The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Wolf-slayer; Margaret Kaurner
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Title: The Wolf-slayer; Margaret Kaurner
Author: Christoph von Schmid
Release date: October 15, 2024 [eBook #74582]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: American Tract Society
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOLF-SLAYER; MARGARET KAURNER ***
Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
[Illustration]
THE
WOLF-SLAYER;
[and]
[MARGARET KAURNER.]
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"BASKET OF FLOWERS."
[Christoph von Schmid]
[Illustration]
AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY
150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.
CONTENTS.
THE WOLF-SLAYER.
MARGARET KAURNER. A STORY OF GOLD AND COPPER COINS.
INTRODUCTION.
LETTER I. MARGARET TO HER MOTHER.
LETTER II. MARGARET TO HER MOTHER.
LETTER III. MRS. KAURNER TO HER DAUGHTER MARGARET.
LETTER IV. MARGARET TO HER MOTHER.
LETTER V. GEORGE TO MARGARET.
LETTER VI. MARGARET TO HER MOTHER.
LETTER VII. GEORGE TO HIS MOTHER.
[Illustration]
THE WOLF-SLAYER.
——————
IT WAS winter time; cold, bleak, sharp, piercing winds were blowing,
scattering the snowflakes as they fell, and making doubly precious the
cozy warmth and snug comfort of the fire-side. Through the windows of a
pleasant country house, the red glow of fire-light was streaming, and
fell in ruddy beauty on the snow-white ground, and while the wind kept
howling and sweeping through the forest glades with melancholy music,
the sound of pleasant voices and the shout of merry laughter betokened
happiness within the house.
Happiness, ay, that there was, and plenty of it, and as the circle
gathered round the blazing logs, one might have gone a long, long way
to find a sight more cheerful, and without succeeding. There was the
old grandfather with his silver locks, and the good grandame, with that
high cap of hers which was a perfect marvel to behold, and her gold
spectacles resting on her nose. There were the younger couple, a tall,
stout, well-built man, with black curly hair, and about six and thirty
years of age, and his wife, with a charmingly pretty face, and about
three or four years younger, and a group of lighthearted children, some
sitting on the ground before the fire, while two or three were climbing
upon grandpa's knee and begging him, with all the winsome lovingness of
children, to tell them a story.
"And what is there I can tell you, Annie dear," said the old man to a
pretty dark-eyed girl who was looking up into his face, "that you have
not heard a dozen times before?"
"O we like them all the better, grandpa, because we know them," said
the children, "then we can pick and choose, you understand."
"Shall I tell you of little Mabel who was carried away by the gypsies?"
"No, grandpa, we should like something more exciting than that."
"Shall I tell you of Rosa Harebell, who was so good and pure and true,
but who died so very young, and heard the voice of him that called to
life again poor Jairus' daughter, saying, 'Arise, and live for ever'?"
"No, grandpa, the story is too sad."
And as the child spoke a melancholy expression stole over her
countenance, and a tear stood in her beautiful eyes.
"Then," said grandpa, "there is the story of the long-bow archers, who
once upon a time took up their abode in our own dear German forests,
and played strange tricks with travellers."
"Ah, that will do bravely," said little Henry, "I love to hear of
gallant heroes; do tell us all about it, grandpa; you have told us the
story before, but I do so long to hear it again, and I feel sure we are
all of one mind."
"Not so fast, Henry," returned the old man, "those heroes, as you call
them, had but little to recommend them to honest folk and well-meaning
people."
"Why, grandpa, were they not brave men?"
"Bravery, child, is a very doubtful word."
"Why doubtful, grandpa? Did they not live happily in the green wood,
and did they not take away the money from hard-hearted rich people,
and give it to deserving, good sort of people, who wanted it more than
they?"
"Yes, Henry, they did all this, but still they are not to be commended."
Now you must know that Henry was a great hand at an argument; he was
not more than ten and a half, half-past ten as the children say, rather
young for a logician, but he loved to reason out a thing as well as he
could.
"Well then," said Henry, "I cannot understand it at all."
"Why not, Henry?" replied grandpa. "The matter is plain enough."
"Is it not right that we should help the poor?" Henry put the question
as solemnly as a counsellor in any court of justice.
"Yes."
"Did not these long-bow archers do this?"
"Yes."
"Then," said Henry, "they did right; I am sure they did."
"Not so; the Bible says we must not do evil that good may come; the
Bible says 'thou shalt not steal,' they stole; and whatsoever their
object, good or bad, no matter, it was a sin, a vice, a crime!"
Henry was silent.
"Shall I tell you of the Wolf-slayer?"
"The Wolf-slayer, O, what is that? We never heard that story yet. Do
tell it to us. Is it very amusing, and is it true, quite true?"
"First," said the old man, "do you recollect last summer I showed you
the remains of an old chapel all overgrown with ivy and other creeping
plants, that is called the chapel of Wolfsbuhl?"
"O yes, quite well; on the top of a high hill, is it not?"
"It is; well, there is connected with that old chapel, the story of a
Wolf-slayer. And it is that which I am about to tell you now. What sort
of an animal is a wolf?"
"A cowardly, ferocious beast," said one.
"He is something like a dog, but larger and stronger," said another.
"He is generally of a pale gray color," said a third.
"And do you recollect," said the grandfather, "whether there is any
Bible text concerning the wolf?"
Annie slowly repeated the words, "'Benjamin shall ravin as a wolf; in
the morning he shall devour the prey, and at night he shall divide the
spoil.'"
"Quite right; now for the story."
The whole of the party drew nearer to the fire, another log was cast
upon the blazing pile, the children were all attention, and just as
there was a temporary lull in the storm without, the old man began:—
"Once upon a time there was a poor widow named Margaret. She lived in
a straw-thatched cabin, and a little field, a cow, and a grape vine,
were all she was worth in the world. She had one son, and his name was
George; he was a promising lad, the comfort and consolation of his
mother, as well as her proudest hope. For him she labored from early
morn to dewy eve; her spinning wheel was always at work, and with that
and the returns of her little field, she was able to buy flour, and
thus to use some of her milk and butter.
"In spring and summer time the good woman would direct the attention
of her son to the up-springing flowers, and tell him how God cared
for them all, and much more for people who called upon his name, and
would impress upon him how thankful we ought to be for all that Heaven
bestows, and to learn in whatsoever state we are, therewith to be
content.
"So George grew up to be a fine, strong lad, and had what was still
better than ruddy cheeks and stalwart arms, a good disposition and
a pious heart. He was his mother's joy, her household treasure, and
it was a comfort for her to think that he would one day be as good a
laborer as his father. She was not ambitious, and she thought hard work
rather honorable than otherwise.
"Well, she had formerly been at service with a farmer who lived about
six miles from the cottage, and when the farmer's son succeeded to the
property, she asked him to have George as a servant boy. The farmer
very willingly consented, and the mother set about equipping George for
his new employment.
"And here, my dear children, let me say a few words about work. It is
a good and noble thing to work. Nothing puts more honor upon work than
that saying of our Lord Jesus Christ, 'My father worketh hitherto and I
work.' God meant us to work. He put Adam in the Garden of Eden to dress
it and to keep it; labor did not altogether come in with the curse."
"But grandpa," said Henry, "would it not be better if there was no work
to be done; if all our lives could be spent without toil?"
"No."
"Really grandpa, I think it would, I do indeed."
"Why so, dear Henry? Speak frankly, let me know your reason."
"A great many people are over-worked, grandpa, and if there were no
necessity for labor, there could be no cause for this, and so one
source of evil would be done away. That is what makes me think the
world would be happier without work."
"Dear child, there are many people who think with you, but they forget
that nearly every good thing under the sun has been abused, and that
man has often turned God's best blessing into his worst curse. Work
strengthens the body, invigorates the mind, enlivens the feelings,
and gives zest to recreation, as long as it is confined within proper
limits; when it goes beyond this and becomes a drudgery, the evils that
you talk about ensue."
