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Title: Dora
Author: Johanna Spyri
Illustrator: Maria Louise Kirk
Translator: Elisabeth P. Stork
Release date: November 13, 2023 [eBook #72112]
Language: English
Original publication: Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 1924
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DORA ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: BEFORE CLOSING HER LITTLE WINDOW,
SHE ALWAYS GAZED OUT AT THE SKY.]
DORA
BY
JOHANNA SPYRI
AUTHOR OF "HEIDI," "MÄZLI," ETC.
TRANSLATED BY
ELISABETH P. STORK
ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR BY
MARIA L. KIRK
PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS
PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. UNDER THE LINDEN TREES
II. LONG, LONG DAYS
III. THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HEDGE
IV. ALL SIX
V. BEFORE AND AFTER THE DELUGE
VI. A TERRIBLE DEED
VII. IN THE GARDEN AT LAST
VIII. STILL MORE RIDDLES AND THEIR SOLUTIONS
IX. FOUND AT LAST
ILLUSTRATIONS
Before closing her little window, she always gazed out at the sky.
Frontispiece
She had been lost in everything she had partly seen and heard.
Before Jul could prevent it, he was pulled off his chair.
"Come, I'll say it and you must learn it by heart."
"Do you think it was a little rabbit that made the noise?"
asked Willi, frightened.
Dora marched behind with a wax taper and some cigars.
"I suppose it is patrimony, my son," said Mr. Titus,
patting Rolf's shoulder.
Dora and Paula returned to the garden arm in arm singing gaily.
DORA
CHAPTER I
UNDER THE LINDEN TREES
IN A beautiful park in Karlsruhe, a gentleman was seen walking under
the shady linden trees every sunny afternoon. The passers-by could not
help being touched when they saw him leaning upon a little girl, his
daily companion. He was apparently very ill, for they walked slowly and
he carried in his right hand a cane, while he often took his left from
the child's shoulder, inquiring affectionately, "Tell me, child, if I
press on you too heavily."
But the little girl always drew back his hand and reassured him gladly,
"I can hardly feel it, papa. Just lean on me as heavily as you want."
After walking up and down for a while the pair always settled beneath
the lovely trees.
The sick man, a certain Major Falk, lived with his daughter Dora and an
elderly housekeeper who attended to his wants. They had only recently
come to Karlsruhe. Dora had never known her mother, who had died soon
after the child's birth, and she therefore clung to her father with
double affection, and he, with great tenderness, did his best to make
up to Dora for her early loss.
A year before he had been obliged to leave his child and fight
in a war against the enemy. When he returned he was very ill and
miserable, having received a dangerous wound in the chest, which
physicians pronounced as hopeless. Major Falk, who had no relatives
or connections in Hamburg, had lived a very retired life there, and
the only relative he had in the world was an elderly step-sister who
was married to a scholar in Karlsruhe by the name of Titus Ehrenreich.
When Major Falk realized the hopelessness of his condition, he decided
to move to Karlsruhe, where his step-sister could come to his and his
eleven-year-old daughter's assistance, if his illness became acute. The
resolution was soon carried out and he found pleasant lodgings near his
sister.
He enjoyed these beautiful spring days with his lovely daughter as
daily companion on his walks, and when the two sat hand in hand on
the bench, the father told about his past experiences and Dora never
grew tired of listening. She was quite sure nobody in the world was
as wonderful and splendid and interesting as her father. Most of all,
she loved to hear about her mother, who had been so merry, bringing
sunshine wherever she went. Everyone had loved her and no one who
had loved her could forget her. When the father was lost in such
recollections, he often forgot completely where he was till it grew
late and the damp evening air made him shiver and reminded him that it
was time to go home. The pair walked slowly till they came to a narrow
street with high houses on both sides.
Here the father usually stopped, saying: "We must go to see Uncle Titus
and Aunt Ninette." And climbing up the stairs, he daily reminded his
little daughter: "Be very quiet, Dora! You know Uncle Titus writes very
learned books and must not be disturbed, and Aunt Ninette is not used
to noise, either."
Dora climbed upstairs on tiptoe, and the bell was rung most discreetly.
Usually Aunt Ninette opened the door herself and said, "Come in, dear
brother, but please be very quiet. Your brother-in-law is much lost in
his work as usual."
With scarcely a sound, the three went along the corridor to the living
room which was next to Uncle Titus's study. Here, too, one had to be
very quiet, which Major Falk never forgot, though Aunt Ninette herself
often broke out into sad complaints about many things that troubled her.
June had come and the two could stay out quite long under the linden
trees. But they found themselves obliged to return sooner than was
their wish, because otherwise Aunt Ninette worried dreadfully. On one
such warm summer evening, when the sky gleamed all golden, and rosy and
fluffy clouds were sailing along the sky, Major Falk stayed seated on
the bench until quite late. Holding his child's hand in his, he quietly
watched the radiant sunset with Dora, who gazed up with wonder at her
father.
Quite overwhelmed by her impression, she cried out, "Oh, father, you
should just see yourself; you look all golden the way the angels in
heaven must look."
Smilingly, her father answered, "I think I shall not live much longer,
and I feel as if your mother were looking down upon us from that sky."
But before long her father had grown pale again and all the glow in the
sky had faded. When he rose, Dora had to follow, quite depressed that
the beautiful glow had paled so soon. But her father spoke these words
of comfort, "It will glow again some day and much more splendidly than
today, when your mother, you and I will be all together again. It won't
ever fade then."
When the pair came up the stairs to greet Dora's uncle and aunt,
the latter stood upstairs at the open door showing visible signs of
agitation, and as her visitors entered her living room, she gave free
vent to her excitement.
"How can you frighten me so, dear brother!" she wailed. "Oh, I imagined
such terrible things! What can have kept you so long? How can you be so
forgetful, and not remember that you must not be out after sunset. Just
think what dreadful things might happen if you caught cold."
"Calm yourself, dear Ninette," said the Major as soon as he had a
chance to speak. "The air is so mild and warm today that it could do me
no harm and the evening was simply glorious. Please let me enjoy the
few lovely evenings that are still left to me on earth. They neither
hasten nor hinder what is sure to happen very soon."
These words spoken so quietly brought forth new outbursts of despair.
"How can you speak that way? How can you frighten me so? Why do you
say such awful things?" cried the excited woman. "It cannot happen and
it must not happen! What is to be done then with—yes, tell me—you know
whom I mean." Here the aunt threw an expressive glance at Dora. "No,
Charles, a terrible misfortune like that must not break in upon us—no,
it would be too much. I would not even know what to do. What is to
happen then, for we shall never get along."
"But, my dear Ninette," the brother retorted, "don't forget these
words:"
"'Though sad afflictions prove us
And none his fate can tell,
Yet God keeps watch above us
And doeth all things well.'"
"Oh, yes, I know, and I know it is true," agreed the sister. "But where
one sees no help anywhere, one feels like dying from fright, while you
talk of such dreadful things as if they were quite natural."
"We'll have to say good-night now, and please try not to complain any
more, dear Ninette," said the Major, stretching out his hand. "We must
remember the lines:"
"'Yet God keeps watch above us
And doeth all things well.'"
"Yes, yes, I know it is true, I know it is true," assented the aunt
once more, "but don't catch cold on the street, and do go downstairs
without making any noise. Do you hear, Dora? Also, shut the downstairs
door quietly, and when you go across the street, try not to be in the
draft too long."
During these last injunctions, the father had already gone downstairs
with Dora and home across the narrow street.
The following day, when they sat on the bench again under the lindens,
Dora asked, "Papa, didn't Aunt Ninette know that:"
"'Yet God keeps watch above us
And doeth all things well.'"
"Of course she knows it," replied the father, "but at times when she
gets anxious, she forgets it a little. She regains her balance when she
thinks of it."
After musing a while Dora asked again, "But, papa, what shall one do to
keep from being frightened and dying from fear as Aunt Ninette says?"
"Dear child," the father answered, "I will tell you what to do.
Whatever happens, we must always think that it comes from God. If it
is a joy, we must be grateful, and if it is a sorrow, we must not be
too sad, because we know God our Father sends everything for our good.
In that way we need never suffer from fear. Even if a misfortune comes
and we see no help at hand, God is sure to find some succor for us. He
alone can let good come out of evil, even one that seems to crush us.
Can you understand me, Dora, and will you think of that if you should
ever be unhappy? You see hard days come to everybody and to you, too,
dear child."
"Yes, yes, I understand and I'll think of it, papa," Dora assured him.
"I'll try not to be frightened."
"There is another thing which we must not forget," continued the
father. "We must not only think of God when something special happens
to us. We must ask Him at every action if He is satisfied with us.
When a misfortune comes, we are near to Him already if we do that and
we experience a certainty at once of receiving help. If we forget Him,
on the contrary, and a sorrow comes, we do not find the way to Him so
easily and we are apt to remain in darkness."
"I'll try never to lose the way, papa," said Dora eagerly, "and ask God
every day: 'Am I doing right?'"
Tenderly stroking his child's head, the father remained silent, but in
his eyes lay such a light that she felt herself surrounded by a loving
care.
The sun sank behind the trees and father and child happily walked home.
CHAPTER II
LONG, LONG DAYS
A few days after this lovely evening, Dora sat at her father's bedside,
her head prostrate beside his. She was sobbing bitterly, for he lay
quite still with a smile on his white face. Dora could not fully
comprehend what had happened yet, and all she knew was that he had
joined her mother in heaven.
That morning when her father had not come as usual to her bedside
to wake her, she had gone to his room instead. She found him lying
motionless on his bed, and, thinking him asleep, she had kept very
quiet.
When the housekeeper, who came in with breakfast, had cast a glance
in his direction, Dora heard her exclaim, "Oh God, he is dead! I must
quickly fetch your aunt." With this she had run away.
This word had fallen on Dora like a thunderbolt, and she had laid her
head on the pillow beside her father, where she stayed a long while,
sobbing bitterly. Then Dora heard the door open and her aunt came in.
Lifting her head, she used all her strength to control her sorrow, for
she knew that a wild outburst of grief was coming. She was dreadfully
afraid of this and most anxious not to contribute to it further. She
wept quietly, pressing her head into her arms in order not to let
her sobs escape. The aunt loudly moaned and cried, wailing that this
dreadful misfortune should just have happened and saying she saw no
help for any of them.
What should be seen to first, she wondered. In the open drawer of the
table beside her brother's bed several papers lay about, which the aunt
folded up in order to lock away. Among them was a letter addressed to
her. Opening it she read:
"DEAREST SISTER NINETTE:"
"I feel that I shall leave you soon, but I don't want to speak
of it, in order not to cause you dark hours before I have to. I have
a last request to make to you. Please take care of my child as long
as she needs you. As I am unable to leave her any fortune to speak of,
I beg you to use the small sum she owns to let her learn some useful
work by which Dora, with God's help, will be able to support herself
when she is old enough. Be not too much overcome with sorrow and
believe as I do that God does His share for all His children whom we
recommend to His care, and for whom we ourselves cannot do very much.
Accept my warm thanks for all your kindness to me and Dora. May God
repay you!"
The letter must have soothed the aunt a little, for instead of wailing
loudly she turned to Dora, who, with her head pressed into her arms,
was still quietly weeping.
"Come with me, Dora," said the aunt; "from now on you shall live with
us. If we didn't know that your father is happy now, we should have to
despair."
Dora obediently got up and followed, but she felt as if everything was
over and she could not live any longer. When she entered the quiet
dwelling, the aunt for the first time did not have to remind her to be
quiet, feeling sure this was unnecessary. As the child came to her new
home, it seemed as if no joyful sounds could ever again escape her.
The aunt had a store-room in the garret which she wanted to fit up for
Dora. This change could not take place without some wailing, but it was
at last accomplished and a bed placed in it for her niece. The maid
went at once to fetch the child's belongings, and the little wardrobe
in the corner was also set in order.
Dora silently obeyed her aunt's directions and, as bidden, came down
afterwards to the quiet supper. Uncle Titus said nothing, being
occupied with his own thoughts. Later on, Dora went up to her little
chamber where she cried into her pillow till she fell asleep.
On the following day, Dora begged to be allowed to go over to her
father, and the aunt accompanied her with expressions of renewed
sorrow. Dora quietly said goodbye to her beloved father, sobbing softly
all the while. Only later on, in her own little room, did she break out
into violent sobs, for she knew that soon he would be carried away and
she would never see him any more on earth.
From then on, Dora's days were planned quite differently. For the short
time she had been in Karlsruhe, her father had not sent her to any
school, only reviewing with her the studies she had taken in Hamburg.
Apparently, he had been anxious to leave such decisions to his sister
when the time came. Aunt Ninette had an acquaintance who was the head
of a girls' private school and Dora was to go there in the mornings.
For the afternoon a seamstress was engaged to teach Dora to make
shirts, cut them out and sew them. Aunt Ninette considered this a very
useful occupation, and by it, Dora was to make her livelihood. All
clothing began with the shirt, so the knowledge of dressmaking also
began with that. If Dora later on might get as far as dressmaking, even
her aunt would be immensely pleased.
Dora sat every morning on the school-bench, studying hard, and in the
afternoons on a little stool beside the seamstress. Sewing a big heavy
shirt made her feel very hot and tired. In the mornings, she was quite
happy with the other children, for Dora was eager to learn and the time
went by pleasantly without too many sad thoughts about her father.
But the afternoons were different. Sitting in a little room opposite
her teacher, she had a hard time handling the shirts and she would get
very weary. The long hot summer afternoons had come and with her best
exertions, she could hardly move the needle. The flannel felt so damp
and heavy and the needle grew dull from heat. If Dora would look up to
the large clock, whose regular ticking went on, time seemed to have
stood still and it never seemed to be more than half past three. How
long and hot these afternoons were! Once in a while, the sounds of a
distant piano reached her—probably some lucky child was playing her
exercises and learning lovely melodies and pieces.
This seemed, in these hard times, the greatest possible bliss to Dora.
She actually hungered and thirsted for these sounds, which were the
only thing to cheer her, as few carriages passed in the narrow street
below and the voices of the passers-by did not reach them. The scales
and exercises she heard were a real diversion, and if Dora heard even a
little piece of music she was quite overjoyed and lost not a note. What
a lucky child! she thought to herself, to be able to sit at the piano
and learn such pretty pieces.
In the long, dreary afternoons, Dora was visited by melancholy thoughts
and she remembered the time when she had strolled with her father under
the linden trees. This time would never come again, she would never
see and hear him any more. Then the consolation her father himself
had given her came into her mind. Some day, of course, she would be
with both her parents in the golden glow, but that was probably a long
way off, unless something unusual happened and she were taken ill and
should die from sewing shirts. But her final consolation was always the
words her father had taught her:
"'Yet God keeps watch above us
And doeth all things well.'"
She tried to believe this firmly and, feeling happier in her heart,
made her needle travel more easily and more lightly, as if driven by a
joyful confidence. Just the same, the days were long and dreary, and
when Dora came home in the evening to Aunt Ninette and Uncle Titus,
everything about her was so still. At supper, Uncle Titus read and ate
behind a big newspaper and the aunt talked very little in order not
to disturb her husband. Dora said nothing, either, for she had become
adapted to their quiet ways. In the few hours she spent at home between
her lessons, Dora never had to be told to be quiet; all her movements
had become subdued and she had no real heart in anything.
By nature, Dora was really very lively and her interests had been
keen. Her father had often exclaimed with satisfaction: "The child
is her mother's image!—The same merriment and inexhaustible joy in
life." All that was now entirely gone and the child very seldom gave
her aunt occasion to complain. Dora avoided this because she feared
such outbreaks. Every time, after such a demonstration, she repressed
for a long time every natural utterance and her joy of life would be
completely gone. One evening, Dora returned from her work full of
enthusiasm, for the young pianist across the street had played the
well-known song Dora loved and could even sing:
"Rejoice, rejoice in life
While yet the lamp is glowing
And pluck the fragrant rose
In Maytime zephyrs blowing!"
"Oh, Aunt Ninette!" she cried upon entering the room, "It must be the
greatest pleasure in the world to play the piano. Do you think I could
ever learn it?"
"For heaven's sake, child, how do you get such ideas?" wailed Aunt
Ninette. "How can you frighten me so? How could such a thing be
possible? Only think what noise a piano would make in the house. How
could we do it? And where, besides, should we get the time and money?
How do you get such unfortunate ideas, Dora? The troubles we have are
enough without adding new ones."
Dora promised to make no more suggestions. She never breathed another
word about the subject, though her soul pined for music.
Late in the evening, when Dora had finished her work for school,
while the aunt either knitted, mended or sometimes dropped asleep,
Dora climbed up to her garret room. Before closing her little window,
she always gazed out at the sky, especially when the stars gleamed
brightly. Five stars stood close together right above her head, and
by and by, Dora got to know them well. They seemed like old friends
come especially to beckon to her and comfort her. Dora even felt in
some mysterious way as if they were sent to her little window by her
father and mother to bring her greetings and keep her company. They
were a real consolation, for her little chamber was only dimly lighted
by a tiny candle. After saying her evening prayer while looking at
the starry heavens, she regained a feeling of confidence that God was
looking down at her and that she was not quite forsaken. Her father
had told her that she had nothing to fear, if she prayed to God for
protection, for then His loving care would enfold her.
In this fashion, a dreary hot summer went by, followed by the autumn
and then a long, long winter. Those days were dark and chilly and made
Dora long for warmth and sunshine, for she could not even open her
little window and gaze at her bright stars. It was bitter chill in
her little garret room so near the roof, and often she could not fall
asleep, she was so cold. But spring and summer came at last again and
still things went their accustomed rounds in the quiet household. Dora
was working harder than ever at her large shirts because she could now
sew quite well, and was expected really to help the seamstress.
When the hot days had come, something unusual happened. Uncle Titus
had a fainting spell and the doctor had to be fetched. Of course, Aunt
Ninette was dreadfully upset.
"I suppose you have not gone away from Karlsruhe for thirty years, and
you only leave your desk to eat and sleep?" asked the physician after a
searching glance at Uncle Titus and a short examination.
The question had to be answered in the affirmative. It was the truth.
"Good!" continued the doctor. "You must go away at once and the sooner
the better. Try to go tomorrow. I advise Swiss mountain air, but not
too high up. You need no medicine at all except the journey, and I
advise you to stay away at least six weeks. Have you any preferences?
