of praise to the giver of all good things. henry did not, because he was rich, lead a lazy and selfish life. he still worked with his own hands, and thus taught his workmen himself, and made their work more easy and agreeable by his presence as well as by his instructions. he was continually making improvements in his business, inventing new things, and so keeping up his reputation. he exported large quantities of the articles made in his factory. every year his business grew larger, and he gained still higher reputation. henry's fellow-citizens offered him some of the highest offices of honor and profit which the city had to bestow; but he refused them. the only ones he accepted were those that gave no pay. he was one of the overseers of the poor, and was always one of the first to aid, in any way he could, plans for the benefit of his suffering fellow-beings. he gave money himself generously, but was very anxious not to have his charities made public. he was one of the directors of the first railroad from hamburg. he engaged all his workmen with reference to their character as well as their capacity, and no one of them ever left him. he was their best benefactor and friend. so lived this excellent man, as happy as he was good and useful, for sixteen years with his dear wife; they had seven living children; but, as i before told you, she had very delicate health, and it was the will of god that these two loving hearts should be separated in this world, as we hope, to meet in heaven to part no more. after sixteen years of perfect love and joy, he parted with his dear agatha. henry bore his sorrow meekly and patiently. he did not speak, he could not weep; but life was never again the same thing to him; he never parted for a moment with the memory of his loving and dearly-beloved wife. he was then only thirty-five years old, but he never married again; and when urged to take another wife, he always replied, "i cannot marry again." he felt that he was married forever to his dear agatha. i must relate to you some of the beautiful things henry's daughter told me about her mother. agatha had such a refined and beautiful taste and manner that though, from her parents' poverty, she had not had the benefit of an education, yet it was a common saying of the many who knew her, that she would have graced a court. she never said or did any thing that was not delicate and beautiful. her dress, even when they were very poor, had never a hole nor a spot. she never allowed any rude or vulgar thing to be said in her presence without expressing her displeasure. she was one of nature's nobility. she lived and moved in beauty as well as in goodness. when she found she was dying, she asked her husband to leave the room, and then asked a friend who was with her to pray silently, for she would not distress her husband; and so she passed away without a groan, calmly and sweetly, before he returned. an immense procession of the people followed her to the grave, to express their admiration of her character and their sorrow for her early death. there were in hamburg, at that time, two large churches, afterwards burned down at the great fire, which had chimes of bells in their towers. these bells played their solemn tones only when some person lamented by the whole city died. these bells were rung at the funeral of agatha. henry, ever after his separation from her, would go, at the anniversary of her birth and death, and take all his children and grand-children with him to her grave. they carried wreaths and bouquets of flowers, and laid them there; and he would sit down with them and relate some anecdote about their mother. it is a custom with the people of germany to strew flowers on the graves of their friends. the burying ground was not far from the street, and often unfeeling boys would steal these sacred flowers; but not one was ever stolen from the grave of agatha. the sister of whom we have before spoken, whom we will call also by her christian name, catharine, loved her sister with the most devoted love, and when agatha was dying, promised her that she would be a mother to her children, and never leave them till they were able to take care of themselves. she kept her word. she refused many offers of marriage, which she might have been disposed to accept, and was a true mother to her sister's children, till they were all either married or old enough not to want her care. then, at the age of fifty, aunt catharine married a widower, who had three children, who wanted her care. from the time henry lost his dear wife, he devoted himself not only more than ever to his children, but also to the good of his workmen. he sought in duty, in good works, for strength to bear his heavy sorrow; so that death might not divide him from her he loved, but that he might be fitting himself for an eternal union with her in heaven. henry never forgot that he had been obliged to work hard for a living himself, and he also remembered what had been his greatest trials in his days of poverty. he determined to save his workmen from these sufferings as much as possible. he recollected and still felt the evils of a want of education. he could never forget how with longing eyes he had used to look at books, and what a joy it had been to him to go to school; and he resolved that his children should be well instructed. the garden of knowledge, that was so tempting to him, and that he was not allowed to enter, he resolved should be open to them. he gave them the best instructors he could find, and took care that they should be taught every thing that would be useful to them--the modern languages, music, drawing, history, &c. henry had found the blessing of being able to labor skilfully with his hands; so he insisted that all his children should learn how to work with their own hands. "my daughters," he said, "in order to be good housewives, must know how every thing ought to be done, and be able to do it. if they are poor, this will save them from much misery, and secure them comfort and respectability." he insisted that those of his sons who engaged in his business should work with the workmen, wear the same dress, and do just as they did; so that the boys might be independent of circumstances, and have the security of a good living, come what would. thus every one of his children had the advantages which belong to poverty as well as those of riches. their father said to them, that if they knew what work was, they would know what to require of those who labored for them; that they would have more feeling for laborers, and more respect for them. henry was truly the friend of his workmen. he gave them time enough to go to school. he encouraged temperance; he had a weak kind of beer, made of herbs, for them to drink, so that they might not desire spirit. he gave them, once a year, a handsome dinner, at which he presided himself. he encouraged them to read, and helped them to obtain books. he had a singing master, and took care that every one who had a voice should be taught to sing. he bought a pianoforte for them, and had it put in a room in the factory, where any one, who had time, and wished to play, could go and play upon it; and he gave them a music teacher. he did every thing he could to make their life beautiful and happy. he induced them to save a small sum every week from their wages, as a fund to be used when any one died, or was sick, or was married, or wanted particular aid beyond what his wages afforded. henry's factory was the abode of industry, temperance, and cheerfulness. the workmen all loved him like a brother. it was his great object to show them that labor was an honorable thing, and to make laborers as happy as he thought they ought to be. henry was much interested in all that related to the united states of america; and he was very angry at our slavery. he felt that slavery brought labor into discredit, and his heart ached for the poor slaves, who are cut off from all knowledge, all improvement. nothing excited in him such a deep indignation, nothing awaked such abhorrence in his heart, as the thought of a man's receiving the services of another without making adequate compensation; or the idea of any man exercising tyranny over his brother man. henry's workmen were the happiest and best in hamburg. they loved their employer with their whole hearts; there was nothing they would not do for him. when his factory had been established twenty-five years, the workmen determined to have a jubilee on the occasion, and to hold it on his birthday. they kept their intention a secret from him till the day arrived; but they were obliged to tell his children, who, they knew, would wish to make arrangements for receiving them in such a way as their father would approve of, if he knew of it. it was summer time; and on henry's birthday, at seven o'clock in the morning, (for they knew their friend was an early riser,) a strain of grand and beautiful music broke the stillness of the early hour, and a long procession of five hundred men was seen to wind around the house. the musicians, playing upon their fine wind instruments, and dressed very gayly, came first. then came those of his workmen who had been with him twenty-five years; then his clerks and book-keepers; then followed his other workmen, and then all the boys who were employed in his factory. all wore black coats, with a green bow pinned on the breast. they drew up in a circle on the lawn before his house; and five old men, who had been with him for twenty-five years, stood in the centre, holding something which was wrapped up in the hamburg flag. now all the musical instruments played a solemn, religious hymn. immediately after, the five hundred voices joined in singing it. never did a truer music rise to heaven than this; it was the music of grateful, happy hearts. when the hymn was sung, the book-keeper came forward and made an address to his master, in the name of them all. in this address they told henry how happy he had made them; how much good he had done them; how sensible they were of his kindness to them, and how full of gratitude their hearts were towards him. they expressed the hope that they should live with him all their lives. now the old men advanced, and uncovered what they bore in their hands. it was a fine portrait of their benefactor, in a splendid frame. the picture was surrounded on the margin by fine drawings, arranged in a tasteful manner, of all the various articles which were made in his factory, views of his warehouses in hamburg, of the factory in which they worked, of his house in town, of the one in the country where they then were, and of the old exchange, where he used to stand when he sold canes and dust sticks. then the old men presented to him the picture, saying only a few words of respectful affection. the good man shed tears. he could not speak at first. at last he said, that this was the first time in his life that he regretted that he could not speak in public; that if he had ever done any thing for them, that day more than repaid him for all. they then gave him three cheers. they now sang a german national tune, to words which had been written for the occasion. the children, who, as i told you, knew what was to happen, had prepared a breakfast for these five hundred of their father's friends. all the tables were spread in the garden behind the house, and henry desired that all the store rooms should be opened, and that nothing should be spared. after an excellent breakfast, at which the children of the good man waited, the procession marched around to the fine music; and the workmen, having enjoyed themselves all the morning to their hearts' content, went to partake of a dinner which the family had provided for them in a large farm house. here they sang, and laughed, and told stories till about eight o'clock in the evening, when they returned by railway to hamburg, in a special train which the railroad directors ordered, free of expense, out of respect for henry. the railroad was behind henry's house, and as the workmen passed, they waved their hats and cheered him and the family till they were out of hearing. the picture i had so much admired was a copy of this very picture which the workmen had presented. the original was hung up in henry's drawing room, as his most valuable possession. no wonder his daughter felt proud of that picture, and loved to show her copy of it to her friends. near it hung a likeness of his dear agatha. she was very beautiful. it was a pleasant thing to hear the daughter talk of her father and mother. thus did henry live a useful, honorable, and happy life--the natural result of his industry, perseverance, uprightness, and true benevolence. like ben adhem, he had shown his love to god by his love to man. one of henry's sons had come to this country, to set up a cane and whalebone factory in new