"And what should we do," said Henry's father, "if there were no work
done; no sailors to fetch far-off treasures, no herdsmen to take care
of our flocks, no farmers to grow corn, no builders to build our
houses, no—why I might make a longer catalogue than you would like to
read Master Henry, about the good that work has done. The people of
Palestine made a rule, and it was a very good rule, that everybody
should learn a trade; high and low, rich and poor, wise and simple; and
you recollect that the Apostle Paul says about the man who will not
work, neither shall he eat; a rule, by the way, the bees observe, the
thriving, bustling honey-bees, who tumble out the drones."
"And you remember," said grandpa, "that Jesus was not ashamed to work;
people called him not only the carpenter's son, but—what was it, Amy?"
"The carpenter."
"George was glad to be employed, for he would now be able to help his
mother; but still it is not to be wondered at that he should shed a
tear or two before he left his old home. He went to all his playmates
and bid them good-bye. Then he went into the meadow and saw the cow to
which he had carried so many bundles of hay. She was lying down on the
grass with her soft eyes blinking in the sunshine. The little fellow
went up to her and stroked her forehead.
"'Poor cow,' said he; 'you and I have been old friends; you gave me
milk many a year. And now I'm going away. I can't feed you any more,
but my mother will take care of you.'
"He took an affectionate leave of his mother, who kissed him tenderly
and gave him much prudent advice. The poor child stood weeping on the
threshold and listened to her words, then bidding her farewell, he
brushed away his tears and trudged off like a hero.
"After his departure his mother worked harder than ever, and lived more
frugally than before. She seldom boiled anything for her dinner or
supper, and the neighbors noticed that the smoke did not come out of
the chimney as it was wont to do. She was anxious to lay by a little
money in order that when George came home he might be able to enjoy
himself. So she seldom took anything but bread and milk. But though she
was frugal, she was not mean. Some people mistake niggardliness for
domestic economy; the widow Margaret never did. She was still generous.
She often gave her neighbors' children a bowl of milk, and if she saw
the little ones eating dry bread, she would call them in and give them
butter, and sometimes honey. But the good advice she used to give them
was better than milk or honey.
"Alas! A sad reverse of fortune awaited her. It was a cold, bleak
night; the valleys were clothed with deep snow, and the cold north
wind was blowing fiercely. Widow Margaret was driving her cow to the
stream which flowed at the base of the mountain. As the poor animal
was drinking at the stream, a frightful howl was heard, and suddenly
an enormous wolf sprang out of the forest and tore the cow before the
widow's eyes. Margaret fled. The snow was red with the blood of the
cow. The poor widow wept bitterly. Not only for the loss was her grief
so great, but because she pitied the defenceless animal.
[Illustration]
"The report of the disaster soon spread. The wolf committed other
depredations. Now a lamb was torn from the fold, now a horse was left
dead upon the road; people were afraid to stir out of their homes, so
terrible were the ravages of the monster.
"Of all gallant sportsmen there were none more fond of the chase than
knight Ulrich of Wildburg. To him it was the breath of his nostrils.
His whole being appeared made up of intense love for the chase, and
when the bugle horn was ringing in the sharp, clear morning air, none
were so happy as the gallant Ulrich. His son Conrad, a lad about
fourteen, shared his father's admiration for the chase, and a great
delight it was to him to ride into the forest depths when one was at
hand.
"It was determined to make a regular foray on the wolf. To hunt him
would be fine sport, to kill him would be a public benefit; Knight
Ulrich sallied forth. A gallant train attended him, all armed with
swords and javelins, and bows and arrows, and accompanied by a fine
pack of wolf-hounds.
"Slowly and cautiously they entered the forest, the huntsmen keeping
within call of each other, that they might be able to help one another,
should the necessity of the case require it. Conrad soon grew tired of
this slow work, and hoping that he might be fortunate enough to kill
the wolf single-handed, quietly slipped away from his father's side,
and pushed into the heart of the forest. Cautiously removing the stems
and branches in his way, so that he might not disturb the wolf too
quickly, he advanced with bended bow into an open space in the wood,
and then he discovered the wolf issuing from a thicket.
"The twang of his bow-string was heard, and the arrow shot through the
air, and struck the shaggy monster on the chest; but the distance was
too great to allow the arrow to do its work, and the animal was only
slightly wounded. With a ferocious howl, he sprang forward, smarting
from the wound.
"Conrad saw his danger, and endeavored to escape by climbing a tree.
He stood on one of the boughs, and supported himself by resting his
body against the trunk. The wolf retreated a few paces, and then sprang
forward, his wide gaping jaws, bristling with frightful teeth, almost
touched the trembling boy, but did not actually reach him. Again and
again with new fury, the wolf repeated the attempt, but in vain. At
last he lay down under the tree, whining and howling, and glaring
upon his destined victim. Conrad was almost dead with fear—a cold
perspiration stood upon his brow; he shouted for help, but no help
came, and the sun began to sink, and twilight to deepen into night.
"Suddenly, as hope was nearly gone, the distant bay of the hounds was
heard. They had come upon the scent of the wolf, and were drawing
nearer every moment. Then came the loud clear sound of the bugle, and
the shouts of men. The wolf heard the cry of the dogs, and the sound of
the approaching hunters, and arising, took precipitately to flight.
"The moon had just arisen. Conrad's father and the rest of the party
approached the tree. With shame, Conrad descended, and acknowledged
how foolishly he had acted. The old huntsman gave his young master a
sharp rebuke—'Young folks always imagine they understand everything
better than old ones; but the egg can't be wiser than the hen. May this
adventure be a warning to you.'
"Meanwhile George served his master very faithfully. He set manfully
about his work, was never lazy and indolent, but was indefatigable in
his exertions till the work was done. And work did not make him sad or
heavyhearted; he was always merry, kind, and obliging to every one. And
this sort of conduct is sure to make friends. The farmer and his wife
loved the boy as their own child, and the children loved him as if he
had been their own brother.
"One evening, while he was busily engaged, tying up pine branches into
bundles for fire-wood, a man came from his native place and told him
the misfortune that had happened at home. George began to weep very
bitterly, and the children wept with him for company. The good farmer
and his wife came out to see what was the matter.
"'O, my dear mother!' said George. 'What will become of her now?
She will be sadly cast down at the loss of the poor beast. Poor old
Mayflower, she was the prettiest cow in the whole village. She was a
beautiful brown, with a light white stain on her forehead, and was so
sleek and glossy that a drop of water would not remain upon her hide.
She was all my poor mother had. She yielded six or eight measures of
milk a day. Alas! Alas! My poor mother,—now she will be poor indeed.
The milk was her best, almost her only support, and she was not able to
buy another cow. Alas! Alas!'
"The farmer and his wife tried to comfort the child as well as they
could, who soon afterwards went to his bed-room, crying very bitterly.
There he prayed, and then began to think what he could do to render
help to his poor mother. Now George had a favorite scheme. When he went
to service, he was warmly, but not smartly clothed, and he had made up
his mind to purchase a new hat, and a scarlet jacket. He had not as yet
received his wages, and with his mother's consent, he had determined to
appropriate those wages to that purpose. A black hat and a red jacket
were brave things in his eyes. All the boys of the village wore them.
But this favorite project was now entirely forgotten.
"'No,' said he, 'when I take my wages, I will buy a goat, and bring
it home to my mother; that will be some comfort to her under her
misfortune. I can live well enough without the new jacket, or the new
hat, but my mother cannot live well without a goat. Farmer Buhel has
two fine goats, and I will buy one of them.'
"When he made known his intention to his master, the farmer paid the
wages, and applauded his filial piety; but—alas! the goats were not for
sale, their owner said, but still if a good price were paid, he might
be willing to part with one. A good price was what George could not
give, and sad at heart he returned to his master. His joy was gone. He
was pondering some new way of helping his mother. We have said before
that the children loved George as a brother, and so when they found him
in distress, they began to plan, in order to devise some means to make
up the money.