No? We can both think it over and tomorrow I'll come again. I want to
find you ready to leave, remember."
The doctor was out of the door before Aunt Ninette could stop him.
Eager to ask a thousand questions, she followed. This sudden resolution
had paralyzed her and she could not at first find her tongue. She had
to consult the doctor about so many important points, though, and he
soon found that his abruptness availed him nothing. He was held up
outside the door three times as long as he had been in the house.
Returning after some time the aunt found her husband at his desk,
absorbed as usual, in his studies.
"My dear Titus!" she cried out amazed, "Is it possible you have not
heard what is to happen? Do you know we have to start at once and leave
everything and without even knowing where to go? To stay away six weeks
and not to know where, with whom and in what neighborhood! It frightens
me to death, and here you sit and write as if nothing particular had
happened!"
"My dear, I am making use of my time just for the very reason that we
have to leave," replied Mr. Titus, eagerly writing.
"My dear Titus, I can't help admiring how quickly you can adapt
yourself to unexpected situations. This matter, though, must be
discussed, otherwise it might have serious consequences," insisted Aunt
Ninette. "Just think, we might go to a dreadful place!"
"It doesn't matter where we go so long as it is quiet, and the country
is always quiet," replied Mr. Titus, still working.
"That is the very point I am worried about," continued his wife. "How
can we guard ourselves, for instance, against an overcrowded house.
Just think if we should come into a noisy neighborhood with a school
or mill or even a waterfall, which are so plentiful in Switzerland.
How can we know that some frightful factory is not near us, or a place
where they have conventions to which people from all cantons come
together. Oh, what a tumult this would make and it must be prevented
at all costs. I have an idea, though, dearest Titus. I'll write to
Hamburg, where an old uncle of my sister-in-law lives. At one time his
family lived in Switzerland and I can make inquiries there."
"That seems decidedly far-fetched to me," replied Uncle Titus, "and
as far as I know, the family had some disagreeable experiences in
Switzerland. They probably have severed all connections with it."
"Just let me look after it. I'll see to everything, dear Titus,"
concluded Aunt Ninette.
After writing a letter to Hamburg, she went to Dora's sewing-teacher,
a very decent woman, and asked her to take care of Dora while they
were away in Switzerland. After some suggestions from both women, it
was decided that Dora should spend her free time at the seamstress's
house, and at night, the woman would come home with the child in order
to have someone in the house. When Dora was told about these plans
that evening, she said nothing and went up to her lonely garret. Here
she sat down on the bed, and sad memories crowded upon her mind of the
times when she and her father had been so happy. They had spent every
evening together and when he had been tired and had gone to bed early,
she had come to his bedside. She was conscious how forsaken she would
be when her uncle and aunt had left, more lonely even than she was now.
Nobody would be here to love her and nobody she could love, either.
Gradually, poor Dora grew so sad that she drooped her head and began to
cry bitterly, and the more she wept the more forlorn she felt. If her
uncle and aunt should die, not a soul would be left on earth belonging
to her and her whole life would be spent in sewing horrid heavy shirts.
She knew that this was the only way by which she could earn her
livelihood and the prospect was very dreary. She would not have minded
if only she had someone to be fond of, for working alone all day, year
in and year out, seemed very dreadful.
She sat there a long time crying, till the striking of the nearby
church clock startled her. When at last she raised her head it was
completely dark. Her little candle was burnt out and no more street
lamps threw their light up from the street. But through the little
window her five stars gaily gleamed, making Dora feel as if her father
were looking down affectionately upon her, reminding her confidently as
on that memorable evening:
"'Yet God keeps watch above us
And doeth all things well.'"
The sparkling starlight sank deep into her heart and made it bright
again, for what her father had said to her must be the truth. She must
have confidence and needn't be frightened at what was coming. Dora
could now lie down quietly, and until her eyes closed of themselves,
she looked at her bright stars which had grown to be such faithful
comforters.
The evening of the following day, the doctor appeared again as promised
with many suggestions to Mr. Ehrenreich about where to go. But Aunt
Ninette lost no time in stepping up and declaring that she was already
on the search for a suitable place. Many conditions had to be fulfilled
if the unusual event was to have no fearful consequences for her
husband, every detail had to be looked into, and when everything was
settled, she would ask for his approval.
"Don't wait too long, go as soon as possible; don't wait," urged the
doctor in an apparent hurry to leave, but nearly falling over Dora who
had entered noiselessly just a moment before.
"Oh, I hope I didn't hurt you?" he asked, stroking the frightened
child's shoulder. "The trip will do that pale girl good. Be sure to
give her lots and lots of milk there. There is nothing like milk for
such a frail little girl."
"We have decided to leave Dora at home, doctor," remarked Aunt Ninette.
"That is your affair, of course, Mrs. Ehrenreich! Only look out or her
health will give you more worry than your husband's. May I leave now?"
The next moment he was gone.
"Oh, doctor, doctor! What do you mean? How did you mean that?" Aunt
Ninette cried loudly, following him down the stairs.
"I mean," called the doctor back, "that the little thing is dreadfully
anaemic and she can't live long, if she doesn't get new blood."
"Oh, my heavens! Must every misfortune break in upon us?" exclaimed
Aunt Ninette, desperately wringing her hands. Then she returned to her
husband. "Please, dear Titus, put your pen away for just a second. You
didn't hear the dreadful thing the doctor prophesied, if Dora doesn't
get more color in her cheeks."
"Take her along, she makes no noise," decided Uncle Titus, writing all
the while.
"But, dear Titus, how can you make such decisions in half a second.
Yes, I know she doesn't make any noise, and that is the most important
thing. But so many matters have to be weighed and decided—and—and—" but
Aunt Ninette became conscious that further words were fruitless. Her
husband was once more absorbed in his work. In her room, she carefully
thought everything over, and after weighing every point at least three
times, she came to the conclusion to follow the doctor's advice and
take Dora with her.
A few days later, the old uncle's brief answer arrived from Hamburg.
He knew of no connections his brother had kept up with people in
Switzerland, for it was at least thirty years since he had lived there.
The name of the small village where he had stayed was Tannenberg, and
he was certain it was a quiet, out of the way place, as he remembered
his brother complaining of the lack of company there. That was all.
Aunt Ninette resolved to turn to the pastorate of Tannenberg at
once in order to inquire for a suitable place to live. The sparse
information from the letter pleased her and her husband well enough:
quiet and solitude were just the things they looked for. The answer
was not slow in coming and proved very satisfactory. The pastor wrote
that Tannenberg was a small village consisting of scattered cottages
and houses and suitable rooms could be had at the home of a school
teacher's widow. She could rent two good rooms and a tiny chamber, and
for further questions, the pastor enclosed the widow's address.
This proved an urgent need to Aunt Ninette's anxious mind and she
wrote to the widow at once, asking for a detailed description of the
neighborhood. Beginning with expressions of joy at the knowledge that
Tannenberg was a scattered village, she yet questioned the widow
if by any chance her house was in the neighborhood possibly of a
blacksmith's or locksmith's shop, or stonemason's, or a butcher's, also
if any school, mill, or still worse, a waterfall were near—all objects
especially to be avoided by the patient.
The widow wrote a most pleasant letter, answering all these questions
in the most satisfactory way. No workshops were near, the school
and mill were far away and there were no waterfalls in the whole
neighborhood. The widow informed her correspondent further that she
lived in a most pleasant location with no near dwellings except Mr.
Birkenfeld's large house, which was surrounded by a splendid garden,
fine fields and meadows. His was the most distinguished family in the
whole county; Mr. Birkenfeld was in every council, and he and his wife
were the benefactors of the whole neighborhood. She herself owed this
family much, as her little house was Mr. Birkenfeld's property, which
he had offered to her after her husband's death. He was a landlord such
as few others were.
Everything sounded most propitious, and a day was set for the
departure. Dora was joyfully surprised when she heard that she was to
go along, and she happily packed the heavy linen for the six large
shirts she was to sew there. The prospect of working in such new
surroundings delighted her so much that even the thought of sewing
those long seams was quite pleasant. After several wearisome days, all
the chests and trunks stood ready in the hall and the maid was sent to
get a carriage. Dora, all prepared, stood on the top of the staircase.
Her heart beat in anticipation of the journey and all the new things
she would see during the next six weeks. It seemed like immeasurable
bliss to her after the long, long hours in the seamstress's tiny room.
Finally Aunt Ninette and Uncle Titus came out of their rooms, laden
with numerous boxes and umbrellas. Their walk down stairs and into the
waiting carriage proved rather difficult, but at last each object had
found a place. A little exhausted uncle and aunt leaned back in the
seat and expectantly drove off to their destination in the country.
CHAPTER III
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HEDGE
LOOKING far out over the wooded valleys and the glimmering lake stood a
green height covered by meadows, in which during the spring, summer and
fall, red, blue and yellow flowers gleamed in the sunshine. On top of
the height was Mr. Birkenfeld's large house, and beside it, a barn and
a stable where four lively horses stamped the ground and glossy cows
stood at their cribs quietly chewing the fragrant grass, with which
Battist, the factotum of long years' standing, supplied them from time
to time.
When Hans, the young stable boy, and the other men employed on the
place were busy, Battist always made the round of the stable to see if
everything had been attended to. He knew all the work connected with
animals, and had entered Mr. Birkenfeld's father's service as a young
lad. He was the head man on the place now and kept a vigilant eye on
all the work done by the other men. In the hay-lofts lay high heaps of
freshly gathered hay in splendid rows, and in the store rooms in the
barn all the partitions were stacked up to the ceiling with oats, corn
and groats. All these were raised on Mr. Birkenfeld's property, which
stretched down the incline into the valley on all sides.
On the other side of the house stood a roomy laundry, and not far from
there, but divided off by a high, thick hedge from the large house
and garden, was a cottage also belonging to the property. Several
years ago, Mr. Birkenfeld had turned this over to Mrs. Kurd after her
husband's death.
The warm sunshine spread a glow over the height, and the red and white
daisies gazed up merrily from the meadow at the sky above. On a free
space before the house lay a shaggy dog, who blinked from time to time
in order to see if anything was going on. But everything remained
still, and he shut his eyes again to slumber on in the warm sunlight.
Once in a while a young gray cat would appear in the doorway, looking
at the sleeper with an enterprising air. But as he did not stir, she
again retired with a disdainful glance. A great peace reigned in the
front part of the house, while towards the garden in the back much
chattering seemed to be going on and a great running to and fro. These
sounds penetrated through the hallway to the front of the house.
Approaching wheels could now be heard, and a carriage drove up in front
of the widow's cottage. For a moment, the dog opened his eyes and
raised his ears, but not finding it worth while to growl, slept on.
The arrival of the guests went off most quietly indeed. Mrs. Kurd, the
schoolmaster's widow, after politely receiving her new arrivals, led
them into the house and at once took them up to their new quarters.
Soon after, Aunt Ninette stood in the large room unpacking the big
trunk, while Dora busied herself in her little chamber unpacking her
small one. Uncle Titus sat in his room at a square table, carefully
sorting out his writing things.
From time to time, Dora ran to the window, for it was lovelier here
than in any place she had ever been. Green meadows spread out in front
with red and yellow flowers, below were woods and further off a blue
lake, above which the snow-white mountains gleamed. Just now, a golden
sunset glow was spread over the near hills, and Dora could hardly keep
away from the window. She did not know the world could be so beautiful.
Then her aunt called over to her, as some of her things had been packed
in the large trunk and she had to take them to her room.
"Oh, Aunt Ninette, isn't it wonderful here?" exclaimed Dora upon
entering. She spoke much louder than she had ever done since she had
come to her uncle's house to live. The excitement of the arrival had
awakened her true, happy nature again.
"Sh-sh! How can you be so noisy?" the aunt immediately subdued her.
"Don't you know that your uncle is already working in the next room?"
Dora received her things, and going by the window, asked in a low
voice, "May I take a peep out of this window, aunt?"
"You can look out a minute, but nobody is there," replied the aunt.
"We look out over a beautiful quiet garden, and from the window at the
other side we can see a big yard before the house. Nothing is to be
seen there except a sleeping dog, and I hope it will stay that way. You
can look out from over there, too."
As soon as Dora opened the window, a wonderful fragrance of jessamine
and mignonette rose to her from the flower beds in the garden. The
garden was so large that the hedge surrounding green lawns, blooming
flower beds and luxurious arbors seemed endless. How beautiful it must
be over there! Nobody was visible but there were traces of recent human
activity from a curious triumphal arch made out of two bean poles
tightly bound together at the top by fir twigs. A large pasteboard sign
hanging down from the structure swayed to and fro in the wind, bearing
a long inscription written in huge letters.
Suddenly, a noise from the yard before the house made Dora rush to
the other window. Looking out, she saw a roomy coach standing in the
middle of the yard with two impatiently stamping brown horses, and from
the house rushed one—two—three—four—yes, still more—five—six boys and
girls. "Oh, I want to go on top," they all cried out at once, louder
and ever louder. In the middle of the group, the dog jumped up first on
one child, then on another, barking with delight. Aunt Ninette had not
heard such noise for years and years.
"For heaven's sake, what is going on?" she cried out, perplexed. "Where
on earth have we gotten to?"
"O come, aunt, look, look, they are all getting into the coach," Dora
cried with visible delight, for she had never in her life seen anything
so jolly.
One boy leaped up over the wheel into the seat beside the driver, then
stooping far down, stretched out his arm towards the barking, jumping
dog.
"Come, Schnurri, come Schnurri!" cried the boy, trying in vain to catch
hold of the shaggy dog's paw or ears.
At last, Hans, the coachman, almost flung the pet up to the boy.
Meanwhile, the oldest boy lifted up a dangling little girl and,
swinging her up, set her in the coach.
"Me, too, Jul, me, too! Lift me still higher, lift me still higher!"
cried out two little boys, one as round as a ball, the other a little
taller. They jumped up, begging their elder brother, crowing with
anticipation at what was coming.
Then came twice more the swinging motion and their delight was
accompanied by considerable noise. The big boy, followed by the eldest
girl, who had waited until the little ones were seated, stepped in and
the door was shut with a terrific bang by Jul's powerful arm. When the
horses started, quite a different noise began.
"If Schnurri can go, Philomele can go too! Trine, Trine!" cried the
little girl loudly. "Give me Philomele."
The energetic young kitchen-maid, at once comprehending the situation,
appeared at the door. Giving a hearty laugh, she took hold of the gray
cat that sat squatting on the stone steps, and looking up mistrustfully
at Schnurri on top, and threw her right into the middle of the
carriage. With a sharp crack of the whip the company departed.
Full of fright, Aunt Ninette had hastened to her husband's room to see
what impression this incident had made upon him. He sat unmoved at his
table with his window tightly shut.
"My dear Titus, who could have guessed such a thing? What shall we do?"
moaned the aunt.
"The house over there seems rather blessed with children. Well, we
can't help it, and must keep our windows shut," he replied, unmoved.
"But my dear Titus, do you forget that you came here chiefly for
the fresh mountain air? If you don't go out, you have to let the
strengthening air into your room. What shall we do? If it begins that
way, what shall we do if they keep it up?" wailed the aunt.
"Then we must move," replied the husband, while at work.
This thought calmed his wife a little, and she returned to her room.
Meanwhile, Dora had busily set her things in order. A burning wish
had risen in her heart, and she knew this could not be granted unless
everything was neatly put in its right place. The crowd of merry
children, their fun and laughter had so thrilled Dora that she longed
to witness their return. She wondered what would happen when they
all got out again. Would they, perhaps, come to the garden where the
triumphal arch was raised? She wanted to see them from below, as the
garden was only separated from Mrs. Kurd's little plot of ground by
a hedge. There must be a little hole somewhere in this hedge through
which she could look and watch the children.
Dora was so filled with this thought, that it never occurred to her
that her aunt might not let her go out so late. But her desire was
greater than the fear of being denied. She went at once to her aunt's
door, where she met Mrs. Kurd, who was just announcing supper. Dora
quickly begged to be allowed to go down to the garden, but the aunt
immediately answered that they were going to supper now, after which it
would be nearly night.
Mrs. Kurd assured her aunt that anybody could stay out here as long as
they wished, as nobody ever came by, and that it was quite safe for
Dora to go about alone. Finally, Aunt Ninette gave Dora permission to
run in the garden a little after supper. Dora, hardly able to eat from
joy and anticipation, kept listening for the carriage to return with
the children. But no sound was heard.
"You can go now, but don't leave the little garden," said the aunt at
last. Dora gave this promise gladly, and running out eagerly, began to
look for some opening in the hedge. It was a hawthorne hedge and so
high and thick that Dora could look neither through it nor over the
top. Only at the bottom, far down, one could peep through a hole here
and there. It meant stooping low, but that was no obstacle for Dora.
Her heart simply longed to see and hear the children again. Never in
her life had she known such a large family with such happy looking boys
and girls. She had never seen such a crowd of children driving out
alone in a coach. What fun this must be!
Dora, squatting close to the ground, gazed expectantly through the
opening, but not a sound could be heard. Twilight lay over the garden,
and the flowers sent out such a delicious fragrance that Dora could not
get enough of it. How glorious it must be to be able to walk to and fro
between those flower beds, and how delightful to sit under that tree
laden with apples, under which stood a half hidden table! It looked
white with various indistinct objects upon it. Dora was completely lost
in contemplation of the charming sight before her, when suddenly the
merry voices could be heard, gaily chattering, and Dora was sure the
children had returned. For awhile, everything was still, as they had
gone into the house. Now it grew noisy again, and they all came out
into the garden.
Mr. Birkenfeld had just returned from a long journey and his children
had driven down to meet him at the steamboat-landing on the lake. The
mother had made the last preparations for his reception during that
time and arranged the festive banquet under the apple tree in the
garden. As the father had been away several weeks, his return was a
joyous occasion, to be duly celebrated.
As soon as the carriage arrived, the mother came out to greet him. Then
one child after another jumped out, followed by Philomele and Schnurri,
who accompanied the performance with joyous barks. All climbed up the
steps and went into the large living room. Here the greetings grew so
stormy that their father was left quite helpless in the midst of the
many hands and voices that were crowding in upon him.
"Take turns, children! Wait! One after another, or I can't really greet
you," he called into the hubbub. "First comes the youngest, and then up
according to age. Come here, little Hun! What have you to say to me?"