york. the father had aided him as far as he thought best, but urged him to depend as far as possible upon his own industry and ability. this son followed his father's example, and was very successful; but was obliged, on account of the bad effects of our climate upon his health, to return to his native land. the father, who was anxious to visit the united states, and wished much to see his daughter again, who was particularly dear to him, determined to come, for a while, in his son's place. henry thought also that his health, which began to fail, might be benefited by a sea voyage. one reason why he wished much to visit america was, that he might see, with his own eyes, the position of the laboring classes in the free states. of the slave states he never could think with patience. his daughter told me that the only time when she had seen her father lose his self-command, was when a gentleman, just returned from the west indies, had defended slavery, and had said that the negroes were only fit to be slaves. henry's anger was irrepressible, and, although it was at his own table, and he was remarkable for his hospitality and politeness, he could not help showing his indignation. nothing could exceed his delight at what he saw in this part of our country. the appearance every where of prosperity and comfort; the cheerful look of our mechanics and laborers; their activity; the freedom and joyousness of their manners,--all spoke to him of a free, prosperous, and happy people. he was only, for any long time, in new york, where his son's factory was, and in massachusetts, where his daughter lived. unhappily his health did not improve. on the contrary, it failed almost daily. still he enjoyed himself much. while in this part of the country, he took many drives around the environs of boston with his daughter, and expressed the greatest delight at the aspect of the country, particularly at the appearance of the houses of the farmers and mechanics. he found, when in the city of new york, that attention to business was too much for his strength; so he resolved to travel. "nature," he said, "will cure me; i will go to niagara." he brought with him, as a companion and nurse, his youngest son, a lad of fifteen years of age. the boy went every where with him. when they arrived at niagara, henry would not go to the falls with any other visitors; he only allowed his son to accompany him. when he first saw this glorious wonder of our western world, he fell on his knees and wept; he could not contain his emotion. he was a true worshipper of nature, and he courted her healing influences; but he only found still greater peace and health of mind; his bodily health did not return. his daughter, who, like all germans, held a festival every christmas, wrote to urge him to pass his christmas with her at her massachusetts home; he was then in new york. he replied that he was too ill to bear the journey at that season. the pleasure of the thought of her christmas evening was gone; but she determined to make it as pleasant as she could to her husband and children, though her thoughts and her heart were with her sick father. in the morning, however, a telegraphic message arrived from her father, saying he would be with them at eight o'clock in the evening. with the germans, the whole family make presents to each other, no matter how trifling; but some little present every one receives. henry's little granddaughter was dressed in a style as fairy-like as possible, and presented her grandfather with a basket of such fruits as the season would allow of, as the most appropriate present for a lover of nature. a very happy evening the good man had with his children. he was forced to return to new york. it was not many months after that his daughter heard that he was very ill at oyster bay, where he had gone to a water cure establishment. she went immediately to him, and remained with him, nursing him, and reading to him, till he was better, though not well. during this period, when he was able to bear the fatigue, his daughter drove him in a gig round the neighboring country; and she told me that such was his interest in the laborers, that he would never pass one without stopping, and asking him questions about his mode of working, &c. he could not speak english; but she was the interpreter. at last he insisted upon his daughter's returning to her family. there was something so solemn, so repressed, in his manner, when he took leave of her, that she was afterwards convinced that he knew he should never see her again; but he said not a word of the kind. his health grew worse; his strength failed daily; and he determined to return to germany, so as to die in his native land. he wrote to his daughter, to ask her, as a proof of her love for him, not to come to say farewell. she was ill at the time, and submitted with a sad and aching heart. she had seen her dear, excellent father for the last time. he lived to arrive in hamburg. his workmen, when they heard of his arrival, went to the vessel, and bore him in their arms to his country house, where he died eight days afterwards. he showed his strong and deep love of nature in these his last hours; for when he was so weak as to be apparently unconscious of the presence of those he loved, he begged to be carried into his garden, that he might hear the birds sing, and look upon his flowers once more. when he knew he was breathing his last, he said to his children who were standing around his bed, "be useful, and love one another." his death was considered a public calamity in hamburg. his workmen felt that they had lost their benefactor and brother. his children knew that life could never give them another such friend. his body was placed in the great hall, in his country house, and surrounded by orange trees in full bloom. flowers he loved to the very last; and flowers shed their perfume over the mortal garment of his great and beautiful soul. one after another, his workmen and his other friends came and looked at his sweet and noble countenance, and took a last farewell. in germany, when a distinguished man dies, he is carried to the grave on an elevated hearse decorated with black feathers and all the trappings of woe; but henry's workmen insisted upon carrying their benefactor and friend to his last home in their arms. their sorrowing hearts were the truest mourning, the only pomp and circumstance worthy of the occasion; and their streaming eyes were the modest and unobtrusive, but most deeply affecting, pageant of that day. all the inhabitants followed him, with mourning in their hearts. remembering henry's love for flowers, his fellow-citizens made arches of flowers in three places for his mortal remains to pass under, as the most appropriate testimonial of their love. the public officers all followed him to the grave, and the military paid him appropriate honors. three different addresses were delivered over his body by distinguished speakers, and then hundreds and hundreds of voices joined in singing a hymn to his praise written by a friend. henry made such an arrangement of his business, and left such directions about it, as to make sure that his workmen should, if they wished it, have employment in his factory for ten years to come. he divided his property equally amongst his children, and bequeathed to them all his charities, which were not few, saying that he knew that his children would do as he had done, and that these duties would be sacred with them. such a life needs no comment. its eloquence, its immortal power, is its truth, its reality. among the many beautiful things that were written in honor of henry, i have translated these as peculiarly simple and just. "on the grave of the good, great man." "henry--, a man in the best sense of the term, strong in body and soul, with a heart full of the noblest purposes, which he carried out into action, without show and with a child-like mind." "to the great giver of all things thankful for the smallest gift. to his family a devoted father. to his friends a faithful friend. to the state a useful citizen. to the poor a benefactor. to the dying a worthy example." "why was this power broken in the prime of life? why were the wings of this diligent spirit clipped? why were stopped the beatings of this heart, which beat for all created things? sad questions, which can only find an answer in the assurance that all which god wills for us is good." "peace be with thee, friend and brother! we can never forget thee." around their father's grave the children stand, and mourning friends are shedding bitter tears; with sorrowing faces men are standing here, whose tender love did bear him in their arms in sickness once, and now once more in death, him who protector, friend, and helper was; and many eyes whose tears he wiped away, are weeping at his narrow house to-day. when the frail vestments of the soul are hidden in the tomb, what then remains to man? the memory of his deeds is ours. o sacred death, then, like the flowers of spring, many good deeds are brought to light. blessed and full of love, good children and true friends stand at his grave, and there with truth loudly declare, "a noble soul has gone to heaven; rich seed has borne celestial fruit; his whole day's work now in god is done." thus speak we now over thy grave, our friend, now glorified and living in our hearts. a lasting monument thou thyself hast built in every heart which thy great worth has known. yes, more than marble or than brass, our love shall honor thee, who dwellest in our hearts. these tears, which pure love consecrates to thee, thou noble man, whom god has called away from work which he himself has blessed,-- these grateful tears shall fall upon the tomb that hides the earthly garment of our friend. o, let us ne'er forget the firm and earnest mind which bore him swiftly onward in his course; how from a slender twig he built a bridge o'er which he safely hastened to the work which youthful hope and courage planned. think how the circle of his love embraced his children and his children's children, all, his highest joy their happiness and good. think how he labored for the good of all, supporter, benefactor, faithful friend! how with his wise and powerful mind he served and blessed his native place! his works remain to speak his praise. how did his generous, noble spirit glow with joy at all the good and beautiful which time and human skill brought forth! he ever did the standard gladly gain which light, and truth, and justice raised; and when his noble efforts seemed to fail, found ever in his pure and quiet breast a sweet repose. we give to-day thy dust to dust. thy spirit, thy true being, is with us. thou art not dead; thou art already risen. loved friend, thou livest, and thou watchest o'er us still. be dry our tears; be hushed our sighs; victor o'er death, our friend still lives; takes his reward from the great master's band. deep night has passed away. on him eternal morning breaks. he, from the dark chamber of the grave, goes to the light of the all-holy one. weep, weep no more! look up with hope on high! there does he dwell. he liveth too on earth. the master who has called him hence to higher work, to-morrow will call us--perhaps to-day. then shall we see him once again. he, who went home from earth in weakness and in pain, is risen there in everlasting joy and strength. till then we here resolve to live like him, that we, like him, may die religious, true, and free. when any little boy reads this true story of a good, great man, i would have him remember that henry began to be a good, great man when only eight years old. henry began by being industrious, patient, and good humored, so that people liked to buy his sticks. then he was faithful and true to his father, and would not leave him, not even for the sake of gaining some advantages. henry used all his faculties, and, by making his pretty canes, he got money, not to buy sugar plums, but to pay for instruction. when he did wrong, he took his punishment cheerfully, and did not commit the same fault again. all the virtues which finally made him a good, great man he began to practise when he was only eight years of age, when he was really a little boy. i would have every little boy and girl who reads this story try to imitate him. if he is poor, let him learn to do something useful, so to earn money that may help his father and mother, and perhaps be the means of giving him a better education. if he is rich, let him seek to get knowledge, and let him remember those who have not as much as he has, like little eva, who taught uncle tom. let him remember that the selfish and the lazy cannot be truly happy; that selfishness is its own punishment in the end; that no children and no men are truly happy or truly good who do not obey the words of the noble-minded henry on his death-bed-- "be