"Lizzy, the eldest, suggested that they should raise the sum out of
their pocket-money. To this the others readily assented. Their mother
highly approved the plan, but when their money was counted out, it was
still found deficient. The children then wanted to give away their
gifts, but this their mother would not allow.
"'No,' said she, 'you must not give away your gifts. I will complete
the sum out of my own private purse.'
"So the money was made up. George, accompanied by the children, and
shedding tears of gratitude, went to bring home the goat. And when they
had obtained her, what a triumphal procession it was. How handsome she
was—with her white skin, and coal-black spots, and her long soft hair,
and curling horns, her bright glowing eyes, and her long flowing beard!
How all the children patted, and extolled the purchase, and brought
together more hay and grass, than the goat could eat in a week!
"Having obtained the permission of the farmer to visit his mother on
the following day, and having been assured by several of the peasantry
that there was no fear of the wolf, as he had kept aloof from the
neighborhood since Baron Ulrich's hunt—the poor child made all his
preparations. He was overjoyed at the thought of again seeing his
mother, and being able to surprise her with so valuable a present. He
scarcely slept a wink that night.
"Early next morning George set out on the road home. He hail a nice
piece of bacon, a fair white loaf, and some flax for his mother, all
wrapped up in a bundle at his back. He tied a cord round the goat's
neck, and drove her before him. It was a sharp cold morning. The ground
was hard with frost, and covered lightly with snow, and the hoar frost
hung on every leaf and branch.
"As the little boy passed over the hill toward the village of
Wolfsbuhl, he came to the ruined chapel. The door was open, and tying
the goat to the iron handle of the door, he entered. Within, seated
on a stone bench, he found a gray-haired and decrepid old man, with a
large bundle of wood lying at his feet. He was weeping, and regarding
the goat with a fixed attention.
"'Why do you weep, good father?' said George.
"'Alas!' said the old man. 'My heart is sorrowful, and the sight of the
goat awakened the memory of my grief.'
"'How so?'
"'Ah!' said the old man, 'I had one of the kind, whose milk was my best
nourishment, but the wolf killed her. Now I have nothing but bread and
water, and my strength is fast failing. I am not even able to carry
this bundle of sticks to my cottage, which lies at the bottom of the
hill.'
"George remembered that his mother had always taught him to do good to
those who needed his help, so telling the story of his own sorrow, he
offered to carry the old man's bundle to his door. The old man declined
the offer.
"'Indeed,' George said, 'it is no trouble to me. God has given me
health and strength. I will early your bundle to your cottage, and the
goat can meanwhile stay with you.'
"Said the old man, 'There is no danger of the goat, the people about
here are honest folk, and I pledge my word that she will not be stolen.'
"So George took up the bundle, placed it on his shoulders, and at a
rapid pace, now running, now bounding, began the descent of the hill.
The old man leisurely followed, heartily thanking the poor boy for his
kindness and charity.
"'God will reward,' he said, 'a hundred thousand fold this act of kind
courtesy to a poor stranger.'
"Shaking the old man's hand, George began bounding up the hill,
thinking to himself that it was quite possible for those who had no
money to do acts of charity if they would.
"Scarcely had he proceeded ten paces, when a number of people met him,
crying out, as loud as they could, 'The wolf! The wolf!'
"'Where is the wolf?' cried George, begin-fling to tremble with alarm.
"'On the top of the hill, running toward the old chapel.'
"'O my goat, my goat,' said George, 'how shall I be able to help my
poor mother now?'
"He thought not of his own danger, as he hastily ascended the hill;
when he gained its summit, surprise and joy filled his heart. The goat
was alive and unhurt, though struggling to free herself from the cord
which bound her. The door of the chapel was closed, and the head of the
wolf, its eyes glowing with rage, and the foam flying from its mouth,
was seen through one of the grated windows.
"When the wolf saw George, it renewed its effort to burst the iron
bars, but the goat became still, and began to bleat for joy. How the
affair had happened was this: When the wolf scented the goat, and spied
her at the door, he suddenly sprang towards her—she retreated into the
chapel, but as she was tied fast to the door, which opened inwards,
she could not advance, and turned aside to conceal herself behind the
open door. The wolf having for a moment lost sight of her, ran into the
chapel, which the goat perceiving, rushed out, and pulled the door by
the string after her, thus making a prisoner of the wolf.
"George stood for a few moments in great surprise, caressing his goat
and looking at the monster shut up within the chapel. But soon he was
disturbed by a number of persons, all rudely armed, ascending the hill.
It seemed that the prince of the country had offered ten gilders to
any one who should take the wolf alive or dead, and all were anxious
to secure the prize. With them came the old man that George had so
recently assisted, armed with a long sharp hunting-knife.
"'The reward is yours,' he said to George, 'our gracious prince will
undoubtedly bestow it upon you.'
"'In that case,' George answered, 'I can buy a cow for my mother, and
then you shall have the goat. If I had not met you at the chapel, I
should have untied my goat, instead of leaving it there alone, and most
likely have fallen a victim to the fury of the monster. I should have
lost my goat, and my life too.'
"While they were yet speaking, the wild strain of a bugle horn was
heard, and then the deep bay of the hounds, and then the shouts of men,
and then a gay cavalcade came riding up the hill, led by the Knight
Ulrich. A loud shout broke from the crowd—a shout which was replied to
by the hunting-party—
"'Stand back,' cried the knight, 'what of our old enemy the wolf?'
"We have him here, so please your worship,' said one of the crowd, 'and
this good lad has taken him alive.'
"'What! Another David?' cried the knight. 'Well-done, my brave boy, you
may yet wear golden spurs. You have done a noble deed.'
"Young Conrad, who rode at his father's side, smiled upon the young
peasant, who stood still with the goat beside him. The knight rode up
to the window of the chapel.
"'True, beyond a doubt,' said he, 'the wolf is surely there; the
stoutest brute I have ever seen. How shall we serve him?'
"One of the party suggested that in order to avoid endangering human
life, the best plan would be to starve the wolf to death; but the
knight spurned the proposal:
"'No, no; let us have fair and honorable sport. We are no cowards, and
while we have strong hands and sharp lances, the brute shall fall by
forest law!'
"In those days there was nothing the knights loved so well, next to a
battle, as a good bear or wolf hunt. And hunting a wolf, was really
rendering good service to the state, and thankful enough the farmers
were that the brave knights would do it. It was better, far better,
than hunting the dappled roe, or the timid hare, better than going
forth with hawks and hounds to the sport of falconry—better, a thousand
times better, than doing fierce cruel work on battle-fields.
"How the horses pawed the ground, while the noble creatures tossed
their heads and champed upon the bit, and seemed to cry 'hurra!' as the
men, the servitors and pages, gathered round with brightening looks,
and whispered cheerful words, and poised their lances in the air ready
to take deadly aim.
"'Now,' cried the knight, 'if any man is unwilling for the fray, let
him fall back; I would not force a man to risk life or limb for me.'
"Force them!—As if they wanted forcing! Why, there was not a man there,
but was as ready as the knight could be himself to see the end of
Master Wolf.
"The crowd pressed closer, and George's eyes grew bright. Now the wolf,
the cruel wolf was to be slain; he clenched his hands, and a bright
flush was on his cheeks, as he waited to see what would be the end of
it.
"That group was one of the most curious pictures you ever saw. There
were many of the peasants in their simple homely dress: shepherds from
the sheepcotes; and tillers of the ground; and old Martin the miller—a
great stout man, nearly as broad as he was long; and the smith, the
strong, sturdy, horny-handed farrier; and there, too, was the gallant
retinue of the count, in all the glitter of silk and gold, green
silk and golden lace in vast abundance; and there was Conrad in his
tightly-fitting suit of purple velvet, mounted on his neat little white
horse, and balancing his lance as if he had been used to the sport
for fifty years or more; and there, too, was the knight himself, a
really noble-looking gentleman. The knight and his retinue contrasted
strangely with the humble group of peasants, and especially with the
old man, to whom George had lent help, and with George himself, as he
stood there, with his pretty piebald goat by the side of him.
