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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 53810
   :PG.Title: The Mysterious Basket, or The Foundling
   :PG.Released: 2016-12-26
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Anonymous
   :DC.Title: The Mysterious Basket, or The Foundling
              A Story for Boys and Girls
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1895
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE MYSTERIOUS BASKET, OR THE FOUNDLING
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      :alt: "Her surprise increased every moment."--*Page* 90.

      "Her surprise increased every moment."--*Page* `90`_.

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      THE MYSTERIOUS BASKET

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      OR

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      The Foundling

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      A Story for Boys and Girls

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      London
      GALL AND INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE;
      *AND EDINBURGH*.

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   CONTENTS

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CHAPTER

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I.  `THE UNWELCOME DISCOVERY`_
II.  `THE VILLAGE MUSICIAN`_
III.  `THE NEW-FASHIONED NURSE`_
IV.  `THE BIRD-CATCHER`_
V.  `THE SINGULAR MEETING`_
VI.  `THE UNDESERVED PUNISHMENT`_
VII.  `THE TOWN MUSICIAN`_
VIII.  `THE CORRESPONDENCE`_
IX.  `THE JOURNEY ON THE ICE`_
X.  `THE SICK-BED`_
XI.  `THE MISTAKE`_
XII.  `THE UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY`_
XIII.  `THE BAD RECEPTION`_
XIV.  `THE REUNION`_

`THE WOOD-GATHERER`_





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.. _`THE UNWELCOME DISCOVERY`:

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   THE

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   MYSTERIOUS BASKET.

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   CHAPTER I.

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   THE UNWELCOME DISCOVERY.

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"They are wondrous merry to-night in the
upper inn," said Hicup (the landlord of the one
lower down the village) to his wife, who was
turning over the leaves of the almanac.  He
sulkily threw his cap off his head, and flung
himself into an easy-chair.--"All the windows
are lighted up in the principal room, and there
is no end to the strumming of fiddles; the
beer-room is swarming with customers and
strangers, whose conveyances are standing
before the door as a show to torment me.  Why
does no one ever come our way now?  Although
the wooden arm holding the beer-can
stretches itself out ever so far, inviting the
travellers to come in, not an individual enters
the door, not a turn do we get!--Is it any
wonder, then, if the beer in the cellar turns
sour, and that the last customer who found
his way here by chance, was frightened away
by it?  But this is always the way in the
world,--where pigeons are, there pigeons fly."

"The people must be bewitched," said Dame
Hicup, in a stammering voice.

Hicup looked attentively at his wife, and
then at the brandy bottle, which stood near
her in a corner cupboard.

"So you have been at the brandy again,
you old witch, and half-emptied the bottle!"
said our host in a rage, seizing his stick.
"Wait, I will give you"----.  A loud knocking
at the window-shutter interrupted both the
sentence and the intended castigation.

"Who's there?" he bawled out.

"A poor woman, who begs a lodging for the
night," was the answer.

"A poor woman," continued Hicup sullenly.
"Such guests are always to be had; you had
better go up to the other inn, you will be more
comfortable there than with us."

Dame Hicup, to whom this interruption was
most opportune, having a due regard for her
bones, became, all of a sudden, compassionate.
"He who sends the poor from his door," she
began, "to him Heaven will not send the rich;"
and, without waiting for the assent of her
husband, she stepped across the room, and
opened the door.  A woman, poorly clad, with
a large handkerchief hanging behind her head,
and a basket on her back, stood before her.

"Come in, come in," said Dame Hicup
invitingly, bringing her into the room.

"Have you a passport?" gruffly demanded the
landlord.

"Yes; here it is;" and the woman drew
from her pocket a piece of folded paper, which
she handed to the master of the inn, who,
without looking at it, said, "Where are you
going?"

"To Neiderhaslich."

"What's your occupation?  What are you carrying?"

"I deal in crockery and stoneware; therefore
I must take care, and put down my basket
gently."

"Umph! umph!" growled Hicup; then, turning
to his wife, he muttered in a tolerably
audible voice, "Do you mean to give the woman
a bed in the low room?  It is not the first
time that such gentry have packed up all they
could get, and gone off during the night,
finding their way out by the window."

The stranger had heard every word; but far
from seeming offended, merely said, "You need
not put straw in the room for me, as any
corner in an out-house, or in a stable, will do
well enough."

"All the stalls are empty, the more's the
pity," replied Dame Hicup; "so if you prefer
being there,"----

"Oh! yes," eagerly interrupted the traveller,
going to lift up her basket again.

"Leave that where it is," said the suspicious
Hicup, who saw in it security for the reckoning;
"it will be safer here, and more readily
lifted on again, than in the stable."

"Could we not make a bargain?" asked the
landlady insinuatingly; "such brittle goods are
always wanted."

"No, no," replied the stranger hastily; "everything
in the basket is bespoke, and carefully
packed up; I would lose my custom were I to
open it.  Perhaps another time"----

"Oh! there is no haste," answered Dame Hicup;
"the thought only happened to come into
my head."

The stranger quickly swallowed some liquid,
took a piece of bread in her hand, and, under
the pretext of being very tired, went away,
accompanied by the hostess, who wished to show
her where she was to sleep.

Our host, meanwhile, was still sitting in his
arm-chair, thinking with envy of his rival, the
landlord of the upper inn.  The moment his wife
came back, she made her way straight to the
basket, with the intention of having a peep at
its contents in spite of its cover.  The threatening
voice, however, of her husband defeated her
purpose.  "Hands off, there!  I see you are dying
with curiosity to know what is in the basket;
but, as a punishment for your brandy-drinking,
you shall not get leave to touch it; and this is
a far less punishment than you deserve."

In a very discontented mood, but dreading the
anger of her husband, Dame Hicup sat down
again at the table.  All was so quiet, that
gradually the eyes of both closed, and, not being
disturbed with much light, as the candle was
burnt out, they fell asleep.

Suddenly Dame Hicup started up,--"Do you
want anything?" she asked.

"No," answered her partner, angry at being
awakened; "but, yes, I would like to be the
landlord of the inn up there."

After these few words, all was quiet again,
until a kind of creaking noise was heard, and
a half-suppressed cry struck their ears; at which
Hicup, terrified, sprang from his chair.  "Wife! wife!"
he shouted, shaking the Dame; "do you
not hear?--thieves are breaking in!"

No thieves broke in, but the voices of two
children broke out into a cry, and, at the same
time, the basket creaked and moved.  With eyes
wide open, the angry landlord stared at the
mysterious basket.  His wife, on whose mind
the truth seemed to flash, hastily pulled away
the cover, and saw, to her no small dismay, the
heads of two children lying close together.  She
clasped her hands in terror, while her husband
muttered to himself,--"Fine earthenware indeed!
Out of such clay are we all made."

"Come! come!" quickly cried his wife,
dragging him after her; "a thought strikes
me!"  It struck the good man too, when they had
sought the stable in vain for the owner of the
basket.  Hicup again wished to make use of
his stick to put his wife in remembrance that
she had brought the vagabond into the house;
but Dame Hicup retorted, throwing the blame
on her husband, who, by preventing her
looking into the basket, had given the woman
time to escape.  Our hostess examined minutely
the foundlings and their cradle, and our host
gave vent to his wrath in every variety of
words.

"Now, truly, we have got all at once precious
guests!" he said, laughing scornfully.  "Fine
food this for the village gossips!  But he who
has the misfortune, need not concern himself
about the joking.  Wife, if you don't get rid
instantly of the squalling brats, you shall pay
dearly for it.  We have scarce bread enough
for ourselves, and are we to divide it with
cast-away infants?  Take them up to the landlord
at the other end of the village, from whose
table plenty crumbs fall to keep them.  It is a
good thing that we have neither servant-maid
nor boy in the house to carry tales."

By this time, Dame Hicup had lifted the
children out of the basket, and again, by dint
of hushing, made them quiet.  They fixed their
eyes on their new nurse, and stretched out their
little arms in the air.  They were both boys, of
the same size, remarkably alike, and about seven
or eight months old.

"They are twins," said Dame Hicup with the
greatest certainty; "as for their mother, the
woman who left them is too old, and their
linen too fine."

"Would it were coarse as hemp!" interrupted
the wrathful landlord, "to hang the vagrant.
Make haste, I tell you, and free the house of
these urchins; put some brandy into their milk,
that they may sleep soundly, and then make
the landlord of the upper inn a present of them."

The Dame did as she was bid, without making
the slightest attempt to induce her husband to
keep the deserted infants.  She mixed the brandy
with the milk, which the children greedily
swallowed, and soon after fell asleep.

With one small burden under each arm, the
mistress of the inn left her house late in the
night.  When she returned with empty hands
in about half-an-hour, her husband, who was
anxiously waiting, cried out to her in great
glee,--"So you have really got rid of them! tell
me how."

"There were too many people in the inn for
me to venture within the door," answered his
wife; "but at the outside of the entrance a
travelling carriage was standing, whose driver
had gone seemingly into the beer-room to get
a glass of something.  I heard a loud snoring
from some one in the back seat; but in the
front there was nothing but parcels and packages;
so I laid the one youngster softly down
on the top of them, and the other I slipped
into a horse's manger which was close to the
door of the inn."

"Thank our stars!" said worthy Master Hicup,
"that we have escaped at the expense of
only a good fright."





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.. _`THE VILLAGE MUSICIAN`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   THE VILLAGE MUSICIAN.

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It was already far past midnight, and still the
dance in the salle in the upper inn had not
ceased.  Never had the dancers been more
indefatigable at their hardest work than they were
now, as they panted for breath, and glowed with
heat.  More and more wearied became the musicians,
as they wetted their parched throats alternately
with beer and brandy.

"Let us have the grandfather's dance for a
finish!" cried the boldest dancer--one who was
always last at work, and therefore last at the
dance--to the young girls, who were preparing
to go away.  "Holloa! you fiddlers, play us
something sprightly, and don't spare either your
breadth or your bones.  The grandfather's dance!
do you hear?" and seizing the hand of his
partner, he began to sing in a loud voice,

   |  "When our grandsire took our granddame home,
   |  The lady was bride, and he bridegroom."
   |

The player of the clarionet blew until his
thin cheeks were puffed out like a drum, and
his eyes almost started out of their sockets.
The violin-player showed equal zeal in the use
of his bow; while the violincello sounded mightily;
and the tones of the flute pierced through bones
and marrow.  When the dance was finished, its
hero, wiping the dew from his forehead,
addressed his companions in amusement, saying,
"All's well that ends well;" and drinking a
glass of cold beer, he left the inn, accompanied
by the whole party, who went shouting and
laughing through the silent village, disturbing
the quiet of its inhabitants.

"Young blood is warm," said the landlord, as
he heard the noise, and was extinguishing the
lights in the salle.

A traveller, who had been prevented by the
uproar of the dancers and the sound of music
from going to bed, heard the remark of the
landlord, and replied, with asperity, "Certainly
a noble way of exercising youthful spirits to
destroy the night's rest of industrious peasants,
to waste the earnings of honest parents, and to
ruin their own health.  Such a dancing-room is
a chapel of Satan, and the landlord and the
musicians are the priests."

Had the speaker been a common person,
assuredly the landlord would have poured out his
wrath on him.  He contented himself, however,
by saying to the musicians, when the stranger
had left, "That fellow must surely be a
Methodist, a Quaker, or a Herrnhuter!  Were all the
world of his way of thinking, we should soon
be ruined."

The musicians nodded their assent to this
remark; and after dividing their gains, they
likewise left the house.

It was quite dark, therefore no wonder that
the tired and not perfectly sober band had
great difficulty in finding their way down the
flight of steps which led from the house to the
street.  The violincellist missed his footing, and
rolled from the top to the bottom of the stairs.
A crashing noise announced his arrival on the
ground, and also the fate of the instrument.

"So the violincello is in the mud!" cried the
clarionet-player, with the utmost stoical
indifference, from the top of the stairs.

"Not at all; quite the reverse!" replied the
prostrate fiddler, with equal calmness; "the mud
is in the violincello."  He raised himself up from
the instrument, which had so broken his fall,
that he felt not much the worse of it; and
amidst jokes and laughter, the damage done to
the violincello was examined, and was found to
be considerable, as the back part of it was
entirely broken to pieces.

"I have heard my father say," began the
flute-player, in a tone of condolence, "that the
more a violincello was glued together, the finer
were its tones."

At this moment sounds were heard, not exactly
like the tones of a violin, but rather
resembling those of an oboe.  The artists, amazed,
looked round for their invisible companion, but
saw nothing.  Again the sound was heard, and
more distinctly.  It was the voice of a crying
child, that seemed to come from a manger close
beside them.  As soon as the musicians had
satisfied themselves, by seeing as well as hearing,
with the exception of the bassist, they all
took to flight.

"I have children enough to feed," thought the
flute-player.

"And I, I have scarcely bread for myself,"
said the player on the clarionet.

"My wife would scratch out my eyes," ejaculated
the violin-player, "were I to bring a foundling
into the house."

Kummas, the violincellist, who had fallen down
the stairs, felt a spark of pity for the poor child,
whose bitter cries broke the stillness of the night.
He went up the steps again, in order to
acquaint the landlord with what had been found,
and to induce him to take the infant under his
care.

But he found the house-door firmly locked,
and all his knocking and calling remained
unanswered.  This deafness, however, of the master
of the inn had nothing to do with hard-heartedness,
as he knew not of the poor child, whose
cold cradle was becoming every moment more
uncomfortable.

Sunk in profound meditation, the village
musician now stood before the screaming infant.  A
complete revolution seemed to be taking place
in his mind,--one of those sudden, incomprehensible,
and unlooked for changes which sometimes
passes over the spirit of man.  He had
seen, with utter indifference, hundreds of young
blooming creatures led into much evil by the
wild excess of dancing; indeed, helped them on
by his music, without his conscience ever having
reproached him.  Beer and brandy were his gods.
Them he had worshipped; and his memory could
not call up a single action that he had done in
accordance with the will of his Creator.  But
the hard crust of his heart now gave way.
Feelings came over him like those with which,
as a child, he had regarded pictures of the
manger where his Saviour lay cradled, given
him by his pious parents at the good Christmas
time, to keep him in remembrance of the sacred
event.  Now there lay before him, in such a
manger, a helpless infant, stretching out its little
arms towards him.  Kummas remembered the
long forgotten words of the Lord Jesus, "Whoso
shall receive one such little child in my name,
receiveth me."  He took up the infant, pressed
it tenderly to his heart, spoke to it caressingly,
silently promising never to leave it, or forsake
it.  Already he received the reward of his first
good deed.  An undescribable joy, such as the
most intoxicating draught had never caused, filled
his whole soul, and made everything appear
brighter in his eyes.  Softer blew the night air
on his burning face.  More beautiful shone the
silver stars; and even the voice of the village
watchman appeared melodious, as he greeted the
coming day with the words,

   |  "Jesus' goodness has no end,
   |  It is every morning new!"
   |

The foundling appeared to be neither bad
tempered, nor accustomed to very careful
nursing.  Quicker than Kummas hoped, it became
quiet, and fell asleep.  He remembered his broken
violincello, and, gently as possible, he laid the
little sleeper in the musical cradle, carried it
carefully, and began in this fashion his
pilgrimage to the next village, and to his miserable
cottage, into which he brought his little clarionet,
as he sportingly called the child, in safety.
Only once had he found it necessary, before
day-break, to set the new-fashioned cradle in
motion, and to sing, "Hush! hush!"





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.. _`THE NEW-FASHIONED NURSE`:

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   CHAPTER III.


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   THE NEW-FASHIONED NURSE.

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"Have you not made a mistake, neighbour?"
asked Anne Maria, the peasant into whose house
Kummas had gone very early in the morning.
"The tavern is lower down the village, and I
keep no brandy."

For the first time for many years, Kummas
felt his face grow red.  "I wish to buy a can
of milk," he replied.

"Milk!" exclaimed the peasant, astonished.  "This
must be before your end!  I have certainly heard
that milk-drinkers may become brandy-drinkers;
but never the reverse."

Kummas patiently endured the rebuke of the
good woman, as a punishment for his former
mode of life.  He then continued, "If you could
give me the milk new from the cow, and still
warm, I would like it better.  I have got a
guest.  The stork last night brought me a little
child; and, as you have children, I wish you to
tell me how it must be treated and nursed."

"Go away!" said the woman angrily; "I have
no time for your foolish jests."

"Well!" answered Kummas, "if you will not
believe my words, you will, perhaps, believe
your own eyes."

It may be imagined how great was the
astonishment of the peasant, when, in a few
minutes, Kummas returned with the infant in
his arms.  When her surprise at the unexpected
appearance had somewhat abated, she said to
Kummas, at the same time laying her hand on
his shoulder, "Neighbour, you are really better
than I gave you credit for, and are an honest
man.  That is a splendid child.  God bless it!
Stout and strong as a young lion.  Now he
opens his pretty blue eyes.  So you would like
something to drink, my fine fellow?  Eh!  Haste,
Hannah, and bring us some milk from the cow,"
she said, turning to a young girl who was
beside her; "and now, let me see if you are
rightly dressed.  There, neighbour, hold the young
rascal, until I bring something else to put on
him.  He is so strong that you may hold him
upright already."

Kummas knew not how to hold the half-naked
child; and from pure terror, lest he might hurt
it, allowed it almost to fall out of his arms.
He paid particular attention to what the peasant
did as she dressed it again, and gave it the
warm milk, which it seemed to like very much.

"And how sensible it is!" began again the
good woman.  "Does it not drink out of the
cup just like one of ourselves?  Hark ye,
neighbour, you must just leave the youngster with me."

"No! no!" replied Kummas most decidedly.

"I will give you a bottle of brandy for him,"
again said the peasant.

"I will not give him for a whole cask!"
exclaimed the musician.

"Indeed! that from you says much.  But what
will come of the child when you go out to play
at night?" asked the kind woman.

"I do not mean to play any longer," answered
Kummas.