useful, and love one another" the mighty deeds of abc. a letter to a little boy from his aunt. my dear frank: i was much pleased with your writing me a letter. if you were to take a piece of paper, and do up some sugar plums in it, and send it to me, i should eat up the sugar plums, and then there would be nothing left but the piece of white paper; but if you take a piece of paper, and mark on it with a pen some crooked and some straight, some round and some long strokes, they tell me, though they make no noise, that you love me, and they seem just like little messengers from you to me, all with something to tell me of my dear little frank. besides, after these messengers have spoken once, there they stand ready to speak again as soon as i only look at them, and tell me the same pleasant story the second time that they did the first. if i were to put them away in a safe place for forty years, and then look at them, when you were beginning to be an old man, these crooked scratches of your pen would still talk to me of little frank, as he was when i held him in my lap, and we used to laugh, and talk, and tell stories together. think, then, my dear frank, how much better it is to be able to fill a letter with these curious strokes to send to a friend than to have bushels of sugar plums to send him. did you ever think what curious things these little letters are? you know the great bible that you love to look at so much, and to hear father read from. all the wonderful things related in it are told by twenty-six little letters. it is they that tell you of the creation of the world, of the beautiful garden called eden in which adam and eve lived; they tell you the sad story of their disobedience to god, and of their being turned out of paradise. then they tell you all about the israelites, or jews, as we call them. in the same book, these twenty-six letters place themselves a little differently, and tell you the story of joseph and his brethren that you were so much pleased with when your father read it to you, and that of david and goliath, that you like so much. then these same wonderful story tellers relate to you the beautiful history of daniel; of that courageous, good man who chose rather to be torn to pieces by wild beasts than not to pray every day to god, and thank him for his goodness; and how god preserved him in the lion's den. the wonderful story of elijah they also tell you, and many others. but last and most interesting and wonderful of all, my dear little frank, is the story of jesus christ and his friends called the apostles. these little letters have never told such a beautiful and affecting story as they tell you of that pure and spotless being who was sent by god to teach us our duty, and to show us the way to be happy forever. no being ever existed on this earth who showed so much love and tenderness, so much goodness and humility, so much wisdom and power as did jesus christ. there, in that best of books, stand these little messengers, as i call them, still speaking the very words of the blessed saviour; ready to comfort the poor and sorrowful; to teach patience and hope to the sick; to instruct the ignorant; to reprove the wicked; and inviting little children to come to his arms and receive his blessing. do you not want to know all that they can tell you of this great and good being? i could write you, my dear frank, a letter so long that i fear you would be tired of reading it, about these same wonderful little figures; but now i dare say that you will think more of them yourself, and that the little book with the corners rolled up which contains your abc will be more respectable in your sight. perhaps you will, after thinking some time, ask who invented these wonderful letters; and then, if you do really want to know, your father will tell you all that is known about it, or, at least, all that you can remember and understand. when you are old enough to read about the history of letters, you will find books which will make you laugh by telling you that there was a time when, if you wanted to write "a man," you would have been obliged to draw the picture of a man; and, as there was then no paper like ours, you would have been obliged to take a piece of wood or bark to make the drawing on; and so the same with every thing else. so you see, if you and i had lived at that time, and you had written to me about your dog, your pleasant ride and the other things that were in your letter, you would perhaps have been obliged to get a man to bring me the letter, it would have been so clumsy, instead of bringing it yourself, folded neatly in your nice little pocket book; and as for my letter, only think how much room it would have taken up. you will say, "why, aunt, letters are not only better than sugar plums, they are better than dollars." indeed they are, my dear frank. the knowledge that they can give, the blessing they can bestow, is better and more valuable than all the silver and gold in the whole world; for they can teach us what is wisdom and happiness; they can teach us the will of god. i love to think, too, of what pleasant messages they can carry backwards and forwards between friends, and that in a few hours these curious, handy little things will appear before you, my dear little frank, and tell you what i have just been thinking about, and that i always love you, and am ever your affectionate aunt. what day is it? it is so still that, although it is midday, one can hear the sound of the soft spring shower as it falls on the young and tender leaves. the crowing of the cock pierces the ear with his shrill note, as in the silent watches of the night. the song of the wren is so undisturbed, it is so full, and is heard so distinctly that it only reminds one, with its sweet music, how unusual is the silence; it does indeed seem but the "echo of tranquillity." there are many people in the streets, but they have a different appearance from usual; they are all dressed in their holiday garments; they look happy, but they are very calm and serious. the gentle shower does not seem to disturb them; it only affords an opportunity for reciprocal kindness. i see a venerable-looking old lady who from infirmity is obliged to walk very slowly. she is supported by a bright, rosy-cheeked girl who holds up the umbrella, and keeps back her light and joyous step to the slow time of her aged companion. an elegant-looking woman is leading, with great care and tenderness, a little girl through the mud. the lady puts her umbrella so low that the rain is kept from the child, but it falls upon her own gay clothes. the little girl must be that lady's daughter. but see! they stop at the door of yonder miserable-looking house. the lady cannot live there, surely. she gives the child a little book. the little girl enters alone. i see her now in the house. she is the daughter of the poor, sick woman who lives there. there is a trembling old man tottering along: he looks a little like tipsy david, as the boys call him; but he has on a clean and respectable suit of black, and a weed on his hat; he is quite sober, but it is david; and one of the very boys that have laughed at and abused him when intoxicated, now respectfully offers him an umbrella. a fashionable young man is gallanting a lady with the greatest care and most delicate respect; she must be his sister, or the lady he is engaged to marry, he is so careful to shelter her from every drop of rain. no, i see her enter her door; it is my good neighbor, miss--; she is one of the excellent of the earth, but she is poor, old and forsaken by all but the few who seek for those whom others forget. she has no beauty, no celebrity; there is no eclat in noticing her; there are those who will even laugh at him for his attention to her. stranger than all, there are two men, violent opponents in religion and politics, walking arm in arm with each other. the calvinist extends to him whom he considers his erring brother a kindness as if to a dear friend; for the universalist is sick, and the calvinist tries to protect him from the shower while exposing himself; see, he takes off his own cloak and puts it on him. what does all this mean? whence is this holy stillness? what day is it? it is the lord's day! all these people are returning from the house of prayer. it is this thought that makes the laughing girl restrain her gayety, and teach her steps to keep time with her infirm old friend. the sinful old man abstains from his vicious habit out of reverence for this holy day; he has lost his son too; and sorrow and the weight of an evil conscience have driven him to the mercy seat; and they who despised his drunkenness respect his misery. the lady who led the little child so tenderly to its poor mother's door is a teacher in the sunday school; the book she gave tells of the wisdom and goodness of god; she has awakened in her little pupil's soul that princi-pie which shall never die, and taught her to be a messenger of peace and joy to her poor, sick mother. it is the influence of this blessed day that makes the usually frivolous and thoughtless prefer a work of charity to the gratification of vanity. it is the sabbath day, with its calm and elevated duties and holy repose, that subdues animosity, lays the restless spirit of vanity, checks habitual vice, and awakens all the charities and sweet courtesies of life. this is the true rest of the sabbath; the rest from vanity, from contention, from sin. this is the true preaching, the practice of christian duties, the performance of works of love, the exercise of the holiest affections of our nature. this is the true service of god; doing good to his human family. this is the true knowledge of him, "that we love one another." doubtless the instructions from the pulpit do, in many instances, enlighten the ignorant, quicken the languid and the cold-hearted, and alarm or persuade the sinful and the erring; and, on this account alone, the day is a great good, and should be welcomed. however, were any one doubtful of the blessing that attends it, i would not reason with him, but i would, if it were possible, lead him, when he knew not what day it was, where he could witness, as i have, such a scene as i have just described; and when he exclaimed, "what does it all mean? what day is it?" i would simply answer, "it is the sabbath day." the child at her mother's grave. [translated from the german.] in that little room of thine sweet sleep has come to thee. ah, mother! dearest mother mine! o, call me to that room of thine; o, shut it not from me. i would so gladly be with thee, and be thy child again. 'tis cold and stormy here with me. tis warm, and o, so still with thee. o, let me, let me in. thou took'st me gladly once with thee, so gladly held'st my hand! o, see! thou hast forsaken me. take me, this time, again with thee into the heavenly land. evening prayer. thou, from whom we never part; thou, whose love is every where; thou, who seest every heart, listen to our evening prayer. father, fill our souls with love; love unfailing, full, and free; love no injury can move; love that ever rests on thee. heavenly father, through the night keep us safe from every ill. cheerful as the morning light, may we wake to do thy will. the sabbath is here. [from krumacher.] the sabbath is here. it is sent us from heaven. rest, rest, toilsome life. be silent all strife. let us stop on our way, and give thanks, and pray to him who all things has given. the sabbath is here. to the fields let us go. how fresh and how fair, in the still morning air, the bright golden grain waves over the plain! it is god who doth all this bestow. the sabbath is here. on this blessed morn, no tired ox moans, no creaking wheel groans. at rest is the plough. no noise is heard now, save the sound of the rustling corn. the sabbath is here. our seed we have sown, in hope and in faith. the father he saith amen! be it so! behold the corn grow! rejoicing his goodness we'll own. the sabbath is here. his love we will sing, who sendeth the rain upon the young grain. full soon all around the sickle will sound, and home the bright sheaves we will bring the sabbath is here. in hope and in love, we sow in the dust, while humbly we trust, up yonder, shall grow the seed which we sow, and bloom a bright garland above. to a butterfly. [free translation from herder.] airy, lovely, heavenly thing! butterfly with quivering wing! hovering, in thy transient hour, over every bush and flower, feasting upon flowers and dew, thyself a brilliant blossom too. who, with rosy fingers fine, purpled o'er those wings of thine? was it some sylph whose tender care spangled thy robes so fine and fair, and wove them of the morning air? i feel thy little throbbing heart. thou fear'st, e'en now, death's bitter smart fly little spirit, fly away! be free and joyful, thy short day! image, thou dost