Herewith, the father drew his youngest forward, a little boy about five
years old, originally called Huldreich. As a baby, when asked his name,
the little one had always called himself Hun and the name had stuck
to him, remaining a great favorite with his brothers and sisters and
all the other inmates of the house. Even father and mother called him
Hun now. Jul,* the eldest son, had even made the statement that the
small Hun's flat little nose most curiously reminded one of his Asiatic
brothers. But the mother would never admit this.
This small boy had so much to tell his father, that the latter had to
turn from him long before he was done with his news.
"You can tell us more later on, small Hun. I must greet Willi and Lili
now. Always merry? And have you been very obedient while I was away?"
* Pronounced Yule in the original.
"Mostly," answered Willi, with slight hesitation, while Lili,
remembering their various deviations from the paths of righteousness,
decided to change the subject of conversation, and gaily embraced her
father instead. Willi and Lili, the twins, were exactly eight years old
and were so inseparable that nobody even spoke of them separately. They
always played together, and often undertook things which they had a
clear glimmering that they should not do.
"And you, Rolf, how are you?" said the father, next, to a boy about
twelve years old with a broad forehead and sturdy frame. "Are you
working hard at your Latin and have you made up some nice riddles?"
"Yes, both, papa. But the others won't ever try to guess them. Their
minds are so lazy, and mamma never has time."
"That is too bad, and you, Paula?" continued the father, drawing to him
his eldest daughter, who was nearly thirteen. "Are you still longing
for a girl friend, and do you still have to walk about the garden
alone?"
"I haven't found anybody yet! But I am glad you are back again, papa,"
said the girl, embracing her father.
"I suppose you are spending your holidays in a useful fashion, Jul?"
asked the father, shaking hands with his eldest.
"I try to combine my pleasure with something useful," replied Jul,
returning his father's handshake. "The hazel nuts are ripe now, and I
am watching over their harvest. I also ride young Castor every day, so
he won't get lazy."
Julius, who was seventeen years old, and studied at a high school of
the nearest town, was home for his holidays just now. As he was very
tall for his age, everybody called him "big Jul."
"I must ask you to continue your greetings in the garden, papa. All
kinds of surprises await you there," began Jul again, coming up to his
father, who was pleasantly greeting Miss Hanenwinkel, the children's
governess and teacher.
But Jul had to pay dearly for this last remark. Immediately Willi and
Lili flew at him from behind, enjoining him to silence by pinching
and squeezing him violently. Fighting them off as best he could, he
turned to Lili: "Let me go, little gad-fly. Just wait, I'll lead up to
it better." And turning towards his father he said loudly, "I mean in
the garden where mother has prepared all kinds of surprises you won't
despise. We must celebrate by having something to eat, papa."
"I agree with you; how splendid! Perhaps we shall even find a table
spread under my apple tree. I should call that a real surprise!" cried
the father, delighted. "Come now!"
Giving the mother his arm, he went out, followed by the whole swarm.
Lili and Willi were thrilled that their papa thought this was the only
surprise in store for him.
Upon stepping outside, the parents stood immediately under a triumphal
arch; at both sides hung small red lanterns which lit up the large
hanging board on which was a long inscription.
"Oh, oh," said the father, amazed, "a beautiful triumphal arch and a
verse for my welcome. I must read it." And he read aloud:
"We all are here to welcome you beside the garden gate;
And since you've come, we're happy now, we've had so long to wait.
We all are glad, as glad can be, our wishes have come true;
You've got back safe, and we have made this arch to welcome you."
"Beautiful, beautiful! I suppose Rolf is the originator of this?"
But Willi and Lili rushed forward crying, "Yes, yes, Rolf made it, but
we invented it. He made the poem, and Jul set up the poles, and we got
the fir twigs."
"I call this a wonderful reception, children," cried the delighted
father. "What lovely little red, blue and yellow lights you have put
everywhere; the place looks like a magic garden! And now I must go to
my apple tree."
The garden really looked like an enchanted place. Long ago the small
colored lanterns had been made, and Jul had fastened them that morning
on all the trees and high bushes of the garden. While the greetings
were taking place in the house, old Battist and Trine had quickly lit
them. The branches of the apple tree also were decorated with lights,
making it look like a Christmas tree, with the apples gleaming out
between the lanterns. They threw their light down on the table with
its white cloth on which the mother had set the large roast, tempting
the guests with the special wine for the occasion and the high pile of
apple tarts.
"This is the nicest festival hall I can imagine!" exclaimed the father
happily, as he stood under the sparkling tree. "How wonderful our
dinner will taste here! Oh, here is a second inscription."
Another white board hung down on two strings from the high branches
behind the trees. On it was written:
"Happy all at my first are reckoned,
Christmas is in the state of my second,
And for my whole the feast is spread
With candy, nuts and gingerbread."
"Oh, I see, a riddle; Rolf must have made this for me!" said the
father, kindly patting the boy's shoulder. "I'll set to work guessing
as soon as we have settled down. Whoever guesses the riddle first may
touch glasses with me before the others. Oh, how pleasant it is to be
together again."
The family sat down under the tree, and the conversation soon began to
flow. From big Jul down to little Hun there seemed to be no end of all
the experiences everybody had to tell.
A sudden silence fell when the father pulled out from under his chair a
large package, which he promptly began to unpack. The children watched
his motions with suspense, knowing that a present for everybody would
now come to light. First, came shining spurs for Jul, then a large blue
book for Paula. Next emerged a rather curious object, turning out to be
a large bow with a quiver and two feathered arrows, a present for Rolf.
As the father took out the fine arrows with sharp iron points, he said
with great emphasis:
"This weapon belongs to Rolf only, who knows how to use it. As it is no
toy, Willi and Lili must never think of playing with it. Otherwise they
might hurt somebody with it. It is dangerous, remember."
A gorgeous Noah's ark containing many kinds of animals in pairs and a
Noah's family was presented to the twins. The men all held big staffs
and the women carried large umbrellas, much needed while going on board
the ark. For little Hun, who came last, a wonderful nutcracker came to
light, whose face seemed doomed to uninterrupted sorrow for all the
tragedies of this world. His mouth stood wide open when not in action,
but when screwed together, he cracked nuts in the neatest fashion with
his large, white teeth. The presents had to be shown properly and
commented upon, and the admiration and joy knew no bounds.
Finally the mother resolutely got up to tell the children to go to bed.
Their usual bedtime was long since past. As the father got up, he asked
with a loud voice, "Yes, but who had guessed the riddle?"
No one had done so, as all except Rolf had completely forgotten it.
[Illustration: SHE HAD BEEN LOST IN EVERYTHING SHE HAD PARTLY SEEN
AND HEARD]
"But I guessed it," said the father, no other answer being heard. "I
suppose it is homecoming. Isn't it, Rolf? Let me touch your glass now
and also let me thank you for the riddle."
While Rolf joyfully stepped up to his father, several frightened voices
cried out, "Fire, fire!"
The next moment, everyone leaped from their seats, Battist and Trine
came running out with bottles and buckets from the kitchen, and Hans
came from the stable with another bucket. All rushed about shrieking
wildly, "The bush is on fire, the hedge is on fire." The confusion and
noise was truly amazing.
"Dora, Dora!" a wailing voice called down to the little garden of the
neighboring cottage, and the next moment Dora hastened into the house
from her place of observation. She had been so lost in everything she
had partly seen and heard that she had not realized that she had been
squatting on the ground for two full hours.
Upstairs, the aunt in grief and fright had pulled her belongings from
the wardrobes and drawers and had piled them high as for immediate
flight.
"Aunt Ninette," said Dora timidly, conscious of having remained away
too long. "Don't be frightened any more. Look, it is dark again in the
garden over there and all the lights are out."
Upon gazing over, the aunt saw that everything was dark and the last
lights had been put out. Now a very dim lantern approached the apple
tree. Probably somebody was setting things in order there.
"Oh, it is too terrible! Who could have guessed it!" moaned the aunt.
"Go to bed now, Dora. We'll see tomorrow whether we shall move or leave
the place entirely."
Dora quickly retired to her room but she could not go to sleep for a
long, long while.
She saw before her the garden and the gleaming apple tree, heard the
merry children's voices and also, their father's pleasant, happy words.
She could not help thinking of her own dear father who had always been
willing to listen to her, and she realized how fortunate her little
neighbors were. She had felt so drawn to the children and their kind
parents, that the thought of moving away from the house quite upset
her. She could not go to sleep for a long, long while, for her mind
was filled with the recent impressions. Finally her own beloved father
seemed to be gazing down at her and saying the comforting words as he
used to do:
"'Yet God keeps watch above us
And doeth all things well.'"
These words were still in her mind as she went to sleep, while the
lights, the gleaming tree and merry children across the way followed
her into her dreams.
After the fire was put out, Willi and Lili were found to be the
culprits. Thinking that Rolf's riddle would look more beautiful if
made transparent from behind like the inscription used every Christmas
behind their tree, "Glory to God on High," they had fetched two lights.
Then standing on a high step which had been used for fastening the
inscription, they held the lights very near the riddle. When no joyful
surprise was shown on any of the faces, they put the lights still
nearer, till at last the paper was set on fire, catching the nearby
branches. They owned up to their unfortunate undertaking at once and,
in honor of the festive occasion, were sent to bed with only mild
reproof. Of course they were forbidden to make further experiments with
fire.
Soon after, deep quiet reigned in the house, and peacefully the moon
shone down over the sleeping garden and the splendid tall trees.
CHAPTER IV
ALL SIX
"We shall have to move away from here, Mrs. Kurd," were Aunt Ninette's
first words the following morning when she came down to breakfast. "We
seem to have come into a dreadful neighborhood. We had better move
today."
Speechless with surprise, Mrs. Kurd stood still in the middle of the
room. She looked at Mrs. Ehrenreich as if she could not comprehend the
meaning of her words.
"I mean it seriously, Mrs. Kurd, we must move today," repeated Aunt
Ninette.
"But you could not possibly find more delightful neighbors in all
Tannenberg, Mrs. Ehrenreich, than we have here," began Mrs. Kurd as
soon as she had recovered from her amazement.
"But, Mrs. Kurd, is it possible you did not hear the terrific noise
last evening? It was worse than any of the things we especially meant
to avoid."
"It was only the children, Mrs. Ehrenreich. They happened to be
especially lively because they had a family party last evening."
"If such feasts are celebrated first by a wild explosion of joy,
and end with a fire and an unspeakable confusion, I call such a
neighborhood not only noisy but dangerous. We had better move at once,
Mrs. Kurd, at once."
"I don't believe the fire was intended to take place at the party,"
Mrs. Kurd reassured the aunt. "It was probably a little accident and
was at once put out. Everything is most orderly in that household,
and I really cannot believe that the lady and gentleman can possibly
want to move on account of such neighbors as we have. You would be
sure to repent such a decision, for no better rooms can be had in all
Tannenberg."
Aunt Ninette calmed down a trifle, and began breakfast with Dora and
Uncle Titus.
Breakfast was over by that time in the big house, and the father was
attending to business while the mother was looking after her household
duties. Rolf, who had a daily Latin lesson with a pastor of the
neighboring parish, had long ago left the house. Paula was having a
music lesson with Miss Hanenwinkel, while Willi and Lili were supposed
to review their work for the coming lessons. Little Hun sat at his
table in the corner, examining his sorrowful looking nutcracker-man.
Now Big Jul, who had just returned from his morning ride, entered the
room, his whip in his hand and the new spurs on his feet.
"Who'll take off my riding boots?" he shouted, flinging himself into
a chair and admiring his shiny spurs. Immediately Willi and Lili flew
towards him, glad of a chance to leave their work.
With not the slightest hesitation, Willi and Lili took hold, and before
Jul could prevent it, he was pulled off his chair, Willi and Lili
having hold of him and not the boots. At the last instant, he had been
able to seize the chair, which, however, tumbled forward with him.
Jul cried loudly, "Stop, stop!" which brought little Hun to his big
brother's rescue.
Holding the chair from the back, the small boy pushed with all his
strength against the twins. But he was pulled forward, too, and
found himself sliding along the floor as on an ice-slide. Willi and
Lili anxious to complete their task, kept up their efforts in utter
disregard of Jul's insistent commands to stop, and the words:
"O, Willi and Lili,
You twins, would you kill me?"
[Illustration: BEFORE JUL COULD PREVENT IT,
HE WAS PULLED OFF HIS CHAIR.]
Little Hun shrieked loudly for assistance, till at last, the mother
came upon the scene. Willi and Lili let go suddenly, Jul swung himself
back to the chair, and little Hun, after swaying about for a few
seconds, regained his balance.
"But, Jul, how can you make the little ones so wild? Can't you be doing
something more profitable?" the mother admonished her eldest son.
"Yes, yes, I'll soon be at a more profitable occupation, dear mamma.
But I feel as if I helped you with their education," he began in
a conciliating tone. "If I keep Willi and Lili busy with innocent
exercise like taking my boots off, I keep them out of mischief and any
dreadful exploits of their own."
"You had better go to your profitable occupation, Jul. What nonsense
you talk!" declared the mother. "And Lili, you go to the piano
downstairs at once and practice, till Miss Hanenwinkel has finished
with Paula. Till then Willi must study. I should call it a better
thing, Jul, if you saw to the little ones in a sensible way, till I
come back."
Jul, quite willing, promised to do his best. Lili hastened to the
piano, but being in a rather excited mood, she found her fingers
stumbling over each other while doing scales. The little pieces
therefore tempted her more and she gaily and loudly began to play:
"Rejoice, rejoice in life
While yet the lamp is glowing
And pluck the fragrant rose
In Maytime zephyrs blowing!"
Uncle Titus and his wife had just finished breakfast when the
riding-boot scene took place in the big house. Uncle Titus went
straight to his room and barred the windows, while his wife called to
the landlady, begging her to listen to the noise, herself. But the
whole affair made a different impression on Mrs. Kurd than she had
hoped.
"Oh, they have such times over there," said Mrs. Kurd, amused. When
Mrs. Ehrenreich tried to explain to her that such a noise was not
suitable for delicate people in need of rest, Mrs. Kurd suggested Mr.
Ehrenreich's taking a little walk for recreation to the beautiful
and peaceful woods in the neighborhood. The noise over there would
not last very long. The young gentleman just happened to be home for
the holidays and would not stay long. Lili's joyful piece, thrummed
vigorously and sounding far from muffled, reached their ears now.
"What is that? Is that the young gentleman who is going away soon?"
inquired Aunt Ninette excitedly. "What is coming next, I wonder? Some
new noise and something more dreadful every moment. Is it possible,
Mrs. Kurd, you have never heard it?"
"I never really noticed it very much. I think the little one plays so
nicely, one can't help liking it," Mrs. Kurd declared.
"And where has Dora gone? She seems to be becoming corrupted already,
and I can't manage her any more," wailed the aunt again. "Dora, Dora,
where are you? This is dreadful, for she must start on her work today."
Dora was at the hedge again, happily listening to the song Lili was
drumming on the piano. She appeared as soon as her aunt called to her,
and a place was immediately chosen near the window, where she was to
sew for the rest of the day.
"We can't possibly stay here," were the aunt's last words before
leaving the room, and they nearly brought tears to Dora's eyes.
The greatest wish of her heart was to stay just here where so many
interesting things were going on, and of which she could get a glimpse
now and then. Through her opening, she could hear a great deal and
could watch how the children amused themselves in their pretty garden.
Dora puzzled hard to find a way which would prevent their moving.
However, she could find none.
Meanwhile eleven o'clock had come, and Rolf came rushing home. Seeing
his mother through the open kitchen door, he ran to her.
"Mamma, mamma!" he cried before he was inside. "Can you guess? My first
makes—"
"Dear Rolf," the mother interrupted, "I beg you earnestly to look for
somebody else; I have no time just now. Go to Paula. She is in the
living room." Rolf obeyed.
"Paula!" he cried from below. "Guess: My first makes—"
"Not now, please, Rolf!" retorted Paula. "I am looking for my notebook.
I need it for making a French translation. Here comes Miss Hanenwinkel,
try her. She can guess well."
Rolf threw himself upon the newcomer, Miss Hanenwinkel. "My first
makes—"
"No time, Rolf, no time," interrupted the governess. "Go to Mr. Jul.
He is in the corner over there, having his nuts cracked for him. Go to
him. See you again."
Miss Hanenwinkel, who had once been in Italy, had in that country
acquired the habit usual there of taking leave of people, and used it
now on all occasions. If, for instance, the knife-sharpener arrived,
she would say, "You here again. Better stay where you belong! See you
again." With that she quickly closed the door. If the governess were
sent to meet peddlers, or travelling salesmen coming to the house on
business, she would say, "You know quite well we need nothing. Better
not come again. See you again," and the door was quickly shut. This was
Miss Hanenwinkel's peculiarity.
Jul was sitting in a corner, and in front of him, sat little Hun,
busy giving his sorrowful looking nutcracker nuts to crack, which he
conscientiously divided with Jul.
Rolf stepped up to the pair. "You both have time to guess. Listen!"
"'My first is just an animal forlorn.
My second that to which we should be heir,
And with my whole some lucky few are born
While others win it if they fight despair.'"
"Yes, you are right. It is courage," explained the quick older brother.
"Oh, but you guessed that quickly!" said Rolf, surprised.
"It is my turn now, Rolf. Listen, for it needs a lot of thinking. I
have made it up just this minute," and Jul declaimed:
"'My first is sharp as any needle's end,
My second is the place where money grows,
My whole is used a pungent taste to lend,
And one you'd know, if only with your nose.'"
"That is hard," said Rolf, who needed time for thinking. "Just wait,
Jul, I'll find it." Herewith, Rolf sat down on a chair in order to
think in comfort.
Big Jul and small Hun meanwhile kept on cracking and eating nuts, Jul
varying the game by sometimes trying to hit some goal in the room with
a shell.
"I know it!" cried Rolf, overjoyed. "It is pick-pocket."
"Oh, ho, Rolf, how can you be so absurd! How can a pick-pocket smell?"
cried Jul, disgusted. "It is something very different. It's spearmint."
"Yes, I see!" said Rolf, a little disappointed. "Wait, Jul, what is
this?"
"'My first within the alphabet is found,
My second is a bread that's often sweet;
My third is something loved by active feet.
My whole means something more than just to go around.'"