"Are you in earnest?" said Anne Maria.  "If
so, heaven be praised! for truly the beer-fiddling
is a wretched sort of life,--a way of living that
makes weak legs and red faces.  I have seen
all such persons die in poverty and misery; for
they almost all took to brandy drinking; and
you were far on the road yourself."

Once more Kummas felt ashamed at the truthful
words of his neighbour, who kindly, however,
added, "Don't take amiss what I say.  I mean
well to you.  Every morning I will give you
milk for the foundling, and will look after its
clothes.  And I have nothing to say against
your playing at a respectable marriage, or on a
feast-day, when I will take good care of your
youngster in your absence.  But what do you
call him?"

"He has no doubt been baptised," answered
Kummas; "however, as I know not his right
name, I will just call him Christlieb Fundus."

Had the poor child been forcibly thrust upon
the village in which Kummas lived for maintenance,
in all likelihood the inhabitants would
have resisted doing anything for it.  As the
case stood, it was quite the reverse.  A blessing
seemed to have come along with the foundling.
Everybody was curious to see the new-fashioned
cradle; and no one came empty-handed; so that
Kummas saw himself in possession of different
articles of food, clothes for the child, and other
things,--all unlooked for, and most unexpected;
while he himself rose in the estimation of the
villagers,--an advantage which formerly he had
neither known nor prized.

Some weeks had passed away, when one
morning Kummas received a visit from one of
his former companions, in the shape of Schubert,
the flute-player.

The interior of the small apartment presented
to the visitor, at his entrance, a singular enough
appearance.  His eye fell first on the well-known
large violin, which, still without its back, had
its two sides supported by rounded pieces of
wood,--such as cradles usually have.  On the
soft bedding, which filled the hollow space, lay
a sleeping infant, whose rosy cheeks told of
health and plenty.  A few steps from this sat
Kummas at a low table, which was covered with
wire, small pieces of wood, and various kinds of
implements.  On the floor were scattered about
sauce-pans, pots, and all sorts of broken
earthenware, waiting to be mended by the hands of
the late musician, who, at that moment, was
occupied repairing an old bird-cage.  A string
was fastened to his right foot, the other end of
which, being attached to the violincello-cradle,
served as a means for setting it in motion
whenever the little sleeper showed symptoms of
restlessness.

"It is true, then, what I heard, but would
not believe!" exclaimed Schubert, in a scornful
voice.  "So you have become an old woman!--a
nurse!  Are you mad, or"----

"I wish you good morning," said Kummas coolly,
thus reminding his comrade of the omitted
salutation.  "You ask how I am? and I answer
quite well.  Never was better in my life."

"That shows me you are a fool!" replied
Schubert.  "Have I not children myself; and do
I not know how I am tormented at nights by
their squalling and screaming, not to speak of
the thousand things my wife has to do for them?"

"It is true," said Kummas, "that Master
Fundus there sometimes makes a noise during
the night, especially just now, when he is
getting his teeth, and I am obliged to creep out
of my warm bed, although ever so tired, take
him in my arms, walk about with him, and
sing until my throat is sore, and my arms
aching."

"Am I not right, then?" said Schubert.

"My back too is like to break," continued
Kummas, "when I put the rogue on his feet,
and let him totter up and down the room."

"And so does my wife complain," added
Schubert.  "Teaching them to walk must be a
perfect martyrdom."

Kummas nodded assent, and went on,--"Neither
am I any longer my own master.  I cannot go
where I will, or remain as long away as I
please.  The youngster is as a chain round my
leg, which I must drag about.  Besides, I must
work hard, as my Christlieb needs many odds
and ends, though the people in the village are
very kind, and often send us presents.
Afterwards will come the numerous diseases of
children,--scarlet fever, measles, hooping-cough,
&c., and then farewell to sleep; and all my
earnings must go to the doctor and apothecary."

"That is precisely my case!" exclaimed Schubert
in a loud tone.

"Softly! softly!" said Kummas, "or you will
wake up my little rogue.  Yes, I assure you, a
whole night's playing on the violincello is a
mere joke, compared with the watching all night
by the bed of a sick child.  I now see how
much a mother has to do for her children, and
how well founded are her claims to their gratitude."

"Therefore you are an old ass," said Schubert,
quite angrily.  "Shake yourself free of the child
again."

"No!" answered Kummas firmly.  "Some one
must act the part of a mother to the poor
thing, or it would perish, and that would be a
sin.  But after all, I must say, that my cares,
my self-denial, and watchings are over-balanced
by the pleasure I find in the child.  When the
little rascal smiles in my face, pinches my
cheeks, or plays with my hair, all my trouble
is forgotten.  Nothing delights him so much as
when I play a tune on the violin.  Then is he
all life; beats with his feet and claps his hands.
He must be a musician, but a proper one.  Not
a miserable beer-fiddler, like you and me."

"I beg to decline the compliment," said the
flute-player displeased.  "You have become a fool
about the child.  I have only now to ask whether
you are coming to play on Sunday along with us?"

"Since I know, from experience," replied
Kummas, "how great is the trouble of bringing up
a child, I cannot lend my aid by playing at
dances, to destroy, perhaps, in one night the
many years incessant labour of conscientious
parents."

"What have we to do with that?" asked Schubert.

"Much, as I now perceive," replied the old
man.  "Yet I will not promise never to play
again, were it only for the sake of Christlieb.
But as long as I find some other kind of
employment, and until the child is older, I will
not."

"Do as you like, you old fool!" said Schubert
in a passion, and went away.

Kummas comforted himself with the knowledge
that he was doing right.  "What! you
young monkey; are you awake, and smiling?
Oh! yes, I see you want your meat.  So come
away, and you shall have it directly."





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.. _`THE BIRD-CATCHER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE BIRD-CATCHER.

.. vspace:: 2

"Take heed, boy, and pay great attention to my
words!" said Kummas to his now ten-year-old
Christlieb.  "Look well at this thing which
resembles a lady without legs or arms.  See how
its head is thrown back, with its round curls
on each side, while its penetrating voice is even
clearer than the voice of any dame.  Now, what
is the youngster laughing at?  Eh! young sir?"

"It is only a violin, and not like a lady,"
said Christlieb laughing.

"Is the chick wiser than the hen?  I tell
you," said Kummas half scolding, "it is a lady;
and violin, or violincello, is only its nickname.
The throat of no lady, not even of a Catalina,
can bring forth more beautiful and sustained
notes than can the black throat of my violin.
It is wonderful how the most insignificant of
things may become, in the hands of a clever
man, the source of inexhaustible treasures.  Only
think!--a few horse hairs rubbed against a few
strings of cat-gut, placed across a piece of
hollowed-out fir-wood, can be made to produce the
most delicious tones!  I tell you, boy, that a
violin is a more productive mine than the famed
one of Frieberg in the kingdom of Saxony.
There a hundred miners do not dig out so
much silver in a whole week as a single man,
called Paganini, gets for one night's playing on
the violin.  But the lad looks at me as a cow
does at a new gate!  Well, well, you will
understand this better by and by.  Here, take hold
of the violin with the left hand, and handle the
bow so (showing the child how to use it).  You
must move the right hand regularly up and
down, while the left hand, on the contrary,
must spring nimbly like a squirrel from one
place to another on the touch-board.  If you
wish to learn how to draw a good bow, place
yourself in a corner, so that the wall may
prevent your elbow from going out too far.  The
four strings are called G, D, A, E; but you will
remember this rhyme perhaps better,---*Giess dir
anis ein*!"

"Why not rather caraway-seed or peppermint?"
asked a strange voice at the door.
"Why must it be precisely anise, which, besides,
is not good for the boy?  Good-day, neighbour.
I suppose you have never taken a glass of
anything since you took home the foundling, and
adopted him?"

Saying these words, the speaker came into
the room.  It was the aged Butter, the
bird-catcher,--a good customer for the cages of
Kummas.

"Good day, friend Butter," answered Kummas
cheerfully.  "What do we want more?  We
have now Butter in the house, and the bread
must be forthcoming."

"The butter, I fear, will not taste well,"
replied the former; "it is too old.  But tell me,
is my bird-cage ready?"

"All except a few wires," said Kummas; "and
I will send Christlieb with it immediately.  Are
you going to market already?  Have you caught
many birds to-day?"

"None worth speaking of; only a few larks
and chaffinches.  The larger birds come later;"
and the old man drew out a lot of dead birds
from under his cloak.

Christlieb quickly threw down the violin to
look at the birds.

"Take care; they will bite you!" said Butter
in a joke, shaking them in the face of the
child.

"Poor things! how pretty they are with their
beautiful feathers!  But why are they all dead?"
asked Christlieb in a tone of pity.

"Would you like to eat them alive?" said Butter.

"What!" exclaimed the boy in astonishment;
"are they to be eaten?"

"Wherefore not, young friend?"

"The creatures are so very small, and when
their feathers are off, they will be still less."

"That is quite true," replied Butter; "such a
bird makes but two bites; and if one does not
wish to leave the table as hungry as when he
sat down, he must eat a dozen of them at
least.  Therefore rich people are rightly called
bird-devourers."

"How much does one cost?" inquired Christlieb.

"For a halfpenny I will give you a lark or
two finches."

"For a single halfpenny!" repeated the boy,
much surprised.  "Their feathers alone are worth
more."

"I will make you a present of them," rejoined
Butter, "if you will be at the trouble of
plucking them off."

"Ah!" said Christlieb, "if they were alive, I
would buy two chaffinches."

"I have a word to say to that," began
Kummas; "where will you find meat for them?"

Christlieb made no answer; and Butter,
changing the subject, said, "Neighbour, it is
pretty cold in this room of yours; what will it
be when the new year comes with its twenty
degrees colder?"

"What!" exclaimed Kummas; "do you say it
is cold here?  It is an utter impossibility; for
this morning I put into the stove sixteen dollars
worth of wood!"

"Don't tell me such nonsense! who would
believe that?"

"Well, then, look in and convince yourself,"
replied Kummas.  "My violincello is burning
there, and I can show you by writing that it
cost me sixteen dollars."

"So, so, ah!  I understand," continued Butter,
laughing.  "But what a dreadful spendthrift you
are!  No millionaire, no, not even a king, burns
such precious wood."

"Therefore I can imagine myself somebody!"
retorted Kummas, laughing heartily.

Christlieb, meanwhile, had been carefully
examining the birds as they lay on the table.  "I
do not see," he said, turning round, "how they
have been killed."

"That would not be easy to see," said Butter;
"we are not on much ceremony with them, and
just squeeze them to death in our hand.  Look,
I take my thumb and forefinger and press their
little heart close to their wing.  They open their
beak, turn round their little eyes, and away
they are."

At this description of how the poor things
were put to death, the eyes of Christlieb filled
with tears.  With secret horror he looked at the
unpitying, murderous fingers of the old man,
whom his foster-father was accompanying to the
door.  He felt as if his cruel hand were
pressing his own heart, and as if he could scarcely
breathe.  With a deep sigh, he said to his father
when he came back, "And must the poor larks
and chaffinches who sing so sweetly really be
eaten?"

"Yes," answered Kummas; "and I do not think
it altogether right.  To eat singing birds is much
the same as if I were to put violincellos and
violins into the stove instead of common wood.
The burning of the old piece of lumber, that
was not worth any more mending, and in which
you could no longer lie, was a mere exception.
But truly, the greatest of all gluttons, the most
voracious of all animals, is man.  There is
nothing safe from his palate.  Earth, and air, and
sea, the wilderness, and every corner of the
world is ransacked for dainties to gratify it.
However, I believe a simple meal is much better
for health; one which willingly permits the
feathered singers to pass their short lives
unmolested."

When the bird-cage was finished, Christlieb
was sent off with it to the cottage of the old
man, which was situated a short way within a
small wood.  As the boy approached it, he found
fresh cause for grief.  He saw on many of the
trees pieces of bent willow, to which were
fastened loops of horse-hair; and here and there a
poor little bird hanging in them, allured by the
sight of the red berries close to where the nets
were hung.  He saw, at the same time, various
other kinds of snares laid to entrap the unwary
tenants of the grove.

For the first time, Christlieb entered the
dwelling of the bird-catcher.  He found it filled
with cages, from which sounded all manner of
chirping, piping, and singing.  There was no one
in the room except a little girl about his own
age, who was busy playing on a small pipe
the first part of an old march to four bulfinches.

Glad at having an excuse for giving up for
a time her wearisome task, Malchen got up to
receive the visitor, and take the cage from him.
When Christlieb had softly delivered it into her
hands, his whole attention was absorbed by the
pretty prisoners, whose beautiful plumage he
admired exceedingly; while Malchen answered all
his questions with the utmost simplicity and
childish pleasure.

In one cage there were chaffinches, in another
larks, in others blackbirds, crossbills, lapwings,
thrushes, and Bohemian chatterers and starlings.
Christlieb was especially attracted by the sight
of two greenfinches, who, by a singular
contrivance, pulled up and down by their feet two
small pails, in which was their food, holding them
by a string attached to the cage for that purpose,
until they were satisfied.  This sight was,
however, by no means pleasing to Christlieb; it
rather made him sad, when he saw how often
the pail slipped away before the poor little
bird could get either one grain of seed, or one
drop of water.

"How are they taught to do this?" asked
Christlieb, surprised at the seemingly rational
act of the tiny creatures.

"By hunger and thirst," replied Malchen.
"Before they can be brought to pull up their seed
and water, they are almost dying of hunger."

"Do they likewise sing?" he again asked.

"Not much," answered the girl; "only a few
notes.  But do you know that birds and animals
have a language of their own?"  And she began
to tell the wondering boy a great many things
which she had heard her grandfather repeat.

"I should like to be able to know also what
they say," answered Christlieb.

"You must just pay great attention," said the
little Malchen, "and you can learn it yourself."

"Are all birds here to be killed?" asked
Christlieb.

"No; not these ones," replied Malchen.  "They
are sold alive.  Only we cannot keep them long,
for then their meat costs more than they are
worth."

"I should like very much to have a goldfinch,"
said Christlieb, "or a thrush."

"Oh, no!" cried the little girl; "a starling
would be much nicer; it is such a droll bird,
and can learn to speak like a man."

"Is that true?" asked Christlieb doubtingly.

"Quite true; only his tongue must be loosened,"
replied Malchen.

Christlieb determined to try and get as much
money as would buy a speaking bird; and in
this hope he took great pains to learn to play
on the violin, in the expectation of learning
something.

How joyfully he ran home one day, when a
traveller had given him twopence for playing a
tune, and accompanying it with his clear sweet
voice.  This was the beginning of a treasure,
which every week he divided most faithfully
with his dear foster-father.





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.. _`THE SINGULAR MEETING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SINGULAR MEETING.

.. vspace:: 2

Two years had now passed away, and harvest,
with its rejoicings and feasts, was at hand.  The
evening preceding one of the festivals, our
Fundus, now twelve years of age, was standing
before a rather roughly constructed music-stand,
on which was placed a sheet of written notes
for the violin.  He was again rehearsing what,
on the succeeding day, he had to perform, and
played and sung his appointed parts alternately.
Kummas, whose hair had now become white, sat
listening in his arm-chair, congratulating himself
on having made such a fine player of the child.
He nodded time with his head, and his eyes
sparkled with delight, as the youthful scholar
succeeded in mastering a difficult passage far
beyond the expectation of the old musician.
The very starling, who had been long asleep in
its accustomed place (the back of the old man's
chair), awoke and became quite merry, screaming
an accompaniment to its young master.

At length the rehearsal was ended, and Christlieb
packed up his music, awaiting the judgment
of his preceptor.

The old man, hiding his delight, said, "Well,
I hope you will get on to-morrow, only be sure
and keep the time.  Remember there is a great
difference playing before four eyes, and playing
in the church before four hundred.  However,
don't let this remark make you afraid."

Kummas had not received much education;
but he was of opinion that a child might be
spoiled through too much praise, and therefore
he was very sparing in his commendation.
However, when Christlieb was fast asleep, he gave
vent to his joy while, as usual, smoking his
pipe before he went to bed.  With a grateful
heart he thanked God that in the foundling
there was given to him a support and a pleasure
for his old age.  All his privations and
cares were richly repaid by the admirable
behaviour of the boy, with whom he would not
part for any worldly consideration whatever.

The church festival, with music, singing, prayers,
and sermon, was now over, and the churchyard
filled with people returning to their various
homes.  In the midst of them were the pastor
and the schoolmaster, with the happy Kummas
at their side; while Christlieb, with his violin
under his arm, followed at a respectful distance.

"That foster-son of yours is a fine youth,"
began the pastor.

"He is like a pearl in a dirty oyster-shell,"
responded the schoolmaster.

"Your simile is rather a lame one," said the
priest; "for neither is our village nor the house
of Kummas like a dirty oyster-shell, as the
owner of the latter has now become an honest
Christian; yet it is true that Christlieb is not
in his proper place here.  He should be sent
where he can have more advantage than with us."

"He far excels all my pupils," continued the
teacher; "and even in Latin he is well advanced.
He ought to study."

"Aye, aye," said Kummas, smiling with pleasure;
"but to study, I am told, costs a deal of
money, and I have none.  If I could do as I
wished, I would like to make the boy a fine
musician,--one who would bring my art to
honour.  I had an idea of sending him to some
band-master in a town, in order that he might
have more teaching; yet it will be very hard
for me to part with him, as he now plays more
than I do, and brings more bread into the
house.  To be sure that would be made up
for were he to become a little Paganini."

"Certainly," said the pastor, laughing.  "We
shall see what time will do.  Meanwhile, take
care that Christlieb remains as modest and
gentle as he is now; as that makes him well-pleasing
in the sight of God, as well as of men."

When the pastor and the schoolmaster had
left, Kummas went and spoke to Butter, whom
he saw standing near him.