seem to me, of that which i may, one day, be, when i shall drop this robe of earth, and wake into a spirit's birth. immensee by theodor w. storm translated by c. w. bell m. a. preface we are at the beginning of a new era which will, it is to be hoped, be marked by a general _rapprochement_ between the nations. the need to know and understand one another is being felt more and more. it follows that the study of foreign languages will assume an ever-increasing importance; indeed, so far as language, literature, and music are concerned, one may safely assert that _fas est et ab hoste doceri_. all those who wish to make acquaintance with the speech of their neighbours, or who have allowed their former knowledge to grow rusty, will welcome this edition, which will enable them, independently of bulky dictionaries, to devote to language study the moments of leisure which offer themselves in the course of the day. the texts have been selected from the double point of view of their literary worth and of the usefulness of their vocabulary; in the translations, also, the endeavour has been to unite qualities of style with strict fidelity to the original. introduction theodor w. storm, poet and short-story writer ( - ), was born in schleswig. he was called to the bar in his native town, husum, in , but had his licence to practise cancelled in for 'germanophilism,' and had to remove to germany. it was only in that he was able to return to husum, where in he became a judge of the court of appeals. as early as he had made himself known as a lyrical poet of the romantic school, but it was as a short-story writer that he first took a prominent place in literature, making a most happy _début_ with the story entitled _immensee_. there followed a long series of tales, rich in fancy and in humour, although their inspiration is generally derived from the humble town and country life which formed his immediate environment; but he wrote nothing that excels, in depth and tenderness of feeling, the charming story of _immensee_; and taking his work all in all, storm still ranks to-day as a master of the short story in german literature, rich though it is in this form of prose-fiction. immensee the old man one afternoon in the late autumn a well-dressed old man was walking slowly down the street. he appeared to be returning home from a walk, for his buckle-shoes, which followed a fashion long since out of date, were covered with dust. under his arm he carried a long, gold-headed cane; his dark eyes, in which the whole of his long-lost youth seemed to have centred, and which contrasted strangely with his snow-white hair, gazed calmly on the sights around him or peered into the town below as it lay before him, bathed in the haze of sunset. he appeared to be almost a stranger, for of the passers-by only a few greeted him, although many a one involuntarily was compelled to gaze into those grave eyes. at last he halted before a high, gabled house, cast one more glance out toward the town, and then passed into the hall. at the sound of the door-bell some one in the room within drew aside the green curtain from a small window that looked out on to the hall, and the face of an old woman was seen behind it. the man made a sign to her with his cane. "no light yet!" he said in a slightly southern accent, and the housekeeper let the curtain fall again. the old man now passed through the broad hall, through an inner hall, wherein against the walls stood huge oaken chests bearing porcelain vases; then through the door opposite he entered a small lobby, from which a narrow staircase led to the upper rooms at the back of the house. he climbed the stairs slowly, unlocked a door at the top, and landed in a room of medium size. it was a comfortable, quiet retreat. one of the walls was lined with cupboards and bookcases; on the other hung pictures of men and places; on a table with a green cover lay a number of open books, and before the table stood a massive arm-chair with a red velvet cushion. after the old man had placed his hat and stick in a corner, he sat down in the arm-chair and, folding his hands, seemed to be taking his rest after his walk. while he sat thus, it was growing gradually darker; and before long a moonbeam came streaming through the window-panes and upon the pictures on the wall; and as the bright band of light passed slowly onward the old man followed it involuntarily with his eyes. now it reached a little picture in a simple black frame. "elisabeth!" said the old man softly; and as he uttered the word, time had changed: _he was young again_. * * * * * the children before very long the dainty form of a little maiden advanced toward him. her name was elisabeth, and she might have been five years old. he himself was twice that age. round her neck she wore a red silk kerchief which was very becoming to her brown eyes. "reinhard!" she cried, "we have a holiday, a holiday! no school the whole day and none to-morrow either!" reinhard was carrying his slate under his arm, but he flung it behind the front door, and then both the children ran through the house into the garden and through the garden gate out into the meadow. the unexpected holiday came to them at a most happily opportune moment. it was in the meadow that reinhard, with elisabeth's help, had built a house out of sods of grass. they meant to live in it during the summer evenings; but it still wanted a bench. he set to work at once; nails, hammer, and the necessary boards were already to hand. while he was thus engaged, elisabeth went along the dyke, gathering the ring-shaped seeds of the wild mallow in her apron, with the object of making herself chains and necklaces out of them; so that when reinhard had at last finished his bench in spite of many a crookedly hammered nail, and came out into the sunlight again, she was already wandering far away at the other end of the meadow. "elisabeth!" he called, "elisabeth!" and then she came, her hair streaming behind her. "come here," he said; "our house is finished now. why, you have got quite hot! come in, and let us sit on the new bench. i will tell you a story." so they both went in and sat down on the new bench. elisabeth took the little seed-rings out of her apron and strung them on long threads. reinhard began his tale: "there were once upon a time three spinning-women..."[ ] [ ] the beginning of one of the best known of grimm's fairy tales. "oh!" said elisabeth, "i know that off by heart; you really must not always tell me the same story." accordingly reinhard had to give up the story of the three spinning-women and tell instead the story of the poor man who was cast into the den of lions. "it was now night," he said, "black night, you know, and the lions were asleep. but every now and then they would yawn in their sleep and shoot out their red tongues. and then the man would shudder and think it was morning. all at once a bright light fell all about him, and when he looked up an angel was standing before him. the angel beckoned to him with his hand and then went straight into the rocks." elisabeth had been listening attentively. "an angel?" she said. "had he wings then?" "it is only a story," answered reinhard; "there are no angels, you know." "oh, fie! reinhard!" she said, staring him straight in the face. he looked at her with a frown, and she asked him hesitatingly: "well, why do they always say there are? mother, and aunt, and at school as well?" "i don't know," he answered. "but tell me," said elisabeth, "are there no lions either?" "lions? are there lions? in india, yes. the heathen priests harness them to their carriages, and drive about the desert with them. when i'm big, i mean to go out there myself. it is thousands of times more beautiful in that country than it is here at home; there's no winter at all there. and you must come with me. will you?" "yes," said elisabeth; "but mother must come with us, and your mother as well." "no," said reinhard, "they will be too old then, and cannot come with us." "but i mayn't go by myself." "oh, but you may right enough; you will then really be my wife, and the others will have no say in the matter." "but mother will cry!" "we shall come back again of course," said reinhard impetuously. "now just tell me straight out, will you go with me? if not, i will go all alone, and then i shall never come back again." the little girl came very near to crying. "please don't look so angry," said she; "i will go to india with you." reinhard seized both her hands with frantic glee, and rushed out with her into the meadow. "to india, to india!" he sang, and swung her round and round, so that her little red kerchief was whirled from off her neck. then he suddenly let her go and said solemnly: "nothing will come of it, i'm sure; you haven't the pluck." "elisabeth! reinhard!" some one was now calling from the garden gate. "here we are!" the children answered, and raced home hand in hand. * * * * * in the woods so the children lived together. she was often too quiet for him, and he was often too head-strong for her, but for all that they stuck to one another. they spent nearly all their leisure hours together: in winter in their mothers' tiny rooms, during the summer in wood and field. once when elisabeth was scolded by the teacher in reinhard's hearing, he angrily banged his slate upon the table in order to turn upon himself the master's wrath. this failed to attract attention. but reinhard paid no further attention to the geography lessons, and instead he composed a long poem, in which he compared himself to a young eagle, the schoolmaster to a grey crow, and elisabeth to a white dove; the eagle vowed vengeance on the grey crow, as soon as his wings had grown. tears stood in the young poet's eyes: he felt very proud of himself. when he reached home he contrived to get hold of a little parchment-bound volume with a lot of blank pages in it; and on the first pages he elaborately wrote out his first poem. soon after this he went to another school. here he made many new friendships among boys of his own age, but this did not interrupt his comings and goings with elisabeth. of the stories which he had formerly told her over and over again he now began to write down the ones which she had liked best, and in doing so the fancy often took him to weave in something of his own thoughts; yet, for some reason he could not understand, he could never manage it. so he wrote them down exactly as he had heard them himself. then he handed them over to elisabeth, who kept them carefully in a drawer of her writing-desk, and now and again of an evening when he was present it afforded him agreeable satisfaction to hear her reading aloud to her mother these little tales out of the notebooks in which he had written them. seven years had gone by. reinhard was to leave the town in order to proceed to his higher education. elisabeth could not bring herself to think that there would now be a time to be passed entirely without reinhard. she was delighted when he told her one day that he would continue to write out stories for her as before; he would send them to her in the letters to his mother, and then she would have to write back to him and tell him how she liked them. the day of departure was approaching, but ere it came a good deal more poetry found its way into the parchment-bound volume. this was the one secret he kept from elisabeth, although she herself had inspired the whole book and most of the songs, which gradually had filled up almost half of the blank pages. it was the month of june, and reinhard was to start on the following day. it was proposed to spend one more festive day together and therefore a picnic was arranged for a rather large party of friends in an adjacent forest. it was an hour's drive along the road to the edge of the wood, and there the company took down the provision baskets from the carriages and walked the rest of the way. the road lay first of all through a pine grove, where it was cool and darksome, and the ground was all strewed with pine needles. after half an hour's walk they passed out of the gloom of the pine trees into a bright fresh beech wood. here everything was light and green; every here and there a sunbeam burst through the leafy branches, and high above their heads a squirrel was leaping from branch to branch. the party came to a halt at a certain spot, over which the topmost branches of ancient beech trees interwove a transparent canopy of leaves. elisabeth's mother opened one of the baskets, and an old gentleman constituted himself quartermaster. "round me, all of you young people," he cried, "and attend carefully to what i have to say to you. for lunch each one of you will now get two dry rolls; the butter has been left behind at home. the extras every one must find for himself. there are plenty of strawberries in the wood--that is, for