"Cake-walk," said Jul with not the slightest hesitation.
"Oh ho, entirely wrong," laughed Rolf, "that doesn't work out. It has
three syllables."
"Oh, I forgot," said Jul.
"You see you are wrong," triumphed Rolf. "It is abundance. Wait, I know
still another."
"The first—"
"No, I beg to be spared now, for it is too much of an exertion, and
besides I must see to Castor." Jul had jumped up and was running to the
stable.
"Oh, what a shame, what a shame!" sighed Rolf. "Nobody will listen to
me any more and I made up four more nice riddles. You can't guess, Hun,
you are too foolish."
"Yes, I can!" declared the little boy, offended.
"All right, try then; but listen well and leave these things for a
while. You can crack nuts later on," urged Rolf and began:
"'My first is closest bonds that can two unite,
My second like the shining sun is bright;
My whole's a flower that thrives best in wet ground
And like my second in its color found.'"
"A nutcracker," said little Hun at once. Jul being the little one's
admired model, he thought that to have something to say at once was the
chief point of the game.
"I'll never bother with you again, Hun; there is nothing to be done
with you," cried Rolf, anxious to run away. But that did not work so
simply, little Hun, who had caught the riddle fever, insisted upon
trying out his first attempt.
"Wait, Rolf, wait!" he cried, holding on to Rolf's jacket. "It is my
turn now and you must guess. My first can be eaten, but you can't drink
it—"
"I suppose it's going to be nutcracker!" cried Rolf, running away from
such a stupid riddle as fast as his legs could carry him.
But the small boy ran after him, crying all the time, "You didn't guess
it! You didn't guess it! Guess it, Rolf, guess!"
All at once, Willi and Lili came racing towards him from the other
side, crying loudly, "Rolf, Rolf, a riddle, guess it! Look at it, you
must guess it!" and Lili held a piece of paper directly under Rolf's
nose, while Hun kept on crying, "Guess, Rolf, guess!" The inventor of
riddles was now in an extremity himself.
"Give me a chance, and I'll guess it," he cried, waving his arms to
fight them off.
"As you can't guess mine, I'll go to Jul," said Hun disdainfully,
turning his back.
Rolf seized the small slip of paper, yellow from age, which Lili was
showing him. He looked perplexed at the following puzzling words
written apparently by a child's hand:
"My hand.
Lay firmly
Wanted to be
But otherwise
One stays
And each
And now will
This leaf
When the time comes
That the pieces
fit
We'll rejoice
And we'll go
Never."
"Perhaps this is a Rebus," said Rolf thoughtfully. "I'll guess it, if
you leave me alone a minute. But I must think hard."
There was not time for that just then, for the dinner bell rang loudly
and the family began to gather around the large dining' room table.
"What did you do this morning, little Hun?" asked the father, as soon
as everybody had settled down to eating.
"I made a riddle, papa, but Rolf won't guess my riddles, and I can't
ever find Jul. The others are no good, either."
"Yes, papa," eagerly interposed Rolf now, "I made four or five lovely
riddles, but no one has time to guess except those who have no brains.
When Jul has guessed one, he is exhausted. That is so disappointing,
because I usually have at least six new ones for him every day."
"Yes, papa," Willi and Lili joined in simultaneously, "and we found a
very difficult puzzle. It is even too hard for Rolf to guess. We think
it is a Rebus."
"If you give me time, I'll guess it," declared Rolf.
"The whole house seems to be teeming with riddles," said the father,
"and the riddle fever has taken possession of us all. We ought to
employ a person for the sole purpose of guessing riddles."
"Yes, if only I could find such a person," sighed Rolf. To make riddles
for some one who would really listen and solve them intelligently
seemed to him the most desirable thing on earth.
After lunch the whole family, including Miss Hanenwinkel, went outside
to sit in a circle under the apple tree, the women and girls with some
sewing or knitting. Even little Hun held a rather doubtful looking
piece of material in his hand into which he planted large stitches
with some crimson thread. It was to be a present for Jul in the shape
of a cover for his horse. Jul, according to his mother's wish, had
brought out a book from which he was supposed to read aloud. Rolf sat
under the mountain-ash some distance away, studying Latin. Willi,
who was expected to learn some verses by heart, sat beside him. The
small boy gazed in turn at the birds on the branches overhead, at the
workmen in the field below, and at the tempting red apples. Willi
preferred visible objects to invisible ones and found it difficult to
get anything into his head. It was a great exertion even to try, and he
generally accomplished it, only with Lili's help. His study-hour in the
afternoon, therefore, consisted mostly in contemplating the landscape
round about.
Jul, that day, seemed to prefer similar observations to reading aloud.
He had not even opened his book yet, and after letting his glances roam
far and wide, they always came back to his sister Paula.
"Paula," he said now, "you have a face today as if you were a living
collection of worries and annoyances."
"Why don't you read aloud, Jul, instead of making comparisons nobody
can understand?" retorted Paula.
"Why don't you begin, Jul?" said the mother. "But, Paula, I can't help
wondering, either, why you have been in such a wretched humor lately.
What makes you so reserved and out of sorts?"
"I should like to know why I should be confiding, when there is no
one to confide in. I have not a single girl friend in Tannenberg, and
nobody at all to talk to."
The mother advised Paula to spend more time either with her small
sister or Miss Hanenwinkel, who was only twenty years old and a very
nice companion for her. But Paula declared that the first was by far
too young and the other much too old, for twenty seemed a great age to
Paula. For a real friendship, people must be the same age, must feel
and think the same. They must at once be attractive to each other and
hate the thought of ever being separated. Unless one had such a friend
to share one's joys and experiences, nothing could give one pleasure
and life was very dull.
"Paula evidently belongs to the romantic age," said Jul seriously. "I
am sure she expects every little girl who sells strawberries to produce
a flag and turn into a Joan of Arc, and every field laborer to be some
banished king looking for his lost kingdom among the furrows."
"Don't be so sarcastic, Jul," his mother reproved. "The sort of
friendship Paula is looking for is a beautiful thing. I experienced it
myself, and the memories connected with mine are the sweetest of my
whole life."
"Tell us about your best friend, mamma," begged Paula, who several
times already had heard her mother speak of this friendship which had
become a sort of ideal for her. Lili wanted to hear about it, too. She
knew nothing except that she recalled the name of her mother's friend.
"Didn't you call me after your friend's name, mamma?" asked the little
girl, and her mother assured her this was so.
"You all know the large factory at the foot of the mountain and the
lovely house beside it with the big shady garden," began the mother.
"That's where Lili lived, and I remember so vividly seeing her for the
first time."
"I was about six years old, and was playing in the rectory garden with
my simple little dolls. They were sitting around on fiat stones, for I
did not have elaborate rooms for them furnished with chairs and sofas
like you. Your grandfather, as you know, was rector in Tannenberg and
we lived extremely simply. Several children from the neighborhood, my
playmates, stood around me watching without a single word. This was
their way, and as they hardly ever showed any interest in anything I
did, and usually just stared at everything I brought out, they annoyed
me very much. It didn't matter what I brought out to play with, they
never joined in my games."
"That evening, as I knelt on the ground setting my dolls around a
circle, a lady came into the garden and asked for my father. Before
I could answer, a child who had come with the lady ran up to me and,
squatting on the ground, began to examine all my dolls. Behind each
flat stone, I had stuck up another so the dolls could lean against it.
This pleased her so much, that she at once began to play with the dolls
and made them act. She was so lively that she kept me spellbound, and
I watched her gaily bobbing curls and wondered at her pretty language,
forgetting everything for the moment except what she was doing with my
dolls. Finally, the lady had to ask for my father again."
"From that day on, Lili and I were inseparable friends, and an ideal
existence began for me at Lili's house. I shall never forget the
blissful days I spent with her in her beautiful home, where her lovely
mother and excellent father showed me as much affection as if I were
their own child. Lili's parents had come from the North. Her father,
through some agents, had bought the factory and expected to settle here
for life. Lili, was their only child, and as we were so congenial, we
wished to be together all the time. Whenever we were separated, we
longed for each other again, and it seemed quite impossible for us to
live apart.
"Lili's parents were extremely kind, and often begged my parents as an
especial favor to let me stay with Lili for long visits, which seemed
like regular long feasts to me. I had never seen such wonderful toys as
Lili had, and some I shall never forget as long as I live. Some were
little figures which we played with for whole days. Each had a large
family with many members, of which everyone had a special name and
character. We lived through many experiences with them, which filled us
with joy and sorrow. I always returned home to the rectory laden with
gifts, and soon after, I was invited again."
"Later, we had our lessons together, sometimes from the school teacher,
Mr. Kurd, and sometimes from my father. We began to read together
and shared our heroes and heroines, whose experiences thrilled us so
much that we lived them all through ourselves. Lili had great fire
and temperament, and it was a constant joy to be with her. Her merry
eyes sparkled and her curls were always flying. We lived in this happy
companionship, perfectly unconscious that our blissful life could ever
change."
"But just before we were twelve years old, my father said one day that
Mr. Blank was going to leave the factory and return home. These words
were such a blow, that I could hardly comprehend them at first. They
made such an impression on me, that I remember the exact spot where
my father told me. All I could understand was that Mr. Blank had been
misinformed about the business in the beginning and was obliged to give
it up after a severe loss. My father was much grieved, and said that a
great wrong had been done to Lili's father by his dishonest agents. He
had lost his whole fortune as a result."
"I was quite crushed by the thought of losing Lili, and by her changed
circumstances besides. It made me so unhappy that I remember being
melancholy for a long, long time after. The following day, Lili came
to say goodbye, and we both cried bitterly, quite sure of not being
able to endure the grief of our separation. We swore eternal friendship
to each other, and decided to do everything in our power to meet as
often as possible. Finally, we sat down to compose a poem together,
something we had frequently done before. We cut the verses through in
the middle—we had written it for that purpose—and each took a half. We
promised to keep this half as a firm bond, and if we met again, to join
it together as a sign of our friendship."
"Lili left, and we wrote to each other with great diligence and warm
affection for many years. These letters proved the only consolation to
me in my lonely, monotonous life in the country. When we were young
girls of about sixteen or seventeen, Lili wrote to me that her father
had decided to emigrate to America. She promised to write to me as soon
as they got settled there, but from then on, I never heard another
word. Whether the letters were lost, or Lili did not write because her
family did not settle definitely anywhere, I cannot say. Possibly she
thought our lives had drifted too far apart to keep up our intercourse.
Perhaps Lili is dead. She may have died soon after her last letter—all
this is possible. I mourned long years for my unforgettable and dearest
friend to whom I owed so much. All my inquiries and my attempts to
trace her were in vain. I never found out anything about her."
The mother was silent and a sad expression had spread over her
features, while the children also were quite depressed by the
melancholy end of the story.
One after the other said, sighing, "Oh, what a shame, what a shame!"
But little Hun, who had listened most attentively, had drawn tenderly
near his mother and said comfortingly, "Don't be sad, mamma! As soon as
I am big, I'll go to America and fetch Lili home to you."
Rolf and Willi had also joined the other listeners, and after
thoughtfully gazing at a slip of paper in his hand, Rolf asked, "Mamma,
did the poem you cut apart look like a Rebus, written on a narrow
paper?"
"Perhaps, Rolf. It might have given that impression," replied the
mother. "Why do you ask?"
"Look, mamma," said Rolf, holding out the yellowish slip of paper,
"don't you think this might be your half?"
"Rolf, it really is," cried the mother, agitated. "I thought I had lost
it for good, for after keeping it many years, I suddenly could not find
it. I have never really thought about it, till I told you about this
friendship. Where did you find this dear token, Rolf?"
"We found it!" cried Willi and Lili simultaneously. "We found it in the
old family Bible. We wanted to see if Eve's face was still scratched
up," the twins continued, taking turns giving their information.
"Oh, yes, that brings back another memory of Lili," said the mother
with a smile. "She did this one day as we were both imagining how
beautiful it would be to be in paradise. She suddenly grew so furious
at Eve for having eaten the apple that she scratched her face in the
picture with a pencil for punishment. But my old poem! I am afraid I
can't puzzle it out any more," said the mother after trying to study
the broken sentences. "It is so dreadfully long ago. Just think,
children, over thirty years!"
The mother laid the paper, carefully folded, in her workbasket and
asked the children to pick up their things and follow her, as it would
soon be time for supper. As they knew well that their papa was always
punctual, they quickly packed up their things and one after the other
disappeared into the house through the triumphal arch, which had been
left standing.
Dora had been watching the quiet group under the apple tree for quite
a while through the hole in the hedge. As everybody got up and slowly
went away, she had the chance to examine one child after another. When
they were all gone, Dora heaved a deep sigh and said to herself, "If
only I could be allowed to go over there, just once."
At supper, Aunt Ninette said, "At last, we have had a few quiet hours!
What a relief! If this keeps on, we might possibly remain here. What do
you think, dear Titus?"
Dora waited anxiously for her uncle's answer.
"The air is very heavy in these rooms, and I feel even more dizzy than
I did in Karlsruhe," declared the uncle.
Dora dropped her eyes to her plate and her appetite was gone.
The aunt broke out into loud wails now. Should the whole journey and
their stay here prove absolutely useless after all? Should they have
moved the very first day? She found consolation at last in the thought
that the family opposite had quieted down, and that the windows could
be opened by tomorrow. Dora clung to this hope, for as long as she
lived so near, a possibility remained that she might go and play, at
least a single time, with the children in their fragrant garden.
CHAPTER V
BEFORE AND AFTER THE DELUGE
IT HAPPENED quite often that nobody had time to play with little Hun,
and he himself found nothing on earth to do. At such times, he would
wander aimlessly all through the house, bothering everyone at their
work. His mother always sent him to his little table and wanted him to
keep busy there. The boy would then be very unhappy and troublesome.
He often chose the most inconvenient moments for these restless moods,
when everybody was especially busy.
The day following the events just related was a Saturday, when the
house was being cleaned and the furniture blocked all the hallways.
Hun wandered about among the chairs and sofas and seemed in just as
unsettled a state as was the house.
After looking for his mother everywhere, he succeeded in finding her on
the top floor of the house, sorting the clean laundry, but she sent him
downstairs again with the words, "I am very busy now, Hun. Go and look
for Paula; she may have time for you." He found Paula at the piano.
"Go away, Hun! I have to practise and can't guess your stupid
charades," she said to her little brother, who had caught the fatal
fever from Rolf. He was most anxious to say his own charade about
the nutcracker and was terribly disappointed not to have the chance.
"Here's Miss Hanenwinkel, go to her," said Paula.
"Miss Hanenwinkel, my first one cannot drink, but eat," the little one
cried as soon as he saw the governess.
"No, Hun, please spare me," the governess hurriedly interrupted him.
"I do not know what will happen if you begin it, too. I have no time.
Look, Mr. Jul is just getting down from his horse over there; go to
him."
[Illustration: "COME, I'LL SAY IT AND YOU MUST LEARN IT BY HEART."]
The little one wandered off.
"Jul, nobody wants to guess my riddles, Miss Hanenwinkel least of all,"
he complained to his big brother. "She said you ought to do it."
"Did she say so? All right, then, say it," Jul encouraged him.
"My first you can't drink, but eat," began Hun, and stopped.
"All right, keep on, Hun!"
"You have to make the rest, Jul; but the whole must be nutcracker,"
said the little boy.
"I can see that quite clearly; but because Miss Hanenwinkel has sent
me a riddle to guess through you, I'll send her one, too. Come, I'll
say it and you must learn it by heart. Then you can go and ask Miss
Hanenwinkel to solve it for you."
Standing the little one in front of him, Jul said several times quite
slowly:
"When like my first Hun's crow, disturbs all men
Into the second does the whole put then
The naughty culprit, saying, 'See you again.'" *
Before very long, the small boy had memorized the lines and eagerly
ran off to serve them up to the governess.
The latter sat in the schoolroom, trying to explain a problem in
arithmetic to the twins. This proved a hard task today. The two were
dreadfully absent-minded. Just then Hun came into the room.
"A charade, Miss Hanenwinkel," he announced at once.
* Hanenwinkel translated into English means Rooster-corner.
"But I won't let you say it now. This is no time for such nonsense,"
said the governess, firmly. But as Jul was the originator this time,
the little boy grew quite audacious. Without swerving, he declared
several times:
"It's Jul's charade, Jul made it up."
"Then say it quickly," said the governess, visibly relenting. The boy
distinctly recited his riddle.
Miss Hanenwinkel, who came from Bremen, did not like to be left behind
and was always quick in replies. Immediately sitting down at the table,
she took up pen and paper and wrote:
"My first's the time for nuts, my whole then finds
Much pleasure in them, for at once he grinds
Them up between his teeth; but we can't see,
That there's much of my second in this. For he,
My whole, that is, throws shells upon the floor
And makes us tumble on them at the door."
"Take this to Mr. Jul," she said, giving the little one the paper,
"and tell him I refuse to be beaten. As long as he has turned my name
so nicely into a charade, I am sending him one, too. But don't come in
again, Hun. We must work hard, and another disturbance might be fatal."
Willi and Lili were less afraid of a disturbance, and it was quite
visible that the recent interruption had already had the dreaded
effect. While the governess had been talking to their brother, the
twins had moved their heads closer and closer together, apparently deep
in making plans. These had proved so absorbing that they could not
even remember the simplest sums, and Miss Hanenwinkel found herself
obliged to shut her book with a deep sigh. She remarked in conclusion,
that if each number represented some foolish exploit, Willi and Lili
would grasp them all.
This opinion of the governess was not without foundation, because the
twins seemed especially gifted for such exploits. Apparently a scheme
of this kind was in their heads now, and as soon as the lesson was
done, they rushed enterprisingly towards the laundry. Here they had
a secret consultation opposite all the washtubs in the place.
At table, Jul pulled out a sheet of paper and asked, "Who can guess a
fine riddle Miss Hanenwinkel has composed?" After which he read it.
He was hardly finished when Rolf cried out the answer, "Julius and by
rights Yule-use."
It was the right solution. Miss Hanenwinkel, however, did not read her
riddle, because she did not wish to have her peculiarity discussed and
laughed at.
After dinner, Willi and Lili ran to the laundry again, for it was
Saturday afternoon and they were free to do what they pleased. Miss
Hanenwinkel had meant to watch the children, but seeing them enter the
laundry, she supposed they were going to wash some doll's clothing, a
favorite occupation of theirs. She was glad they had found something to
keep them busy for at least a couple of hours.