"The old man placed the long sharp knife in George's hand, and led
aside the goat. Conrad, delighted beyond measure, was poising a lance
in the air, and galloping from place to place, quite overjoyed. The
peasants shrank back in dismay, as the knight gave the word of command:
"Quick! Fall into order, let whoever has courage open the door!'
"There was a momentary pause, and then one of the huntsmen, armed with
a lance, cast back the stout oaken door. There was no sign or sound
from within.
"'Send in the dogs,' cried the knight.
"The mandate was obeyed. A wild howl was heard from within—the sound
re-echoed from the vaulted roof.
"'He comes! He comes!'
"'We shall have fine sport,' said Conrad.
"Scarcely had he spoken when the enraged monster rushed forth; the
spear of the knight severely wounded him; the horse which Conrad
bestrode, reared and plunged; the young count was thrown to the ground,
and the wolf sprang on him.
"A cry of dismay arose, a cry that was heard far and near, when
suddenly George leapt upon the wolf with his sharp knife, and buried
its shining blade in the neck of the monster—a stream of dark blood
gushed out, and quivering and convulsed, the animal fell dead. The cry
of dismay was changed into a shout of triumph—a shout in honor of the
heroic boy. The crowd pressed around him, extolling his courage, and
praising his zeal, everybody lauding his bravery to the skies.
"'Green boughs in your helmets and bonnets,' cried the knight, with a
cheer; 'so shall every robber perish. The lad has acted nobly, and to
him Conrad owes his life.'
"The crowd now began to gather round the wolf, which lay at the
knight's feet.
"'Not for the whole world,' said the knight, 'would one of you come
near the monster while living, but now that this good youth has shown
true courage, and slain the brute, you can venture near enough. Ay,
look at his terrible jaws, look at his sharp teeth, look at his shaggy
paunch, look at his enormous length.'
"The bailiff, who was one of the hunting-party, now asked the knight
whether George was to receive the promised reward.
"'Assuredly,' said the knight; 'come hither, good youth, and I will pay
the money down at once.'
"He counted the guilders into the boy's hand.
"'This,' said he, 'is the reward offered by our prince; here is another
on my own account;' and he handed him a well-filled purse, bright with
new coins.
"The old man now stepped forward and told how George had made him a
present of the goat, and how kind and good the lad had behaved.
"'Why,' said the knight, 'surely I have some recollection of you; did
you not serve under me in the wars?'
"'I did.'
"'Here are some golden crowns; truly this George is a fine
fellow—something more must be done for him. Here, my good youth,
to-night you shall lodge in my castle, and to-morrow my people shall
see you safely home.'
"The knight turned to a page who was near him, and bade him dismount,
and lend his horse to the gallant little hero who had saved the count's
life. The boy readily obeyed, and George mounted the pony and rode on
with the rest.
"Oh how proud and happy he felt at that moment!
"'Your name, good lad,' asked the knight, 'I have learnt is George—and
a good name; you have the courage of your saintly name-sake, who, as
the story goes, slew the dragon centuries ago.'
"The boy smiled.
"'Jesting apart, dear boy,' the knight went on, 'you have acquitted
yourself better than many and many an older hand would have done.'
"'I have only done my duty,' said George.
"'Rightly spoken; if we all did that, this world of ours would be a
better and a nobler place; your duty! Fairly put; but had you no fear?'
"'Fear,' repeated the boy, 'no, I had none; I never thought of fear,
I never thought of danger; I only saw that the young knight was in
jeopardy, and I did what I could to help him; I would have done the
same for the simplest peasant boy that ever lived: I really mean it,
noble sir.'
"'I am sure you do; those eyes of yours were not meant for deceit, nor
that voice for lying; you have done a noble action, and your words are
worthy of it.'
"So with that the knight relapsed into silence, and the procession went
on its way.
"The castle was a noble structure, and its gray battlemented turrets
were soon in sight. George had often seen it before, but now he looked
upon it with new and strange emotions. He was to enter; to ride over
the clanking drawbridge, under the dark arch, and see—what he had often
longed to see—the splendors which those walls shut in. So, on they rode
into the broad court-yard, and then dismounted.
"In the hall of the castle stood the Lady Adelaide, anxiously awaiting
her lord's return. She was a fine, tall, handsome woman, clothed in
costly attire; the jewels on her dress made George's heart tremble with
surprise.
"She threw her arms around her husband's neck and kissed him on both
cheeks—tears were in her eyes—tears of joy, as she did so.
"Tenderly she embraced her son, and then turning to George, inquired,
not with words, but by a glance, how and why the boy was there, and the
old soldier his companion.
"'This noble lad,' said the knight, 'has done us both good service.'
"The countess smiled upon the lad, and oh, that smile, it seemed better
to him than all the guilders that the knight had given to him.
"'Rendered us both good service,' repeated the knight, 'in rescuing
Conrad from a violent death.'
"The countess uttered a half-suppressed scream.
"'He has slain an old enemy, and brought back an old friend.'
"'An enemy,' said the countess, 'how is this: I cannot understand it?'
"'Enemy enough, full surely,' said the knight, 'none other than the
wolf!'
"'Thank God for that!'
"'Amen: but let us not forget the instrument He has used.'
"So the knight told the whole story of the wolf's capture and death,
not forgetting to mention how the lad had purchased a goat for his
mother in place of the cow whom the wolf had slain, and how he had
afterwards made a present of it to the old soldier, when his mother no
longer required it.
"The countess praised the boy for his courage; she thanked him again
and again for having saved the life of her son, and said:
"'I would that Conrad was more like you in his temper and disposition;
it would be of greater honor to him than all the gold lace on his
clothes.'
"There was great feasting in the hall that night, and the merriest
company that you can well conceive. When the hour of rest came, the boy
was led to a comfortable chamber, and left alone. What did he do first?"
"Looked about him on his new lodging?"
"Not at all."
"Began to speculate," said Henry, "on what had happened."
"Not at all."
"Why, what did he then, grandpa?"
"He knelt down and prayed, and thanked God for all his goodness toward
him and his.
"The countess had received the boy very cordially, and asked him many
questions, for she thought the mother who had reared such a son must
be a superior woman. George's answers delighted her; and after having
given the highest praise, she had taken leave of him in the most
gracious and affectionate manner.
"When he had retired for the night, she addressed her son, young Conrad:
"'I am very glad you are sensible of the worth and goodness of the lad
who has saved your life. That wolf was very near giving us another and
a different tale to tell. Your impatience and disobedience had nearly
sent you to the grave, and plunged both your father and myself in the
deepest woe. God, however, has preserved you, and directed all for the
best. O that you in your smart doublet would imitate that boy in the
fustian dress! O that you were less like your present self and more
like him!'
"Then she turned to her husband and said:
"'I am now more convinced than ever, that the most essential thing for
parents is to bring up their children in the fear and love of God,
to make them submissive and respectful to their parents. Recollect
the commandment, "Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may
be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee:" and the
injunction, "Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is
right"—and not only so, but to teach them to be respectful, and kind,
and generous to all their neighbors.
"'To effect this, the first, the essential point, is to teach them
to subdue and control their self-willed and unruly inclinations. The
heart of the child is like the ploughed field: thorns and thistles
must be torn out before it can produce fruitful corn. This is of equal
necessity in all children, whether born under the thatch, or beneath
the gilded dome; whether destined to hold the plough, the quill of
office, or the sword.'