anyone who knows where to find them. unless you are sharp, you'll have to eat dry bread; that's the way of the world all over. do you understand what i say?" "yes, yes," cried the young folks. "yes, but look here," said the old gentleman, "i have not done yet. we old folks have done enough roaming about in our time, and therefore we will stay at home now, here, i mean, under these wide-spreading trees, and we'll peel the potatoes and make a fire and lay the table, and by twelve o'clock the eggs shall be boiled. "in return for all this you will be owing us half of your strawberries, so that we may also be able to serve some dessert. so off you go now, east and west, and mind be honest." the young folks cast many a roguish glance at one another. "wait," cried the old gentleman once again. "i suppose i need not tell you this, that whoever finds none need not produce any; but take particular note of this, that he will get nothing out of us old folks either. now you have had enough good advice for to-day; and if you gather strawberries to match you will get on very well for the present at any rate." the young people were of the same opinion, and pairing off in couples set out on their quest. "come along, elisabeth," said reinhard, "i know where there is a clump of strawberry bushes; you shan't eat dry bread." elisabeth tied the green ribbons of her straw hat together and hung it on her arm. "come on, then," she said, "the basket is ready." off into the wood they went, on and on; on through moist shady glens, where everything was so peaceful, except for the cry of the falcon flying unseen in the heavens far above their heads; on again through the thick brushwood, so thick that reinhard must needs go on ahead to make a track, here snapping off a branch, there bending aside a trailing vine. but ere long he heard elisabeth behind him calling out his name. he turned round. "reinhard!" she called, "do wait for me! reinhard!" he could not see her, but at length he caught sight of her some way off struggling with the undergrowth, her dainty head just peeping out over the tops of the ferns. so back he went once more and brought her out from the tangled mass of briar and brake into an open space where blue butterflies fluttered among the solitary wood blossoms. reinhard brushed the damp hair away from her heated face, and would have tied the straw hat upon her head, but she refused; yet at his earnest request she consented after all. "but where are your strawberries?" she asked at length, standing still and drawing a deep breath. "they were here," he said, "but the toads have got here before us, or the martens, or perhaps the fairies." "yes," said elisabeth, "the leaves are still here; but not a word about fairies in this place. come along, i'm not a bit tired yet; let us look farther on." in front of them ran a little brook, and on the far side the wood began again. reinhard raised elisabeth in his arms and carried her over. after a while they emerged from the shady foliage and stood in a wide clearing. "there must be strawberries here," said the girl, "it all smells so sweet." they searched about the sunny spot, but they found none. "no," said reinhard, "it is only the smell of the heather." everywhere was a confusion of raspberry-bushes and holly, and the air was filled with a strong smell of heather, patches of which alternated with the short grass over these open spaces. "how lonely it is here!" said elisabeth "i wonder where the others are?" reinhard had never thought of getting back. "wait a bit," he said, holding his hand aloft; "where is the wind coming from?" but wind there was none. "listen!" said elisabeth, "i think i heard them talking. just give a call in that direction." reinhard hollowed his hand and shouted: "come here!" "here!" was echoed back. "they answered," cried elisabeth clapping her hands. "no, that was nothing; it was only the echo." elisabeth seized reinhard's hand. "i'm frightened!" she said. "oh! no, you must not be frightened. it is lovely here. sit down there in the shade among the long grass. let us rest awhile: we'll find the others soon enough." elisabeth sat down under the overhanging branch of a beech and listened intently in every direction. reinhard sat a few paces off on a tree stump, and gazed over at her in silence. the sun was just above their heads, shining with the full glare of midday heat. tiny, gold-flecked, steel-blue flies poised in the air with vibrating wings. their ears caught a gentle humming and buzzing all round them, and far away in the wood were heard now and again the tap-tap of the woodpecker and the screech of other birds. "listen," said elisabeth, "i hear a bell." "where?" asked reinhard. "behind us. do you hear it? it is striking twelve o'clock." "then the town lies behind us, and if we go straight through in this direction we are bound to fall in with the others." so they started on their homeward way; they had given up looking for strawberries, for elisabeth had become tired. and at last there rang out from among the trees the laughing voices of the picnic party; then they saw too a white cloth spread gleaming on the ground; it was the luncheon-table and on it were strawberries enough and to spare. the old gentleman had a table-napkin tucked in his button-hole and was continuing his moral sermon to the young folks and vigorously carving a joint of roast meat. "here come the stragglers," cried the young people when they saw reinhard and elisabeth advancing among the trees. "this way," shouted the old gentleman. "empty your handkerchiefs, upside down, with your hats! now show us what you have found." "only hunger and thirst," said reinhard. "if that's all," replied the old man, lifting up and showing them the bowl full of fruit, "you must keep what you've got. you remember the agreement: nothing here for lazybones to eat." but in the end he was prevailed on to relent; the banquet proceeded, and a thrush in a juniper bush provided the music. so the day passed. but reinhard had, after all, found something, and though it was not strawberries yet it was something that had grown in the wood. when he got home this is what he wrote in his old parchment-bound volume: out on the hill-side yonder the wind to rest is laid; under the drooping branches there sits the little maid. she sits among the wild thyme, she sits in the fragrant air; the blue flies hum around her, bright wings flash everywhere. and through the silent woodland she peers with watchful eyen, while on her hazel ringlets sparkles the glad sunshine. and far, far off the cuckoo laughs out his song. i ween hers are the bright, the golden eyes of the woodland queen. so she was not only his little sweetheart, but was also the expression of all that was lovely and wonderful in his opening life. * * * * * by the roadside the child stood the time is christmas eve. before the close of the afternoon reinhard and some other students were sitting together at an old oak table in the ratskeller.[ ] [ ] the basement of the rathaus or town hall. this, in almost every german town of importance, has become a restaurant and place of refreshment. the lamps on the wall were lighted, for down here in the basement it was already growing dark; but there was only a thin sprinkling of customers present, and the waiters were leaning idly up against the pillars let into the walls. in a corner of the vaulted room sat a fiddler and a fine-featured gipsy-girl with a zither; their instruments lay in their laps, and they seemed to be looking about them with an air of indifference. a champagne cork popped off at the table occupied by the students. "drink, my gipsy darling!" cried a young man of aristocratic appearance, holding out to the girl a glass full of wine. "i don't care about it," she said, without altering her position. "well, then, give us a song," cried the young nobleman, and threw a silver coin into her lap. the girl slowly ran her fingers through her black hair while the fiddler whispered in her ear. but she threw back her head, and rested her chin on her zither. "for him," she said, "i'm not going to play." reinhard leapt up with his glass in his hand and stood in front of her. "what do you want?" she asked defiantly. "to have a look at your eyes." "what have my eyes to do with you?" reinhard's glance flashed down on her. "i _know_ they are false." she laid her cheek in the palm of her hand and gave him a searching look. reinhard raised his glass to his mouth. "here's to your beautiful, wicked eyes!" he said, and drank. she laughed and tossed her head. "give it here," she said, and fastening her black eyes on his, she slowly drank what was left in the glass. then she struck a chord and sang in a deep, passionate voice: to-day, to-day thou think'st me fairest maid of all; to-morrow, ah! then beauty fadeth past recall. while the hour remaineth, thou art yet mine own; then when death shall claim me, i must die alone. while the fiddler struck up an allegro finale, a new arrival joined the group. "i went to call for you, reinhard," he said, "you had already gone out, but santa claus had paid you a visit." "santa claus?" said reinhard. "santa claus never comes to me now." "oh, yes, he does! the whole of your room smelt of christmas tree and ginger cakes." reinhard dropped the glass out of his hand and seized his cap. "well, what are you going to do now?" asked the girl. "i'll be back in a minute." she frowned. "stay," she said gently, casting an amorous glance at him. reinhard hesitated. "i can't," he said. she laughingly gave him a tap with the toe of her shoe and said: "go away, then, you good-for-nothing; you are one as bad as the other, all good-for-nothings." and as she turned away from him, reinhard went slowly up the steps of the ratskeller. outside in the street deep twilight had set in; he felt the cool winter air blowing on his heated brow. from some window every here and there fell the bright gleam of a christmas tree all lighted up, now and then was heard from within some room the sound of little pipes and tin trumpets mingled with the merry din of children's voices. crowds of beggar children were going from house to house or climbing up on to the railings of the front steps, trying to catch a glimpse through the window of a splendour that was denied to them. sometimes too a door would suddenly be flung open, and scolding voices would drive a whole swarm of these little visitors away out into the dark street. in the vestibule of yet another house they were singing an old christmas carol, and little girls' clear voices were heard among the rest. but reinhard heard not; he passed quickly by them all, out of one street into another. when he reached his lodging it had grown almost quite dark; he stumbled up the stairs and so gained his apartment. a sweet fragrance greeted him; it reminded him of home; it was the smell of the parlour in his mother's house at christmas time. with trembling hand he lit his lamp; and there lay a mighty parcel on the table. when he opened it, out fell the familiar ginger cakes. on some of them were the initial letters of his name written in sprinkles of sugar; no one but elisabeth could have done that. next came to view a little parcel containing neatly embroidered linen, handkerchiefs and cuffs; and finally letters from his mother and elisabeth. reinhard opened elisabeth's letter first, and this is what she wrote: "the pretty sugared letters will no doubt tell you who helped with the cakes. the same person also embroidered the cuffs for you. we shall have a very quiet time at home this christmas eve. mother always puts her spinning-wheel away in the corner as early as half-past nine. it is so very lonesome this winter now that you are not here. "and now, too, the linnet you made me a present of died last sunday. it made me cry a good deal, though i am sure i looked after it well. "it always used to sing of an afternoon when the sun shone on its cage. you remember how often mother would hang a piece of cloth over the cage in order to keep it quiet when it sang so lustily. "thus our room is now quieter than ever, except that your old friend eric now drops in to see us occasionally. you told us once that he was just like his brown top-coat. i can't help thinking of it every time he comes in at the door, and it is really too funny; but don't tell mother, it might easily make her angry. "guess what i am giving your mother for a christmas present! you can't guess? well, it is myself! eric is making a drawing of me in black chalk; i have had to give him three sittings, each time for a whole hour. "i simply loathed the idea of a stranger getting to know my face so well. nor did i wish it, but mother pressed me, and said it would very much please dear frau werner. "but you are not keeping your word, reinhard. you haven't sent me any stories. i have often complained to