But Willi and Lili had an idea which reached far beyond a mere doll
wash. While playing with their new Noah's ark they had entered so
deeply into the miraculous existence of the people and animals in the
ark that Lili conceived the brilliant idea of executing a trip in the
ark themselves. She carefully thought out everything necessary for such
a journey, and being alert and practical, she knew quite well how to do
it.
Among the washtubs, the twins selected one of medium size for the ark,
one just big enough to hold them and the animals if everybody kept nice
and quiet.
Schnurri and Philomele were to represent the animals in the ark, and
the first thing the children did, was catch hold of the two pets so
necessary to their idea. Schnurri followed the call with a growl, while
Philomele rubbed her soft fur against Lili's legs so caressingly that
the little girl picked her up tenderly saying, "You really are much
nicer than Schnurri, dear Philomele."
Philomele had gotten her name because she mewed very melodiously,
and Schnurri his, because he grunted and growled so much. But there
was a cause for this. The two had been commanded to live in harmony
together and to do each other no harm. Schnurri punctually obeyed
these instructions by always being peaceful and considerate towards
Philomele. While they were having dinner from the same dish, he ate
very slowly, knowing that the cat with her tiny mouth could not eat as
fast, as he. Philomele was always pleasant towards the dog when anyone
was watching, but when nobody was around, she frequently lifted her
paw and gave him a treacherous blow behind the ear. This would make
Schnurri growl, and as this happened very often, he growled nearly all
the time. He had gotten his name unjustly, because he was by nature a
peace-loving and friendly creature.
For the trip in the ark, some water was necessary. Lili knew that on
wash days a long wooden funnel or pipe was laid under the fountain
outside and into the tub, which made the latter fill with water.
She had planned to let the water flow from the wooden funnel to the
floor of the laundry where the washtub always stood. In that way the
floor would be gradually covered with water and finally the tub would
be lifted up, representing the swimming ark. All this was carefully
planned, and only the long funnel which was necessary for that
manoeuvre had to be secured.
Willi and Lili could not quite decide whether it was wiser to ask
Battist or Trine for help.
Old Battist and young Trine stood in practically the same relationship
as Schnurri and Philomele. Battist had served many years in the
household, and knowing about everything, had a word to say about all
the management of the house and stable, as well as the garden and the
fields. The universal respect shown to the old man annoyed Trine, who
felt that regard was due to her, too. If she had not served the family
very long yet, her aunt had lived in the Birkenfeld household so many
years that she had actually become too old to work and was resting from
her labors now. Trine had taken her place and was decidedly jealous of
old Battist's authority, which she herself did not recognize at all.
She behaved very decently to the old man before the family, but teased
him as soon as they turned their backs, just as Philomele did with
Schnurri.
The children knew this, and often made use of this state of affairs for
their own private ends. Willi and Lili felt that Trine would be more
willing to lend them aid than the old gardener, who never much approved
of extraordinary schemes. But the needed funnel came under his especial
sceptre, and therefore Lili decided to ask the old man's assistance,
while Willi held on to Schnurri and the cat. Finding Battist on the
threshing-floor sorting out seeds, Lili stood herself in front of him
with her hands back of her, taking the identical attitude her father
always took when talking with his workmen.
"Battist," she began energetically, "where is the funnel which is used
in the laundry for filling the washtubs with water?"
Battist looked at Lili from his seeds, as if anxious to weigh her
question. Then he asked deliberately, "Did your mamma send you here?"
"No, she didn't send me, I want it myself," explained Lili.
"I see; then I don't know where the funnel is," retorted Battist.
"But Battist," Lili commenced again, "I only want a little water from
the spring fountain. Why can't I have it?"
"I know you two small birds," growled Battist. "Once a little bit of
fire and then a little bit of water, and finally some dreadful mishap.
You can't have it this time, you can't have it."
"Then I don't care," sulked Lili, and went at once to the kitchen where
Trine was sweeping the floor.
"Trine," said the little girl pleasantly, "won't you come and give us
the funnel for the fountain? Battist is horrid, he won't even give it
to us for a second. But you will let us have it, won't you, Trine?"
"Of course," replied Trine. "I don't see why you shouldn't have a
little bit of water. But you'll have to wait until the old bear goes
away. Then I'll go with you."
After a while Trine saw Battist walking across the yard towards the
fields.
"Come, now," she said, taking Lili's hand in hers and running to the
laundry.
She pulled out the pipe from its hiding place, laid one end under the
spigot and the other into a small tub. Then she explained to Lili how
to take the pipe away when the bucket was full enough. She and Willi
could do this quite well themselves and when they needed more water
they could put it back. Trine had to go back to her work now.
When the maid left, they were ready to start on their excursion. After
the pipe was laid on the floor, Lili climbed in, followed by Willi, and
Philomele was lifted and Schnurri was pulled inside. Noah and his wife
sat in their beautiful ark now, grateful over their delivery and joyful
over their trip on the rising floods. The water from the fountain was
steadily flowing into the laundry, and all of a sudden the ark was
lifted and began to float. Noah and his wife screamed with delight.
They had really succeeded in their plans, the ark actually swam about
on real waves.
Several high stone steps led down into the laundry, and it therefore
held a large quantity of water. The water rose steadily higher and
higher, and the children began to feel a little frightened.
"Look, Willi, we won't be able to get out any more," said Lili, "it's
getting higher all the time."
Willi looked out thoughtfully over the edge of the tub and said, "If it
gets much higher, we'll have to drown."
Of course it kept on getting higher and higher.
Schnurri was beginning to get restless, too, and by jumping about,
threatened to upset the washtub. It rocked violently to and fro. The
water by that time was so deep that the children could not possibly
climb out again, and seized by a sudden panic, they began to shriek
with all their might: "We are drowning, we are drowning! Mamma! Mamma!
Battist! Trine! We are drowning!"
Finally, instead of words, they just frantically screeched and yelled.
Schnurri barked and growled from sympathy, while Philomele revealed her
true character, and began to bite and scratch, while meowing loudly.
Philomele refused to go into the water, neither would she stay in the
tub. Instead, she went on crazily and scratched the children whenever
she could. But when the faithful Schnurri saw that no assistance was
coming in answer to their cries, he jumped into the water with a big
leap. He swam towards the door, gave himself a shake and ran away. But
the children yelled worse than ever now, for Schnurri had nearly upset
the tub in jumping out.
Dora had long ago run down to her hole in the hedge to see what was the
cause of the pitiful cries.
The laundry stood close to the hedge, but she could see nothing but a
funnel through which water flowed into the laundry. But she heard their
cries about drowning and turning about, she ran upstairs again.
"Aunt Ninette," she cried breathlessly, "two children are drowning over
there. Don't you hear them, don't you hear them?"
The aunt had heard the yells, despite her tightly barred windows.
"Oh, gracious, what does it mean?" cried the affrighted aunt. "Of
course, I heard the awful noise, but who is drowning, I wonder? Mrs.
Kurd! Mrs. Kurd! Mrs. Kurd!" Meanwhile, the soaked dog ran in big leaps
towards the coachhouse, where Battist was cutting bean poles. Schnurri
rushed up to him, pulled his trousers, barked violently, then tried to
pull Battist along again, howling incessantly.
"Something is up," said Battist, and putting one of the poles on his
shoulder, he said to himself, "One can never tell what may be useful."
Herewith, he followed Schnurri, who gaily preceded him to the
washhouse. By that time, the mother, the governess, Paula, Rolf and
Hun, and at last Trine had assembled, as the awful noise had penetrated
into every nook and corner of the house and garden. Battist at once
held his long pole out over the floods towards the tub.
"Take hold of it tight and don't let it go!" he called to the children,
and after drawing the whole ark towards him, he lifted the inmates onto
dry land.
Willi and Lili were so scared and white that they had to recover a
little before being examined about their exploit. Taking each by the
hand, their mother led them to the bench under the apple tree and gave
them a chance to revive a little.
Jul, leading the small Hun by the hand, followed and said, "Oh, you
terrible twins, some day you will both come to a terrible end."
With trousers turned up, old Battist had stepped into the deluge, and
had opened all the vents for draining to let the floods disperse. To
Trine, who stood beside him, he said pityingly, "It only happened
because you have no more sense than the seven-year-olds!"
He knew quite well who had fetched the funnel. Trine, realizing that
she had been duped, could give no answer, but like Philomele, got ready
to scratch her adversary.
When everybody sat safe and sound again under the apple tree, Philomele
came up to Lili, tenderly meowing and rubbing against the girl's legs.
But the child pushed her away, and instead she and Willi tenderly
stroked the wet Schnurri, who lay at their feet on the ground. The
twins secretly resolved to give Schnurri their whole supper that night,
for in their great extremity, they had found out the true character of
their pets.
After thoughtfully gazing at the rescued twins for a while, the small
Hun joined Jul, who was wandering to and fro on the gravel path.
"Jul," said the little one solemnly, "tell me in what way the terrible
twins could come to a fearful end?"
"They might do it in different ways, Hun," replied Jul, standing still.
"You see they have already tried fire and water. In some excited mood,
they may next pull down the house over our heads. Then we'll all be
lying underneath, and everything will be over."
"Can't we quickly jump away?" asked little Hun, concerned.
"We can, if they don't do it in the middle of the night."
"Please wake me up then," Hun implored his brother.
Mrs. Kurd had come in answer to Aunt Ninette's repeated cries at the
identical moment when Battist was pulling the ark to safety and the
cries had stopped.
"Did you hear it, Mrs. Kurd? Wasn't it terrible? But everything is
quiet now. Do you suppose they were saved?"
"Of course," said Mrs. Kurd calmly. "The little ones were just
screaming a little, and there can't have been any real danger."
"I never heard such shrieks, and I am still trembling in all my limbs.
Oh, I wonder how your uncle stood it, Dora. This is the end, I fear,
Mrs. Kurd, and we have had enough. Nothing can keep us from moving now."
With this Aunt Ninette stepped into her husband's room to see how he
had taken the last disturbance. Mr. Titus did not even hear his wife's
entrance, for he had stuffed cotton into his ears when the noise
penetrated even through the closed windows. Afterwards, he calmly kept
on writing.
"For goodness' sake, Titus! That is dreadfully unhealthy and heats
your head," wailed his wife, upon noticing her husband's ears. Quickly
taking out the cotton, she told him what she had resolved to do.
Tomorrow, after the morning service, she was going to pay a call on the
village rector and ask his advice about another lodging. After what had
happened they could not stay. It was too much to put up with.
Mr. Titus agreed to everything she said, and Aunt Ninette went to her
room to enlarge further upon the scheme.
Dora stood in the corridor listening to her.
"Are we really going away, Aunt Ninette?" she asked timidly, as soon as
her uncle's door was shut.
"Surely!" the woman answered. "We expect to leave the house on Monday."
Dora slipped into her little room and sat down on her bed. She was
completely cast down by the thought of leaving without having even once
met the children in the lovely garden. She thought how dreary it would
be to go back to Karlsruhe, where she would have to sew shirts again
and could no longer watch the merry life of the jolly children.
From sheer grief, Dora's eyes were so cast down that she could not see
her five bright stars gleaming down to her. They seemed to be calling,
"Dora, Dora! Have you forgotten your father's words completely?"
CHAPTER VI
A TERRIBLE DEED
THE weather Sunday was very fair and the garden lay peaceful and
quiet in the sunlight. Nothing could be heard except the occasional
thump of a falling apple, which had begun to ripen. The parents had
gone to church with Paula and Miss Hanenwinkel and Jul and Hun sat
peacefully before a great bowl of hazelnuts, discussing the different
ways in which the nutcracker could open nuts. Willi and Lili, after the
instructive experience of the day before, had come back to their ark
with the wooden men and ladies and sat in the schoolroom where they
were allowed to spread their toys over the large table. Rolf had run to
a lonely little summerhouse in a distant corner of the garden in order
to be undisturbed at different studies he was interested in.
When the deluge, which had to proceed this time without any water, had
lasted a long time, and the dove had returned with the olive branch,
Lili grew tired of the game and cast about for something new.
"Come down stairs, Willi," she proposed. "Let's look at Rolf's bow and
arrow. He put it in the hall yesterday."
Willi, quite ready for a change of occupation, hastened downstairs
after his twin sister, who knew the exact spot where Rolf had put the
bow and the quiver full of feathered arrows.
"It must be great fun to shoot with it," said Lili. "I watched Rolf
doing it. You pull the string back and lay the arrow on it; then you
let go of the string and the arrow flies away. Let's try it, Willi."
"But we are not allowed to do it. Don't you remember papa saying we
mustn't?" answered Willi.
"I don't actually mean to shoot. We'll just try a little how it works,"
suggested Lili.
This tempted Willi very much.
"But where shall we try it? There is too little room in the hall," he
said.
"Of course not here; I know a good place, for it in the garden," she
cried, running out with the arrow towards an open space near, the
hedge. Willi eagerly followed with the bow.
"Here is a good place," said Lili, "let's both try it together."
Willi stuck the bow into the ground and both pulled the string back as
hard as they could. When they succeeded in tightening the string, Lili
jubilated loudly.
"Now lift up the bow," she directed her brother, "put on the arrow like
that and pull this thing here back. You'll see what fun it is! Try it,
Willi."
The boy pulled hard, and the arrow went whirring through the hedge.
That same moment, they heard a cry of pain in the little garden beyond.
Then everything was still.
[Illustration: "DO YOU THINK IT WAS A LITTLE RABBIT THAT MADE THE
NOISE?" ASKED WILLI, FRIGHTENED.]
The children looked at each other perplexed.
"Do you think it was a little rabbit that made the noise?" asked Willi,
frightened.
"Do you think it was a chicken?" asked Lili, with a very bad conscience.
Both hoped sincerely they had heard wrongly when it sounded like a
child's cry, and that they had only hurt a little animal. They knew
they had been very disobedient in handling the weapon, and without
saying a word, they carried the bow back to its place.
Here a new dread took hold of them. What would happen if Rolf
discovered an arrow was missing?
Just then they heard the others coming back from church. This prevented
them from going out and hunting for the missing arrow, which would
give them away at once. Rolf, of course, would not know they had shot,
but he might ask them. They felt very helpless and entangled by their
disobedience. Besides, it seemed quite impossible ever to admit the
truth, if somebody asked them for the arrow.
In silence and greatly oppressed by a feeling of guilt, Willi and Lili
slipped back to the schoolroom and remained there without making a
sound till they were called to dinner. They sat down quietly on their
chairs without any joyful expectation of the coming meal. They never
raised their eyes and swallowed hard at their soup as if it contained
large gravel stones. Whenever the father accosted them, they did not
raise their eyes, and their answers were scarcely audible.
"What is the matter again with those two?" the father asked, quite
convinced that their contrition was not due to the incident of the day
before: the repentance of the twins never lasted so long as that.
He received no answer, as they sat motionless, staring at their plates.
The mother anxiously shook her head, while Hun, who guessed at once
that something dreadful must have happened, kept a watchful eye on the
pair.
The fine pudding with the sauce appeared and each got a nice big
helping. Suddenly the father jumped up from his seat. "What is the
matter? Can someone over there be ill? I just saw the doctor running in
there rapidly as if someone were in great danger."
"I know of no sick people," said the mother. "Mrs. Kurd has rented her
rooms to strangers. Perhaps one of them is ill."
First the twins blushed scarlet, then they grew white from fear as an
inner voice repeated to them insistently: "Now you'll be found out, now
you'll be found out!" They were so petrified that they could not move
their limbs and found themselves obliged to leave the tempting pudding
with the raisins untouched.
Even Hun, known as the most indefatigable eater of puddings, left
his portion behind, for suddenly, leaping from his seat, he cried in
terrible agitation, "Mamma, papa, come! Everything will fall to pieces
now!" And nearly pulling Jul bodily from his chair, he flew towards the
door. He could still be heard shrieking insanely outside, "Come, come!
Everything will go to pieces. Jul told me so."
"What evil spirit has come into the children!" inquired the father,
amazed. "The twins are acting as if they were screwed to a torture
bench, and Hun has completely lost his senses."
Suddenly realizing what had caused Hun's panic, Jul burst into a
gale of laughter. The small boy, seeing the twins so frightened and
grim themselves, felt sure the pair had begun their fearful work
of destruction. In a few moments, the house would crash down over
the assembled family, he was quite sure. Under renewed outbursts of
laughter, Jul explained what Hun's insane cries signified and even
the mother was quite unable to tempt the boy into the room again with
soothing words. He danced up and down before the house and violently
implored everybody to come outside. At last, his father ordered the
door to be shut, so the meal could proceed in quiet. Afterwards, when
the family went into the garden, little Hun approached as soon as he
saw them all in safety under the apple tree. Then he said, sighing,
"If only somebody would fetch me out my pudding before the house falls
down!"
The mother drew the little boy up to her, and explained how very
foolish both Jul and he had been, the big boy to invent such nonsense,
and the other to believe it. She told him to think a little and see how
impossible it would be for two small people like Willi and Lili to tear
down a large house built of stone; but it took quite a while to remove
the fixed idea from the boy's brain.
Dora had been standing at the hedge waiting for the children to come
to the garden when the twins approached. She watched their sport with
much suspense, and then the arrow happened to fly straight into her
bare arm. The pain was so great that she moaned aloud. Fortunately the
arrow had not penetrated far enough to remain fixed in her flesh, and
had fallen down at once. But such streams of blood poured from her arm
over her hand and dress that Dora, in her fright, forgot her suffering.
She could not help thinking how terribly Aunt Ninette would worry at
her accident. In her anxiety, she sought for some means to conceal the
matter and pulling out her handkerchief, she wrapped it firmly round
the wound. Next, she ran to the fountain in front of the house, and
began to wash off the stains. But the blood immediately soaked through
the bandage, and Dora was stained with blood.
That moment, her aunt called her name from upstairs and Dora had to
go. Trembling, she went reluctantly upstairs to her aunt, holding her
bandaged arm stretched out in front, because the blood was simply
dripping from it. The light Sunday frock was spotted with blood, and
streaks were on the child's cheeks and forehead, because in trying to
wipe it off, Dora had soiled herself everywhere.