"The countess was right, dear children, in all that she said. George
would never have been the good lad that he was—for he was a good lad,
and I do not wish to deny it—except it had been for the teachings of
his mother. Under God, he owed it all to her. To her prayers, to her
teachings, all that he did is to be traced—she had taught him industry,
kindness, and a desire to help those who needed help, and above all
other things, to look to God; and by God's blessing, he profited by her
instruction. The good seed sown in his heart, sprung up to God's glory.
"The news of her son's good fortune soon reached the widow. At first
she refused to believe a word of it, for she could not think it
possible that George, who never followed the hunt, who never used
lances, or bows and arrows, and who never even killed a little bird;
who was even a boy still, not even a young man, could kill so terrible
a brute.
"'Surely,' she said, 'this story is a pure invention. Sorry am I to
find that I am so treated; it almost brings the tears into my eyes.'
"The more she thought about it, the more incredible the tale appeared.
Her grief for her loss was stirred up afresh; but at last adown the
village street came George himself, driving the sleekest, handsomest
cow you ever saw, and one of the castle's servants with him; and from
his own lips she learned the story of his bravery. The widow was
greatly amazed, and falling on the neck of her son, wept bitterly; but
not with grief—they were tears of joy that she was shedding, and her
widowed heart began to sing for joy.
[Illustration]
"George took his mother by the hand and led her outside the door.
"'Come out and see the cow which our good friend Knight Ulrich has sent
to you; I am sure you will be pleased with the present.'
"Pleased! Ay, that she was, dear heart, and kissed her son again and
again, as the servant retold the story of his courage.
"'This cow,' said the man, as he patted its sleek hide, 'is the best in
the stall; I am very sorry to lose her, but I know that she is falling
into good hands; I recollect what good care you took of your old cow:
she was the best cow in these parts, except the one I bring you.'
"Margaret overwhelmed the man with thanks.
"'Yes,' said she, 'it is a beautiful cow; look at its shiny hide, look
at its well-formed horns, look at its soft, loving eyes—surely there
never was such a cow before or since. O, I cannot thank the knight
enough for this kind present. How can I show my gratitude?'
"'Nay,' the man answered, 'this is but a part of the reward which your
son is to receive. He has done the country good service, and well
deserves all that he gets.'
"Margaret offered the servant money, but the honest man replied that
his master had strictly forbidden him to accept any gratuity.
"'My good lady,' he said, 'has already given me for this very journey
more money than I could think of accepting from you. Farewell. God's
blessing be on you.'"
"What a fortunate thing it was," said Henry, "that the goat should have
been tied to the door of the old ruin; how lucky it was for George."
"Dear child," said grandpa, "fortune and luck had nothing to do with
it."
"Nothing to do with it, grandpa? Why was it not luck, and good luck
too, that it all turned out so well; I am sure it must have been."
"There was no luck in it, child; it was something far different from
that."
"What was it then, grandpa?" asked Henry seriously.
"It was God's providence."
"That was what I meant, grandpa," said Henry.
"My dear child, there is a wonderful difference between the two things;
one is real and the other is not—one true and the other false—there is
no such thing as what you call luck, or fortune, in the world."
"I have seen," said Amy, "an old print called 'Fortune scattering her
Favors,' just as we scatter flowers in the summer."
"Exactly; but it is only a heathenish notion."
"I know that, grandpa, and knew that at the time."
"And this Luck, this Fortune, had she her eyes wide open?"
"No, grandpa, a tight bandage was over both her eyes. She could not see
at all; as blind as when we play at blindman's buff."
"Just so," said the grandfather, "and this is the wide distinction.
People who have not learnt to put their trust in God, ascribe their
success in life, or the misfortunes they may meet with, to blind
fortune, who neither sees nor understands who are they to whom she
deals her favors—her blanks or prizes in her lottery.
"But the Bible has taught us something better than this. It tells us
that the great God ruleth over all things; that he who counteth the
stars hath numbered the hairs of our heads; that he who gave the angels
all their brightness, clothed the lily and the violet, and painted
all the flowers of summer. That he overrules everything; governs all,
directs all, controls all; great and small, old men and babes, kings
and emperors and pauper children; that our happiness, or adversity and
misfortune, are not the results of blind fortune, or dead chance, but
the will of the Mighty One who made heaven and earth. But to proceed.
"So the widow and her son went back into the cottage, after putting the
cow into the stall, and giving her plenty of hay, which for some time
past had been suffered to lie waste. When indoors, Margaret sat down
before her spinning wheel, and again began to weep for joy; the good
news had shaken her as much as if it were a gift of terror. She felt
weak and exhausted. Again and again she made George repeat the story of
his prowess.
"'Dear George,' said she, 'you have followed my advice, and you have
reaped the benefit of doing so. You have placed your hopes in God, and
He has been your friend; you have been kind and charitable to men, and
they have been good and generous to you. True religion is loving God
and loving man, and holiness is only another name for happiness. Let
us thank God for all things, and do you, my dear son, still continue
to acknowledge the Lord in all your ways. They that wait upon the Lord
shall not want any good thing. "Never saw I the righteous forsaken, nor
his seed begging bread!"'
"Well, the knight took George into his service, and he rose in favor
and influence with his master. He always remembered the injunctions of
his mother, who lived happy and comfortable for many a year."
"Thank you, thank you a thousand times grandpa, it is a beautiful
story," said Amy.
"So it is indeed," said Henry, "and I cannot help thinking how good
came out of evil."
"Right, my boy," responded grandpa, "we should indeed remember that;
what says the beautiful text in that comfortable chapter in the Romans?
'For we know—'"
Amy repeated—
"'That all things work together for good to them that love God.'"
"Yes, dear children, that should always make us trustful. Let us keep
this steadily in view; God cares for us. We may meet with trouble and
adversity, but this should be our consolation, God cares for us. His
love never grows cold, his eyes neither slumber nor sleep. And he is
working. All these changing fortunes, these painful sufferings, these
beds of sickness, these death-partings, these trials of poverty, and so
on, are working together for good. Viewed singly we cannot understand
them; viewed together, they tell the story of God's handiwork.
"Sometimes it may happen we have a dear friend sick, nigh unto death;
we have called in doctors and they have written down what medicine must
be taken; we notice the busy apothecary making up the mixture, when lo,
after putting three or four different things into the phial, he lays
his hand upon a bottle labelled poison.
"'Hold,' we cry, 'you must not use that—poison! It will surely kill,
instead of curing the patient!'
"'Not at all,' he answers, 'alone it would do so, but mingled with the
rest, and working together with them, it is certain to turn out well.'
"Now this is how we should look at God's dealings with us; all our
trials and troubles, that threaten to bring us with sorrow to the
grave, are working together. One day we shall shout with joy at the
result. God's providence led George and his mother through deep waters
of affliction, but the hand of God was in it all and gave a blessing at
the end."
"And what became of George, grandpa?"
"He grew up to be a man."
"And what then?"
"Then he was married, and had sons and daughters of his own."
"And what then?"
"Then he grew old, and saw his children married, and have little ones,
who called him grandfather, and on one cold, sharp, wintry night he
told the story of his early life, with a pretty dark-haired girl
looking up into his eyes, whose name was Annie!"
"Why, grandpapa, are you the little boy that slew the wolf?"
"Even so, dear children; old, weak, infirm now, but once strong, and
vigorous, and daring. Yes, I am George the Wolf-Slayer."
[Illustration]
MARGARET KAURNER.
A STORY OF GOLD AND COPPER COINS.
——————
INTRODUCTION.
NO unimportant branch of education is letter writing. A great part of
the commerce of human life is carried on by this means. In the days
of old we find that letter writing was esteemed by the Romans in the
number of liberal and polite accomplishments. Thus Cicero, a great and
learned man, mentions with pleasure an elegant letter he had received
from his son.
A fine letter does not consist in saying fine things, and the following
anecdote of the Rev. R. Robinson, of Cambridge, is perhaps one of the
most complete essays on the true art of letter writing that is to be
found. The reverend gentleman was very fond of children, and used to
make himself very familiar with them by adapting his conversation to
their capacities, and joining heartily in all their sports. Still he
never lost an opportunity of throwing out some hint that might be
useful in after life.