"Your Fundus played and sang to-day like
a lark.  My Malchen was all ear and eye.
There they go like brother and sister.  But tell
me, what does the boy do with all the birds
he buys from me?  I thought by this time
that your room would be quite full of them;
but I only see the starling marching about at
its ease.  Besides, he has a shocking taste; for
he buys almost only those which are good for
nothing, except to twist off their heads, and lay
them in the frying-pan."

"Indeed!  I know nothing about the matter,"
answered Kummas, "and never ask him; for, as
I am sure he does not waste the little money
he gets, I let him do whatever he likes with
his few halfpence."

"I suppose you think, at the same time, I
have no cause to complain of his spending his
money in this way?"  Saying these words, the
old men separated.

On the same Sunday, Christlieb, accompanied
by Malchen, came out of the bird-catcher's house.
"Stop a minute," said he to the young girl,
taking out of her hand a finch, round whose
right leg he fastened a small piece of red thread,
but not very tightly.

"Why do you do that?" asked Malchen.

"Oh! it is a fancy of mine," said Christlieb,
taking hold of the bird, and bidding the girl
good-bye; who looked after him with curiosity
before she again went into the house.

Christlieb went a considerable way into the
wood.  "Don't be afraid," he said softly to the
little bird, whose heart he felt beating as he
held the terrified creature in his hand; "from
me you have nothing to fear.  Perhaps your
young ones are dying with hunger, for want of
you, in their solitary nest; or your father and
mother are seeking you everywhere, calling to
you to come back to them.  Now take care,
little stupid thing, and don't let wicked boys
catch you by mock whistles, mock pipes, or
mock food; and there, now, fly away!"  With
these words he opened his hand, and the finch,
not needing to be told twice, flew quickly away.
Christlieb looked after it until it disappeared in
the blue distance.  He then took a piece of
paper out of his pocket, on which he made a
small mark with a pencil.  "Twenty-six finches,"
he repeated to himself, "nineteen larks, five
thrushes, nine lapwings, two goldfinches, three
blackbirds,--four-and-sixty birds I have saved
from death or imprisonment.--Hurrah! hurrah!"

The same evening, Christlieb was again playing;
and in the same room of that inn in which
his foster-father had played twelve years
before,--at the door of which he had found him.
Waltzes, country dances, galops, quadrilles, and
all manner of tunes dropped from his hand like
water.  He played unweariedly, although sleep
every now and then shut his eyes, and the
player of the violincello had to give him a
gentle push with the point of his bow at the
end of the hundredth-time-played pieces.
Meanwhile, Kummas enjoyed rest at home.  The grateful
foundling now supplied his place, which he felt
it neither difficult nor unpleasant to do.  Obedient
to the command of his father, he steadfastly
refused to taste either beer or brandy, and
contented himself with pure water,--an abstinence
not at all disagreeable to the other musicians,
as by that means their portions were the larger.
About three o'clock in the morning, the dance
ended, and dancers and musicians left the inn;
all except Christlieb, who laid himself down on
a bench, near the stove in the lower room, and
slept for three hours the pleasant sleep of youth
and weariedness.  When he awoke, the landlady
gave him a cup of delicious coffee, and a piece
of fine cake, after partaking which he prepared
for his walk home.

With his violin under his arm, and twelve
groschens in his pocket, Christlieb descended the
steps which led from the inn door to the road.
His eye fell upon the manger, which always
stood ready for horses passing with travellers.
He looked at it much affected, as he thought,
Who knows but that may be the very one in
which I was found twelve years since!  What
would have become of me had not Kummas
taken me with him?  Feelings of gratitude to
his foster-father filled his heart.  Ah! why had
his parents deserted him?  How had the poor
infant offended them, thus to be driven from
them?  How often have I watched the care
which geese, hens, dogs, cats, little birds, and all
animals take care of their young ones,--defending
them at the risk of their own lives!  Even the
defenceless insect, the ant, when a ruthless hand
destroys its nest, first tries to save its eggs,--and
yet, has a heartless mother forsaken me?
Or may I not have been taken from her by
force, or stealth?---in which case she will be
more unhappy than I am.  But the sadness of
youth resembles a soap-bubble, which, when broken,
leaves no trace behind; and with the rising of
the golden sun, Christlieb's sorrow vanished.
Although it was November, the weather was
fine, and there still were some vestiges of verdure
to be seen.  With a merry heart, and a quiet
conscience, Christlieb pursued his journey
homewards, while he gave outward expression to his
gladness by playing a beautiful church melody
on his violin.

An echo in the neighbouring wood gave back
the clear notes, accompanied by those of all the
birds who had not fled with summer.  This
singing allured him to his favourite spot,
where the rustling of the leaves of the trees
greeted him like the voices of old acquaintances.
He slung his instrument over his shoulder,
and, like a squirrel, sprung up a tall pine tree,
where, among its green branches, he comfortably
seated himself.  From this leafy height there
was soon heard the cheerful note of the cuckoo,
the melancholy song of the yellow thrush, the
melting call of the nightingale, the monotonous
cry of the crow; in short, all the feathered tribe
seemed to have met in this one spot, in order
to let each other hear their different music.  And
Christlieb, the sole artist and imitator of the
various notes, rejoiced beyond measure, when the
whole flock of the still remaining birds, allured
by the sounds, came and flew around him.  Still
more zealously did he copy on his obedient
violin the language of the feathered tribe, when
the whole concert was destroyed and quickly
ended, by the rattling of carriage wheels.  In a
moment, Christlieb was down the tree, and, led
by curiosity to take a peep at the supposed
travellers, he speedily made up to the carriage.
It was a handsome equipage, whose driver no
sooner saw Christlieb, than he called out,
seemingly very ill pleased, "What are you about,
young sir?  Does the young gentleman think I
have nothing else to do but keep my mouth
open, shouting after him, instead of swallowing
the good soup of the postmaster?  Come, make
haste and get in!"  Saying these words, the
man leapt from the driving box, and opened the
door of the carriage.  "And now," continued he,
muttering to himself in a bad humour, "we
have to wait for the tutor, who, full of anxiety,
is seeking up and down for his idle pupil."

When the driver, after letting down the steps,
looked round for the object of his wrath, the
astonished Christlieb was no longer to be seen,
which gave rise to a fresh burst of angry words
and oaths.  The puzzled violin player had run
away as fast as he could, and was now again
within the wood, when his flying steps were
arrested by another person, who came up to him,
looking very exhausted and tired, and likewise
very angry.  "Balduin!  Balduin!" he exclaimed,
in a tone of vexation and displeasure, "will this
thoughtlessness never end, which annoys and
torments every one connected with you?  Where
have you been?  Since you left the carriage under
a pretext of only remaining away a few minutes,
you have remained almost an hour!  But how
is this?" he continued in surprise.  "Where have
you exchanged your dress? and how did you get this instrument?"

The stranger stretched out his hand to take
hold of the violin, whose possessor, however,
firmly retained it, and took to his heels, flying
through the wood as if winged.

He still, at a considerable distance, heard
the voice of his pursuer entreating him to
remain.

He arrived at home out of breath, and had
scarcely time to put away his violin, when the
bell rang for school; so that for some hours, he
had to keep his adventure to himself.

"Only think, father!"--With these words, he
entered the small room, in which, besides Kummas,
he found the old bird-catcher, who looked at
him with an angry countenance, and his father,
too, seemed unusually disconcerted.

"There comes the young good-for-nothing," said
Butter.  "Bird-thief, and not Christlieb, should
he be called."

Christlieb's words stuck in his throat at this
salutation; and, much amazed and perplexed, he
looked at the old man, to see whether he were
speaking in jest or in earnest.  But his father
ended his doubt by saying, in a serious tone of
voice, "What have you done, Christlieb?  Confess
the truth."

A deep red suffused Christlieb's face, as, with
the greatest faithfulness, he related what had
happened to him.

When he had finished, Butter said with bitterness,
"So you wish to make us believe that a
runaway boy, who had escaped from his tutor,
played the trick, and not you, you young rascal,
but your ghost (*doppelgänger*)!  A likely story,
forsooth!  Will you still deny that you broke
and destroyed all my nets?--that you let twelve
thrushes, eighteen finches, nine-and-twenty other
birds, not to speak of the very small ones,
escape?  Such a number I never caught at once
in my life; and while I ran full of joy into
the house, to get my old wife and Malchen to
come and help me, the rascal falls upon the
whole, tears my snares to pieces, sets all the
birds at liberty, and then laughs at me scornfully
from behind a bush, when I try to catch him."

"I never did such a thing," maintained Christlieb,
shocked.

"What!" cried Butter, in a greater passion
than ever; "will you give me the lie to my
face?  Have I become so blind that I no longer
know you when I see you?  Besides, was not
Malchen, who thinks so much of you, there as
a witness?  And do we not know, likewise, that,
in your folly, you wish there was not a bird-catcher
in all the world, and that all the birds
were free?"

"Acknowledge your fault, my son," said Kummas
mildly, "and we may be able to make all right
again."

"But I have not done what Butter says,"
answered Christlieb, weeping.

"Friend," said Kummas, "I really know not
what to think of all this.  It is true that
Christlieb has never once deceived me, and----"

"You are an old blockhead, with your Christlieb!"
passionately broke out Butter, interrupting
him.  "It will be worse for him in the end;
for, as you give me no satisfaction, I am
determined to have him punished; and, as sure
as my name is Butter, the boy shall have a
few days in the dungeon."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE UNDESERVED PUNISHMENT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE UNDESERVED PUNISHMENT.

.. vspace:: 2

The bird-catcher put his threat into execution,
and our Christlieb was really taken to the
dungeon in the prison.  The poor boy had been
a long day, and a still longer night, in the
damp dismal place, when, early on the second
morning, he heard a well-known voice calling
to him through the bars of the narrow window.
Christlieb left his miserable straw pallet, and
quickly approaching the window, said in a
cheerful voice, "Is that you, father?"

"How are you, my boy?" asked Kummas in
a pitying tone.  "I fear bread and water will
not taste well here?"

"Oh! that is the least of it," answered
Christlieb.  "I would not mind that, were it not so
dismally cold; and I weary, having nothing to do."

"Have you nothing else to plague you?--No
evil conscience?" said the old man, somewhat sadly.

The boy burst into a flood of tears, and said,
amidst sobs, "Father, do not make me more
unhappy in my trouble!  Indeed, I am not
guilty."

"I believe you, my son," said Kummas with
a lighter heart, "although appearances are
certainly very much against you.  But if we are
innocent, we may be happy even in a dungeon.
Think of the good Joseph, who was in prison
for many years, while you are to be only three
days in this black hole."

"That is nothing, father; but I cannot bear
to think of the shame, and of being pointed at
by all the villagers.

"Let them point at you as they like," said
Kummas, comforting him; "so long as you are
not guilty, it does not matter.  And who knows
why God has sent you this cross?  For a wise
purpose, be assured.  Look here!  I have brought
you a drop of warm beer, if I only knew how
to get it down to you without spilling it."  He
fastened a piece of string to the small can, and
the vessel, with its smoking contents, reached
Christlieb in safety.

"Does it taste well?" asked Kummas when
he saw its arrival safely below.  "I cooked it
myself."

"Yes!" answered Christlieb, thanking him;
"but you have put in such a quantity of pepper,
that it has almost burnt my throat."

"Aye!" replied the pleased warm-beer-brewer,
"I did that purposely, to keep out the cold.
Now, would you like anything else?"

"I should like to play on the violin," said
Christlieb eagerly.

"Perhaps that would not be permitted," answered
Kummas, "even if we could get the violin through
the bars.  The jailor might be angry if he heard
a noise in the prison, so you would need to
play quite pianissimo.  We shall see about it;
and in the meantime, good bye."

"Do not forget to feed the starling," cried
Christlieb, as Kummas went away.

Scarcely was the old man gone, when Christlieb,
who had lain down again in his corner, heard
some one else call out softly, "Christlieb,
Christlieb!  Hear me, and don't be angry at me."

"I will not speak to you," said Christlieb.
"You are a serpent!"

"Ah! dear Christlieb, do hear me!" said Malchen,
for it was she who had come to comfort her
playmate.  But Christlieb would not move from
his place in the corner of the dingy prison.

"Christlieb!" continued the young girl, weeping,
"can you deny that I saw you when you
pulled the nets in pieces?"

"I tell you I will not speak to you," reiterated
Christlieb in an angry tone.

"Could I help confessing the truth to my
grandfather when he called me as a witness?
I have not slept all night thinking of you, and
have ran here at the risk of being scolded.
Forgive me, Christlieb, for having seen you
destroy the nets the day before yesterday, and
for being the means of bringing you into this
place."

"So you still maintain that you really saw
me, and that I was the person who did the
mischief!  Have I not always bought the birds,
and honestly paid for them?  Have I ever
all my life let even a sparrow escape from you?"

Malchen could not make any answer to this
reproach; but only entreated the more earnestly
to be forgiven, saying, "Do let us be friends
again, Christlieb!"

"Whenever I come out of this place," answered
Christlieb proudly, "I will go far away from you
all, to Turin, or to some other distant town;
and there become a Paganini, and earn eight
hundred dollars every night by playing on my
violin; then, when I am rich, I will come back
with a carriage and four horses, and take my
foster-father, who believes that I did not destroy
the nets, away with me.  But you and your
grandfather, I will neither look at nor speak to."

"You will do no such thing," answered Malchen
confidently.

"But I will!" maintained Christlieb resolutely.

"No, no!" answered his little companion; "I
know you better than to believe it.  And now,
since you have spoken to me, I am sure you
are no longer angry with me."

"You are mistaken," said Christlieb; but in
rather a smoother voice.

"Shall I come again to see you here?" asked
Malchen.

Christlieb made no reply; and the kind-hearted
little maiden again asked the question.

"Shall I come back again?  If you do not
answer me when I have counted three, then I
will remain away.  Once, twice, thrice.  Shall I,
or shall I not come?"

"Yes, you may come," cried Christlieb, as he
saw Malchen leaving the window.  A piece of
paper with something wrapped in it, was thrown
down to him, which he quickly opened, and
found a nice little cake, brought by Malchen,
who was now out of sight.  This mark of
sympathy cheered him; and his imprisonment
became less unbearable.

The accident which had brought him into
disgrace was not without weighty consequences.
Butter was irreconcileable, and prohibited his
little granddaughter from speaking to our hero.
The children of the village teased him, and the
elder persons looked at him with suspicion.
These circumstances induced Kummas to try and
find some other quarters for his foster-son, as
soon as the latter was confirmed.  In this the
old musician succeeded, by means of a friend in
a neighbouring small town, from whom Christlieb
had received some lessons.  This person procured
for him the situation of a pupil with the principal
bandmaster of a large town at a considerable
distance from the village where he now was.

"Trust in God, do what is right, and fear no
man," said Kummas to his weeping Christlieb,
as, laden like a camel, the poor boy stood ready
for his journey; "'and then the sky will be full
of music,' as we are accustomed to say.  You
must become a clever fellow.  I do not say this
for your sake alone, but also for my own; as I
must, in your absence, live very sparingly; but this
I will gladly do, believing that a time of plenty
will follow, which I hope through you to see.
Remember, that as long as God gives you sound
limbs, it is in your own power to keep sorrow
from yourself, cares from me, and to drive away
wrinkles from my brow; therefore, beat the
drum, sound the trumpet, blow the horn, and
play on the violin, with all your heart; for
music is a lady, and, you know, all ladies wish
to be admired.  Should death, with his bony
hand and ruthless scythe mow me down before
you come back as a master in your art, then
the villagers, as they walk over my grave, will
not scornfully say, 'Here lies a poor fiddler;'
but they will add, 'he, at least, did one good
action when he----'"  Here the old man stopped,
not able, from emotion, to proceed; and, ashamed
of his tears, he hid his face on Christlieb's
shoulder, upon whose head the pet starling had
perched itself.

Lifting down the bird, Christlieb said, "Perhaps
you would not like to keep the bird, father?"

"No, my son," answered the latter; "I might,
perhaps, forget to feed it, and it might die of
hunger, or of thirst."

"Then farewell, father."  They embraced each
other, and Christlieb went away.  Shunning the
houses of the villagers, of whom he had already
taken leave, Christlieb took the road to the wood.
When he reached his favourite spot, taking the
starling from his shoulder, he said to it, "Go
now, my little bird, to your companions among
the trees!" He threw it up into the air; but
after a short flight it came back, and again
alighted on the shoulder of its master.  "What! wilt
thou not go?" he said, much affected.  "Poor
bird, I cannot keep thee."  He threw it again
from him, and again the little creature came
back.  Upon this he went straight to the house
of the bird-catcher, and luckily saw Malchen
standing at the door cleaning some utensils.
She became pale at the sight of Christlieb, and
said quickly, "What do you want here?  My
grandfather is sitting at the window."

"Malchen," said Christlieb hastily, "you must
do me a favour.  Here is my starling, who
will not leave me.  You must keep it, or
afterwards set it at liberty."

The young girl took the bird, and went into
the house with it.  Christlieb went close to the
window where the old man sat reading.

"Father Butter," he began firmly, "you have
ordered me never to come within your door.
Give me your hand, then, out at the window,
and say, at parting, that you will not any
longer be angry with me."

Butter looked up, and shook his head at the boy.

"Father!" repeated Christlieb entreatingly, "you
have let many suns set on your wrath; give
me your hand."

"If you will confess your fault," said the old
man, relenting a little.

"Let us say no more about that," answered
Christlieb.  "I may or I may not have done it.
You know we are all sinners."

At length the bird-catcher yielded, put his
hand out at the window, and said, "I forgive
you!  Go in peace."

"A thousand thanks, father," answered
Christlieb, well pleased.  "Farewell!" and he was
speedily out of sight; while Malchen, with tears
in her eyes, looked after her playmate.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE TOWN MUSICIAN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE TOWN MUSICIAN.