your mother about it, but she always says you now have more to do than to attend to such childish things. but i don't believe it; there's something else perhaps." after this reinhard read his mother's letter, and when he had read them both and slowly folded them up again and put them away, he was overcome with an irresistible feeling of home-sickness. for a long while he walked up and down his room, talking softly to himself, and then, under his breath, he murmured: i have err'd from the straight path, bewildered i roam; by the roadside the child stands and beckons me home. then he went to his desk, took out some money, and stepped down into the street again. during all this while it had become quieter out there; the lights on the christmas trees had burnt out, the processions of children had come to an end. the wind was sweeping through the deserted streets; old and young alike were sitting together at home in family parties; the second period of christmas eve celebrations had begun. as reinhard drew near the ratskeller he heard from below the scraping of the fiddle and the singing of the zither girl. the restaurant door bell tinkled and a dark form staggered up the broad dimly-lighted stair. reinhard drew aside into the shadow of the houses and then passed swiftly by. after a while he reached the well-lighted shop of a jeweller, and after buying a little cross studded with red corals, he returned by the same way he had come. not far from his lodgings he caught sight of a little girl, dressed in miserable rags, standing before a tall door, in a vain attempt to open it. "shall i help you?" he said. the child gave no answer, but let go the massive door-handle. reinhard had soon opened the door. "no," he said; "they might drive you out again. come along with me, and i'll give you some christmas cake." he then closed the door again and gave his hand to the little girl, who walked along with him in silence to his lodgings. on going out he had left the light burning. "here are some cakes for you," he said, pouring half of his whole stock into her apron, though he gave none that bore the sugar letters. "now, off you go home, and give your mother some of them too." the child cast a shy look up at him; she seemed unaccustomed to such kindness and unable to say anything in reply. reinhard opened the door, and lighted her way, and then the little thing like a bird flew downstairs with her cakes and out of the house. reinhard poked the fire in the stove, set the dusty ink-stand on the table, and then sat down and wrote and wrote letters the whole night long to his mother and elisabeth. the remainder of the christmas cakes lay untouched by his side, but he had buttoned on elisabeth's cuffs, and odd they looked on his shaggy coat of undyed wool. and there he was still sitting when the winter sun cast its light on the frosted window-panes, and showed him a pale, grave face reflected in the looking-glass. * * * * * home when the easter vacation came reinhard journeyed home. on the morning after his arrival he went to see elisabeth. "how tall you've grown," he said, as the pretty, slender girl advanced with a smile to meet him. she blushed, but made no reply; he had taken her hand in his own in greeting, and she tried to draw it gently away. he looked at her doubtingly, for never had she done that before; but now it was as if some strange thing was coming between them. the same feeling remained, too, after he had been at home for some time and came to see her constantly day after day. when they sat alone together there ensued pauses in the conversation which distressed him, and which he anxiously did his best to avoid. in order to have a definite occupation during the holidays, he began to give elisabeth some instruction in botany, in which he himself had been keenly interested during the early months of his university career. elisabeth, who was wont to follow him in all things and was moreover very quick to learn, willingly entered into the proposal. so now several times in the week they made excursions into the fields or the moors, and if by midday they brought home their green field-box full of plants and flowers, reinhard would come again later in the day and share with elisabeth what they had collected in common. with this same object in view, he entered the room one afternoon while elisabeth was standing by the window and sticking some fresh chick-weed in a gilded birdcage which he had not seen in the place before. in the cage was a canary, which was flapping its wings and shrilly chirruping as it pecked at elisabeth's fingers. previously to this reinhard's bird had hung in that spot. "has my poor linnet changed into a goldfinch after its death?" he asked jovially. "linnets are not accustomed to do any such thing," said elizabeth's mother, who sat spinning in her arm-chair. "your friend eric sent it this noon from his estate as a present for elisabeth." "what estate?" "why, don't you know?" "know what?" "that a month ago eric took over his father's second estate by the immensee."[ ] [ ] _i.e._ the 'lake of the bees' "but you have never said a word to me about it." "well," said the mother, "you haven't yet made a single word of inquiry after your friend. he is a very nice, sensible young man." the mother went out of the room to make the coffee. elisabeth had her back turned to reinhard, and was still busy with the making of her little chick-weed bower. "please, just a little longer," she said, "i'll be done in a minute." as reinhard did not answer, contrary to his wont, she turned round and faced him. in his eyes there was a sudden expression of trouble which she had never observed before in them. "what is the matter with you, reinhard?" she said, drawing nearer to him. "with me?" he said, his thoughts far away and his eyes resting dreamily on hers. "you look so sad." "elisabeth," he said, "i cannot bear that yellow bird." she looked at him in astonishment, without understanding his meaning. "you are so strange," she said. he took both her hands in his, and she let him keep them there. her mother came back into the room shortly after; and after they had drunk their coffee she sat down at her spinning-wheel, while reinhard and elisabeth went off into the next room to arrange their plants. stamens were counted, leaves and blossoms carefully opened out, and two specimens of each sort were laid to dry between the pages of a large folio volume. all was calm and still this sunny afternoon; the only sounds to be heard were the hum of the mother's spinning-wheel in the next room, and now and then the subdued voice of reinhard, as he named the orders of the families of the plants, and corrected elisabeth's awkward pronunciation of the latin names. "i am still short of that lily of the valley which i didn't get last time," said she, after the whole collection had been classified and arranged. reinhard pulled a little white vellum volume from his pocket. "here is a spray of the lily of the valley for you," he said, taking out a half-pressed bloom. when elisabeth saw the pages all covered with writing, she asked: "have you been writing stories again?" "these aren't stories," he answered, handing her the book. the contents were all poems, and the majority of them at most filled one page. elisabeth turned over the leaves one after another; she appeared to be reading the titles only. "when she was scolded by the teacher." "when they lost their way in the woods." "an easter story." "on her writing to me for the first time." thus ran most of the titles. reinhard fixed his eyes on her with a searching look, and as she kept turning over the leaves he saw that a gentle blush arose and gradually mantled over the whole of her sweet face. he would fain have looked into her eyes, but elisabeth did not look up, and finally laid the book down before him without a word. "don't give it back like that," he said. she took a brown spray out of the tin case. "i will put your favourite flower inside," she said, giving back the book into his hands. at length came the last day of the vacation and the morning of his departure. at her own request elisabeth received permission from her mother to accompany her friend to the stage-coach, which had its station a few streets from their house. when they passed out of the front door reinhard gave her his arm, and thus he walked in silence side by side with the slender maiden. the nearer they came to their destination the more he felt as if he had something he must say to her before he bade her a long farewell, something on which all that was worthy and all that was sweet in his future life depended, and yet he could not formulate the saving word. in his anguish, he walked slower and slower. "you'll be too late," she said; "it has already struck ten by st mary's clock." but he did not quicken his pace for all that. at last he stammered out: "elisabeth, you will not see me again for two whole years. shall i be as dear to you as ever when i come back?" she nodded, and looked affectionately into his face. "i stood up for you too," she said, after a pause. "me? and against whom had you to stand up for me?" "against my mother. we were talking about you a long time yesterday evening after you left. she thought you were not so nice now as you once were." reinhard held his peace for a moment: then he took her hand in his, and looking gravely into her childish eyes, he said: "i am still just as nice as i ever was; i would have you firmly believe that. do you believe it, elisabeth?" "yes," she said. he freed her hand and quickly walked with her through the last street. the nearer he felt the time of parting approach, the happier became the look on his face; he went almost too quickly for her. "what is the matter with you, reinhard?" she asked. "i have a secret, a beautiful secret," said reinhard, looking at her with a light in his eyes. "when i come back again in two years' time, then you shall know it." meanwhile they had reached the stage-coach; they were only just in time. once more reinhard took her hand. "farewell!" he said, "farewell, elisabeth! do not forget!" she shook her head. "farewell," she said. reinhard climbed up into the coach and the horses started. as the coach rumbled round the corner of the street he saw her dear form once more as she slowly wended her way home. * * * * * a letter nearly two years later reinhard was sitting by lamplight with his books and papers around him, expecting a friend with whom he used to study in common. some one came upstairs. "come in." it was the landlady. "a letter for you, herr werner," and she went away. reinhard had never written to elisabeth since his visit home, and he had received no letter from her. nor was this one from her; it was in his mother's handwriting. reinhard broke the seal and read, and ere long he came to this paragraph: "at your time of life, my dear boy, nearly every year still brings its own peculiar experience; for youth is apt to turn everything to the best account. at home, too, things have changed very much, and all this will, i fear, cause you much pain at first, if my understanding of you is at all correct. "yesterday eric was at last accepted by elisabeth, after having twice proposed in vain during the last three months. she had never been able to make up her mind to it, but now in the end she has done so. to my mind she is still far too young. the wedding is to take place soon, and her mother means to go away with them." * * * * * immensee again years have passed. one warm afternoon in spring a young man, whose sunburnt face was the picture of health, was walking along a shady road through the wood leading down to the valley below. his grave dark eyes looked intently into the distance, as though he was expecting to find every moment some change in the monotony of the road, a change however which seemed reluctant to come about. at length he saw a cart slowly coming up from below. "hullo! my friend," shouted the traveller to the farmer, who was walking by the side of the cart, "is this the right road to immensee?" "yes, straight on," answered the man touching his slouch hat. "is it still far off?" "you are close to the place, sir. in less time than it takes to smoke half a pipe of tobacco you'll be at the lake side, and the manor is hard by." the farmer passed on while the other quickened his pace as he went along under the trees. after a quarter of an hour's walk the shade to the left of him suddenly came to an end; the road led along a steep slope from which the ancient oaks growing below hardly reared their topmost branches. away over their crests opened out a broad, sunny landscape. far below lay the peaceful, dark-blue lake, almost entirely surrounded by green sun-lit woods, save where on one spot they divided and afforded an extensive view until it closed in the distant blue mountains. straight opposite, in