"For mercy's sake!" shrieked the aunt at this appalling sight. "Dora,
what is the matter with you? Tell me! Did you fall? How dreadful you
look! Your cheeks look as white as chalk under the bloodstains! Dora,
for heaven's sake, speak!"
Dora had several times been on the point of speaking, but had not got
the chance. She answered timidly at last: "It was an arrow."
A storm of worse complaints than Dora had ever heard broke forth
now. Wringing her hands and running up and down the room, the aunt
exclaimed, "An arrow, an arrow! You were shot! And in the arm! You'll
be lame for life now! Your arm will stay stiff and you'll be a cripple
forever! You won't be able to sew any more, no, you won't be able to
do anything at all! You will have to live in poverty the rest of your
life! We'll all suffer most dreadfully! How could such a misfortune
break in upon us? How can we go on living now? What on earth shall we
do if you become lame?"
"But, Aunt Ninette," Dora said, between her sobs, "perhaps it won't be
so terrible. Don't you remember what papa used to say:"
"'Yet God keeps watch above us
And doeth all things well.'"
"Ah, yes, that is true, but if you are crippled, you are crippled,"
wailed the aunt anew. "It is enough to drive one to despair. But come
here! No, go now. Better come to the water here! But where is Mrs.
Kurd? We must send for the doctor at once."
Dora went to her wash basin, while the aunt ran to Mrs. Kurd and urged
her to send for the physician without a moment's delay. One could not
tell what danger there might be in such an injury.
The doctor came as soon as he was able, examined the wound, stopped
the blood and made a tight bandage without saying a word, though Aunt
Ninette had several times tried hard to bring him to some declaration.
Taking his hat, he was soon at the door.
"But, doctor, won't you tell me?" said Aunt Ninette, accompanying him
further, "Tell me, doctor, will her arm remain lame? Lame for life?"
"Let us hope not! I'll come again tomorrow," was the answer, after
which the physician was gone.
"'Let us hope not,'" repeated Aunt Ninette, in a despairing voice.
"With a doctor that means yes. Oh, what will become of us? What shall
we do? We can never pull through now."
The aunt never stopped wailing the entire day.
When the mother that night came to Willi's bed to say his prayers with
him she did not find him sitting happily on his bed as usual, eager to
detain her for a long talk. He was crouched together and did not look
up at her when she sat down beside him. Nor did he speak.
"Willi, what is the matter?" asked the mother. "Something is troubling
you. Did you do something wicked?"
Willi gave forth an incomprehensible sound, which was neither yes nor
no.
"Come, say your evening song, Willi. Maybe that will open your heart,"
said the mother again.
Willi began:
"The moon is now ascending,
The golden stars are lending
Their beauty to the night."
But he prayed mechanically, constantly listening to every sound
outside. He also gazed at the door, as if something dreadful might
enter at any moment. From his restless glances, one could see that he
was suffering from some inner terror. When he came to the end of his
song:
"Oh, take us in Thy keeping,
Dear Lord, while we are sleeping,
And watch o'er those in pain."
Willi burst into violent sobs, and tightly clinging to his mother,
cried out, "The child won't ever be able to sleep again, and God will
punish us frightfully."
"What do you mean, Willi?" asked the mother gently. "Come, tell me what
has happened. I have known all day you must have been naughty. What was
it?"
"We have—we have—perhaps we shot a child dead," was heard at last.
"Willi, what are you saying?" cried the mother, frightened, for
she immediately remembered the doctor's hurried appearance at her
neighbor's cottage. "But that isn't possible. Explain to me what
happened."
Willi related from the beginning what Lili and he had done, how they
had heard the moan, after which they had run away. They were so
frightened now, they would rather die at once, he said, than live any
longer in such dread.
"Now you see, Willi, what comes from disobedience," said the mother,
sternly. "You thought it wasn't very bad for you to play a little with
the bow and arrow, but your father knew very well what danger there
might be in it. That is why he forbade you to use it. We can't tell yet
what terrible thing has happened through your disobedience. Therefore,
we will earnestly implore God to make only good come out of your wicked
action."
The mother began to say a prayer which Willi continued himself. He had
never in his life prayed as fervently as he did at that anxious moment.
He could hardly stop, because he felt such intense relief in praying,
and it was wonderful to lay his trouble in God's hands. He earnestly
begged His forgiveness and His assistance. Willi experienced great
happiness in being able to look up at his mother again and he said
good-night with a lighter heart.
In the room opposite, Lili was waiting for her mother. As the latter
stepped up to her little one's bed, she said seriously, "Will you say
your prayers, Lili?"
Lili began, then stopped. Once more she began and stopped abruptly.
Dreadfully uneasy, she said now, "Mamma, I can't pray. God is angry
with me."
"What did you do, Lili? What makes you so sure God is angry with you?"
Lili remained silent, and pulled her sheet to and fro, for she was an
obstinate little person.
"If our God is not satisfied with you, I am not, either. Now I must go.
Sleep well, if you can," said the mother, turning to leave the room.
"Mamma!" shrieked Lili, "Don't go! I'll tell you everything."
The mother turned around.
"We shot with the bow, though we were not allowed to do it. And we hit
something that cried out. Then we were awfully frightened and ran away.
Afterwards, we were still more scared and we can't be happy any more."
"Of course you can't be happy now," agreed the mother. "Just think,
Lili! Because of your disobedience, a poor child over there has to
suffer dreadful pain. She may even be here without her mother, for she
is a stranger. She is probably crying all night in the strange house."
"I want to go over to the child and stay with it," Lili began pitifully
crying. "I can't sleep, mamma, I am so scared."
"You see, Lili, that is the way we always feel when we have done wrong.
I'll go to the poor child, and you must pray to God for an obedient
heart, and beg Him to keep bitter suffering away from the innocent
child you wounded."
Lili obeyed, and was glad she could pray again. After confessing her
guilt, she did not feel as if God were angry with her any more, and she
begged Him from the bottom of her heart to make her good and obedient
and to heal the poor hurt neighbor.
Immediately afterwards, the mother sent Trine to Mrs. Kurd in order to
find out if a child had been really shot, how it all had happened, and
if the doctor had been brought for that reason.
Mrs. Kurd told Trine in detail how the arrow had flown through the
hedge and into Dora's arm. She also repeated the doctor's words when
asked about the dreadful consequences that might result from the
accident. He had promised to return the next day.
Trine carefully told her mistress everything she had learned, and Mrs.
Birkenfeld was glad to find the wound had not immediately endangered
the child's life. She was especially relieved that the child's eye had
not been struck, which possibility had troubled her the most.
CHAPTER VII
IN THE GARDEN AT LAST
QUITE early the next morning, Mrs. Birkenfeld went over to Mrs. Kurd's
little house, where she was most joyously received. Mrs. Birkenfeld and
Lili, her friend, had gone to school to Mr. Kurd, and the two girls had
been his favorite pupils. They had been such diligent students, that
he experienced nothing but success and pleasure in his task and often
during his life spoke about them to his wife. Mrs. Kurd at once led
her neighbor into the house, anxious to talk, for she had not seen her
since the strangers had arrived. Of course, there was a great deal to
tell about their ways of living and so on, and especially the accident
of the day before.
When Mrs. Kurd had talked these things over a little, Mrs. Birkenfeld
asked for the pleasure of meeting the boarders, and especially the
little girl who had been wounded by the arrow.
Mrs. Kurd went away to give the message to Mrs. Ehrenreich, and soon
the latter appeared, followed by Dora, looking very pale and thin, and
with a heavy bandage on her arm.
After the first greeting, Mrs. Birkenfeld went up to the child and
affectionately taking her hand inquired sympathetically about the
wound. Then turning to Mrs. Ehrenreich, expressed her deep regret over
the accident, and in friendly words asked after her and her husband's
health.
Aunt Ninette was not slow in saying how much his condition worried her.
They, had come here purposely for peace and quiet and the fine air
besides, but he got none of these. He was obliged to keep his windows
shut all day, for he could not stand any noise while working, and the
disturbances seemed incessant. In that way, he was deprived of the good
air. She also spoke of her anxiety that instead of being benefited by
their vacation her husband should get worse here.
"I am so sorry the children have disturbed Mr. Ehrenreich so dreadfully
at his work," said Mrs. Birkenfeld with understanding. "If Mr.
Ehrenreich won't go on walks, he should have an airy place for working,
and that puts me in mind of a little summerhouse in the back part of
our garden, which is quite a distance from the house and the frequented
places of the property. We keep a table and some chairs in it, and I
sincerely hope that Mr. Ehrenreich will make that his workroom. I shall
take great pains to keep the children away from that neighborhood."
Aunt Ninette was delighted with this proposition, and accepted the
offer gratefully, promising to tell her husband at once.
"And you, dear child," said Mrs. Birkenfeld, turning to Dora, "you must
come over to us daily and get strong and well. I hope your aunt will
let you, for my children have a great wrong to make satisfaction for."
"May I really go to the lovely garden and play with the children?"
asked Dora with sparkling eyes, hardly daring to believe her ears.
Her aunt looked at her, amazed; she had never seen Dora so joyful.
Mrs. Birkenfeld was so deeply touched by the child's visible delight
that tears rose to her eyes and she felt herself mysteriously drawn
to Dora in deep affection. Those joyfully shining eyes woke in her a
whole world of memories. After it was settled that Dora should come
over immediately after lunch and spend the rest of the day with the
children, Mrs. Birkenfeld went home.
Aunt Ninette at once went to her husband and told him about the remote
little summerhouse that had been kindly offered to him. Mr. Titus was
much pleased. He had really begun to suffer from the lack of air, and
as it was against his principles to lose much precious time, he had
not been able to make up his mind to take a daily walk. An airy place
for his studies was exactly what he wanted, and he proposed to examine
the summerhouse at once. Aunt Ninette went along. They walked around
the garden in order to avoid the numerous family and came at last to
a little garden gate leading directly to the pavilion, just as Mrs.
Birkenfeld had explained to them.
Two old walnut trees and a weeping willow with dense and deeply
drooping branches stood beside the little house and behind it a large
meadow stretched down the incline. Everything round about lay in
silence and peace.
Mr. Titus had brought out two large books under each arm, for he meant
to begin on his work at once, if he liked the place. Aunt Ninette was
carrying some paper and ink, and Dora marched behind with a wax taper
and some cigars. Mr. Titus, liking the spot extremely, lost no time,
but settled down at the table to work. He breathed the delicious air
deeply into his lungs and rubbed his hands with satisfaction. Then
he began to write at once, and Aunt Ninette and Dora returned to the
house, knowing he wanted to be left alone.
[Illustration: DORA MARCHED BEHIND WITH A WAX TAPER AND SOME CIGARS.]
The news of the twins' last misdeed had quickly spread in the big
house. Rolf, coming back from his Latin lesson, had gone at once
for his bow. When he found one of the arrows missing, he had rushed
into the house, wild with rage, to find the culprit. It was not at
all difficult for him to discover this, for the twins' were still
repentant, and at once remorsefully admitted their crime.
They even informed their brother of the cry of pain they had heard
after shooting. They took Rolf to Mrs. Kurd's garden and showed him
where the arrow might be. Sure enough, there it lay on the ground. As
soon as Rolf was reconciled by finding the arrow, he ran at once to
Paula and Jul, crying, "Did you know they shot a child?" That was the
reason why all six children with Miss Hanenwinkel behind them, stood on
the stone steps outside the house waiting in suspense and agitation for
their mother's return.
She had hardly come in sight, when Hun cried, "Where did they shoot
her?"
And all bombarded her with questions. "Is it a child?" "Is it a boy?"
"How big is it?" "What is its name?" "Is it much hurt?"
"Come inside, children," said the mother, trying to keep them within
bounds. When they all stood around her, she told them that Willi and
Lili had hurt a frail little girl, who could not move her arm, but was
obliged to carry it in a tight bandage. The child was of Paula's age
and spoke beautifully. She was well brought up, and looked extremely
pleasant. Her name was Dora, and she was coming over that afternoon to
make their acquaintance.
They were even more interested now and the children wondered what Dora
looked like, and whether they could understand her. Each hoped to be
her special friend.
But Paula, who was more deeply thrilled than anybody, said, "Oh, mamma,
I am so glad that she is just my age. Isn't it nice she is so refined?
Oh, how glad I am!" In secret, she already schemed for a great and
lasting friendship with her little neighbor and could hardly wait for
the afternoon to come. Rolf thought that Dora would be just the right
age for him, and hoped secretly she would enjoy guessing his charades.
The twins, feeling that Dora was their special property, as long as
they had shot her, counted already on her being a useful playmate. For
their schemes and games they often wished for a third, and Paula was
almost never in the mood to be of help. Hun said, full of satisfaction,
"I shall be glad when Dora comes, for I can go to her when no one else
has time and all our chairs are topsy-turvy." He was thinking of his
dreary hours on Saturday morning, when he never knew what to play or
do. Jul in his turn asked his little brother, "But, Hun, what do you
think Dora and I could do together?"
"I know," said the little one, after a short reflection. "Dora can help
us to take off your riding boots. Last time, there were not nearly
enough of us; remember?"
"You are right," said Jul, delighted.
Dora lived through the morning in joyful trepidation, not knowing
what to do from happiness. Her great wish at last was coming true,
and she was to visit the merry children in their pretty garden. But
suddenly she was filled with qualms. She had learned to know and
love the children at her place of observation, whereas she was quite
unknown to them. Not only that, but the consciousness of being so
ignorant and awkward compared to them cast her spirits down. She knew
how accomplished and clever they all were, and it was quite possible
they would have nothing to do with her at all. These conjectures in
turn troubled and delighted her during the dinner hour, and made it
difficult for her to eat.
At last the wished for time came, when Aunt Ninette said to Dora, "You
can go now."
The child put on her hat and set out at once, entering the front hall
of the big house. She walked through the long corridor straight towards
the garden at the other end, where the door stood open.
Most unexpectedly, she found herself face to face with the whole
family. All were gathered under the apple tree as usual, and Dora was
not prepared for this, having only expected to see the children. She
therefore stopped short, and gazed at them timidly.
But the little Hun had eagerly waited for Dora, and jumped from his
seat the moment he saw her. Stretching out his hand, he called, "Won't
you come here, Dora? There is enough room for us both on my chair,
come!" He had run up to her and seizing her hand, he pulled her towards
the group.
The other children also ran towards Dora and gave her a greeting as if
she were the oldest friend of the family. In the midst of questions
and greetings, Dora had reached the parents, who welcomed her most
affectionately. Soon her shyness completely vanished, and a few
moments later, she sat sharing a chair with Hun as if she belonged
to them entirely. Father and mother had risen and walked up and down
the garden, while the children came closer and closer to Dora, each
talking very hard. Paula said less than the others, but quietly made
her observations. Rolf and the twins stood as near as possible to the
little visitor and Hun had actual hold of her, in the fear she might
escape him.
"If you crush Dora the very first time she comes, she won't be able to
come again," said Jul, who had stretched himself out full length in his
chair. "Give her a little room to breathe, please."
"How old are you, Dora? You aren't much older than I, are you?" asked
Lili in great suspense.
"I am just twelve years old," answered Dora.
"Oh, what a shame! Then you are Paula's age," sighed Lili, who had
hoped to own Dora more than anybody else.
"No, no," cried Rolf, "Dora is nearer my age than Paula's," a
circumstance which seemed most propitious to the boy. "Are you good at
guessing rhymed charades, Dora? Do you like doing it?"
"I made a charade, too," cried little Hun, loudly. "Guess this one,
Dora! You can't drink my first—but—"
Rolf cut his small brother's charade indignantly in half: "Don't keep
on repeating that senseless charade. You know it is no good at all,
Hun!" he exclaimed. "Listen to me, Dora! My first tastes—"
But Rolf got no chance to say his riddle, either, for Lili had seized
Dora's hand, and pulling her along, said urgently, "Come, Dora, come!
I'll play them all now." Dora had asked Lili if she knew how to play
the piano, and Lili found that the right moment for claiming Dora
had come. Lili quickly won her victory, for Dora rose from her seat,
anxious to hear Lili play. But she was sorry to offend Rolf.
"Don't mind my going, Rolf," she said, turning back. "I am sure I
couldn't guess your charade, and then it wouldn't be fun for you."
"Won't you try once?" asked Rolf, slightly disappointed.
"If you want me to, I'll try it later," Dora called back, for Lili had
already pulled her as far as the house. Hun had not let go, either,
and hanging to her hand, had cried incessantly, "Mine, too, Dora, mine
too!" With great friendliness, she promised to guess his also.
The little group, including Willi, who also played, had come to the
instrument now. The twins had taken lessons from Miss Hanenwinkel
the last year, the parents hoping that it would prove first of all a
pleasure for the children. Next, they thought that music might have a
softening influence on their natures, and besides, while working, at
least, they would be kept from mischief.
Lili, who had drawn Dora close to the piano, suddenly remembered how
she herself usually felt about the matter and said, "You know, Dora, it
is really terribly tiresome to play the piano. Often, I would rather
die than practise. Don't you think so, too, Willi?"
Willi eagerly supported that opinion.
"But Lili, how can you talk that way?" said Dora, looking with longing
glances at the piano. "It would give me the greatest happiness to be
able to sit down and play a pretty song the way you do it!"
"Would it?" asked Lili, surprised, thoughtfully looking up at Dora,
whose longing eyes finally proved contagious. Opening the piano, she
began to play her song, and Dora sat down beside the child, drinking in
the melody, as if Lili were giving her the greatest treat.
Lili, seeing this, became enthusiastic, too, and played very well.
Willi, seeing the effect his sister's piece produced, was anxious to
show off, too, and said, "Let me do it, too, Lili." But Lili, who was
so fired with new spirit, never stopped a moment, but played her little
piece over and over again.
"Don't you know another?" asked Dora. "No, Miss Hanenwinkel won't give
me another till I play my exercises better," Lili replied. "But I know
what I'll do from now on. Just wait till tomorrow, Dora! Yes, I know
still something else," continued Lili, turning round on her piano
stool, "I'll give you piano lessons, and then you'll learn to play the
song, too. Then we can learn to play other pieces together, won't we?"
"Oh, can you do that, Lili?" asked Dora, looking so blissfully happy
that Lili resolved to start the lessons on the morrow.
"But, Lili, I can't do it with my arm," said Dora, suddenly looking
gloomy.
But Lili was not so quickly discouraged. "It will soon be better,
and till then I'll learn so much that I can teach you better," she
comforted her prospective pupil.