.. vspace:: 2

After six days' walking, Christlieb reached the
place of his destination.  The town musician
(*stadt-musikus*), as is the case in many places,
had his dwelling in the tower of the Cathedral,
which was glittering under the rays of the
setting sun as Christlieb turned his steps
towards the direction in which it lay.  In order
to gain strength to ascend its long winding
stair, he seated himself on a stone bench, which
he saw before one of the houses in the market-place,
and here waited to cool himself before
he ventured to take a draught of the sparkling
water, which was emptying itself in silver
streams from many jets into the basin of the
large fountain which stood in the centre of the
square.  Like a bunch of roots which a boy
dipped into it, Christlieb would have liked a
bath too in the pure element.  "So this is the
evening of a feast day!" cried the boy to a
companion, who was passing near the fountain;
"look, there is the trumpeter with his brass
thing at his mouth."

Christlieb also looked up to where the boy
was pointing, and on the railed gallery which
ran round a part of the tower, he saw the
performer with his brazen trumpet glancing in the
bright golden sunlight, from which, in sublime
full tones, was poured forth the beautiful church
melody, beginning, "Who lets the Lord direct his way."

In a more cheering manner the town musician
could not have greeted his new pupil, nor in a
way which went more to the heart of the solitary
child.  Full of confidence, and rid of the
anxiety which it was natural at such a time
to feel, Christlieb approached the tower.

When he had reached it and knocked, a maid-servant
made her appearance, whose countenance
was not very pleasant looking.  "What do you
want?" she asked in a sharp voice.

"I wish to see the town musician," said
Christlieb diffidently.

"Mr. Dilling," she cried to a person within,
"here is a country boy who wants to see you."

Mr. Dilling, a thin little man of about fifty,
appeared, took the letter of recommendation out
of Christlieb's hand, read it hastily, and told
the boy to put down his bundle.  The wife of
the master musician, a portly dame, then took
him in, and acquainted him with the various
duties he would have to perform, which Christlieb
thought equal to those of a second servant.
As it was supposed the youth would be tired
after his long journey, he was given something
to eat, and the servant showed him where he
was to sleep.  His bed was in a corner of the
church tower, and was no worse than the one
he had left at home.  Being very wearied, he
soon fell into a sound sleep.  After the lapse of
a few hours, he was awakened by a dull whirring
sort of sound, followed by the ringing of
a bell, which seemed to be right above his head.
He looked up, and saw five or six figures
ascending a wooden stair, which was close to his
bed.  These were doubtless his new companions;
and as they returned, one of them said to the
others, "There lies my successor; I have long
enough been the drudge!  Now that country
clown may see how he likes it."

The person who was carrying the light turned
quickly round, and said to the other who had
spoken, "What! are you better than the rest, I
wonder?  Hold that idle tongue of yours, else I
will shut your mouth in a way you don't like."

All again was quiet, except the regular
movement of the pendulum of the church clock,
which kept Christlieb awake for a short time
longer.

Before five o'clock had struck, the shrill voice
of the maid called to him to get up and go to
the baker's for the bread for breakfast.

"I will likewise," she added, "lower down the
cask for the water in the basket, and before you
come up again you must fill it with fresh water
from the fountain."

Christlieb quickly dressed himself to obey his
orders, and with the money in his hand to pay
for the bread, he groped his way down the dark
narrow winding stair.  When he came back from
the baker's, he saw coming down in a basket,
by means of a strong rope, the cask for the
water.  This mode of descending and ascending
pleased him very much; and if he had dared,
he would liked to have been pulled up himself
in this way.  When the watchful maid saw that
all was right, she again drew up the basket
with its contents.  Before Christlieb followed, he
enjoyed the luxury of bathing his face and
breast in the sparkling water of the fountain,
which refreshed him exceedingly.  There awaited
him a formidable battery of boots and shoes to
clean, which new sort of work cost him no
small exertion.  Before he began he got a cup of
coffee, and ate a roll while brushing and
polishing.  During his absence his companions must
have risen; for he heard the voice of his master
saying, "Rupel, blow the morning greeting, and
take the melody, 'Awake, awake, the voice of
morning calls.'  This will do for the sluggards
in the town."

The young man thus addressed came out with
the trumpet in his hand.  Christlieb politely
wished him "Good morning," which the other
courteously answered, and stepped out on to the
small gallery, scarcely two paces distant from
the busy shoe-black.  The trumpet now began to
sound in the deep bass, then ascended to a
second and a third, rested for a time at the
fifth, repeating the melody to the sleeping
inhabitants beneath.  At the second strophe, it
seemed to Christlieb as if an angel were calling
the world to judgment, so sublime and powerful
were the sounds brought forth by the skilful
player.  The very tower seemed to shake; and
Christlieb, enraptured, folded his hands across
his breast, while his eyes filled with tears.  The
returning artiste saw the effect which his
playing produced, and felt flattered, in no small
degree, by the mute praise of the peasant boy.

The sublime hymn was followed by an ear-splitting
concert in the room of the *stadt-musikus*.

"Beautiful Minka, I must leave thee," lamented,
in sorrowful tones, the clarionet.

"Let us be merry all," played briskly the
cheerful violin, with many beautiful variations.

"I am not lonely nor alone," breathed forth
the flute in a delicious fantasia.

"I fear not death," muttered the basson.

The oboe, in an imperfect croaking tone,
exercised itself in a difficult passage, which it
repeated a hundred times over, resembling a ladder
which wanted some of its steps.

Of all the instruments the bugle had the
preference, which was now tortured by one of the
youngest pupils.  Certainly had Bishop Hatto
fallen on this method of frightening away the
rats, he would not have found it necessary to
build the well-known tower in the middle of the
Rhine.  Whoever is no friend to rat powder, or
table flattery, has only to get such a player into
his house, in order to free himself from all sorts
of vermin.  Even the crows, who are not peculiarly
fastidious in their musical taste, fled
affrighted from the top of the steeple,--their
chosen resting-place.

Into this assembly Christlieb was ushered when
he had finished his work.  At his entrance, the
grumbling, muttering, lively, and sad tones ceased,
while the youthful players all looked, with eyes
wide open, at the new comer.  Mr. Dilling placed
Christlieb before a music-stand, put a violin and
a bow into his hands, and desired to hear a
proof of his skill, choosing for that purpose one
of Pleyel's sonatas.  Christlieb obeyed; but played
very badly.  The boys laughed maliciously; the
master frowned; and only Rupel, the assistant,
said at once, "Mr. Dilling, how can you expect
the boy to play when his hands are still shaking
from the effects of brushing the boots and shoes?"

The master acknowledged he was right, and
therefore sent Christlieb away to rest himself;
who gladly went out on the gallery to look
around him.  How beautiful was the view from
this place!  The houses, with their smoking
chimneys, the streets, with their busy passengers,
all lay at his feet.  Beyond were the blue
mountains, with a river winding itself at their base;
and behind them arose the bright morning sun;
while beautiful gardens, with trees, flowers, and
shrubs, were scattered around the town in every
direction.  An hour flew away, Christlieb knew
not how.

"Are your hands steady now?" called out his
master to him from the window.  Christlieb
went in, and this trial was more successful
than his former one had been.  The master
nodded his satisfaction; the pupils stared; and
Rupel said to them, "You see the country clown
plays you all to sticks; therefore you must show
him respect."

"Can you play on any other instrument
except the violin?" asked Mr. Dilling.

"I can play a little on the violincello,"
answered Christlieb.

"That is nothing," continued the master; "a
*stadt-musikus* must have every instrument in
his power, although he may excel in one more
than the rest."

Under the guidance of Mr. Dilling, the whole
of the pupils were now to play an overture;
and to each was duly assigned his part.
Besides the favourite and current names which the
fiery gentleman bestowed on his pupils, such as
ox, ass, blockhead, dunse, &c., he likewise dealt
out to them sundry knocks on the head and
pinches of the ears; and as for the unfortunate
player of the bugle, the time was taught him
by blows on his back.  Christlieb was very
much terrified, but escaped this time with the
mere fright.  The same day he learnt the
triangle, the cymbals, and how to beat the large
drum, as well as to make a trial with the
kettle-drums.  This instruction was given him
by Rupel the assistant, who had entirely won
the affection of Christlieb, and who was indeed
liked much better by all the pupils than the
master himself.

The dinner, with which the others in secret
all found fault, tasted extremely good to
Christlieb, who had never eaten anything so nice.
When, with twilight, the lessons and exercises
were ended, the master and his assistant went
into the town to amuse themselves, while the
scholars were left behind to copy music and
rule paper.  There devolved on Christlieb, as
the last comer, the duty of attending to the
clock, and of ringing the evening bells.  After all
this was done, he had still time to eat, to dress,
and to sleep.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CORRESPONDENCE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE CORRESPONDENCE.

.. vspace:: 2

Summer had nearly passed away, when the
solitary Kummas received, quite unexpectedly, a
letter from his foster-son.  It was the first, and
therefore a source of great joy to the old man.
The letter began as follows:--

"DEAR FATHER,--It will please me very much
to know that you are quite well.  I am thankful
to say, that since I left you, I have been
in perfect health, and I have grown much
taller, which is shown by the sleeves of my
jacket, as they are now almost up to my elbows.
I would not even yet have been able to write
to you (as I had no money to pay the postage,
and did not wish to put you to the expense of
it) had not a stranger, who was up the *tower*
to see the fine view, offered to take my letter
free.  I live here very comfortably; and when I
ring the evening bells, I always turn my eyes
in your direction.  I often wish I had wings to
fly to you, and give you a surprise.  I have
plenty to do; you know already that I have to
ring the bells every night; but besides this,
when there is a funeral of any distinguished
person, or when it is a feast-day, we have to
ring all the bells; and that takes the whole of
us to do.  You see, dear father, it is a kind of
music, and therefore the business of the town
musician.  Then I have all the boots and shoes
to clean; to carry the bread from the baker's,
and the water from the well; all the instruments
to look after, and the church clock to keep
right, and, on market days, I carry home the
basket of provisions, walking behind my mistress,
and run messages to the town when anything is
wanted.  When I am very heavily laden, I pack
all into the basket, and Hannel the cook draws
them up in it.  Indeed, we sometimes draw up
each other, which is good fun.  However, I had
a trick played on me lately, which was not
very pleasant.  We had been at a concert until
late in the night, and my companions were this
time obliged to help to carry home the instruments.
Contrary to custom, they were very
kind to me; packed the instruments carefully
in the basket, and urged me to go likewise
into it, faithfully promising to draw me up as
soon as they reached the landing-place.  They
drew me up quickly enough until I was about
half way; then the basket stood still, and I
could not move it in the least.  A loud laugh
from the gallery soon informed me what the
rogues had done.  Only think, father, of my
swinging up there in the middle of the night! and
there they meant me to swing until morning.
My seat was a very bad one; for I now found
that they had so placed the instruments that I
could not move.  I sat on the sharp edges of
the violin-cases, while the kettledrums lay on
my stretched-out legs, and the mouths of the
bugles and horns pierced into my sides.  I could
scarcely keep my eyes open, I was so sleepy;
and, to make matters worse, it began to rain.  I
then became frightened lest the instruments
should get injured, and cried out for help; but
no answer came.  It was all dark and silent
above me.  In my despair, I seized the drum-sticks,
and began at first to play gently; but as
this was of no avail, I thundered out on them
in C, and then in G.  This worked like a
charm; and, continuing to rattle on the drum,
I was drawn up as quick as lightning, when
my comrades began to abuse me for the dreadful
noise I was making.  I, however, was not
to blame, and threatened to tell the master
what they had done; so, in the end, they were
glad to get me, by smooth speeches, to say nothing.

"But they played me many wicked tricks;
sometimes calling out 'Fire! fire!' and
awakening me to give the alarm from the tower-bell
to the people in the town; sometimes putting
dead mice in my bed.  But the worst thing
they did was at a concert about a week ago,
where I was to play on the violin, when they
rubbed the bow over with grease.  The master
had expected to receive great applause by my
playing; and you may fancy his and my consternation,
when not a single note could I bring
forth.  For this piece of mischief, however, they
were soundly thrashed; and now, I think they
will leave me in peace.  How much I wish you
could hear the beautiful variations I have learnt,
which the great Rhode of Paris composed.  They
are as beautiful as the voice of Malchen when
she sings.  What does Malchen do now, father?
Is she still with her grandfather? and is my
starling yet alive?  Remember me to her, as
well as to old Butter, the pastor, and the schoolmaster.
My master's best violin cost forty dollars;
and, would you believe it! there are violins
which cost four and six hundred dollars!  A
single small violin of wood to cost as much as
three or four small houses in our village!  I
can play on eight different instruments; but I
detest the oboe, with its croaking voice.  My
master is very passionate; but I do not get so
many cuffs as the others, although they always
push me into the breach when they have done
anything wrong.  The mistress likes very much
to scold; therefore I go out of her way as
much as possible.  The assistant Rupel is very
kind to me; and when we are alone, we play
beautiful duets together.  Dear father, I would like
to send you a little present, or some money;
but I have not one farthing, although I spend
nothing, and write music half the night.  Perhaps
afterwards I shall become only the richer for
being now so poor.  But I must finish, for my
lamp is almost out, and my eyes will scarcely
keep open.  So excuse all the blots, and believe
me, your affectionate and dutiful son,

.. vspace:: 1

"CHRISTLIEB FUNDUS."

.. vspace:: 2

About a fortnight after this letter had been
despatched, a loud rapping was heard at the
door at the foot of the tower.  Christlieb looked
out, and saw a countryman standing, who had
a small basket in his hand, and who beckoned
to Christlieb to come and speak to him.  The
latter immediately ran down.

"Are you Master Christlieb Fundus from
Gelenau, the pupil of the town musician?"
asked the man.

"Yes!" answered Christlieb; upon which the
man handed him a letter, and the small basket,
saying, "I have many greetings to you,--you
will know from whom,--from old Butter and
his little granddaughter; and from the old man
the fiddler of Gelenau.  If the berries in the
basket are all gone to juice, it's not my fault;
you will only be saved the trouble of eating
them."  The countryman laughed; and after
receiving Christlieb's thanks, went away.
Christlieb hastily opened the letter, which was from
Malchen, and read:--

"DEAR CHRISTLIEB,--Your long, long letter we
have all read; and it made us very happy
to hear of your welfare.  I have nothing to
entertain you with in return; for there is no
news here, everything goes on in the old
jog-trot fashion.  But how learned you have become!
I could not understand parts of your letter,
until father Kummas explained them.  I knew
not what an oboe was, nor anything of Rhode,
or of his variations.  If I were you, I would
have the idle fellows who are so mischievous
put into the dungeon, until they learnt to behave
better.  The schoolmaster has got a new velvet
cap, and the church clock a new pointer.  Your
starling is still alive, and almost eats me
up,--that is, my few half-pence.  But for your
sake I keep it, although my grandfather is
always scolding about it.

"With this you will receive a small basket,
containing some bramble and whortleberries, of
which you used to be so fond.  When you
become a Paganini, and can get, as Kummas says,
ever so many dollars for one night's playing,
then send me a stylish cap back in the basket,
or something very fine from the town.  Above
all things, don't become proud, or I shall vex
myself to death.  Don't let your companions
see the basket for fear they steal the berries
from you; and be sure and wash the blue
stains from your lips, so that they may know
nothing about them.  Now, good-bye, says your
friend,

.. vspace:: 1

"MALCHEN."

.. vspace:: 2

Christlieb put his letter in the most private
corner of his abode, and ate the fruit as soon
as possible,--though he had to use a spoon for
the purpose, as in consequence of their long
carriage they were sadly bruised.  As to the
wish of the kind giver for a stylish cap from
the town, that, alas! he would be unable to send,
until he indeed became a Paganini.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE JOURNEY ON THE ICE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE JOURNEY ON THE ICE.

.. vspace:: 2

The winter with its frost and snow had passed
away, the cold of which had been severely felt
by the dwellers in the house of the town
musician, as from its high and exposed situation no
storm passed without their experiencing its chilling
effects.  Christlieb had the prospect of soon
being relieved from his duties as youngest, for
a new pupil was expected at Easter.  He was
much pleased at this, as he hoped then to be
able to earn a few pence, which now was
entirely out of his power, never having one
moment at his own disposal.

During the carnival there was a grand
entertainment at a much-frequented place of
amusement, a few miles distant from the town, and
lying on the opposite side of the river.  As
usual, Christlieb was the last to leave, and, laden
with the kettle-drums, was following his
companions home, who, having less to carry, were
already across the river before Christlieb had
reached it.  The stream was still covered with
strong ice, although it had been thawing for
several days, and the water was standing
some inches above the ice.  The air was very
warm, indeed almost sultry.  The water bubbled
up as if boiling wherever an opening in the
frozen surface was seen, and every now and
then a loud cracking of the ice was heard.  At
a distance guns were fired to announce its
breaking up to the inhabitants on the banks of
the river.  Christlieb saw, heard, and trembled;
he hesitated for an instant before venturing on
the ice, but, soon regaining courage, boldly stept
on it.  His comrades had just gone over before
him; there was no bridge near, nor any means
of getting to the other side; he saw the
twinkling small light in the tower inviting him to
proceed!  With one drum on his back, and the
other hanging before his breast, he had gained
his way half across in safety, when suddenly
the treacherous ice gave way just a few steps
from him.  It broke, raised itself up, and then
yielding to the flood of water, moved on, and
finally sank beneath the overwhelming power of
the watery element, which spread itself again
over the glassy surface.  Christlieb stood
petrified, then with trembling limbs ran to look for
some safer place where he might be able still to
get to the opposite bank.  Wherever he looked,
he saw the same comfortless prospect.  He now
tried to return to the side he had left; but he
had scarcely proceeded twenty steps, when the
whole body of ice broke from the banks, and
he was slowly borne away with it.  In the
houses of the town which lay nearest to the
rising waters lights were glancing backwards and
forwards, and on every side was heard the cry,
"The ice is breaking up!"

.. figure:: images/img-076.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "He had fallen upon his knees on the ice."

   "He had fallen upon his knees on the ice."