the middle of all this forest verdure, there lay a patch of white, like driven snow. this was an expanse of blossoming fruit-trees, and out of them, up on the high lake shore, rose the manor-house, shining white, with tiles of red. a stork flew up from the chimney, and circled slowly above the waters. "immensee!" exclaimed the traveller. it almost seemed as if he had now reached the end of his journey, for he stood motionless, looking out over the tops of the trees at his feet, and gazing at the farther shore, where the reflection of the manor-house floated, rocking gently, on the bosom of the water. then he suddenly started on his way again. his road now led almost steeply down the mountain-side, so that the trees that had once stood below him again gave him their shade, but at the same time cut off from him the view of the lake, which only now and then peeped out between the gaps in the branches. soon the way went gently upwards again, and to left and right the woods disappeared, yielding place to vine-clad hills stretching along the pathway; while on either side stood fruit-trees in blossom, filled with the hum of the bees as they busily pried into the blossoms. a tall man wearing a brown overcoat advanced to meet the traveller. when he had almost come up to him, he waved his cap and cried out in a loud voice: "welcome, welcome, brother reinhard! welcome to my immensee estate!" "god's greeting to you[ ], eric, and thank you for your welcome," replied the other. [ ] this form of salutation is especially common in the south of germany. by this time they had come up close to one another, and clasped hands. "and is it really you?" said eric, when he at last got a near sight of the grave face of his old school-fellow. "it is i right enough, eric, and i recognize you too; only you almost look cheerier than you ever did before." at these words a glad smile made eric's plain features all the more cheerful. "yes, brother reinhard," he said, as he once more held out his hand to him, "but since those days, you see, i have won the great prize; but you know that well enough." then he rubbed his hands and cried cheerily: "this _will_ be a surprise! you are the last person she expects to see." "a surprise?" asked reinhard. "for whom, pray?" "why, for elisabeth." "elisabeth! you haven't told her a word about my visit?" "not a word, brother reinhard; she has no thought of you, nor her mother either. i invited you entirely on the quiet, in order that the pleasure might be all the greater. you know i always had little quiet schemes of my own." reinhard turned thoughtful; he seemed to breathe more heavily the nearer they approached the house. on the left side of the road the vineyards came to an end, and gave place to an extensive kitchen-garden, which reached almost as far as the lake-shore. the stork had meanwhile come to earth and was striding solemnly between the vegetable beds. "hullo!" cried eric, clapping his hands together, "if that long-legged egyptian isn't stealing my short pea-sticks again!" the bird slowly rose and flew on to the roof of a new building, which ran along the end of the kitchen-garden, and whose walls were covered with the branches of the peach and apricot trees that were trained over them. "that's the distillery," said eric. "i built it only two years ago. my late father had the farm buildings rebuilt; the dwelling-house was built as far back as my grandfather's time. so we go ever forward a little bit at a time." talking thus they came to a wide, open space, enclosed at the sides by farm-buildings, and in the rear by the manor-house, the two wings of which were connected by a high garden wall. behind this wall ran dark hedges of yew trees, while here and there syringa trees trailed their blossoming branches over into the courtyard. men with faces scorched by the sun and heated with toil were walking over the open space and gave a greeting to the two friends, while eric called out to one or another of them some order or question about their day's work. by this time they had reached the house. they entered a high, cool vestibule, at the far end of which they turned to the left into a somewhat darker passage. here eric opened a door and they passed into a spacious room that opened into a garden. the heavy mass of leafage that covered the opposite windows filled this room at either end with a green twilight, while between the windows two lofty wide-open folding-doors let in the full glow of spring sunshine, and afforded a view into a garden, laid out with circular flower-beds and steep hedgerows and divided by a straight, broad path, along which the eye roamed out on to the lake and away over the woods growing on the opposite shore. as the two friends entered, a breath of wind bore in upon them a perfect stream of fragrance. on a terrace in front of the door leading to the garden sat a girlish figure dressed in white. she rose and came to meet the two friends as they entered, but half-way she stood stock-still as if rooted to the spot and stared at the stranger. with a smile he held out his hand to her. "reinhard!" she cried. "reinhard! oh! is it you? it is such a long time since we have seen each other." "yes, a long time," he said, and not a word more could he utter; for on hearing her voice he felt a keen, physical pain at his heart, and as he looked up to her, there she stood before him, the same slight, graceful figure to whom he had said farewell years ago in the town where he was born. eric had stood back by the door, with joy beaming from his eyes. "now, then, elisabeth," he said, "isn't he really the very last person in the world you would have expected to see?" elisabeth looked at him with the eyes of a sister. "you are so kind, eric," she said. he took her slender hand caressingly in his. "and now that we have him," he said, "we shall not be in a hurry to let him go. he has been so long away abroad, we will try to make him feel at home again. just see how foreign-looking he has become, and what a distinguished appearance he has!" elisabeth shyly scanned reinhard's face. "the time that we have been separated is enough to account for that," she said. at this moment in at the door came her mother, key-basket on arm. "herr werner!" she cried, when she caught sight of reinhard; "ah! you are as dearly welcome as you are unexpected." and so the conversation went smoothly on with questions and answers. the ladies sat over their work, and while reinhard enjoyed the refreshment that had been prepared for him, eric had lighted his huge meerschaum pipe and sat smoking and conversing by his side. next day reinhard had to go out with him to see the fields, the vineyards, the hop-garden, the distillery. it was all well appointed; the people who were working on the land or at the vats all had a healthy and contented look. for dinner the family assembled in the room that opened into the garden, and the day was spent more or less in company just according to the leisure of the host and hostess. only during the hours preceding the evening meal, as also during the early hours of the forenoon, did reinhard stay working in his own room. for some years past, whenever he could come across them, he had been collecting the rhymes and songs that form part of the life of the people, and now set about arranging his treasure, and wherever possible increasing it by means of fresh records from the immediate neighbourhood. elisabeth was at all times gentle and kind. eric's constant attentions she received with an almost humble gratitude, and reinhard thought at whiles that the gay, cheerful child of bygone days had given promise of a somewhat less sedate womanhood. ever since the second day of his visit he had been wont of an evening to take a walk along the shore of the lake. the road led along close under the garden. at the end of the latter, on a projecting mound, there was a bench under some tall birch trees. elisabeth's mother had christened it the evening bench, because the spot faced westward, and was mostly used at that time of the day in order to enjoy a view of the sunset. one evening reinhard was returning from his walk along this road when he was overtaken by the rain. he sought shelter under one of the linden trees that grew by the water-side, but the heavy drops were soon pelting through the leaves. wet through as he was he resigned himself to his fate and slowly continued his homeward way. it was almost dark; the rain fell faster and faster. as he drew near to the evening bench he fancied he could make out the figure of a woman dressed in white standing among the gleaming birch tree trunks. she stood motionless, and, as far as he could make out on approaching nearer, with her face turned in his direction, as if she was expecting some one. he thought it was elisabeth. but when he quickened his pace in order that he might catch up to her and then return together with her through the garden into the house, she turned slowly away and disappeared among the dark side-paths. he could not understand it; he was almost angry with elisabeth, and yet he doubted whether it had really been she. he was, however, shy of questioning her about it--nay, he even avoided going into the garden-room on his return to the house for fear he should happen to see elisabeth enter through the garden-door. * * * * * by my mother's hard decree some days later, as evening was already closing in, the family was, as usual at this time of the day, sitting all together in their garden-room. the doors stood wide open, and the sun had already sunk behind the woods on the far side of the lake. reinhard was invited to read some folk-songs which had been sent to him that afternoon by a friend who lived away in the country. he went up to his room and soon returned with a roll of papers which seemed to consist of detached neatly written pages. so they all sat down to the table, elisabeth beside reinhard. "we shall read them at random," said the latter, "i have not yet looked through them myself." elisabeth unrolled the manuscript. "here's some music," she said, "you must sing it, reinhard." to begin with he read some tyrolese ditties[ ] and as he read on he would now and then hum one or other of the lively melodies. a general feeling of cheeriness pervaded the little party. [ ] dialectal for _schnitterhüpfen_, _i.e._ 'reapers' dances,' sung especially in the tyrol and in bavaria. "and who, pray, made all these pretty songs?" asked elisabeth. "oh," said eric, "you can tell that by listening to the rubbishy things--tailors' apprentices and barbers and such-like merry folk." reinhard said: "they are not made; they grow, they drop from the clouds, they float over the land like gossamer, hither and thither, and are sung in a thousand places at the same time.[ ] we discover in these songs our very inmost activities and sufferings: it is as if we all had helped to write them." [ ] these fine cobwebs, produced by field-spiders, have always in the popular mind been connected with the gods. after the advent of christianity they were connected with the virgin mary. the shroud in which she was wrapped after her death was believed to have been woven of the very finest thread, which during her ascent to heaven frayed away from her body. he took up another sheet: "i stood on the mountain height..."[ ] [ ] an ancient folk-song which treats of a beautiful but poor maiden, who, being unable to marry 'the young count,' retired to a convent. "i know that one," cried elisabeth; "begin it, do, reinhard, and i will help you out." so they sang that famous melody, which is so mysterious that one can hardly believe that it was ever conceived by the heart of man, elisabeth with her slightly clouded contralta taking the second part to the young man's tenor. the mother meanwhile sat busy with her needlework, while eric listened attentively, with one hand clasped in the other. the song finished, reinhard laid the sheet on one side in silence. up from the lake-shore came through the evening calm the tinkle of the cattle bells; they were all listening without knowing why, and presently they heard a boy's clear voice singing: i stood on the mountain height and viewed the deep valley beneath.... reinhard smiled. "do you hear that now? so it passes from mouth to mouth." "it is often sung in these parts," said elisabeth. "yes," said eric, "it is casper the herdsman; he is driving the heifers home."