Among his little favorites were two fine boys, sons of a much-esteemed
member of his congregation. The elder, named John, was about ten years
old; the younger, Robert, about eight. Upon one of Mr. Robinson's
visits to their father, Robert, being told of his arrival, came
bounding into the room, and, as usual, jumped upon his knee, when they
entered into the following dialogue:—
_Mr. R._ Well, Robert, so you have taken your old seat; but how is it
my other knee is unfurnished? Where is John?
_Robert._ Oh, sir, John is gone to London.
_Mr. R._ Indeed! How long has he been gone?
_Robert._ More than a fortnight, sir.
_Mr. R._ How many letters have you written to him?
_Robert._ None, sir.
_Mr. R._ How is that?
_Robert._ Because I do not know how to write a letter, sir.
_Mr. B._ But should you like to know how?
_Robert._ Oh, yes sir, very much indeed.
_Mr. R._ Then suppose you and I, between us, try to make up a letter to
John; shall we?
_Robert._ Oh, dear yes, sir, if you please: I should so like to do that.
_Mr. R._ Well, then, let us begin: "Saucy Jack." Will that do?
_Robert._ Oh dear, no, sir, I should not like to say that at all.
_Mr. R._ Why not?
_Robert._ Because that would be so rude, sir.
_Mr. R._ Let us try again then: "My dear brother." There, will that do?
_Robert._ Oh, yes, nicely, sir.
_Mr. R._ Well, then, let us go on. "Last Thursday half Cambridge was
burnt down, and—"
_Robert._ Oh, no, no, sir; that will never, never do.
_Mr. R._ Why won't it do?
_Robert._ Because it is not true; you know, sir, there has not been any
fire at Cambridge.
_Mr. R._ Then suppose we alter it to "Last night our tabby had three
kittens." That's true, you know, because you told me so just now.
_Robert._ (Hesitatingly.) Y-e-s, sir, it is true, but I should not like
to write that.
_Mr. R._ But as you know it to be true, why should you not like to
write it?
_Robert._ Because I do not think it worth putting into a letter, sir.
_Mr. R._ Oh, oh! Then, if I properly understand you, friend Robert, you
think that when we write to our friends, we should, in the first place,
never be rude; secondly, we must never say what is not true; and,
thirdly, we must never tell them what is not worth their knowing. Am I
right?
_Robert._ Yes, sir; if I were to write a letter, I should try to think
of all that.
_Mr. R._ Then, my dear boy, you must never again tell me you don't know
how to write a letter; for I assure you that you have a much better
notion of letter writing than many people have who are five times your
age.
The narrative we are about to relate is contained in a series of
letters; and though, perhaps, this is not the most interesting form of
story-telling, the events described are of so amusing a character that
we feel sure our young readers will feel pleasure in their perusal.
They are very simply written, affording a fine illustration of the
recipe for letter writing—civility, truth, and interest.
[Illustration]
LETTER I.
MARGARET TO HER MOTHER.
DEAREST MOTHER:—You will be glad to know that I have arrived safe in
the city. I came exactly at the appointed time, and my mistress was
much pleased with my punctuality. She welcomed me affectionately.
I think you will be pleased to know the reason of her taking me into
her service. She very kindly told me what induced her to select me
for the vacant situation. It appears that when she came on a visit to
our good pastor last spring, that she had occasion to consult a great
number of papers, and had but little time to devote to her children.
In order to divert and gratify them, our good minister sent for me,
that I might take care of the children and lead them into the woods
and fields, so that they might thoroughly enjoy the country while
they were in it. One day, the lady, accompanied by our minister, who
you must know is the lady's brother, followed us to the meadow, and
watched us, though we knew nothing of their presence. It was a bright
morning, and the sun was shining on the little stream. The youngest boy
saw some glittering fish and wished to wade into the waters to catch
them. In order to turn his attention from this, and to lead him away
from the stream, where I feared some accident might occur, I called
him to follow me, and the children gathering round me, we sought out
a pleasant spot all filled with flowers. There I know the children
were secure, and there I knew they would be very happy. Children love
flowers. Flowers, you used to tell me, are the children of the earth.
"Now," said I to the children, "cannot God make beautiful flowers?
Is He not good to care for them, and give them rain and sunshine?"
The children agreed. "Then," said I, "how much more does He care for
children! And how ought we to love Him, who loves us so fondly and so
constantly." I had no thought that anybody was listening but the dear
little ones, but it was overheard. My observations pleased the lady.
The good minister praised you, dearest mother, for the instruction
you had given me. He spoke very favorably of my attention at school,
and the lady was so well pleased, that when the children's maid was
obliged to return to her parents who needed her, and the situation
became vacant, she sent for me; and kind enough was she to say that she
thought it was God who had brought us together.
Her house is very grand, the furniture splendid, the grounds
delightful; but after all, I love the green walls of the light airy
nursery, and am never so happy as when surrounded by my little charge.
When she took me into the room, the children recollected me, and came
and kissed me, and said they were glad that I had come. They all began
to ask me questions about the country, and about their uncle. It was
late in the autumn, but the children did not think of that, and wanted
to know whether I had brought them any bright beautiful flowers. I told
them the flowers were all gone, but that I had brought them some apples
from the trees which were covered with blossoms when they saw them in
the spring.
The fruit was divided between them, and they were greatly delighted.
They praised the apples for their fine red cheeks. The lady bade me
take good care of the children which I faithfully promised to do, and
she then told me she would ever be a kind and affectionate mother to
me. She is very good and kind, but she can never supply your place,
dearest mother. Never can I forget your kindness and your care. If I
live to be very old, I shall always remember how you went with me all
through the rain to the place from which the coach started, how you had
carefully prepared a cake and had gathered some of the rosiest apples,
but more than all, how you kissed me while the big tears were on my
cheeks, and how warmly and lovingly you bade God bless me!
Dearest mother, I shall never cease to remember your counsel, and shall
always pray, that I may remain—
Your dutiful and affectionate daughter,
MARGARET KAURNER.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LETTER II.
MARGARET TO HER MOTHER.
DEAREST MOTHER:—It is but a week since I wrote to you, and here I am
inscribing another letter. O how thankful ought I to be that I was ever
taught to write; it is such a pleasure and comfort to sit down and pen
one's thoughts. I feel as if I were chatting with you as I used to do
in our pretty little parlor. All is now very quiet in the house, the
children are sleeping softly, and nothing can disturb me.
I am a very happy girl. My mistress is so reasonable, so kind, and so
considerate. I have seen mistresses in this city who seem to imagine
that their servants are destitute of all feeling; but my mistress
is a Christian, all her orders are given in the kindest manner, and
she takes great pains to teach me everything that I do not know. My
happiness is increased by the happiness of the children. They are quite
fond of me. They will stay with me as willingly as with their mother.
This is a great advantage to her, for her husband being very often
absent from home, she has to attend a great deal in the ware room—O,
such a ware room, filled with muslin, in which my mistress deals. It
is really beautiful. The muslin is so fine and even, and such a lovely
white, the texture, too, is so delicate, that I think, dear mother, you
would be as surprised as I was. I could not cease wondering how it was
made. My mistress told me it was all spun by machines.
Who are the machines, I said, for I thought it was some particular sort
of people to whom she referred. She heartily laughed at my blunder,
and explained the thing to me. This surprised me more than before. She
afterwards showed me some lace handkerchiefs, and dresses, the flowers
on which were amazingly beautiful. These, she said, were not made by
machines, but worked by the hand, by thousands and thousands of poor
industrious people.
I mentioned to you in my last letter, that my mistress's house is very
large and fine, and so it is. It stands in one of the broadest and
handsomest streets in the city. A lady of rank lodges on the first
floor. What a gay grand place is the city; how different from the quiet
country village where I dwelt with you! The morning after my arrival
the maidservant of our lodger came down to me with a clean white jug,
with a plated lid.