The large bell rang for supper now. Hastily little Hun seized Dora's
hand, showing that no time was to be lost. Papa always appeared
punctually at meals and Hun was always ready to go when called.
The table, which was set under the apple tree, was laden with many
delightful things. Dora, who sat in the midst of the children, could
not help looking about her at the flowers, the lovely tree above her,
and the friendly faces that seemed to her like close friends. She
felt as if she must be dreaming; it was so wonderful and so much more
beautiful than she had imagined, that it hardly seemed real. A fear
rose in her heart, that she might suddenly wake up and find it all an
illusion. But Dora did not awaken from a dream, and while she wondered
about her bliss, a number of substantial objects had been heaped on her
plate, giving her the full consciousness that her happiness was real.
"Eat your cake, Dora, or you'll be behindhand," said Hun, much
concerned. "Jul and I have already eaten four. Jul and I can do
everything well, except take off his riding boots. But you'll help us
with that, Dora, won't you?"
"Hun, eat your cake," urged Jul, and Dora was prevented from giving an
answer to his curious question.
Mr. Birkenfeld began a conversation with Dora and wanted to know about
her father and her life in Hamburg and Karlsruhe.
Till now, Paula had not attempted to go near Dora. When the meal was
over, Paula quietly stole up to the latter's chair and said, "Come with
me a little while, Dora."
Overjoyed, Dora followed this invitation, for she had been afraid that
Paula did not like her and wanted to have nothing to do with her,
whereas she herself was drawn to Paula very much. But Paula had been
anxious to find out first about Dora's nature and, liking it, she took
Dora's arm, and both disappeared in the depth of the garden. However
hard the twins, Hun and Rolf, sought for the two and called them, they
could not be found, for Paula, making a complete circle around the
garden, had led Dora up to her own room.
Here the two sat together, and found many, many things to talk about,
things they had never been able to discuss with others. Neither of them
ever had a friend of the same age and both experienced for the first
time the joy of finding a companion with similar interests and ideals.
Paula and Dora formed a firm bond of friendship, and were so happy at
having found each other, that they forgot everything else and did not
notice that the stars already gleamed in the sky, and night had come.
The mother, finally guessing where the two girls might be, entered the
room and Dora jumped up amazed. Her aunt was probably already waiting
for her, for it was late.
The other children stood downstairs, a little disappointed that Dora
had disappeared, for all had made some plan for the evening.
Rolf was especially angry: "You know, Dora," he said, "you promised to
guess my charade. Can you still do it?"
But Dora had to go home. Upon leaving, the mother invited her to come
every day, at least as long as it was impossible to sew shirts. This
brought loud acclamations of joy from the children, and it was settled
that Dora would come every morning and stay all day, for every moment
of her holidays must be properly enjoyed by all. The leave-taking
seemed to have no end, and every child had something special to tell
her. At last, Rolf abruptly cut short the conversation. He had the last
chance to talk with her, having received permission to take her home.
When they walked over the open space in front of the house, the stars
gleamed so brightly, that Dora paused in her walk.
"Do you see those five sparkling stars, Rolf?" she asked, pointing to
the firmament. "I have known them for a long time. They always shine
into my room in Karlsruhe and here they are again."
"Oh, I know them well," Rolf answered promptly. "They are on my map. Do
you know their names?"
"No, I don't! Do you really know the names of stars, Rolf? Oh, you know
so much!" said Dora, admiringly. "Don't those five have a name and
belong together? I am sure I've seen others, too, that belong together.
At least they seem to. Do you know them all, Rolf? Oh, I'd love to
learn about them from you."
Rolf was delighted at having a new subject of study to share with Dora.
"We can start right away, Dora," he said eagerly. "Come, I'll show them
all to you, one after another, even if it should take us till twelve
o'clock."
These words reminded Dora that it was already late.
"No, no, Rolf," she said hastily, "not tonight, but thank you just the
same. But will you do it tomorrow?"
"Surely we'll do it tomorrow, and don't forget you promised.
Good-night, Dora."
"Good-night, Rolf," Dora called out before hastening into the house.
She was so full of happiness over the whole wonderful afternoon, that
she ran right up to her waiting aunt and began to tell about everything
at once.
Her vivacity and animation quite alarmed her aunt. "Dora, Dora, just
think! The excitement might affect your wounded arm. Go to bed and
sleep, that will be the best," she said.
Dora went to her room at once, but felt unable to go to sleep. First of
all, she knelt down by her bedside and thanked God for the happiness
she had experienced. The most blissful holidays were before her, after
which she would not mind going back to her dreary work. She resolved
in her deepest soul to endure the long, sad winter days without
complaints, never forgetting her charming friends. Dora could not shut
her eyes for a long time, she was so deeply grateful and overjoyed.
CHAPTER VIII
STILL MORE RIDDLES AND THEIR SOLUTION
EARLY next morning, after rattling through the hall with his big boots
and spurs, Jul opened the schoolroom door, whence he had heard loud
sounds of practising. He knew Miss Hanenwinkel gave no lessons so early
in the day and was most surprised to see Lili at the piano, Willi
eagerly awaiting his turn to play.
"What is the matter with you?" Jul called in to them. "Is this the
beginning of another dreadful scheme of yours?"
"Be quiet, Jul, we don't want to lose any time," Lili replied, in deep
earnest.
Jul gave a loud laugh and went his way. He met Miss Hanenwinkel below,
and asked her, "What has struck the twins, I wonder? Are they really
trying to become virtuous all of a sudden?"
"Children seven years old sometimes succeed better in that, than those
of seventeen, Mr. Jul," was the curt answer.
Jul had to laugh, as he went towards the front door. Here he met
his mother, who was just about to use this early hour and go to the
physician to find out if Dora's injury was really serious. The aunt's
frightened words had made her anxious, and she wanted to know if the
wound might have serious consequences for the little girl.
"Somebody seems to be playing on the piano, Jul," said his mother.
"What can it mean at this early hour?"
"Dear mamma, I think the world is coming to an end," the son replied.
"Lili is rushing through her finger exercises as if they were giving
her supreme delight, and Willi stands besides her burning to do the
same."
"This is curious," remarked the mother, "for only yesterday, Miss
Hanenwinkel complained that Lili was even too lazy to practise her
little piece, not to speak of her finger exercises, which she would not
touch at all."
"As I said before, mamma, the world is nearing its end," concluded Jul,
taking leave of his mother.
"Perhaps, on the contrary, it is beginning," she retorted, starting on
her errand.
As soon as Mrs. Birkenfeld was admitted to the doctor's office, she
inquired after Dora's wound and was informed that it was healing
rapidly. To her anxious question if the arm might remain stiff for
life, he laughed and said that was out of the question. When young
people had been foolish, he often found it advisable to keep them in
suspense in order to teach them a lesson, for such a mishap might be
more serious a second time. The doctor was quite sure the injury would
be healed in a couple of days. Mrs. Birkenfeld was intensely relieved,
as she could not have borne the feeling that her thoughtless children
had caused the little stranger a permanent injury.
Before returning home, Mrs. Birkenfeld stopped at her neighbor's house
to see Aunt Ninette and reassure her, too, about Dora. When talking
about the little girl, she heard from the aunt for the first time that
Dora, for urgent financial reasons, was to become a seamstress.
This deeply grieved Mrs. Birkenfeld, for Dora seemed too young and
frail for such confining, constant work. She was quite glad that the
child would have a long holiday before going back to the city. Mrs.
Birkenfeld begged the aunt to let Dora off from sewing till her arm
was completely healed, and let her be out of doors and play with her
own children. A seamstress she knew could sew some shirts meanwhile if
necessary.
Mrs. Birkenfeld's quiet, thoughtful ways had a most beneficent
influence on Aunt Ninette, who never once complained during their
long conversation. All her recent worries had somehow vanished and
her outlook had grown bright and cheerful, which made her feel quite
strange. She spoke gratefully of her husband's well-being in the
pleasant, airy summer house, which he liked so much that he was
unwilling to forsake it, even late at night. Upon leaving, Mrs.
Birkenfeld invited her neighbor to come to her garden as often as
possible, since otherwise she would be so lonely. Aunt Ninette promised
to do this, quite forgetting the noisy children who had annoyed her so
much at first.
Dora had hardly opened her eyes that morning, when she was out of bed
with a jump. The joyful prospect of going over after breakfast had made
her wide awake at once. She had to wait quite a little while, though,
before she was allowed to go, because her aunt did not approve of being
too forward. Only after Mrs. Birkenfeld, who had stayed quite a while,
asked for Dora, was she called, and then allowed to go. This time she
neither paused nor looked about her shyly, but in a few leaps, was in
the corridor of the big house.
Through the open door of the living room, she received a many-sided
welcome. The twins, Paula, and Hun, ran towards her and led her into
the room.
Jul had just returned from his morning ride and had flung himself
into an armchair, stretched out his long legs in front of him, as if
extending an invitation for somebody to rid him of his boots. Dora
immediately rushed up to him and asked obligingly if she might take
them off, taking hold of the boots at once.
But Jul pulled his feet back hastily and exclaimed, "No, no, Dora, how
can you dream of such a thing? I won't let you!" Then politely jumping
from his seat, he offered it to Dora.
But the twins pulled her along between them and cried loudly, "Come
with us, Dora, come with us!"
Hun, who had taken hold of her from behind, cried lustily, "Come with
me, come with me!"
Paula whispered into Dora's ear at the same time, "Go with the twins
first, or they will only cry and fuss. I will look for you later on."
"Dora," said Jul now, trying to subdue the little ones, "you had better
stick to me, if you want to have a peaceful existence in this house. If
you spend all your time with Paula, you are bound to become terribly
romantic, and that will make you lose your appetite. With Rolf, you
will find your whole life turned to an unfathomable riddle."
"Which it is in any case," remarked Miss Hanenwinkel, who at that
moment was passing through the room.
"If you spend much time with Miss Hanenwinkel," Jul went on rapidly, in
order to give the governess the chance of hearing his words, "you will
be salted instead of sweetened like dried plums. If you stay with the
twins, they will tear you to pieces, and Hun, sooner or later, will rob
you of your sense of hearing."
But despite the threatening dangers, Dora let herself be drawn along by
the twins, while Hun followed behind. At the piano, Lili immediately
began her song. Whenever she finished playing it, she gazed at Dora,
and seeing her listener nod her head, began again. Dora suddenly began
to sing, and Willi, who was waiting in vain for his chance to play,
joined in with little Hun, thus making a noisy chorus.
"Rejoice, rejoice in life
While yet the lamp is glowing!"
While singing, the musicians got more eager, and little Hun was
inspired to the most ear-splitting performance. Suddenly Lili turned
about on her stool.
"Just wait, Dora. I'll have a surprise for you tomorrow," the little
girl cried with sparkling eyes.
Having practised so faithfully that day, Lili felt herself entitled to
learn at least half a dozen new pieces from Miss Hanenwinkel.
A bell rang which called the twins to their lessons, and Hun greatly
rejoiced at his chance to have Dora all to himself. She devoted the
rest of the morning to him and entered so deeply into the clever tricks
of his nutcracker, that he resolved never to let go of her all his
life. But his plan was frustrated immediately after lunch. Paula, who
had finished her French studies, drew Dora aside, with the mother's
full approval. The two felt so much drawn to each other that they would
have liked to spend all day and night together, and tell each other
everything that they hoped and feared, their past experiences and hopes
for the future. Both had the feeling that they could never get tired of
each other, even if they spent a lifetime in each other's company.
They again forgot that time was passing, and only at seven o'clock,
when the whole family had assembled for supper under the apple tree,
the two returned. They seated themselves as quietly as possible, for
papa had noticeably cleared his throat as a sign that something was not
quite in order. During the meal, Rolf glanced several times at Dora as
if to remind her his time had come.
When after supper, they all sat together talking merrily, Rolf kept a
watchful eye on the firmament, and as soon as the first star began to
sparkle through the branches, he leaped up and ran towards Dora.
"Do you see the star, Dora? Come now!" With this he pulled her with
him into the most solitary part of the garden near some walnut trees,
thereby preventing his brothers and sisters from taking Dora away from
him. Rolf felt secure here, and standing on a suitable post, began to
instruct her.
"Do you see your five stars there, Dora? First one alone, then two
together and two again. Can you see them?"
"Oh, yes, I know them very well," Dora assured him.
"Good! They are called Cassiopeia, and now I'll show you another. But
that reminds me of a charade I made up lately. Could you quickly guess
it?"
"I will if I can, but I am afraid your charades are too difficult for
me."
"No, no, just listen hard. I'll say it very slowly:"
"'My first in closest bonds can two unite,
My second like the shining sun is bright,
My Whole's a flower that thrives in summer light.'"
"Did you guess it?"
"No, Rolf, I can never guess that; I am so sorry, I know I am
dreadfully slow. It will be awfully tiresome for you to be with me,"
said Dora regretfully.
"Of course not! You are not used to it yet, Dora," Rolf consoled her.
"Try it a few times and you'll do it quite easily. I'll say another
quite easy one now:"
"'My first is just an animal forlorn.
My second that to which we should be heir,
And with my whole some lucky few are born
While others win it if they fight despair.'"
"I can't guess that one either. Please don't take such trouble with me,
Rolf. You see, I never did it before," wailed Dora.
"Wait, you might guess another," and before Dora could deny him, Rolf
had begun to recite with a loud voice:
"'My first one oft bestows upon a pet,
My second makes a wholesome kind of bread;
My third is something each one tries to get—
And often spends my whole before he's dead.'"
[Illustration: "I SUPPOSE IT IS PATRIMONY, MY SON," SAID MR. TITUS,
PATTING ROLF'S SHOULDER.]
"I know," said a deep bass voice behind the children, startling them
for a moment.
But right after, Dora gave a merry laugh. "It is Uncle Titus. He is
still working in the summer house. Come, Rolf, let's go to him."
Rolf was willing, and when the two entered, Uncle Titus, who was
comfortably leaning against the wall, looked very much pleased.
Rolf, after replying pleasantly to Mr. Ehrenreich's greeting, asked him
casually, if he had guessed the charade.
"I suppose it is patrimony, my son," said Mr. Titus, patting Rolf's
shoulder.
"Yes, it is," Rolf answered, pleased. "Did you guess the others, too,
Mr. Ehrenreich?" Rolf inquired.
"Possibly, my son," replied Mr. Titus. "Would I be wrong, if I said the
first was marigold and the second courage?"
"Oh, you guessed them all!" exclaimed Rolf, rejoicing. "It is wonderful
to make charades, if somebody can guess them. I have another, in fact
three more. May I ask you another, Mr. Ehrenreich?"
"Surely, dear son, why not?" replied Mr. Titus kindly. "Just say them,
and I'll do my best to solve them."
After refreshing his memory a little, Rolf began. "The first is the
shortest and easiest:"
"'A tiny thing, my first, which yet may move;
While for my second you need not look far;
To be my third is still against the rule—
My whole goes far beyond what's learned in school.'"
"Can you guess it?"
"Perhaps so; go on."
Rolf went on:
"'My first is what no coward soul will do,
My second you will find in every face;
My third will often we ourselves replace—
My whole a Persian monarch, brave and true.'"
"Do you know it already?"
"Possibly. Now another!"
"A longer one now:"
"'My first a place where corn and wheat are ground,
My second about many a neck is found;
My third with succor does the meaning share,
My fourth is freedom from all work and care.
My whole a famous Greek of long ago,
Who put to rout the mighty Persian foe.'"
"Now, my son, I shall tell you what I think," said Mr. Titus, with a
happy smile. "Number one, speculate; number two, Darius; number three,
Miltiades!"
"Every one correct! Oh what fun! I have always longed for some one to
guess charades," said Rolf, highly satisfied, "but I had to run around
with them all unsolved. Now I can start on some fresh ones."
"I make you a proposal, son," said Mr. Titus, getting up from his seat
with the intention of going home. "Come to me every night, and bring me
the fruits of your reflection. I may give you some to solve, too, some
day."
The study of the stars had to be put off for another evening, because
it had grown too late.
Happy over the pleasant meeting, Rolf and Dora ran back to the rest of
the family, who were expecting them, while Mr. Titus, delighted with
having found such a pleasant young friend, went home.
Mr. Titus had always wished for a son, preferably one who came to this
world at the age of twelve and had behind him the stage where he found
it necessary to cry and scream, one who could be a sensible companion,
with whom one could talk. Rolf answered his wishes exactly, while the
boy himself was obviously delighted to have Uncle Titus's friendship.
The scientist felt a real fatherly affection for the lad, which new
emotion unbarred his solitary heart. As he wandered homewards, Uncle
Titus suddenly began to sing:
"Rejoice, rejoice in life
While yet the lamp is glowing!"
For the melody had penetrated as far as his hermitage that morning and
apparently had proved contagious.
Upstairs at the open window stood Aunt Ninette, saying to herself, "Is
this really my husband?"
CHAPTER IX
FOUND AT LAST
THE time seemed to fly for everybody in the Birkenfeld household, as
well as the little neighboring cottage, and all the inmates would
exclaim from time to time, "Oh, is another week really gone?" or "How
can it be Sunday again?"
For everybody, but especially for Dora, the days passed so pleasantly
that they seemed only half as long as those in Karlsruhe. Every night,
when going to bed, she regretted having to lose so much precious time
in sleep, and she would have been delighted to sit all night at the
piano while the others slept, to practise her little pieces.
Her arm had healed long ago and Lili gave her a daily piano lesson.
Lili proved a most enthusiastic teacher, who expected no scales or
exercises from her pupil and at once let her learn the favorite piece,
"Rejoice, rejoice in Life!" Dora had already learned to play it with
the right hand alone, the accompaniment of the left hand being as
yet too difficult to attempt. The little teacher herself made such
surprising progress, that Miss Hanenwinkel, who till now had only been
able to utter complaints about Lili's musical performances, was most
astonished at the sudden fruits of her labors. The mother also joyfully
noticed the change, and often paused near the open door in order to
listen to the little girl's vigorous and agile playing. The child had
real talent for music, and progressed very fast since her love for it
had been awakened.
Paula swam all day in uninterrupted bliss, for her longed for wish had
come true, she at last had a friend, and what a friend! Dora understood
her inmost thoughts and experiences, and was able to share everything
with her. Paula, who all her life had looked for a friend in vain,
found the reality even more lovely than anything she had imagined. Dora
was too adorable a being for anyone to just invent. She, like her bosom
friend, regretted ever having to go to bed, and hated losing any of the
precious time still left.