[ ] [ ] _starke_ is the southern dialect word for _färse_, 'young cow,' 'heifer.' they listened a while longer until the tinkle of the bells died away behind the farm buildings. "these melodies are as old as the world," said reinhard; "they slumber in the depths of the forest; god knows who discovered them." he drew forth a fresh sheet. it had now grown darker; a crimson evening glow lay like foam over the woods in the farther side of the lake. reinhard unrolled the sheet, elisabeth caught one side of it in her hand, and they both examined it together. then reinhard read: by my mother's hard decree another's wife i needs must be; him on whom my heart was set, him, alas! i must forget; my heart protesting, but not free. bitterly did i complain that my mother brought me pain. what mine honour might have been, that is turned to deadly sin. can i ever hope again? for my pride what can i show, and my joy, save grief and woe? oh! could i undo what's done, o'er the moor scorched by the sun beggarwise i'd gladly go. during the reading of this reinhard had felt an imperceptible quivering of the paper; and when he came to an end elisabeth gently pushed her chair back and passed silently out into the garden. her mother followed her with a look. eric made as if to go after, but the mother said: "elisabeth has one or two little things to do outside," so he remained where he was. but out of doors the evening brooded darker and darker over garden and lake. moths whirred past the open doors through which the fragrance of flower and bush floated in increasingly; up from the water came the croak of the frogs, under the windows a nightingale commenced his song answered by another from within the depths of the garden; the moon appeared over the tree-tops. reinhard looked for a little while longer at the spot where elisabeth's sweet form had been lost to sight in the thick-foliaged garden paths, and then he rolled up his manuscript, bade his friends good-night and passed through the house down to the water. the woods stood silent and cast their dark shadow far out over the lake, while the centre was bathed in the haze of a pale moonlight. now and then a gentle rustle trembled through the trees, though wind there was none; it was but the breath of summer night. reinhard continued along the shore. a stone's throw from the land he perceived a white water-lily. all at once he was seized with the desire to see it quite close, so he threw off his clothes and entered the water. it was quite shallow; sharp stones and water plants cut his feet, and yet he could not reach water deep enough for him to swim in. then suddenly he stepped out of his depth: the waters swirled above him; and it was some time before he rose to the surface again. he struck out with hands and feet and swam about in a circle until he had made quite sure from what point he had entered the water. and soon too he saw the lily again floating lonely among the large, gleaming leaves. he swam slowly out, lifting every now and then his arms out of the water so that the drops trickled down and sparkled in the moonlight. yet the distance between him and the flower showed no signs of diminishing, while the shore, as he glanced back at it, showed behind him in a hazy mist that ever deepened. but he refused to give up the venture and vigorously continued swimming in the same direction. at length he had come so near the flower that he was able clearly to distinguish the silvery leaves in the moonlight; but at the same time he felt himself entangled in a net formed by the smooth stems of the water plants which swayed up from the bottom and wound themselves round his naked limbs. the unfamiliar water was black all round about him, and behind him he heard the sound of a fish leaping. suddenly such an uncanny feeling overpowered him in the midst of this strange element that with might and main he tore asunder the network of plants and swam back to land in breathless haste. and when from the shore he looked back upon the lake, there floated the lily on the bosom of the darkling water as far away and as lonely as before. he dressed and slowly wended his way home. as he passed out of the garden into the room he discovered eric and the mother busied with preparations for a short journey which had to be undertaken for business purposes on the morrow. "where ever have you been so late in the dark?" the mother called out to him. "i?" he answered, "oh, i wanted to pay a call on the water-lily, but i failed." "that's beyond the comprehension of any man," said eric. "what on earth had you to do with the water-lily?" "oh, i used to be friends with the lily once," said reinhard; "but that was long ago." * * * * * elisabeth the following afternoon reinhard and elisabeth went for a walk on the farther side of the lake, strolling at times through the woodland, at other times along the shore where it jutted out into the water. elisabeth had received injunctions from eric, during the absence of himself and her mother to show reinhard the prettiest views in the immediate neighbourhood, particularly the view toward the farm itself from the other side of the lake. so now they proceeded from one point to another. at last elisabeth got tired and sat down in the shade of some overhanging branches. reinhard stood opposite to her, leaning against a tree trunk; and as he heard the cuckoo calling farther back in the woods, it suddenly struck him that all this had happened once before. he looked at her and with an odd smile asked: "shall we look for strawberries?" "it isn't strawberry time," she said. "no, but it will soon be here." elisabeth shook her head in silence; then she rose and the two strolled on together. and as they wandered side by side, his eyes ever and again were bent toward her; for she walked gracefully and her step was light. he often unconsciously fell back a pace in order that he might feast his eyes on a full view of her. so they came to an open space overgrown with heather where the view extended far over the country-side. reinhard bent down and plucked a bloom from one of the little plants that grew at his feet. when he looked up again there was an expression of deep pain on his face. "do you know this flower?" he asked. she gave him a questioning look. "it is an erica. i have often gathered them in the woods." "i have an old book at home," he said; "i once used to write in it all sorts of songs and rhymes, but that is all over and done with long since. between its leaves also there is an erica, but it is only a faded one. do you know who gave it me?" she nodded without saying a word; but she cast down her eyes and fixed them on the bloom which he held in his hand. for a long time they stood thus. when she raised her eyes on him again he saw that they were brimming over with tears. "elisabeth," he said, "behind yonder blue hills lies our youth. what has become of it?" nothing more was spoken. they walked dumbly by each other's side down to the lake. the air was sultry; to westward dark clouds were rising. "there's going to be a storm," said elisabeth, hastening her steps. reinhard nodded in silence, and together they rapidly sped along the shore till they reached their boat. on the way across elisabeth rested her hand on the gunwale of the boat. as he rowed reinhard glanced along at her, but she gazed past him into the distance. and so his glance fell downward and rested on her hand, and the white hand betrayed to him what her lips had failed to reveal. it revealed those fine traces of secret pain that so readily mark a woman's fair hands, when they lie at nights folded across an aching heart. and as elisabeth felt his glance resting on her hand she let it slip gently over the gunwale into the water. on arriving at the farm they fell in with a scissors grinder's cart standing in front of the manor-house. a man with black, loosely-flowing hair was busily plying his wheel and humming a gipsy melody between his teeth, while a dog that was harnessed to the cart lay panting hard by. on the threshold stood a girl dressed in rags, with features of faded beauty, and with outstretched hand she asked alms of elisabeth. reinhard thrust his hand into his pocket, but elisabeth was before him, and hastily emptied the entire contents of her purse into the beggar's open palm. then she turned quickly away, and reinhard heard her go sobbing up the stairs. he would fain have detained her, but he changed his mind and remained at the foot of the stairs. the beggar girl was still standing at the doorway, motionless, and holding in her hand the money she had received. "what more do you want?" asked reinhard. she gave a sudden start: "i want nothing more," she said; then, turning her head toward him and staring at him with wild eyes, she passed slowly out of the door. he uttered a name, but she heard him not; with drooping head, with arms folded over her breast, she walked down across the farmyard: then when death shall claim me, i must die alone. an old song surged in reinhard's ears, he gasped for breath; a little while only, and then he turned away and went up to his chamber. he sat down to work, but his thoughts were far afield. after an hour's vain attempt he descended to the parlour. nobody was in it, only cool, green twilight; on elisabeth's work-table lay a red ribbon which she had worn round her neck during the afternoon. he took it up in his hand, but it hurt him, and he laid it down again. he could find no rest. he walked down to the lake and untied the boat. he rowed over the water and trod once again all the paths which he and elisabeth had paced together but a short hour ago. when he got back home it was dark. at the farm he met the coachman, who was about to turn the carriage horses out into the pasture; the travellers had just returned. as he came into the entrance hall he heard eric pacing up and down the garden-room. he did not go in to him; he stood still for a moment, and then softly climbed the stairs and so to his own room. here he sat in the arm-chair by the window. he made himself believe that he was listening to the nightingale's throbbing music in the garden hedges below, but what he heard was the throbbing of his own heart. downstairs in the house every one went to bed, the night-hours passed, but he paid no heed. for hours he sat thus, till at last he rose and leaned out of the open window. the dew was dripping among the leaves, the nightingale had ceased to trill. by degrees the deep blue of the darksome sky was chased away by a faint yellow gleam that came from the east; a fresh wind rose and brushed reinhard's heated brow; the early lark soared triumphant up into the sky. reinhard suddenly turned and stepped up to the table. he groped about for a pencil and when he had found one he sat down and wrote a few lines on a sheet of white paper. having finished his writing he took up hat and stick, and leaving the paper behind him, carefully opened the door and descended to the vestibule. the morning twilight yet brooded in every corner; the big house-cat stretched its limbs on the straw mat and arched its back against reinhard's hand, which he unthinkingly held out to it. outside in the garden the sparrows were already chirping their patter from among the branches, and giving notice to all that the night was now past.[ ] [ ] literally, "sang out pompously, like priests." the word seems to have been coined by the author. the english 'patter' is derived from _pater noster_, and seems an appropriate translation. then within the house he heard a door open on the upper floor; some one came downstairs, and on looking up he saw elisabeth standing before him. she laid her hand upon his arm, her lips moved, but not a word did he hear. presently she said: "you will never come back. i know it; do not deny it; you will never come back." "no, never," he said. she let her hand fall from his arm and said no more. he crossed the hall to the door, then turned once more. she was standing motionless on the same spot and looking at him with lifeless eyes. he advanced one step and opened his arms toward her; then, with a violent effort, he turned away and so passed out of the door. outside the world lay bathed in morning light, the drops of pearly dew caught on the spiders' webs glistened in the first rays of the rising sun. he never looked back; he walked rapidly onward; behind him the peaceful farmstead gradually disappeared from view as out in front of him rose the great wide world. * * * * * the old man the moon had ceased to shine in through the window-panes, and it had grown quite dark; but the old man still sat in his arm-chair with folded hands and gazed before him into the emptiness of the room. gradually, the murky darkness around him dissolved away before his eyes and changed into a broad dark lake; one black wave after another went rolling on farther and farther, and on the last one, so far away as to be almost beyond the reach of the old man's vision, floated lonely among its broad leaves a white water-lily. the door opened, and a bright glare of light filled the room. "i am glad that you have come, bridget," said the old man. "set the lamp upon the table." then he drew his chair up to the table, took one of the open books and buried himself in studies to which he had once applied all the strength of his youth.