Christlieb also shouted, in the hope of finding
help; but no answer came.  All the bells were
set a-ringing, whose tones, mingling with the
crashing of the ice and the gushing of the
water, were the only sounds which reached the
ears of the unfortunate Christlieb, who seemed
to hear in the bells his death-knell, as his
destruction was apparently inevitable.  He had
fallen upon his knees on the ice, which every
moment became more the prey of the water as
it rushed on.  The town, his second home, and
the place of many hopes, swam before his eyes;
fainter became the sound of the bells, and
darker appeared to him every object, while he
heard the most dreadful noises in his ears.  As
often as the piece of ice on which he knelt
shook beneath him from some fresh concussion,
he thought his last moment had come.  He
pictured to himself the grief of his foster-father,
the sorrow of Malchen, and the pity which Rupel
would feel for his untimely end, and in this
dreadful way.  At length his senses became
dulled, and he was unconscious of the cold of
the ice water, in which he was covered up to
his knees.  He felt a drowsiness creep over him,
and he shut his eyes, no longer looking at the
desolation around him, until again awakened
from his torpor by a new crashing of the ice.
Slowly he opened his weary eyes, and saw by
the dim morning light, which was now struggling
with the darkness of night, some dark arches
suspended over the river.  It was the bridge of
the city, against whose stone pillars the huge
blocks of ice were dashed, and driven back with
a fearful noise.  Lights were seen glimmering,
and again reflected in the rushing waters.  But
Christlieb saw not that nets were placed
between the pillars, in order to save any unhappy
persons who might be driven down on the ice.
The sight of the lights, however, recalled
Christlieb to a sort of consciousness; for where lights
are men are not generally far distant, and some
one might perhaps yet save him.  At all events,
the bridge would decide his fate as soon as
the piece of ice dashed against the pillars; and
most likely it will be death, thought Christlieb
The drums still were hanging on him; and they
might now be the means of saving him.  He
was yet at a short distance from the bridge,
and the mass of ice was floating slowly down,
so that he was enabled to take off the drums
from his person and beat an alarm, though with
benumbed fingers.  He likewise exerted all his
remaining strength to utter a cry, but to no
purpose, as far as he could see; for he now
drove right against one of the stone pillars; the
ice broke in two, and the larger half sunk
beneath the water; the drums disappeared, and
Christlieb, whose cry of agony was unheard,
followed after them.  He felt the rush of the
water over his face, and a sharp pain in his
side; after which his senses forsook him, and he
was unconscious of what happened.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SICK-BED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SICK-BED.

.. vspace:: 2

How long Christlieb had remained unconscious,
he knew not; neither could he very well tell
whether he were in this world or in another.
It seemed to him as if he were floating in
mist, where huge shadows of men were flying
past him.  Then his head turned round and
round, and he shut his eyes not to see anything
more.  Afterwards he became, as he thought, a
receiver of the dead,--a post which certainly
imagination alone could create.  A large churchyard
spread itself out before him, covered with
snow, above which were seen the black crosses
and stone monuments of the dead.  At the
entrance of the churchyard stood the house for
the reception of the dead, where, however,
Christlieb did not dwell, but hovered over it in the
air, and saw the funeral processions of those
of whom he was to take care move on to a
distance.  He likewise fancied that he had
received a message from his late master, begging
him to return to the tower, at the folly of
which he smiled, as he knew that he was now
no longer an inhabitant of earth.  He felt
himself quite happy, and had no desire to return
to it again.  The scene then changed, and he
fancied himself standing up to the neck amidst
the chilling ice, and making desperate efforts to
reach the shore.  These efforts, however, were
always rendered unavailing by the united strength
of two men and a lady, who kept him back,
and pressed him seemingly deeper into the icy
water.  At length, after repeated struggles to
get free, but all in vain, the blocks of ice
changed themselves into bed-posts and bedding,
under the latter of which he was covered, almost
to suffocation.  At another time he felt himself
sitting upright in bed, and obliged to swallow a
spoonful of something tasting like camphor or
musk.  Then, again, after long unconsciousness,
he awoke and looked around him with open
eyes.  He saw a figure lying on a sofa at a
short distance from him, with its head resting
as if asleep.  A small lamp was burning behind
an open book, whose dim light was scarcely
sufficient to light up the room, so as to render
the objects distinctly visible.  In another corner
crackled a fire, which was blazing in a stove.
Christlieb quietly left his bed, and with
difficulty reached the door of the room, from the
opening of which a cool air met him.  At this
moment the sleeping figure started up with a
cry of horror, seized the weak and fainting boy,
and brought him back again to his bed.  When
he next awoke a subdued daylight filled the
apartment.  A tall man stood beside him, holding
his hand; and a beautiful, though pale, lady
sat on the edge of his bed, to whom the doctor
said, in a consoling tone of voice, "Madam, he
is now out of danger.  The fever has abated,
and there only remains a debility and weakness
quite natural after so severe an illness.  Great
care, however, is still necessary, with strict
attention to all I have prescribed; for his nervous
system is much shaken, and any relapse might
be serious."  Observing that the patient was
awake, he said to him, "Dear Balduin, how do
you find yourself?"

Not having heard the changed name, Christlieb
replied cordially, "Thank you, I am very well."

At these words the countenance of the lady
brightened up.  "Do you know me again, my dear
son?" she hastily asked Christlieb, bending over
him, and looking at him with the greatest tenderness.

Christlieb gazed steadily at the unknown lady,
and then shook his head as much as to say,
No; which threw the lady into a state of great
distress.

"Do not mind this," said the doctor; "it will
be all right by and by.  In nervous fevers, the
memory, generally speaking, suffers most."

The lady was again comforted, and paid the
greatest attention to the various orders which
the doctor gave her, previous to his leaving,
regarding the future treatment of the invalid.
Meanwhile Christlieb took a survey of the
apartment, which was like a palace compared to his
former domicile.  The walls were richly papered.
The curtains of the windows were of silk; and
the floor was covered with thick and elegant
carpet.  The furniture, tables, chairs, bed, and
other articles, were of a brown, shining wood,--the
tea-cups of painted china,--the spoons of
pure silver.  A beautiful embroidered bell-rope,
with a handsome gilt handle, hung close to his
bed;--the latter being somewhat softer and more
elastic than his straw pallet in the tower.  When
he turned his look upon himself, he perceived
that his night-dress was of the finest materials,
his linen of the most expensive kind.  Of his
former dress, not a remnant was to be seen,
while a splendid dressing-gown hung on the
wall, and a pair of handsome worked slippers
stood near his bed,--all evidently intended for
him.  Most gladly would he have asked where
he was but his courage failed him.

After the lady had returned from taking
leave of the doctor, she again sat down near
the bed of the invalid, and began to knit,
regarding him, every now and then, with an
expression of the greatest affection.  Christlieb
felt much embarrassed.  He wished exceedingly
for a glass of water, yet did not like to ask
the grand-looking lady for it.  At length the
latter, of her own accord, asked him if he
would not like something to drink.

With profound respect, he answered, "If you
will have the goodness, madam."

The lady immediately brought him a most
refreshing drink, which Christlieb drank up,
without leaving a single drop.

"I thank you very much," said he gratefully,
which brought tears into the beautiful eyes of
the lady.  Afterwards she gave him a spoonful
of medicine, which he patiently swallowed, though
it was not much to his taste.  He was far
better pleased with the delicious apples, which,
nicely roasted, and sprinkled with sugar, and
along with a small biscuit, he was given at
ten o'clock for his breakfast.

With great delight the lady saw him eat
them, and never left the room until he had
fallen into a gentle sleep, from which he did
not awake until after noon.  His watchful
attendant was again there, and brought him a
strengthening soup, placed him right in his
bed, pushing pillows behind his back to keep
him from falling, and from getting cold.  When
the lady saw her charge, with a steady hand,
hold and use the spoon, and able to take the
nourishing food, she exclaimed, in joyful accents,
"Oh! how much your father will be delighted
when he returns and finds you so well!"

"My father! my father!" said Christlieb, in
evident confusion, and rubbing his forehead.  In
a moment the remembrance of the lost drums
flashed on his memory, and he cried out, "Ah
me! unfortunate one that I am; what will my
master say about the drums?"  Saying these
words, as if in great distress, he let the spoon
fall out of his hand.

The lady trembled with fear, dreading, from
his confused words, that her patient was going
to have a relapse.  She was scarcely able to
stammer out, "My dear Balduin, compose
yourself.  Throw all your cares and fears away.
No one will be permitted to reproach you.
Everything is already arranged."

But poor Christlieb could not be so easily
comforted; and on this account, the sleep which
he fell into towards evening was so light, that
he heard all that passed between the doctor and
his supposed mother.

"Ah!" she sighed, "my heart is torn between
hope and fear, joy and sorrow!  Since his illness,
Balduin seems quite changed.  He is no longer
imperious, obstinate, disobedient, and discontented.
He takes his medicine without one word of
complaint; and for every morsel of bread, or
draught of water, expresses thanks.  Then, again,
it makes me wretched when I think that, perhaps,
his mind is affected, and that a settled form of
insanity, or----  I cannot give utterance to such
horrid fears.  Yet the same idea which has
possession of him when delirious from fever, seems
to follow him when he is awake and tranquil."

Christlieb did not hear what answer the doctor
made, as his sleep became deeper.

Next morning he had tea and cakes to breakfast;
and he was so hungry, that he felt as if
he could eat he knew not how many rolls.  A
servant helped him to put on the fine dressing-gown
and slippers; and he was supported by
her to the large easy chair, in which he rested,
and enjoyed the mild rays of the sun, which
likewise tempted the little birds to chirp and
sing.  Beside him stood his supposed mother,
who said to him, as the servant was arranging
his bed, "Do you not then love me, Balduin?"

"Oh! very much," replied Christlieb, blushing.
"You are so kind to me, and I know not why
I am thus treated."

"Do not speak to me in this way," said the
lady; "but as you used to do.  You are still
my son, and my only joy."

"Ah! me," replied Christlieb humbly.  "I am
only a poor lad, and not worthy to be called
your son."

"Speak not thus, my son," answered the lady.
"It is true that by your former conduct you
have caused both your father and myself much
sorrow.  When you left us, taking with you a
considerable sum of money to riot with evil
companions, then, it is true, we despaired of
you.  Still our affection made us hope that
you might yet return to the right path; therefore
your father, accompanied by your kind master,
set off in search of you to bring you back if
they found you.  How will he be surprised
when he finds his lost and erring son here, a
changed and amended person!  You are still
our son, and now worthy of the name.  Affliction,
and the nearness of a fearful death have changed
you, and given you back to yourself a new
being.  From the poverty of your dress, and
from what escaped you when delirious, we have
learnt how miserable you were when the money
was all spent, and when your false friends
forsook you.  Now you will be able to appreciate
the difference between your father's house,
and wandering about with strangers.  Twice have
you been taken from us in a fearful way.
Twice have you been miraculously restored to us."

Christlieb supposed that he must be again
under the influence of the fever, and again
delirious, when he heard these incomprehensible
words of the lady.  He looked strangely at
her, and she seemed to regret what she had
said, for she immediately changed the subject,
asking Christlieb, with the greatest solicitude, if
there was anything he would like to have, or
any person he would like to see.

Christlieb was at no loss as to what he wished
for, and the persons he most earnestly desired
to behold; but this, perhaps, would be impossible,
and was too much to expect.  He fell into a
reverie, and said nothing.

"Speak to me," repeated the lady kindly.

"I should like to have a violin," at length
stammered out her patient.

"A violin!" said the lady in great amazement.
"Very well, you shall have one when you are
a little stronger; but at present you would
hardly be able to hold it, or to draw the bow;
besides, I fear that its harsh tones might be
injurious to your nerves.  Therefore you had
better wait a short time before you get it."

The lady now assisted him back to his bed;
but in doing so, he made a gesture as if in
great pain.

"Is there anything the matter with you?"
asked his affectionate nurse anxiously.

"I feel a pain in my side," replied Christlieb.

"Ah!  I must have touched the part which
was wounded by the fisherman when he drew you
out of the water with his hook," said the lady.

Several days passed away, and with them
Christlieb regained strength and health, to the
delight of his affectionate nurse, who requested
that he would call her mother as formerly.  Christlieb
promised to do so, but often forgot his part.
As the lady most carefully abstained from all
reference to past events, she had now no longer
any misgivings about her patient's state of mind;
but, in order to see whether he still remembered
his lately expressed wish, she surprised him one
day by the gift of a beautiful violin.

.. _`90`:

Christlieb's eyes sparkled at the sight of it,
and the lady could not refrain from smiling
when she saw the supposed Balduin take it in
his hand.  She, however, looked rather more
serious when she perceived how well he seemed
to know how to tune the instrument, how master-like
he used the bow, and touched the strings.  Her
surprise increased every moment; and when he
had played softly and with wonderful execution
the thema of Rhode's variations, it had reached
its zenith.  When he had played one or two of
the variations, his fingers and his bow becoming
animated and full of fire, the amazed lady
exclaimed, almost out of her senses, "Stop! you
are not my Balduin; and yet you are my son!
Had I not twins, and were they not both stolen,
while only *one* was miraculously restored to me?
You are my Reinhold, my gentler, dearer child!"  She
threw her arms around Christlieb, while the
violin fell sounding from his hands on the floor.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MISTAKE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE MISTAKE.

.. vspace:: 2

In the public-house of a small town, situated
at the foot of a hill, there sat four young
men one sunny morning round a table, on
which were placed wine bottles, rolls of wheaten
bread, and Swiss cheese.  They talked loudly
and merrily, every few minutes emptying their
glasses, which were plentifully supplied with
golden wine.  Their jests and laughter showed
that they had rather swallowed too much of
the exciting liquid.  Except the person who
waited on them, there was no one else in the
room.  The two principal speakers soon
observed that their fourth companion sat
leaning his head on his hand, and was lost in
thought.  One of them immediately bawled out,
"Is the pet of his mother dying with
home-sickness, that he sits there so miserable and
whining?"

The youth who was thus addressed changed
his posture, looked up and said, with a forced
smile, "I am not troubled with home-sickness;
but my purse is, in which there are now only
four dollars.  When these are finished, you will
be good enough to open *your* treasures."

This speech made an unpleasant impression on
the half-stupified wine-bibbers.  Their faces
became at once grave, and, in a most sober voice,
one of them said, "Why did you not tell us
this before?  Had we known that the money
of which you bragged so much was such a
paltry sum, we would have thought twice about
it before we became the companions of your
expedition, and brought ourselves into disgrace with
our guardians and tutors."

"Who incited me more to act as I have done
than yourself, Nicholas?" asked the other in
an angry voice.  "It was you who advised me
to borrow the money in the name of my father,
and told us how to obtain false passports for
our journey."

"Do not scold," drawled out a third; "but
rather fight at once.  When the money is done,
then the comedy is ended!  But you, Balduin,
you must bear the blame.  Crawl back to your
parents, give them a few good words, and be
our scape-goat; then the affair is finished, which,
after all, is only a caprice of genius."

"Let us drink to our scape-goat Balduin,"
they all laughingly cried, raising at the same
time their glasses to their lips.  Balduin, to
escape their mirth and scornful jests, thrust his
head out of the window, while the others took
good care that not one morsel of the breakfast
should be left.

At this moment an aged man and a young
girl entered the room in the dress of peasants.
After a polite greeting, which was, however, only
returned by the person who waited, the two
travellers seated themselves on a bench near the
door, and laid down their bundles.

"Bring us some bread and cheese," said the
old man to the waiter, who immediately
supplied him with what he asked.  "There,
Malchen, take and eat something; you will be much
the better of it after our long journey this
morning."  Before the maiden complied with this
request, she broke a small piece of the bread
into crumbs, and then put her hand into a little
bag, from which she drew forth a starling, who,
delighted to escape from its prison, hopped about,
and picked up the bread from the table.  The
young peasant, stroking the bird with her hands,
said, "To-day you will see your old master.
How pleased he will be to see you again!"

"And, it is to be hoped, still better pleased
to see us," said the old man, "when he hears
that we have come to live near him.  I am not
anxious about you, for you have learnt to work
and to be useful; besides, town people generally
prefer a servant-girl from the country.  As to
myself, I am sure God will not let me want;
and when I have Christlieb again near me, I
will fast gladly."

The young gentleman named Balduin now
drew in his head from the window, and sat
down at the table beside the others.  He was
seated with his back to the two strangers, yet
in a moment they both recognised him, and
almost screamed for joy.  Our friend Kummas
motioned with his hand to his companion to
be quiet; and wishing to give, as he thought,
his dear Christlieb a pleasant surprise, he
advanced on tiptoe towards the table, giving the
others a hint to say nothing, and suddenly
placed his hard hands over the eyes of the
sullen Balduin, saying in a feigned voice, "Who
am I?"

"No nonsense!" cried Balduin, seeking to free
his face from its unwelcome covering.  But
Kummas held his hands firm as a vice, repeating
in tones trembling with pleasure, "Who is
it?"  The supposed Christlieb, in a passion,
tore away the hands of the old man from his
face, and sprang from his seat.  "What do you
mean by this impertinence?" asked Balduin
enraged, while Kummas took hold of him and
said, "It is your foster-father, dear Christlieb;
and here is Malchen,"----

"And your starling, too!" continued the young
girl, weeping with joy.

The three young idlers at this broke out into
a loud scornful laugh.

"Brother dear, we congratulate you on your
new relations, not forgetting the starling.
Ha! ha! ha!"

Balduin drove the old man from him with
violence, and paid no heed to Malchen.  "You
vagabonds," he cried, "you will pay dearly for
your insolent jest!"

Kummas stood petrified; he raised his arms,
and then let them fall down powerless.  At
length he found strength to say, "Christlieb! are
we really so much changed that you do not
know us?  I am Kummas, this is Malchen,
whose grandfather is dead, and we are going to
the town in which you live."

"Now I hope you understand!" again shouted
Balduin's rude companions.  "Such a father is
not found every day on the street, neither such
a smart young peasant girl."