"I say," she cried to me, "the girl that was here before you came,
used always to bring the spa water from the fountain for my mistress.
Will you do the same? It does not suit me to go tramping about with a
jug in my hand, but you could easily spare a quarter of an hour in the
evening, after the shop is shut up, and the children in bed; and my
lady will very willingly give you a kreuzer * for every jug; and more
than that, she will pay you regularly at the end of every week."
* About the value of one cent.
"I should be very glad to do what you require," I answered, "if my
mistress were willing that I should do so. But I do not require payment
for fetching a drink of water."
"Take the money, by all means," said my mistress; "the lady can well
afford it, and a kreuzer a day is worth having. The secret of all
greatness lies in littles."
I was very much pleased, as you may readily suppose, and, taking the
jug, entered at once upon my duties as water carrier. Well, dear
mother, as I was just lighting the lamp to-night, the maid came in and
handed me six kreuzers. I was delighted with the money. It was fresh
from the mint, and though it was only copper, shone just like gold. I
thought myself amazingly rich. But the pieces will be far more valuable
to you than to me; here I have every thing I need. These new coins I
now send to you; I shall send you at the end of each month, all the
kreuzers I get. All my letters the carrier has promised to take free.
I know that the present is a small one, but the will must be taken for
the deed. If the pieces were gold instead of copper, they would better
testify the love and affection of your daughter,
MARGARET KAURNER.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LETTER III.
MRS. KAURNER TO HER DAUGHTER MARGARET.
MY DEAREST MARGARET:—I write to you in a state of the greatest
surprise. My dearest child, what can you have been doing? I know not
what to make of your last letter; there you talk of copper coins, and
in it you enclose solid gold pieces. My heart misgave me; surely,
thought I, in the gay city my dearest Margaret cannot have forgotten
the lessons of virtue which were instilled into her mind in days long
gone by. Surely, she cannot have been blinded by the glitter of gold,
and betrayed into such an evil deed as robbery.
Dearest Margaret, you cannot tell the grief that these thoughts
cost me. I then read your letter; you speak of shining kreuzers,
and call them a poor present. This language puzzled me. Copper,
thought I, cannot have turned into gold; perhaps, said I, one of
her fellow-servants may have played a trick upon her, and put brass
counterfeits into the letter instead of the kreuzers, in order to raise
my hopes at first, and then disappoint them.
But of this I soon satisfied myself, by taking the coins to a money
changer, who assured me that they were perfectly pure gold; every piece
worth more than ten florins. I told him the whole circumstances of the
case, and he advised me to send the money back at once.
"No doubt," he said, "the lady has given the gold coins by mistake for
kreuzers. You say it was night, and then the blunder might very easily
occur; send them back, by all means; otherwise, this little incident
may become a bad business."
You recollect the old proverb, my dearest Margaret—"Coin brings care."
I never felt the truth of that proverb so much as during the night
after receiving your letter. I counted every hour. I listened to every
sound. I trembled at every breath of wind, and kept fancying all sorts
of horrors. I was so afraid that the house would be broken into, and
the money stolen. This morning, I return the coins to you, and am very
glad to be well rid of them. Go instantly to the lady, and give her
back the gold. I shall not lay my head quietly to rest, till I know the
money is again in the hands of the rightful owner. As soon as you have
restored the money, write me word.
You remember the day when your brother George was marched away, with
the other recruits from the village, how sadly both of us felt the
loss; but now that George is more content and happy in his situation,
I am more composed. Meanwhile, however, he is in want of all sorts
of things; all the recruits receive something from home, but I have
nothing to send him, not even a single kreuzer. If the gold pieces were
my own, then—but not a word about them, my dearest daughter. Truly,
the love of money is the root of all evil! Farewell. I beg of you to
write immediately, and send a letter by the returning carrier, to your
anxious, loving mother,
LOUISA KAURNER.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LETTER IV.
MARGARET TO HER MOTHER.
DEAR MOTHER.—I wept very bitterly on the reception of your letter. How
could it occur to you for a single moment, that I had stolen the money?
Surely, I would sooner suffer my hand to be cut off, than commit any
injustice!
Up stairs I ran to Madame Von Holme, and laid the six gold pieces on
the table.
"Your ladyship," said I, "must have given me gold pieces instead of
copper kreuzers."
The lady examined the pieces, and appeared very much astonished.
"This," said she, "is no mistake of mine. It is very extraordinary;
perhaps some unknown hand, guided by a generous heart, has put the gold
into the letter for your mother's use."
"And, dearest lady," said I, "this unknown hand was yours."
"No, indeed," she replied, "I have scarcely any gold at all, and of
these new pieces not a single coin."
"But what shall I do, dear lady?" said I.
"Send back the gold to your mother," she replied, "for whom you
intended the copper kreuzers; she may, with a safe conscience, apply
the money to her own use, and should any mistake have arisen, and any
one afterwards claims the gold, I will make it good."
While I was talking, two young ladies, friends of Madame Von Holme,
walked in to pay a morning visit. My country costume was new to them,
and they made me turn round and round, to get a good look at me. The
little blue collar, with black edging; the red bodice; the green
skirt; and the white sleeves and apron, were all examined. Madame Von
Holme told them the story of the gold coins, with which they were much
interested.
"Very strange indeed," said they, "and a great piece of luck for you;
now, instead of your country costume, you must buy a new dress, such as
the city girls wear."
"No," said I, "I cannot take your advice in this matter; the fine
dresses of the town girls do not suit the country girls at all."
Madame Von Frame applauded my resolution, and said, "That many a
country maiden had laid aside with her rustic costume, the purity of
country manners, and in the smart dress, and smarter bonnets of the
city girls, had become as vain and frivolous as they."
She told me to employ my money for some better purpose; and what better
purpose can I put it to, than sending it to you? Send a part of it to
dear George.
Mrs. Mayer, my mistress, was very much delighted to hear that I could
spin, and requested me to spin her some fine yarn for a piece of cloth,
during the winter. This I readily consented to do. But I cannot get on
without my own nice spinning wheel, which my father made especially for
me, a little before his death. Can you send it to me by the carrier? I
wish we could sit together in the evenings, with our wheels humming in
concert, how happy we should be! But still as I sit by the fire-light,
and the wheel is humming its own home music, my thoughts will go
wandering far away, and my heart itself leaps up with gladness, as I
think of my old home, and think, as I am sure I may, that you will be
thinking of me, and that in our own dear little parlor, sitting beside
your spinning wheel, you still remember, with your old love,—
Your loving daughter,
MARGARET KAURNER.
[Illustration]
LETTER V.
GEORGE TO MARGARET.
DEAREST SISTER:—God bless you! Mother has sent me, through the post,
three letters which you have written to her, and first-rate scholarly
letters they are, dear Margaret, and do you great credit; and besides
these letters, two of the gold pieces which you gave her. Why Margaret,
you recollect the fairy tales, that amused our childhood in days gone
by. It really seems that the good fairies have you under their keeping,
and are going to make you as rich as a queen.
But more than with the letters, and more than with the gold, was I
pleased with your honesty. Virtue is a brighter jewel than ever flashed
from emperor's crown! What a strange commotion the letters made! My
comrades all know that my dear mother is very poor, and when they heard
of the money which the letter contained, and of the mysterious manner
in which my mother obtained it, they came to the conclusion that the
gold was stolen.
The affair came to the ears of my captain, who, though a young officer,
is yet a man of great prudence and courage. He sent for me. "How is
this, Kaurner?" said he, "you appear to have grown suddenly rich, and
the story of your wealth is a very romance in itself. Have you got the
letters with you?"
I answered that I had; gave him the four letters, and laid down on the
table the two gold pieces, which I had not yet changed. He read the
letters carefully, with evident pleasure.