Rolf's studies in the matter of charades had taken on such a serious
character, that he could frequently be seen running up and down the
garden paths with hands folded behind his back. At such times, little
Hun had to be kept out of his way, because Rolf had several times
actually run into the small boy and thrown him down.
Rolf enjoyed preparing his intricate charades for Mr. Titus, who was
not only interested, but apparently found great pleasure in Rolf's
scholarly turn of mind. The learned man, by being able to guess the
most obscure historical names on the spot, urged the boy to greater and
more constant efforts, and besides awakened the lad's zeal for Latin by
composing rhymed charades in that language.
These were written down and were meant to be studied most carefully.
Rolf read these regularly to Jul and his father, but neither could
ever guess them. His father had forgotten his Latin too much for such
work, while Jul was of the opinion that such useless exertions were not
healthy in the holidays. He had to keep his mental vigor undiminished
till he took up his own work at school again.
Rolf, on the contrary, puzzled and searched for the sense by looking
through his Latin dictionary and did not give up till he at last found
the solution. This he would triumphantly reveal to his father and
Jul, and finally to Mr. Titus in the evening. The friendly man always
showed himself almost more pleased at Rolf's success, than the boy
was himself, helping him in that way to great progress in his Latin
studies. He began these studies quite early in the morning, and it
seemed as if he could not imbibe enough knowledge.
Little Hun also passed very happy days. Whatever time and however often
he came to Dora and demanded her attention, she never pushed him aside
nor ran away, but in the most kindly manner entertained him, as if she
herself found great pleasure in his company. Mrs. Birkenfeld had begged
Aunt Ninette to let Dora be free all morning and evening, and let her
sew in the afternoons, when the whole family was gathered under the
apple tree. Dora here realized that sewing shirts was a most pleasant
occupation when one worked in nice surroundings.
In that way, Hun had Dora to himself many hours of the day, when no
one had time to interfere. Dora had made a new riddle for her little
friend, too, so he need not repeat his old one of the nutcracker
forever. He was determined to dish up charades to everybody, and his
triumph was complete, when no one in the house could solve it. Running
persistently from one to another, he was glad they could not say as
before, "Go away, Hun, and don't keep on repeating your stupid old
charade." Every time they made a mistake, he leaped for joy, and he and
Dora pledged each other not to give anyone a clue.
"My first makes everybody cry!
My second some, then we deny
Ourselves to take the whole when it appears,
Because it nearly always does bring tears."
All had tried in vain to solve it.
Jul said it was "misdeed." Everybody cries when Miss Hanenwinkel comes
to make them work; and at the deeds, she makes them do some cry. And
when a misdeed is perpetrated, many denials result, especially when the
twins are the criminals, in which case, tears are always the end.
But Hun joyfully hopped about, crying, "You are wrong, you are wrong,
Jul!"
Miss Hanenwinkel said, "It is music lesson. Music makes everybody cry.
In the lesson, many cry and many denials have to be made during the
lessons."
"Wrong, wrong," cried the small boy, delighted.
"It is schoolroom," asserted Rolf.
"Aha, Rolf, you guessed wrong," Hun cried triumphantly.
"Couldn't it be bedtime?" said the mother. "All children cry in bed
some time or other, some cry when the time comes, and all deny bedtime
has come."
"Mamma can't guess it, either; mamma doesn't know," jubilated the
little fellow, leaping about.
"It might be leave-taking," said the father. "Leave-taking makes
everybody cry, taking some children away makes some cry and at Dora's
leave-taking, everybody is sorry."
"Papa can't guess it either, papa can't guess it!" rejoiced the small
boy, jumping merrily around the room, for it gave him the keenest
pleasure that even his father had missed it. The happy possessor of the
great secret could still dash from one member of the family to another
and puzzle them all.
Rolf was much put out, that Hun's foolish charade should attract so
much attention without ever getting solved.
Relentlessly the days passed on.
"My dear Ninette," Uncle Titus said at breakfast one day, "we have only
one more week, but I think we ought to add two more weeks to our stay,
for I feel so well here. My dizzy spells have completely left me, and
there is new vigor in my limbs."
"One can easily see that, dear Titus," replied his wife, delighted.
"You look at least ten years younger than when we came."
"It seems to me, our new mode of life suits you also, dear, for I have
not heard you complain for a long time now."
"That is true. Everything seems all changed somehow," answered Aunt
Ninette. "The noise the children make is not a bit bad, when one knows
them all, and I am glad we did not move from here. I even begin to miss
it, when I do not hear their merry voices, and things do not seem quite
right, when there is no noise in the garden."
"That's exactly the way I feel," agreed Uncle Titus. "I enjoy the
lively boy so much, when he comes running to me every night. He can
hardly control his eagerness to tell me what he has composed, and when
I set him my task, he drinks in every word I say. It is pure pleasure
to have such a boy to talk to."
"My dear Titus, how enthusiastic you are! That makes you seem younger
than I have ever known you. We had better stay here as long as we can
afford it," the aunt concluded. "Even our doctor could never have
predicted such an improvement from our journey. It is just wonderful."
Immediately after this conversation, Dora rushed over to her friends,
spreading the happy news. The prospect of her near departure had been
a perfect nightmare to the child, and she felt like dying rather than
living so far away from all the intimate friends she loved so dearly.
Dora anticipated a broken heart on the day of their separation. As soon
as the children heard about their playmate's lengthened stay, they
crushed Dora from sheer transport and noisily expressed their happiness.
That same evening, when the children had gone to bed and Miss
Hanenwinkel had retired, Mr. and Mrs. Birkenfeld, according to their
daily custom, sat together on the sofa, talking over their common
problems. They mentioned the fact that their neighbors were lengthening
their stay, and after expressing her joy, the mother concluded with
these words:
"I actually dread the day when we shall lose the child, and it is not
very far off. It is impossible to say what a blessing Dora has been to
our household, and it is evident at every step. I keep on discovering
new traces of her good influence all the time. I don't quite know
why the child attracts me so much. All I can say is that a world of
memories stirs in me, whenever I look into her eyes. I don't pretend to
understand it."
"My dearest wife, you think this every time you grow fond of a person,"
Mr. Birkenfeld interposed. "I can remember quite well that you thought
we must have stood in some incomprehensible relationship long ago, when
you just knew me a short time."
"However that may be, you bad, sarcastic husband," she retorted, "I
suppose the solid reasons this time are enough. You can't deny that
Dora is very dear and charming. I love her, and I know how many of the
pleasant changes in our household are due to her. Paula goes about like
a ray of sunshine, there is not a trace left of her moodishness and bad
humor. Jul takes off his riding boots himself without disturbing the
whole household, and Rolf is so eager at his studies, that he does not
waste a minute of the day. Lili has developed a diligence and ability
for music that surprises everybody, while Hun is always pleasantly
occupied, and looks so merry, that it is a joy to see him."
"Can the fact that the twins have not perpetrated any evil deeds lately
be due to Dora, too?" asked Mr. Birkenfeld.
"Doubtless," the wife answered. "Dora has somehow awakened Lili's
enthusiasm for music, and the lively child is putting all her energies
into playing now. Willi does the same, and in that way the two are kept
out of mischief."
"Dora is really a curious being. Too bad she is leaving us," said Mr.
Birkenfeld, quite regretfully.
"I regret it so much, too," his wife continued, "and I keep on
wondering how we could keep them here a little longer."
"We can't," replied the husband, "for we don't know them well enough.
We must let them go, but if they come back another year, something
might be done about it."
Mrs. Birkenfeld sighed as she thought of the long winter and the
uncertainty of their return.
The days passed by quickly, and the last week of Dora's stay had come.
They were to leave on Monday, and the Sunday before a supper party
was to take place, though everyone felt far from festive. Rolf alone
was making eager preparations, which consisted in hanging up several
charades, made transparent by multicolored lights, in the garden house
in honor of his kind patron.
Dora sat down to lunch with the children on Saturday, and not much
appetite was displayed by anybody. When the mother was helping them to
their soup, several voices said, "Please, very little;" "Only a tiny
bit for me;" "Not much for me;" "Better none for me at all." "None for
me at all, please."
"I'd like to know if you all deny yourselves, because the grief of the
near parting is so intense, or is it that the onion soup does not suit
you?"
"Onion soup, oh, onion soup! Now I know the answer to Hun's charade,"
cried Rolf, delighted at the victory, for he had hardly been able to
bear the humiliation of not guessing it before.
The solution proved correct.
Little Hun, who sat mournfully on his chair, said, "Oh, papa, if only
you had not said that we deny ourselves this onion soup! Then nobody
would ever have guessed my charade. Oh, all is over now!"
But Dora, who sat beside him, had consolation as always for the
little one. She whispered in his ear, "It is not all over, Hun. This
afternoon, I'll guide your hand and you can write your charade in my
album. I'll give it to lots of people in Karlsruhe who know nothing
about it."
That proved a comfort to the little boy, and he finished his lunch
without a scene. Afterwards, all gathered under the apple tree as
usual, except that the children were far from happy, as it was to be
the last time that Dora would sit amongst them. Tomorrow she had to
help her aunt with packing, and would only be over in the evening with
both her relatives.
Paula's eyes were filled with tears and she could not speak. Lili
expressed her grief by wriggling nervously around, but at last she
burst out passionately, "Oh, mamma, I don't want to play the piano any
more when Dora goes. It will be so tiresome then, for Miss Hanenwinkel
will just say that I am dreadfully lazy. I won't care for anything any
more; nothing will be fun then."
"Oh, dear!" sighed Jul. "We are nearing hard and dangerous times as
soon as the twins find life tiresome again. I can really see no reason
for Dora to depart," he continued. "It would do her a lot of good to
stay till winter time. Why doesn't she? Her uncle and aunt can go back
to their peaceful home in Karlsruhe alone."
The mother at once replied that she would beg for such a permission
another year. For the present, they had to be resigned to this
separation which she herself was dreading, too.
Little Hun alone was more immediately concerned with the present than
with the unknown future and remained content. Pulling Dora's apron, he
kept begging, "Please get your book for me, Dora. I want to write now."
The girl went to the house to fetch her album and asked all her dear
friends to write a little verse in it for her, according to the good
old custom. Her album looked far from elegant. It was very old, the
pages were yellowed by age and the ink was faded. Here and there little
bunches of discolored flowers, with hardly any petals, were pasted
in. All the songs and verses were written by a child's hand, having
belonged to Dora's mother in her youth. Several funny little drawings
enlivened the pages, and one of a little house and a tiny man near a
fountain especially attracted Hun's attention.
After turning several more pages, he said with a knowing air, "Mamma
has that, too!"
Then pulling out a narrow slip of paper, he declared, "This belongs to
Lili, whom I have to bring back from America."
Jul burst out laughing. "What wonderful tales are you inventing for
Dora now, young Hun?"
The mother, after a rapid glance at her youngest child, looked at the
paper. Suddenly tears rushed to her eyes, and dear old memories of
past days rose vividly before her, especially the merry face of her
beloved Lili. She was completely overcome, for it brought back all
her childhood days, the image of her own sweet mother, long years ago
laid in the grave, and all the vanished years of her youth, gone so
irrevocably.
As soon as she saw the paper, she recognized it as the second half of
the little verse she and Lili had composed together. Unable to read
aloud from sheer emotion, she handed to her husband the paper joined to
her own half, which she drew out of the notebook where she had kept it,
ever since it had been found a few weeks before. The children whispered
to each other and with suspense, watched their father as he joined the
two slips of yellowish gray paper, which together formed a sheet of
writing paper of the usual size. They were written by the same childish
hand, and the sense was now quite clear.
After looking the sheet over a little, the father read aloud as follows:
"Our hands lay clasped
In firmest tie,
We hoped together,
To live and to die.
But one has to stay,
The other must go.
Our hearts are heavy
With mutual woe.
We cut apart
This tiny song
And hope to join it
Before very long.
Once more united
Joyfully we'll cry:
'We can live again
In close friendship's tie.
We'll never take leave of each other again
And ne'ermore endure such deep, bitter pain.'"
The mother had grasped Dora's hand. "Where did you get that little
paper, darling?" she asked with great emotion.
"It is my mother's album, and that paper was always in it," answered
Dora, surprised.
"Oh, Dora, you are my beloved Lili's child!" exclaimed the mother. "Now
I understand why I always thought of the past when I looked at you."
Greatly agitated, she embraced the little girl.
The children felt excited, too, but seeing their mother so profoundly
moved, they controlled their emotions and remained silently in their
seats, their glances fastened on Dora and the mother.
Little Hun at last broke the silence: "Won't I have to go to America
now, mamma?" he asked, visibly relieved at the prospect of being able
to stay at home, for after giving his rash promise he had felt a little
scared at the thought of going to America alone.
"No, you won't have to go. We shall all stay here," replied the mother,
turning towards the children with Dora's hand in hers. "Dora is Lili's
little girl, whom you wanted to find."
[Illustration: DORA AND PAULA RETURNED TO THE GARDEN ARM IN ARM SINGING
GAILY.]
"Oh, mamma!" cried Paula with unusual vivacity, "Dora and I will
continue everything you began with Lili. Then we'll also be able to say
like you:"
"Once more united—
Joyfully we'll cry:
'We can live again,
In former friendship's tie.
We'll never take leave of each other again
And ne'ermore endure such deep, bitter pain.'"
"Yes, and we, too—" "and I—" "Yes, and we, too—" "I want it, too!"
cried Rolf, the twins and little Hun. Even Jul joined in with his deep
bass voice.
But the mother had already seized the father's arm and had disappeared
with him under the trees.
"Yes, of course, I am satisfied, I am perfectly satisfied," repeated
the father several times to a question his wife was asking. Then they
separated, and the mother went to the little neighboring cottage, where
she asked at once for Aunt Ninette. She related to Mrs. Ehrenreich that
she had just discovered, to her great joy, that Dora was the child of
the best and dearest friend of her youth, whom she had mourned for
many years. She knew that her friend had died, but hoped to hear more
details about her life and Dora's circumstances.
Mrs. Birkenfeld, as well as Aunt Ninette, had been reluctant till now
to mention this last very delicate subject. Mrs. Birkenfeld could not
find out as much about Lili as she had hoped, for Aunt Ninette had
never known her. Her brother, who had lived in America for several
years, had met and married Lili in that country, and after returning to
Hamburg, had lost her soon after Dora's birth.
Mrs. Birkenfeld told Aunt Ninette how much gratitude she owed to Lili's
family for all the happiness she had enjoyed at their house. The
acquaintance with Lili had, in fact, shaped her whole future, and she
wished to repay this debt. With this, she came to the chief object of
her visit, namely, the request to be allowed to adopt Dora and raise
her just like one of her own children.
No opposition was made to this, as Mrs. Birkenfeld had feared might
be the case. On the contrary, Aunt Ninette was only too glad that
Dora, who had been left practically destitute, should have found
such generous friends. Sheer necessity would have obliged the child
to begin earning her livelihood at once as a seamstress, which was a
dreary outlook for the future. As she and her husband had not the means
to furnish Dora with a higher education, the new prospect was most
welcome, and she was quite sure her husband would not oppose it either.
Mrs. Birkenfeld, after heartily pressing Aunt Ninette's hand, hastened
away, in order to tell everybody the glad news. Her heart thrilled at
the thought of her children's joy, for she knew how fond they were of
Dora.
They were still gathered under the apple tree, and all eyes were turned
towards her in suspense, for they were sure that she was planning some
pleasant surprise, possibly even a visit from Dora at their house.
When the mother told them that Dora would actually belong to the
family from this time on, and would be their sister always, such
cries of transport and delight broke forth that they penetrated into
the furthest recesses of the garden. Uncle Titus stepped out of his
summer house, and smiling happily at their merry exclamations, said to
himself, "Too bad we have to go so soon."
Aunt Ninette, standing at her open window, looked down into the garden
and listened with delight to the children's outbreaks. She even quietly
murmured to herself, "We'll miss it, when we can't hear them any more."
The children felt in such a festive mood, that they planned the most
elaborate celebrations for the coming evening, and decided to have a
feast such as the garden had never seen before.
Dora entered her little chamber for the last time that night as in a
dream. Tomorrow she was to become a permanent inmate of the big house,
and the merry children whom she had at first watched with such longing
were to be her brothers and sisters. The beautiful garden for which she
had also pined was to be her playground, and she was to have a father
and mother again who would carefully and lovingly watch over her. She
would share the children's pleasures as well as their studies, for Lili
had announced to her solemnly that she was to have real music lessons
from now on. This made her especially happy.
All these thoughts flooded Dora's heart, and filled her with such
happiness that she felt unable to bear it. Her father in Heaven was
probably looking down at her and rejoicing with her. When she stood at
the open window and looked up at her beloved stars, which gleamed so
brightly, she remembered the dark hours when she had looked at them
sadly and had forgotten then that her dear God in Heaven was guiding
her. Dora fell on her knees and thanked the good God from the bottom
of her heart for His kind providence, resolving from that hour, never
to forget her father's favorite verse. Whatever life should bring,
whatever anxiety would oppress her in the future, she resolved to say
confidently:
"'Yet God keeps watch above us
And doeth all things well.'"
Uncle Titus and Aunt Ninette engaged their rooms again for the next
summer and were already actually looking forward to their return. Uncle
Titus even went so far as to extract a promise from Mrs. Kurd never
to let her rooms during the summer to anybody else. He had felt so
wonderfully well in her cottage, that he left it with many regrets and
meant to come back.
On Monday morning, the whole family was gathered around the packed
travelling carriage, and a hearty leave-taking took place on all sides.
Rolf at the last moment, led Uncle Titus apart, and asked him eagerly
if he might send a charade to Karlsruhe now and then. To this, Uncle
Titus gave the most friendly assurance that this would please him
greatly, and he promised to send the answers promptly.
Sly little Hun, who had heard the conversation, also declared at once,
"I'll send mine, too!" Never doubting but that Mr. Titus's joy would
be still greater then. He also thought to himself that the people of
Karlsruhe would never in their lives guess his original charade, which
gave him great satisfaction.
Dora and Paula returned to the garden, arm in arm, singing gaily:
"We'll never take leave of each other again."
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