Balduin trembled with passion.  "You must
have escaped from Bedlam!" he cried; "away
with you!  You will get nothing from me!"

The old man could scarcely believe his ears.
"No, it is impossible," he said to himself, "that
within the short space of one year an angel
could be thus changed into a demon.  Christlieb!"
he continued, "dissemble no longer; you
are breaking my heart with your jokes.  I have
not deserved this treatment; but I need not
speak of what I have done for you, as you have
always gratefully acknowledged it."

Instead of answering, Balduin paid the reckoning,
and left the inn with his noisy companions,
leaving Kummas and Malchen behind, who both
stood as if rooted to the spot.

A long pause ensued.  "Is he really gone?"
asked Kummas, scarcely able to speak.

"Quite gone!"  Malchen was only able to
answer by a sorrowful shake of the head.

"He has denied us, Malchen!" said the old
man.  "He is in prosperity, as you may see
by his dress and well-filled purse.  He has been
ashamed of us before the other scholars.  Alas! alas!
I was not ashamed, for his sake, to become
like an old nurse."  Kummas laid down
his head and wept bitterly.  "See," he
continued after a time, "how soon our soap bubbles
have burst!  Now we may return the way we
came to our old home in the village.  You
will be able to get something to do; perhaps
to herd the cows or the geese; and I----  will
find a grave.  The ingratitude of my child
will be my winding-sheet!  What could I now
do with a violin?  Never again shall I handle
the bow, and I will burn the instrument as I
did the violincello in which----  Christlieb was
cradled."  He again laid his grey head on the
table, which became wet with his burning tears.

Malchen sprang up in haste.  "Father! father!"
she cried, "look at the starling."  The poor bird
lay with its breast bruised flat, close to the
table where the young men had been drinking.
His supposed master had accidentally put his
foot on it when he had jumped up in rage at
the old man.

"Father!" said Malchen, weeping, and holding the
poor little thing by its legs, "the starling is dead!"

Kummas looked up.  "It has been treated
like me," he said with indifference.  "The
starling is only a senseless bird; but me has
my child killed.  Oh! that I, too, were dead!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY.

.. vspace:: 2

Some time elapsed before Kummas found himself
able to resume his journey.  The bread and
cheese remained untouched, which, however,
Malchen put into her basket; and the starling, yet
warm, she again placed in her bag.  They went
a long way without speaking; at length Kummas
broke the silence--"I now believe," said he, "that
it was Christlieb who destroyed your grandfather's
nets!  Who could have thought him
such a liar, unless to-day we had had the most
convincing proof of it!  So it would appear
there is no knowing people; not even if we do
eat a bushel of salt with them!  Who is to be
trusted?"

"Trust me," said Malchen confidently.

"You!" replied Kummas, smiling in bitterness
of feeling.  "Why, I would have built houses
on Christlieb,"----

"And on me too, father, and bridges into the
bargain," continued Malchen.  "You must not
take it amiss if I say that perhaps you have
been too hasty in turning back.  The wine may
have affected Christlieb; and if he had been
alone he might have spoken differently."

"'Drunken words, true words,' says the
proverb," answered Kummas; "and had I been a
king, and Christlieb only a cowherd, would I
have been ashamed of him?  His comrades, the
young players, are no better than we are!  Am
I not a musician as well as they?  If Christlieb
is already so proud, what will he be when he
becomes a Paganini?  It would have been my
greatest joy if I could have taken my place
behind him and said,--See, I took this Paganini
out of a manger, and brought him up in a
violincello!"

"He will come to his senses again," whispered
Malchen, "when he has had his own way for a time."

"No, no; he must be a demon to have acted
as he has done," replied the much injured
Kummas.

"Don't speak in this wicked way, father!"
rejoined the young girl; "have you no longer a
spark of love for your Christlieb?"

The old man stood still, strove with his
feelings for a few minutes, and then said more
mildly, "God forgive me!  I am too severe;
and yet I mean it not in earnest.  Yes, Malchen,
I would joyfully give up my life, if by so
doing I could make Christlieb what he was,
although he has broken my heart."

They soon came to the town where they had
rested the previous night, and which was now
all bustle and confusion,--it being the day of
the yearly fair.  With difficulty the wanderers
pressed through the moving crowd.  As they
turned the corner of a street close to the
market-place, they met a man and his wife, the
former blind, and playing on a pipe; the latter,
whose countenance was the colour of copper
and much swollen, was playing on a barrel
organ, accompanying it with her screeching voice.

Kummas started at the sight of them.  "Look!"
he said to Malchen, "that miserable pair might
have been sitting comfortably in a warm house
had they acted properly.  The blind man was
the landlord of a small inn in the village of
Toumern, where I often used to play.  His wife
drank up everything, and brought herself and
her husband to begging.  They are called Hicup."

While Malchen was looking at the man and
woman a scene occurred, not at all unusual in
such places and at such times.  A rather aged
woman, carrying on her bent back a small
raree-show, pushed her way into the midst of
the throng, where the two wretched musicians
had taken up their quarters; and here, by the
assistance of a companion who was along with
her, the show was lifted from her back, and
arranged for the benefit of the idle and curious
passers by.  This attracted the notice of dame
Hicup, who, seeing her domain invaded, began
most furiously to abuse the woman, when a
serious quarrel took place.  In the progress of
the squabble our former hostess of the nether
inn was somehow or the other enlightened in a
way about her rival, which quite changed the
character of her abusive epithets.  In order to
be the more able for her work, dame Hicup left
her tambourine on the top of the organ, and
advanced to the show-woman with arms a-kimbo.
"So you have given up the crockery and stoneware
trade!" she shouted to her antagonist in
the fine arts.  "Have you not another pair of
brats to give me?  I can tell you where one of
the two is which you left with me fifteen years
since.  He is now a beer-fiddler, and may help
you to earn your bread.  He can play while
you exhibit your trumpery pictures.  Bless me! is
that you, Kummas?  I will now confess that
I put your Christlieb in the manger at the
door of the inn, from which you took him out
and carried him home.  If I had known that
you were so fond of children, I would have
given you the other young one too, his brother.
They were as like as two drops of water.  You
may thank this woman for your foundling, and
ask her where she got them.  It was easy to
be seen they were not her own, the thief that
she is!  Oh, you child-stealer!" she shouted to
the woman with the show, who turned pale,
and quickly disappeared, leaving the field to her
victorious enemy.  Seeing this, dame Hicup
redoubled her abuse and her scolding; and her
shouting soon collected a mob, from the midst of
which Kummas and Malchen could scarcely make
their way out, as they thought they had heard
enough to enable them to regulate their future movements.

When Kummas had recovered from the surprise
which the conversation of the woman had
caused, he turned to Malchen and said, "Did
you hear, Malchen, that Christlieb had a brother
who was his very counterpart?  Might the
gay-looking youngster we saw this morning not have
been he, while the real Christlieb is still in the
tower?  My Christlieb had no mole on his
left temple, and I think that jackanapes had."

"Now," replied Malchen, "there can be no
doubt as to the person who let the birds of my
grandfather escape, and destroyed the nets."

"Come, then, let us retrace our steps," said
Kummas, in a more cheerful voice.  "It is
fortunate we were no further away.  I would not
have missed the hearing of this quarrel for all
the treasures in the world."  In spite of
weariness, Kummas stepped briskly on, while Malchen
skipped merrily after him.  Even the dead starling
was for the moment forgotten.

The quarrel of the two women had not been
without important results.  The magistrates had
thought it incumbent on them to interfere, and
both vagrants were taken to prison.  In the
course of evidence the truth was not, however,
altogether brought out, as the old woman stoutly
maintained the children to be those of her
daughter, who had been long dead; but confessed
that she had left them in the house of dame
Hicup.  The further examination of the prisoners
was therefore deferred until various inquiries had
been instituted, and notices of the case put into all
the public papers.  Meanwhile Christlieb lay ill
in the house of the director of the police at the
capital, whose owner, in company with his son's
tutor, Mr. Werter, was searching for the runaway
Balduin.  Kummas, followed by Malchen, was
making the best of his way towards the small
town in which dwelt the leader of the town-band,
where Christlieb was expected to be found.





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.. _`THE BAD RECEPTION`:

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   CHAPTER XIII.


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   THE BAD RECEPTION.

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Balduin and his companions had reached the
same town.  This happened the very day after
Christlieb had been taken to the capital, towards
which he had been driven by the memorable
event of the breaking up of the ice.  The river
was still here and there covered with huge
pieces of ice, while it had far overflowed its
banks.  The young adventurers, with many others,
stood on the edge of the stream looking at its
singular appearance.

"There must be a beautiful view from the
tower up there," thought Balduin, as he pointed
to poor Christlieb's late abode.  "Who will come
with me up the long staircase, and see what is
to be seen?"

"As we have nothing better to do, we may
as well all accompany you," said one of his
companions; and they quickly walked in the
direction of the cathedral.  They passed a baker's
shop on their way, which another of them
perceiving, exclaimed, "I am sure the view will
be seen to much more advantage if we are
provided with some cakes or biscuits.  Give me
the rest of your money, Balduin; and if you
will go up and find the best place for us to have
a view from, we will follow directly with something
nice to eat, and a small bottle of cordial."  He
gave the other two youths a most significant
wink, which they were at no loss to comprehend.
Balduin completely emptied his now scanty purse,
gave all he had to his faithless friends, and
began to ascend the steps of the tower.

"Now, my good fellows, it is high time for us
to beat a retreat!" shouted the false friend to
whom Balduin had given the money.  "We must
go back to our tutors and make them believe
that we have repented of our doings, and left
our leader Balduin, in order not to be corrupted
by his wicked society.  As I said to-day already,
Balduin shall be our scape-goat; we have had a
merry life this last fortnight at his expense."

The others agreed; purchased some cakes to
eat on the road, and at once began their
homeward journey.

Almost breathless, Balduin reached the top of
the steps, and rung the bell at the shut door
of the *stadt-musikus*, which was opened to him
by the servant girl.  "Bless me!" she exclaimed
in joyful surprise, "is that you, Master Christlieb?
Where have you come from?  And where have
you got the fine clothes?  I scarce would have
known you, you are so changed.  What will
the master and mistress say, who have been in
such a way about their kettledrums?  We were
afraid that, last night, you had been on the ice
when it broke up so suddenly, and that you
were drowned."

Balduin looked very stupid at this unexpected
harangue.  "I am surely bewitched!" he muttered
to himself.  He turned round to descend the
steps, not in the best humour, when he was
prevented by the appearance of Mr. Dilling,
Mrs. Dilling, and all the scholars, who had
heard the exclamation of the servant, and came
out to see Christlieb, and to hear what happened
to him.

"Where have you the kettledrums?" asked
the town musician in a voice of thunder, looking
very suspiciously at Balduin's fine dress.  "Sold,
pawned, made away with, I have no doubt!"
seizing as he said this, the petrified Balduin by
the neck.

"Where are the drums?" screamed the angry
lady, shaking her clenched hand in his face.

"Where are the drums?" echoed the malicious
boys, delighted at the embarrassment and distress
of their companion.

"The drums!" stammered out Balduin, his lips
quivering with passion.--"What do I----?"

"Yes, the drums! the drums!" bellowed out
Mr. Dilling, accompanying his words with blows
and pinches of the ear.  "I will have my drums,
which cost thirty-six dollars, and twenty groschens.
I say, where are they?  Where have you got
these fine clothes?  Are not my drums pawned
for them?"

"Let the boy speak, Mr. Dilling," said Rupel,
gently.--"He may be quite innocent.  In consequence
of the breaking up of the ice, he perhaps
was prevented crossing the river last night, and
had to walk all the way to the capital to cross
the bridge; then to come here; and how could
he carry the heavy drums all that long way?
Most likely he has left them at the inn where
the concert was."

"But where has he got the fine clothes?" said
Mr. Dilling in a less angry tone.

"That I know not," answered Rupel; "Christlieb
himself will be able to explain it all, I am
sure; only let him speak."

"Where are my drums?" asked now Mr. Dilling
in a composed voice.--"Speak, and tell
me where you got these fine clothes!"

"These clothes are my own property," replied
Balduin haughtily; "and as for your drums, I
know nothing about them."

Scarcely were these words uttered, when the
*stadt-musikus*, more enraged than ever, flew at
the unfortunate speaker, and began to beat him
without mercy.  In vain poor Balduin attempted
to speak, in vain he tried to defend himself.
Even Rupel's remonstrances were not listened to
in the midst of the uproar.

Such treatment had the over-indulged Balduin
never before received.  He was stunned, stupified,
and, for the first time in his life, afraid.
Whenever he opened his lips to offer some explanation,
he was stopped by Mr. Dilling thundering out,
"Silence, sir!" and raising his hand to give
him another blow.  Balduin anxiously awaited
the arrival of his three companions, in the hope
that they would extricate him from his unpleasant
situation; but poor Balduin waited in vain.  He
seated himself in a corner of the room, weeping
bitterly from pain and anger, while the enraged
master gave vent to the remainder of his wrath
in scolding words.--"I would have the rascal
arrested," he continued, after a volley of abusive
epithets; "did I not need him to-day; indeed I
cannot do without him at the concert which is
to take place in the town, and at which he is
to play the oboe.  Come along, we have no time
to lose; evening will soon be here, and as yet
we have no rehearsal; all on account of that
worthless fellow.  Make haste!"

The music-stands were immediately set up, the
instruments in the hands of the pupils, and the
miserable Balduin shown where he was to take
his place.  When the oboe was thrust into his
hand by one of the boys, he exclaimed, "But,
indeed, I cannot----"

"Is he again daring to speak?" cried Mr. Dilling,
taking hold of a stick, and threatening
to strike him.--"You are there, sir, to blow,
and not to reason."

In despair, Balduin took the instrument, and,
after a few unsuccessful attempts, raised the
mouthpiece of the oboe to his lips, and placed
himself before the music-stand.  The overture
began, and Balduin blew as if his cheeks would
crack; when suddenly an evil spirit seemed to
have taken possession of the town musician.
Purple with rage, he sprung from his place and
struck the unfortunate player a dreadful blow
on the head, saying, "What wretched playing
is that?--do you mean to make a fool of me?"

A stream of blood from Balduin's mouth was
the only answer; and the concert speedily came
to an end; for Balduin fell senseless into the
arms of Rupel, who came to his aid.  From the
violence of the blow the under end of the oboe
had struck against the music-stand, while the
sharp point had pierced Balduin's throat.

"That is all pretence," stammered the now
pale-faced master.--"Wife, give the lad something to
gargle his throat with.  There is very little the
matter with him."

Balduin, however, soon showed that something
serious was the matter.  He gasped for breath
as if in agony, and fresh streams of blood
gushed from his mouth.  His companions now
all looked very grave, and there was an end of
their jests.  Rupel assisted the unhappy youth
to his bed, and then went away without saying
where he was going.  When Mr. Dilling (who
was rather alarmed at what had happened)
missed him, he cried out, "Where has Rupel
gone to?--Does he mean to make a noise about
the matter?  Is he no better than an idle
chatterbox?  I tell you what it is," turning to the
others, "if any of you dare to say one word of
this in the town, I will knock your heads off.
I am tormented enough to-day by the loss of an
*oboist*.  The good-for-nothing scoundrel;--he is
the cause of the whole disturbance."

The door-bell now rang.  "Who is there?"
asked Dilling, half out of his wits, as he pushed
aside the servant and went to open the door
himself.  "What do you want?" he asked, in no
gentle voice, the two strangers who presented
themselves.  "My tower is no dove-cot, and there
is nothing to be had here."

"We do not want anything, sir," answered the
honest Kummas; "we only come to visit my
Christlieb Fundus, the little Paganini."

"Your Christlieb?" asked Dilling in a shaking
voice.  "And who are you, may I ask?"

"Christlieb is my foster-son; and, with your
permission, I am the musician Kummas, from
Gelenau.  This is Malchen, the child of an old
neighbour of mine who is dead; she sings like
a lark.  We have come a long way to see our
Christlieb; so have the kindness to tell us
where he is."

During this speech the unhappy Mr. Dilling
stood as if on red-hot coals.  Collecting all his
strength he then muttered, "Truly, you sent me
a fine specimen of a youth!  The rascal has run
away, pawned, or sold my kettledrums, to buy
himself gay clothes.  But I will bring him to
the house of correction for this."

Kummas was as if struck by a second thunderbolt.
He reeled backwards, and would have
fallen, had not Malchen supported him.  "Can
this be true?" he said in a low voice to
himself.--"Heaven have pity on me! is he really
lost?--lost beyond hope!"  His head sank on Malchen's
shoulder, and he stood mute as a statue.

Warring with his feelings, Mr. Dilling looked
at the old man and his companion.  He hemmed
and coughed, but could not utter a word.  At
length Kummas said, in a voice of sadness, "And
where is my former Christlieb, who now, it seems,
neither regards God nor me?"

"How do I know?" replied the embarrassed
town musician.--"I tell you he has ran away."

"Come, then, Malchen," said the old broken-hearted
man; "I have now nothing to seek but
a grave.  There, in its stillness, I will rest my
weary head; for I am desolate."  With these
words Kummas turned to go away, and Malchen,
weeping, led him carefully and slowly down the
steps from the tower.  Dilling looked long after
them irresolute; but the fear of blame shut his
mouth, and he went back into the house, where,
in his room, his wife and servant were busy
washing away the marks of the blood.  Half-way
down the steps, Kummas paused to take breath
near an open window.  "Let me rest here a few
minutes, Malchen; the fresh air may revive me."  Both
stood in silence; but without eyes for the
beauty of the scene around them.  After a short
time they heard the voices and footsteps of
persons ascending the staircase.

"I pray you, doctor, do all in your power for
the youth," said one of the persons.--"He is the
best player of us all."

"Which of them is it?" asked the other.

"It is Christlieb Fundus," replied the first
speaker; "the best player on the violin.  Show
the master that there is some cause for alarm, so
that he may not treat the matter as a trifle.  I
tell you, a stab from a dagger could not be worse
than one from the sharp point of an oboe."