"Your mother is a truly honorable woman," he said; "Your sister, an
upright, virtuous girl, and you have always shown yourself an honest,
brave lad. Your mother has brought you both up in honest principles.
Always continue to love your mother as you do, and follow her good
counsels. Your sister's kindness and civility to Madame Von Holme in
offering to bring her the Spa water without fee or reward, particularly
pleases me. Madame Von Holme is my aunt, and a more upright, excellent
woman, does not exist."
"Perhaps," said I, "this good lady put gold coins in place of the
copper ones."
"No," he answered, "that cannot be it; her will is good, but her means
are limited, and she could not afford to give a gold piece for a jug of
water. The matter of the coins is at present a mystery. Be content to
know that the upright and the honest will never be in want of friends."
A day or two afterwards, I was summoned to the captain's presence. He
asked me whether I would be his servant. You must know that many of
the private soldiers act as servants to the officers, and that the
soldier who had been employed in this domestic capacity by the captain,
had been drafted to another regiment, and the situation was therefore
vacant.
"Your sister," said the captain, "is so faithful and honest towards my
aunt, so active and obliging, that I think you will serve me with equal
fidelity."
Of course, I gladly accepted the offer, and promised to serve him truly
and well. He is an excellent man, and a kind master. The duties of the
situation are light, and he pays me handsomely for them. Having a great
deal of writing to do, he requested me to copy two sheets for him, and
he was so well pleased, that he now occupies a considerable part of
my time in that employment, and pays me specially for it. Many a rich
farmer's son with full pay, and an allowance from home, is not half so
comfortable as I am. The captain calls me Mr. Secretary. The changes
that have recently occurred in the seat of war, will soon bring us
into open conflict with the enemy. It is good and noble to fight for
fatherland; how goes the song,—
"On in the van,
Man to man,
Whoe'er a falchion's hilt can span."
And it is a noble thing to die for fatherland, if it comes to that; but
let us hope, dear sister, that God will save us from much bloodshed,
and soon give peace to Germany. Meanwhile, believe me—
Your affectionate brother,
GEORGE KAURNER.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LETTER VI.
MARGARET TO HER MOTHER.
DEAREST MOTHER:—God be praised, it is peace once more. Bonfires have
been lighted in the square. Fireworks have been exhibited in the public
places. The bells of all the churches have been ringing. I have been
watching the crowds that throng the streets welcoming the soldiers on
their return from the war. How many happy meetings there have been
already. Husbands with their wives, fathers with their children,
brothers with their sisters.
Oh, how that last sentence makes my heart leap up with joy! For only
think, yesterday, George came here quite unexpectedly. I cannot express
to you how delighted I was. At first I was not a little terrified when
a tall stately soldier, with a moustache and a frightful sabre at his
side, strode into the room, and hastened up to me. I screamed for
terror.
But at this, he only laughed, and threw his arms about me, saying,
"Margaret, don't you know me?"
Then it was I found out that it was George, and I was actually wild
with joy—my heart beat quicker from joy now, than it had done from
terror before.
You can readily imagine how affectionately George inquired for you,
how he sent a thousand, thousand loves, and desired me to say that the
first time he could, he would come himself to see you.
My mistress was very kind to George, and having cake brought out, made
him sit down, and tell us his adventures: one part of them was very
interesting. He rescued his gallant captain from the hands of the enemy
and from certain death. The poor gentleman was wounded, and his fine
black horse was shot under him; he had sunk upon his knees. One of the
hussars had raised his sabre to cleave his skull. George came up at the
moment and warded off the blow, while he struck down the fierce hussar.
Several of the enemy came up, but George's comrades hastened to his
assistance at the cry "To the rescue." The enemy was put to flight. The
captain recovered from his wounds which are now perfectly healed.
The captain is now staying with his aunt, Madame Von Holme. He
requested to see me, and as I entered, said, "I am delighted to know
the sister of the man who has saved my life. I have a deep debt of
gratitude to discharge both to him and to you. To your mother also I am
deeply indebted; for how much do I owe to the careful education which
she has bestowed upon her children."
Early on the following morning, the captain set out again, as he was
anxious to see his father and mother. George accompanied him, and left
for you all sorts of kind messages.
To-day Madame Von Holme said to me, "I have just been giving thanks to
God for permitting me to see my dear Charles again.—What a world of
blessing we owe to those kreuzers! Had you not forwarded them to your
mother, your brother would not have been Charles's servant, and perhaps
Charles would now be among the number of those for whom many a bitter
tear is shed."
"I should much like to know," said the maid who accompanied her
mistress, "how it was those copper coins turned into gold."
"Indeed, I should be equally glad to find out the real author of this
novel bestowment," said Madame Von Holme; "whoever it is, God will
graciously bless him."
So he will, dear mother, so he will. With a heart full of purest love,
I remain,—
Your ever dutiful daughter,
MARGARET KAURNER.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LETTER VII.
GEORGE TO HIS MOTHER.
DEAREST MOTHER:—How glad will it make my heart to see you once again,
but at present it is not possible for me to leave my good master.
However, very soon I hope to come to you and not to part any more. I
have good news, and am anxious to let you know, so I take the readiest
means of doing so, and write at once. It has now come to light who put
the gold into my sister's letter.
It is only yesterday that I returned with my master to Madame Von
Holme's. A dinner party was held in honor of the colonel of the
regiment, who had just arrived. During dinner, Madame Von Holme related
the story of the kreuzers. Everybody was anxious to know whether
the mystery had been solved; and at last the colonel, who had been
listening with peculiar attention, broke into a gay laugh and said,
"I fancy that I can satisfy your curiosity. I will do so in a few
words. During the war we had a sharp eye upon all letters. We needed
all the intelligence we could get of the movements of the enemy. Among
other letters which fell into our hands, was one addressed to—'My Dear
Mother, the wheelwright's widow: with six kreuzers.' It was a very
strange address; it attracted my marked attention.
"Doubtless, thought I, there is some great plot at work, for the spies
often send their information under simple addresses, and to persons
in a very humble grade in life. I opened it. It was to widow Kaurner.
I knew her husband, the wheelwright, well. He was a good honest soul;
he worthy of her, she worthy of him. I was gratified with the filial
affection which the letter exhibited. Well, for old acquaintance sake,"
said he, "I took out the kreuzers and put gold pieces in their place,
real, true, gold pieces. And how has heaven blessed my bounty! 'Cast
thy bread upon the waters, and after many days thou shalt find it
again.' I thought some reference might be made to-day to the story of
the kreuzers, and I have brought them with me."
So out he took the shining copper coins, and gave one to Madame Von
Holme, one to the captain, and reserved one for himself. "I am sure,"
said he, "we shall all prize them more than ducats of gold! As for the
remaining kreuzers, one is for George, one for her mother, and one for
honest little Margaret."
Madame Von Holme shed tears. "Ah," said she, "I shall ever preserve
this as a memento of God's goodness; it will ever awaken in my mind old
memories deep and tender, and enkindle fresh love to Him who guides and
governs all."
The captain then made known that at his request his father and mother
had resolved to provide for George's mother. "We have resolved to
assist George with a sum of money, to enable him to settle at home; in
less than a month all will be arranged."
My sister was sent for, and the colonel handed her the three
kreuzers.—"Divide them with your mother and brother," he said, "and God
bless and prosper you all!"
May the colonel's prayer be heard. Oh how grateful should we be,
dearest mother, to that God who has so mercifully interposed on our
behalf, and made us so happy and united, and looking at the past with
all its troubles and anxieties, looking at the present with all its
comfortable security, looking at the future bright with promise, should
we not take up the words of the pious psalmist, and say, "Bless the
Lord, O our souls, and all that is within us bless his holy name; bless
the Lord, O our souls, and forget not all his benefits."
In token of our filial love, dear mother, we both subscribe our names.
Your very affectionate children,
GEORGE AND MARGARET.
[Illustration]
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