At the name of Christlieb, Kummas had become
attentive to what was said.  A ray of hope
gleamed upon him, and he raised his head, awaiting,
most anxiously, the appearance of the speakers,
who, in a moment or two afterwards, reached the
place where he was standing.  He addressed them
in a voice struggling with emotion.  "Kind sirs,"
he began, "for the love of heaven, tell me where
my son Christlieb Fundus is, and what is the
matter with him?  Has he really run away? or
is he sick?"

A glance at the old man was sufficient to
determine Rupel to speak the truth.

"If Christlieb is your child, then I will not
disguise from you that he has received an injury,
and is lying very ill in his bed.  Your arrival,
though not at the happiest time, is nevertheless
fortunate."

"One word more," said Kummas, as Rupel and
the doctor were hurrying past;--"is my son
really so wicked as the master affirms?"

"The Master!" repeated Rupel, surprised, for he
supposed that the two travellers were only on
their way up.--"Your son has been always good
and well-behaved, and in a single day he could
not become the very reverse."

Kummas became less sad; as he would far
rather his child were sick in body, than perverse
in mind.  Malchen and he soon reached again
the top of the stairs, and were not long in seeing
their favourite, whom they found already under
the hands of the doctor, and in a most dangerous
state.  At this moment, neither of them thought
of the mole on the left temple, nor of the fine
clothes which were strewn about the room.
Kummas and Malchen attended to all the wants
of poor Balduin, who, unable to speak, could
neither thank them nor unravel the mystery.
He now passed through a severe school, which,
however, became the means of his radical cure.
For three long days he was unable to swallow
anything, in consequence of his swollen throat.
Afterwards, his medicine and a little tea had to
be taken in drops.  He was helpless as a child,
and had it not been for his youthful strength,
the care of the doctor, and the unremitting
watchfulness of the old man and Malchen, he
could not have recovered.  He no longer refused
their assistance, but gladly took from the hand
of Malchen any cooling draught she offered.
Their constant presence lessened the tediousness
of the slow creeping hours.  How could he have
remained insensible to so much love,--to the
self-denial exercised for his sake by two persons
wholly unconnected with him!  When Balduin's
sleepless eye, sometimes, during the night, fell on
the old man, who, overcome by sleep, was resting
on his hard bed of straw, with a thin cover over
him,--when he heard the loud regular stroke of
the pendulum above his head, sounding as it
seemed a death-knell, and saw by the glimmering
light of the feeble lamp the black walls of
the tower,--then came the elegant dwelling of
his father, with all its luxuries, before the eye
of his mind.  He thought of his gentle mother,
who had only been too indulgent to him, and
whose heart, as well as that of his affectionate
father, he had made sad by his ingratitude.  He
remembered the treachery and desertion of his
three companions; and, overcome by a deep sense
of his former thoughtlessness and guilt, he resolved
from henceforth, to endeavour to be quite a
different character.  Remorse had touched his
heart, his eyes were opened, and he prayed to
God for forgiveness,--to that God who had long,
by gentle and gracious means, sought to lead
him into paths of virtue, but who now had
seen it needful to teach him by affliction and
adversity.  Balduin, subdued and humbled, now
enjoyed the peace which is above all price; and
his bodily health amended with that of his mind.





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.. _`THE REUNION`:

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   CHAPTER XIV.


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   THE REUNION.

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We often seek at a distance what is to be
found quite at hand; and so it happened with
Balduin's father, the director of police, Mr. von
Winsing, who was searching for his runaway
son in remote districts, while the youth was
only some miles distant from the capital.  A
newspaper, which accidentally fell into his hands,
made him hastily change his route.  This was
the notice (already mentioned as being inserted
in the public papers) of the detention in prison
of the two vagrants, dame Hicup and the woman
with the show-box, with an account of the
circumstances connected with their seizure.  Only a
matter of deep interest could have induced the
sorrowful father to give up for a time the
search of his son, as it was possible he might
from what he had read obtain possession of the
other child so long lost to him.  When he
arrived at the small town of Brixen, where the
two women were imprisoned, he immediately
went to the magistrate and made the following
deposition:--

"My dear wife, in the second year of our
marriage, presented me with two boys, fine
healthy twins, and as like each other as two
drops of water.  Except by a very small mole
on the left cheek of our youngest born, it was
almost impossible to distinguish the one from
the other.  To our great joy they grew in
health and strength until they were nine months
old, when they were stolen from us in a manner
as bold as it was shameless.  The grown-up son
of the nurse who had charge of the infants was
a worthless fellow, and, in consequence of a
serious crime he had committed, I was obliged
by the duties of my office to have him arrested,
and given over for punishment.  His mother
foolishly imagined that the fate of her son
rested with me, and wept and entreated me to
set him at liberty.  As she failed in obtaining
her desire by these means, she meditated a plan
which might, as she thought, enable her to
attain her object.  The letter which she left
behind stated that the only way of again
receiving the children was to free her son, and to
hold her as innocent.  These were the only
conditions on compliance with which our infants
would be restored to us.  In addition, the most
fearful threats were used if we dared to send
persons to find out her place of hiding, or if
employed any means whatever for that purpose.
We knew too well the unbending character of
the woman; and as I had no power to turn
aside the course of justice, we feared for the
lives of our children.  After mature reflection, I
resolved to set out myself in search of the
woman, and to be very wary and cautious in
my proceedings, hoping that if I found her I
might get my children by gentle means, or if
not, by force.  Giving myself no rest either by
night or day, it was no wonder if one night I
fell asleep in my carriage.  But who can describe
my astonishment when, at my awaking at
daybreak, I saw by the grey light of morning,
lying on the empty seat opposite, the youngest
of my sons, distinguished by the mole on his
left cheek.  How he had come there, by whom
brought, neither I nor the postilion could tell.
So far my search had been fruitless; and it was
now necessary, in consequence of this singular
circumstance, to return home to my despairing
wife.  Fifteen long years passed away without
our being able to obtain the slightest clue as to
what had become of the other child.  Permit me
then, sir, to have an interview with both
prisoners, that I may gain certain information
of the life or death of my son.  Indeed, I could
almost wish to hear of the latter; for if our
Balduin, brought up with such care, has caused
us so much sorrow, how much worse may not
our eldest born have become, falling--as in all
probability he would do--into worthless hands."

"I am happy, my dear sir," replied the
magistrate, "to have it in my power to allay
your apprehensions on that point.  You would
see from the newspapers that the unfeeling
dame Hicup, when she had put the one into
the post carriage, placed the other in a manger,
from which it was taken out by a poor fiddler,
called Kummas, who adopted it.  From inquiries
we directed to be made in the village where the
old man lived, the village of Gelenau, it was
ascertained, both from the pastor and the
schoolmaster, that your son had become a clever and
an excellent youth, and that at present he was
in the town of Waldau studying music with the
master of the band in that place.  It is
likewise said that his foster-father, old Kummas,
lately left the village, in order to go and live
in the neighbourhood of his foster-son, to whom
he is very much attached."

The two gentlemen now proceeded to visit the
prisoners,--going, in the first instance, to
examine the nurse who had stolen them.  The
moment this woman saw her former master
enter the cell she became pale, and turned away
her head.  As the time for deception, however,
was now past, with many tears she confessed
what she had done.

"Hannah," said her master with much emotion,
"how happy you might have been in your
old age had you remained faithful to your
trust; for we never would have seen the nurse
of our children want for anything.  But tell me,
how did your son reward you after he came
from the house of correction for the deed you
had done for his sake?"

A painful expression passed over the face of
the woman at this question; and she answered,
in a tone of bitterness, "For my love he
misused me, and deserted me."

"That is always the reward of the wicked,"
said the police director, "may it be your only
punishment.  But why did you leave the children
with a stranger, rather than return them to
their parents?"

"Hatred and dread of punishment," replied
Hannah.  "When I had wandered with them
on my back for five days in woods and solitary
places, I was unable to carry them any farther,
so I determined to free myself of them in a
proper way.  Besides, I thought that if I were
caught and put in prison, I might be the better
able to make conditions by refusing to tell the
place where I had left them, unless leniently
dealt with."

Dame Hicup, into whose cell they next went,
complained bitterly of the hardship of having
been so long imprisoned, as she conceived that
instead of being punished in this fashion, she
deserved a recompense, as she had managed so
well with the twins, and had been the means
of discovering the real thief.  The director of
police promised to get her and her blind
husband admission into a charitable institution,
where they might lead a comfortable life, with
the exception of brandy-drinking, as of that
liquid they would find none.  Mr. von Winsing
had now nothing to do but hasten to Waldau,
there to seek his son at the house of the
*stadt-musikus*.

Reinhold, the son whom he expected to find
there, was still in the capital with his mother,
and perfectly restored to health.  The Lady von
Winsing had written to her husband relating the
joyful tidings of having found her eldest-born:
but, in consequence of the director's change of
plan, the letter had not reached him.  When
Madame von Winsing, by a letter from Brixen,
learnt what had happened, and where her
husband had gone to, she resolved to give him a
surprise by meeting him, along with Reinhold,
at Waldau; and therefore made preparations for
doing so.  The chief thing to be done was to
purchase a pair of kettle-drums, without which
Christlieb declared he dared not face his former
master.

Almost at the same hour when Mr. Winsing
left Brixen for Waldau, his lady and Christlieb
started from the capital for the same town.

Balduin, in the meanwhile, was so far recovered
as to be able to walk on to the gallery
to breathe the pleasant air of spring.

The *stadt-musikus*, whose selfishness returned
as his fears departed, had this morning plainly
told Kummas and Malchen that their presence
was no longer necessary, and that they must now
look out for some other lodging.  He was,
however, not a little surprised when Balduin told
him that he was not Christlieb, but the son of
the police director at the capital.  Kummas and
Malchen were not so much amazed, for they of
late had begun to have their doubts, when they
remembered the mole on the left cheek and the
fine clothes.  They did not regret what they had
done from love to the apparent Christlieb; but
they were oppressed with anxiety as to what
had become of the real one.  Without any hint
from the town-musician, they had resolved to
depart whenever they were assured that Balduin
was not their Christlieb; and they immediately
prepared for their departure to seek for their
dear lost one.  In vain Balduin entreated them
first to go with him to see his parents, as soon
as the doctor thought him fit for the journey;
nothing would keep them, no reward induce
them to delay.  As Malchen was tying up their
few poor clothes, she whispered to Kummas,
"Although Balduin certainly at first treated us
very ill, yet I cannot help liking him, in spite
too of his killing the poor starling; for he is so
like Christlieb, and I think is far more
reasonable than he was."

"You may be right as to the last part of
your speech," replied the old man; "but not in
the first.  Master Balduin, with his pale face
and sunk eyes, is only like the moon; but my
Christlieb, with his rosy cheeks, is like the fiery
sun; and even were that not the case, my
Christlieb can play on the violin, while this
Balduin can only whine."

The door bell rang, and Balduin's father
stepped in when the servant opened.  He
seemed panting for breath; wiped the
perspiration from his forehead, and then said,
"Where is the town-musician?  Are the pupils
within?"

The maid-servant directed him to the small
gallery where Dilling was walking, as well as
Balduin.  In spite of the paleness and thinness
of Balduin (the effect of his illness), the
police director instantly recognised his son.  But,
in order not to alarm him, he remained for a
few moments looking at him.  When, however,
Balduin accidentally turned fully round his face,
Mr. Winsing could resist no longer, and, rushing
up to him with open arms, he exclaimed, "Yes;
there can be no doubt! you are my son
Reinhold! behold in me your father, dear child, and
embrace me!"

Balduin had sunk on his knees before his
deeply affected parent, and said, "Father,
forgive me!  I have erred and done wrong; but
I have been grievously punished for my folly."

Here the *stadt-musikus* looked rather
embarrassed and fidgetty, while the police
director cried out in astonishment, "Are you
not"----

"I am Balduin, your unworthy son, and not
the gentle Christlieb, or Reinhold, who attracts
all hearts," said the repentant youth.

"But where, then, is the real Christlieb?"
asked the gentleman, turning to Mr. Dilling.
"Was he not a pupil of yours, and his
foster-father a poor village musician?"

"Where he is I know not," replied the
*stadt-musikus*.  "Since the breaking up of the
ice he has disappeared, along with my kettle-drums."

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Mr. von
Winsing.  "Just at the moment when, after a
fifteen years' separation, I had hoped to embrace
my child, to hear that I may have lost him for
ever."

At this moment the servant came and
announced that a stranger wished to see
Mr. Dilling, who, glad to make his escape,
hastened away.  Balduin meanwhile related to his
father everything that had happened to him,
and all he had suffered.

The town-musician was most agreeably
surprised when a man laden with two superb
kettle-drums, stood before him.  "Master
Christlieb Fundus sends his respects," stammered
out the man, "and sends you back your
drums.  Not the old drums, to be sure, for
they were lost in the river; but speck and
span new ones.--Master Christlieb begs you
will excuse their not having been sent sooner;
but he has been long very ill."  With these
words, the messenger put down the shining
drums, with their snow-white leather tops and
elegant sticks, which the town musician most
joyfully received.  His delight was augmented
when the door again opened, and Christlieb
himself, followed by his mother, walked into
the house, and rushed into the arms of old
Kummas, whom he encountered ready for his
departure.

"Hurrah!" exclaimed the old man, shedding
tears of joy, while he pressed his foster-son
to his heart; "this is the real Christlieb!
Rejoice with me, for I have again found my
Fundus!"

"Mother! dearest mother!" sobbed Christlieb,
"this is my good foster-father, who took me out
of the manger, and carried me in the violincello
to his home."

The high-bred, beautiful lady most heartily
embraced the honest countryman, while
Christlieb went on to say,--"Father Kummas, this
is my mother, the kindest-hearted person in
all the world; and there is Malchen," he
continued, still more pleased, drawing the bashful
girl forward; "Malchen, the faithful friend,
who brought me the cake when I was in
the dungeon, and who took care of my starling!"

"And here is your excellent father," said
Madame von Winsing, hastening towards her
husband, who had just entered the room.  "Oh! my
dear husband, what a son have we found
in Reinhold!"

His father embraced the latter in a tumult
of joy.  "Seeing, however, poor Balduin weeping
in a corner, who did not presume to mingle
with the happy circle, Mr. von Winsing turned
towards him and took him by the hand to lead
him to his mother.

"Dear wife," said the director, "this tower
is an enchanted place!  It makes the sorrowful
glad and the wicked good.  Our Balduin has
lately had some lessons here, which have quite
changed him.  He is now worthy of your affection."

Mr. Dilling had been all this time in a fever
of anxiety to try his new drums, and now he
could resist no longer.  Without being asked, he
began, by a splendid flourish on them, to play
the sublime melody of--

   |  "Now let us all thank God!"

And to this every one present responded with
profound feelings of gratitude.

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   THE END.

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.. _`THE WOOD-GATHERER`:

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   THE WOOD-GATHERER

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One summer evening, a girl, barefoot and clad
in a ragged frock, might have been seen in a
deep wood, gathering fuel.  She was scarcely
ten years old, yet for a long time had been
sent out by her parents, day after day, to seek,
as now, dry sticks, or, if it was spring-time,
rampions and wild hops, or, if it were summer,
strawberries and hillberries, and to offer these
for sale from house to house.

When she had nothing to sell, she had to go
about begging.  Without bringing something she
dared not return home, if she wished to escape
a scolding, or even being beaten; for her parents
were poor, and her father a moody and passionate
man.

It had not always been so; but since
unproductive times and repeated recurrence of
sickness in his family had prevented him from
advancing, as he had hoped, in his trade--he
was a shoemaker--he had, under a godless
dejection, given himself up to drinking, thereby
scaring away his last customers, and completing
his domestic misery.

The mother, a capital wife, as one would say,
but as little acquainted with God and His Word
as her husband, was thenceforth compelled to
bear singly the burden of supporting her family,
and was accustomed to go out and earn money
by washing.  For more than a year the
sorely-smitten family had been deprived even of this
scanty means of subsistence, the poor woman's
uninterrupted exertions by day and by night
having brought on a severe illness, and laid her
paralytic--lame, hand and foot--in bed,
surrounded by her raging husband, and the three
half-naked and starving children.

The eldest of the children was Mary, our
wood-gatherer.

The little girl, as she is to be met to-day
deep in the wood, has collected a pretty large
bundle of dry branches, but is weary from her
long wandering about the bushes, and lays
herself down to rest on the moss-grown roots of
a tall, shady beech-tree.

And while she sits, it is as if the birds in
the wood all found an inward compassion with
the poor child, and would, as far as lay in
their power, encourage, comfort, and cheer her.

Our little Mary thought within herself that
she had never heard the feathered songsters sing
so sweetly as they were now doing in choirs
on the green twigs around her.

And it was indeed delightful to listen how
the finch warbled here in short, fresh lay, and
the titmouse and sisken there sounded their
tender notes; and how, from the copse threaded by
the brook, arose the long-breathed farewell song
of the nightingale; and, from the far distance,
the full melancholy trill of the blackbird floated
touchingly over.

The cuckoo, also, and the turtle-dove, gave
their contribution to the general concert; the
ravens, also, in the neighbouring oak, to whom
the song is denied, appeared desirous of
contributing their share to the entertainment of
the little maid, and fed their young before her
eyes, and the young ones stretched their necks
out of the high nest, and opened wide their
bills.  The squirrels frisked about, now here, now
there, and leaped from tree to tree; and many
of the birds came close to Mary's feet, and picked
up worms, or a feather, or flock of moss, and
flew away with it to their nests.

Mary looked a long time at this joyous life
almost with adoration; and, in the still, lofty
wood, her heart had a strange feeling, as if she
could, at the same time, laugh and weep.  She
had also her own thoughts, glad and sorrowful,
but more of the latter, and yet she did not
herself very well know what she really thought.
At last she bent her head on her breast, and
the evening zephyrs sighed her asleep.

During the slumber she had a wonderful dream.

She dreamed that she was again in a deep
lonely wood, and as she looked up, see! there
walked through the shades of the trees, clothed
in a shining white garment, a majestic form
with a friendly countenance.

All the birds immediately gathered round the
mysterious man, and hovered about him with
wonderful songs, the like of which she had never
heard.  And from his full hands he strewed food
of all kinds for the cheerful singers, and the
birds picked it up, and carried it to their nests,
and flew back singing still more heartily and
beautifully than before.

And Mary heard the name of the gracious man
distinctly repeated in every chorus, and it seemed as
if she had never heard so sweet and dear a name.
And Mary thought--"Oh, thou kind man, were I but
one of these kind birds of thine, and wert thou but
to step once into our cottage as thou enterest here!"

And as she thus thought, she was just on the
point of rising to hasten after him, and seize
the hem of his garment, and say, "Not so, you
come to us also;" but then she awoke, and,
alas! what she had heard and seen was but a dream.
She found herself alone in the dark wood, for
the sun had long ago gone down.  By her side
lay the bundle of sticks--nothing more.  Deep
silence reigned around her, only broken by the
rustling of the evening wind among the leaves
of the trees, and now and then the solitary
doleful sounds which were winged across from
the distant nightingales, and now and then a
beetle humming in the air, or a glow-worm
shining amongst the shrubs.

Sorrowfully Mary rose up from her mossy seat,
put her faggot on her shoulders, and took the
way home.

But the sensations kindled by the pleasant
dream lived on in her heart, and the image of
the friendly man had impressed itself indelibly
on her mind.

If she could but recall his name!  In her
dream it was repeatedly and distinctly
pronounced in the songs of the birds, but at the
moment of awaking it had escaped, and, cast
about as she might, it was not again to be found.

This is not to be wondered at.  All over
Christendom there are still houses like those of the
heathens, where the name in which all salvation
is contained is unknown, or, if known,
unpronounced.

Such a house that of the parents of this poor
child unfortunately was.  Mary had never yet
been in school.  Father and mother, when
admonished of their duty, had always pretended that
the child was too unwell to be at the time sent
to school; and the frequency with which their
residence in town had been changed, rendered it
difficult for the authorities to take proper
oversight of the children.

Mary was now in her own street, walking
silently on, trying and trying whether the dear
name which she had dreamed would not come
back again.

With a friendly "Good evening, my child," a
man in a black dress and white bands placed
himself beside her.  He had just been dispensing
comfort at a dying bed.

Mary, buried in thought, was rather startled
at the salutation, and stared with great eyes at
the stranger, but did not recognise him, for she
had never been in church, or only by accident
for a few hasty moments.  She returned laconically
the hearty greeting, fell back again into the
train of her meditations, and continued to
proceed silently along the street.

The man, however, did not leave her, but
entered into conversation, asking from what place
she came so late, who her parents were, and in
what state matters were at home; and as he
spoke so affectionately and paternally, the child
gradually opened her whole heart, and went on
to tell of their great poverty, and how her
mother was so sick, and her little brother and
sisters hungered, and her father--but, as she
mentioned her father, the tears started to her
eyes, and she could not utter one word more for
sobbing.

Then the pastor told her--for we already know
that it was he--to keep up her spirits, and be of
good cheer, better times might come round again.
"For," said he, "there lives one, a good, rich,
powerful Lord; they only required to apply to
Him, and complain to Him of their want, and
He would certainly help them; He had already
assisted many thousands of poor people."

When the maiden heard these words, she
suddenly stood still in the middle of the street,
and the look with which she regarded the
pastor distinctly asked, "Who is the Great Helper?
Mention His name!"  And the latter continued
his discourse thus: "Do you not know the dear
Lord who feeds the birds in the air, which sow
not neither reap, and who clothes the lilies of
the field, which toil not, neither spin, and yet
are more beautifully arrayed than Solomon in
all his glory?  You surely know Him; or did
you never hear of Jesus, the merciful Saviour?"

At these words Mary knew not what to make
of it.  Ah, thought she, transported with joy,
now I have it!  Yes! yes! so sounded the name
which the birds in the wood praised in my dream!

She thought, but kept close all that had
happened to her, and what she had met with, and
said, in a touchingly suppliant voice, "Dear sir,
tell me more of this Jesus;" and how willingly
her friendly companion complied with her request!

He commenced and explained how all the
children of men must have perished on account of
their sins, had the great and holy God strictly
and righteously dealt with them.  He next told
her of the merciful love of the Almighty--that
it was so great that He rather gave for them
His most beloved and eternal Son, than leave
them to the destruction which they had deserved.
This Son, though beyond all measure rich, yet
for our sakes became a poor man and our brother,
and is rightly named Jesus the Saviour.  He
staked His all to deliver us and redeem our lost
inheritance; and He is now the helping friend
of poor sinners, who still, though unseen, goes
about over the land, and blessing, and dispensing
kindness and comforts wherever He is but desired.

This was the substance of the discourse which
the pastor held with the little wood-gatherer, in
a way which children could understand.

Meanwhile, to the no small disappointment of
the latter, they had reached the town.  The
pastor made the girl show him the dwelling of
her parents, and, after again pressing her not
to forget what she had heard, shook hands with
her, and, with a hearty "Good night, my dear,"
took his departure.  The girl returned the
greeting from the bottom of her heart, thanked him
for his words, and went on her way with the
bundle of sticks.  She had never gone there so
light, so free, so happy as at this hour.

When she came home, her father was sitting
behind the empty table, gloomy and silent, with
his head resting on both hands.  The mother
was lying in her sick-bed, with immeasurable
sorrow imprinted on every feature.

"What have you brought?" shouted the father,
with a rigid face, as she entered.

"This wood, father," replied Mary; "and," added
she, her countenance lighted up with joy, "a
dear, dear friend, who has everything in abundance."

"A friend!" muttered the father; "what sort
of friend is it, Mary?"

"One so powerful and rich, that it is an easy
thing for him, dear mother, to restore you to
health with a word, and no less quickly to bring
you work, dear father, and all that we need."

"And this friend may be?"

"He is called Jesus, and"----

She would have said more, but scarcely had
she pronounced the name Jesus than her father,
with wild blasphemy and cursing, commanded
instant silence, and threatened her with blows
should she ever again think of coming to him
with such fooleries and pronouncing that name.

And, alas! the sick mother was of the same
opinion, and manifested as much anger as her
husband, and said: "Had you brought us home
a few pence for bread, that would have been
better."

It is scarcely in the power of words to express
what Mary felt at this reception.  The weight
upon her breast prevented her from uttering a
single word more.  She stole softly into the dark
closet which was the common sleeping apartment
of herself, her father, and two sisters.

Overcome with grief, she sank down on the
hard straw mattress; and who knows whether
she had ever again risen from it, had her
oppressed heart not found relief in giving vent to
a flood of clear tears, and had she not, at the
same time, recalled to memory the kind, comforting
form which had appeared to her in the dream.

"Oh, Lord Jesus," sighed Mary, "thou dear
friend of poor sinners, see, see, how I also am
a poor, poor, little bird; and my sisters, and we
all, all!  Oh, help us also!  Restore my mother
to health, and make my father cheerful and
good!  Give us bread, and peace; give us peace,
and make us love Thee, and be obedient to Thee!"

Sobbing, she sighed it up, and sighed and
whispered much more besides.  Then she became
still, and wept no more, for it was with her as
if one sweet yes after another sounded in her
ear.  Full of blessed peace, she fell asleep.  Hope
was the good angel that closed her eyes.

Next morning she was the first out of bed,
and cheerfully and actively busied herself in
sweeping the room, and, as far as possible,
putting everything in its place.

She then sat down by the bedside of her
mother, and said, "Mother, certainly the Saviour
helps!"

To her mother's question how she had fallen
into this strange way of speaking, Mary began
to relate all the occurrences of the day
before,--how she had fallen asleep in the wood, what
a dream she had had, how a well-disposed man
had made up to her on the way, and this and
that which he had spoken.

And she told it so lively, and with such simple
and childlike gladness, that the mother could not
be satisfied with hearing; and at length tears
stood in her eyes, and she seized Mary's hand,
and said, "Oh, Mary, that you would but dream
once more!"

Meanwhile, the father also had entered the
room; but when he heard the words, "Jesus,"
and "prayer," and remarked the solemn and
impressed air of both mother and daughter, he
broke into a fury, and said, "Mary, bring once
more that absurd stuff to light, and you may
look about for where to live; I tolerate you no
longer here!  Go and get bread.  If matters do
not soon take a different turn in my family, I
am resolute, and there is nothing of which I will
not be capable.  The criminals in the penitentiary
may be called happy compared with us, and death
is to be preferred to this life of starvation and
distress!"

He said this with a countenance of deep despair
and a horrible aspect.  Mary sprang towards him,
clung tenderly to his knee, and said with a voice
which might have moved a stone--

"Oh, father, do not be so sad, do not be so
angry.  You will see that we will certainly be
helped!"

The father put her away from him, though
with a gentle push; and, whether his heart was
touched I know not, went in silence out of the
room, shut the door behind him, and was soon
lost in the streets of the town.

When he returned towards noon, sulky and out
of humour, he found Mary busy, spreading a
tattered napkin on the table, and laying earthenware
dishes.  At the same time she set as many
knives and forks as could be found; and did it
all with such a cheerfulness of her own, as if
she was preparing for a feast anticipated by no
one else.

"Have we anything to eat?" asked he.

"I do not understand either," chimed in the
mother, "what the foolish child means."

Mary, however, rejoined, "I think some one
will indeed provide something for us."

"Don't begin again to be absurd," shouted the
father, and held his clenched fist close to the
child's face.

Mary bent her head and was silent.  Did she
perhaps know some secret?  She knew none;
only her heart said, "The friend that feeds the
birds cannot and will not forsake us!"

Just as it struck mid-day in the clock on the
tower, the room-door, opened, and a neat,
well-clad maid entered, with a great, and to
appearance heavily-laden basket on her arm.

"My master's compliments," began she, "and
you would perhaps accept this from him if you
can use it.  Mr. B. bids me say that you were so
much in his mind last night, that he could scarcely
sleep on your account.  He then thought that
you might possibly be in present difficulties; and
should it be the case, you would perhaps excuse
his sending this small contribution to your
household.  He will himself, in the course of a few
days, come and see how matters stand with you."

Saying this, she emptied the basket, laid several
beautiful loaves upon the table, handed forth a
pot of butter, and a large piece of meat.  There
also lay at the bottom of the basket a cloth
dress already worn, but still in good condition,
and a piece of linen lay beside it.  The maid
said, "For shifts for the children."

When the shoemaker B. saw the one unpacked
after the other, he stood like a pillar, and strove
to utter a word of thanks, but was wholly
unable.  His wife made no less effort to stammer
out from her sick-bed some expression of
gratitude; but, as she would speak, she broke into
loud sobbing, and instead of words, poured forth
a stream of tears.  Nothing remained but that
little Mary should be the mouth of her parents.

"Give your good master," said the girl, "thousand,
thousand thanks.  The Lord Jesus will recompense
what he has done for us in His name!"  She
then turned to her father and mother with
joy beaming from her eyes, and said, "Do you
see? there is indeed the dear, powerful Friend!  Come
let us eat what he has provided, and let us be
happy!"

But hunger and thirst had left the parents.
The father wept, standing speechless and as if
thunderstruck in the middle of the room; then
all at once he took up his little daughter, pressed
her to his heart, and turned up his eyes as if he
would direct them to heaven; and how further
the hardened man began to weep and sob is
scarcely to be told.

The mother called from her bed one time after
another, "It is the Lord! it is the Lord!" but
more than this her excessive agitation prevented
her from saying.

The scene of tears was still continuing when
the door opened afresh, and introduced the
gentleman himself who had just sent the provisions
and clothing, a substantial merchant of that place.

At the sight of the weeping faces he started,
and stopped at the threshold, saying "Children,
what is the matter with you?"  No answer.
"But I entreat you," continued he with
increasing interest, "what has happened to you?"

Again no answer, but only a smile and a sigh
through tears.

Then Mary took up the word once more, and
said, "Dear, noble sir, it is from joy and
gratitude that we are all weeping."

"Indeed," rejoined the benefactor, "that is well
worth such a trifle.  You see, Mr. B., I had to
leave you two years ago, and give the work for
my family to others, for, to tell you candidly,
it was impossible to be any longer satisfied with
you.  I learned, besides, that you had entered
upon an irregular life.  I confess that since then
I thought no more of you, until in the past
night, as I could not sleep, all at once the
thought of you entered my mind, and whether
I would or not, I felt anxious for you.  I should
have hastened to you myself this morning had
not an unforseen engagement thwarted my
design; and in the meantime I forwarded the few
refreshments.  But now tell me how matters
stand with you.  That you were very poor I
learned from those in my service, of whom I
enquired this morning.  Have you again bethought
yourself of the duties which you owe wife and
child?  Just open up your heart to me, and
explain all."

The master of the house stood a few seconds
opposite his benevolent guest, with eyes fixed on
the ground, and dumb; he then covered his face
with his hands, and cried in a loud and truly
heart-rending voice, "No, no!  I am a godless
man; but, with God's help"----

He would have said more, but tears choked
his utterance.

His friendly visitor then grasped him by the
right hand, and said, with winning kindness and
gentleness, "Compose yourself, compose yourself;
all may, all will take a turn for the better.
Listen!  Because I expect that you will henceforth
lead a regular life, and keep steadily at your work,
I will make an advance for the purchase of as
much leather as you require, and not only will
I give you the work from my house, but I
hope to be able to procure other friends to do
the same.  Now, is that agreeable to you?  Say
what you think."

These words were scarcely pronounced, when
the tradesman, deeply moved, suddenly fell upon
his knees, and cried, "God be merciful to me a
sinner!  Mary, I now see it with my own eyes.
Your Saviour lives!"

The mother, from her couch, made similar
exclamations, and the generous guest kept ever and
anon wiping his eyes.

At last he said, "Children, I pray you be still.
You break my heart.  Eat now; be cheerful.
For to-day, farewell; I will return to-morrow."  With
this he left, moved to the very heart.

It would be tedious to relate in detail what
further took place.  From that time, in the
cottage of the shoemaker, all old things passed
away and all things became new.  Those who
had formerly been acquainted with the family
no longer recognised it.  Husband and wife
walked hand and hand in the countenance of
the Lord.  Their union was of the happiest,
their house a bright example to the whole
neighbourhood.  The children were trained up in the
fear and admonition of the Lord, and, neatly clad,
regularly attended the school of a pious teacher.

Mary bloomed in the society of the powerful
and loving Friend who feeds the birds and
clothes the lilies, happy and lovely as a flower
of paradise in the dark valley of the earth.
The father by and bye kept, sometimes three,
sometimes even four journeymen, and his family
had their daily bread in abundance.

He did not remain one farthing in the debt
of his benefactor, who afterwards learnt, of
course, all that had transpired previously to his
first visit.  He was even able to give something
of his own to the treasury of love, and many
a contribution for missionary, Bible, and other
Christian associations, were received from him
by the pastor, who kept the promise he had
made to Mary of visiting them, and in no family
of his parish passed his time oftener, or with
greater pleasure, than in that of the shoemaker.
The peace of God was enthroned beneath the
richly blessed roof, for the Prince of Peace
Himself had in mercy taken up His abode there.

The parents, afterwards, following close on
each other, died in a joyful faith in Him who,
in a twofold sense, had been to them resurrection
and life.

Mary had been shortly before married to a
cabinetmaker, an upright man, who was well
aware what a pearl the Lord had presented him
with in his wife.  On the marriage day, the
bridegroom made his bride a present of a
beautiful family Bible, with gilt edges and silver
clasps.  The bride, in return, gave him a piece
of embroidery, wrought by her own hand, and
set in a gilt frame.  There were on it
full-topped trees, and branches decorated with all
kinds of little birds.  A kind form wandered
beneath the shade of the trees, and strewed
corn right and left for the happy songsters.
At the foot of the piece, composed of particles
of gold, might be read the words:--"Behold the
fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do
they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your
heavenly Father feedeth them.  *Are ye not much
better than they?*"

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   THE CLAREMONT SERIES, 1/.

.. class:: center medium bold

   *Handsomely bound in Cloth.  Illustrated.*

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1.  THE CLAREMONT TALES
A story for Boy and Girls.  By A.L.O.E.

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2.  A WREATH OF SMOKE
Or A Wedding in a London Fog.  By A.L.O.E.

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3.  GRACE VERNON.
Or Christian Lore and Loyalty.  By A.L.O.E.

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4.  CHRISTIAN CONQUESTS
A Collection of Stories, by A.L.O.E.

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5.  POMEGRANATES FROM THE PUNJAB
A Series of Stories, by A.L.O.E.

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6.  THE LAKE OF THE WOODS
A tale of the Backwoods.  By A.L.O.E.

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7.  TALES ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE PARABLES
A Collection of Stories, by A.L.O.E.

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8.  LITTLE BULLETS FROM BATALA
Or Indian Stories, by A.L.O.E.

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9.  SEVEN PERILS PASSED
A Series of Stories, by A.L.O.E.

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10.  THE BATTLE OF LIFE
Or What is a Christian?  Stories by A.L.O.E.

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11.  THE WONDROUS SICKLE
Stories by A.L.O.E.

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12.  THE KING'S HIGHWAY
Stories on the Commandments.  By Rev. Dr. Newton.

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13.  THE SAFE COMPASS
And How it Points.  By Rev. Dr. Newton.

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14.  THE GIANTS, AND HOW TO FIGHT THEM
And other Stories.  By Rev. Dr. Newton.

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15.  BURTIE COREY
The Fisher Boy.  A Temperance Story.

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16.  OLD CARROLL'S WILL
Or "Take Care of 'Number One.'" By S. G. Goodrich.

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17.  THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS
By John Bunyan.  Illustrated.

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