UNCLE TITUS AND HIS VISIT TO THE COUNTRY
A Story for Children and for Those Who Love Children
Translated from the German of
JOHANNA SPYRI
by
Louise Brooks
Boston
De Wolfe, Fiske & Co
361 and 365 Washington Street
1886
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. UNDER THE LINDENS
II. LONG, LONG DAYS
III. ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HEDGE
IV. ALL SIX
V. BEFORE AND AFTER THE FLOOD
VI. A FRIGHTFUL DEED
VII. LONG-WISHED-FOR HAPPINESS
VIII. MORE CHARADES AND THEIR ANSWERS
IX. "WHAT MUST BE, MUST BE"
CHAPTER I.
UNDER THE LINDENS.
The daily promenaders who moved slowly back and forth every afternoon
under the shade of the lindens on the eastern side of the pretty town of
Karlsruhe were very much interested in the appearance of two persons who
had lately joined their ranks. It was beyond doubt that the man was very
ill. He could only move slowly and it was touching to see the care with
which his little companion tried to make herself useful to him. He
supported himself with his right hand on a stout stick, and rested his
left upon the shoulder of the child at his side, and one could see that he
needed the assistance of both. From time to time he would lift his left
hand and say gently,
"Tell me, my child, if I press too heavily upon you."
Instantly, however, the child would catch his hand and press it down
again, assuring him,
"No, no, certainly not, Papa, lean upon me still more: I do not even
notice it at all."
After they had walked back and forth for a while, they seated themselves
upon one of the benches that were placed at convenient distances under the
trees, and rested a little.
The sick man was Major Falk, who had been in Karlsruhe only a short time.
He lived before that in Hamburg with his daughter Dora, whose mother died
soon after the little girl came into the world, so that Dora had never
known any parent but her father. Naturally, therefore, the child's whole
affection was centred upon Major Falk, who had always devoted himself to
his little motherless girl with such tenderness that she had scarcely felt
the want of a mother, until the war with France broke out, and he was
obliged to go with the Army. He was away for a long time, and when at last
he returned, it was with a dangerous wound in his breast. The Major had no
near relatives in Hamburg, and he therefore lived a very retired life with
his little daughter as his only companion, but in Karlsruhe he had an
elder half-sister, married to a literary man, Mr. Titus Ehrenreich.
When Major Falk was fully convinced that his wound was incurable, he
decided to remove to Karlsruhe, in order not to be quite without help when
his increasing illness should make it necessary for him to have some aid
in the care of his eleven-year-old daughter. It did not take long to make
the move. He rented a few rooms in the neighborhood of his sister, and
spent the warm spring afternoons enjoying his regular walk under the shade
of the lindens with his little daughter as his supporter and loving
companion.
When he grew weary of walking and they sat down on a bench to rest, the
Major had always some interesting story to tell, to beguile the time, and
Dora was certain that no one in the whole world could tell such delightful
stories as her father, who was indeed in her opinion the most agreeable
and lovable of men. Her favorite tales, and those which the Major himself
took most pleasure in relating, were little incidents in the life of
Dora's mother, who was now is heaven. He loved to tell the child how
affectionate and happy her mother had always been, and how many friends
she had won for herself, and how she always brought sunshine with her
wherever she went, and how nobody ever saw her who did not feel at once
attracted to her, and how she was even now remembered by those who had
known and loved her during life.
When Major Falk once began to talk about his dearly-beloved wife, he was
apt to forget the flight of time, and often the cool evening wind first
aroused him with its chilly breath to the fact that he was lingering too
long in the outer air. Then he and his little Dora would rise from the
bench in the shade of the lindens, and slowly wander back into town, until
they stopped before a many-storied house in a narrow street, and the Major
would generally say,
"We must go up to see Uncle Titus and Aunt Ninette this afternoon, Dora."
And as they slowly climbed the steep staircase, he would add, "Softly now,
little Dora, you know your Uncle is always writing very learned books, and
we must not disturb him by any unnecessary noise, and indeed, Dora, I do
not think your Aunt is any more fond of noise than he is."
So Dora went up upon the tips of her toes as quietly as a mouse, and the
Major's ring could scarcely be heard, he pulled the bell so gently!
Generally Aunt Ninette opened the door herself, saying,
"Come in, come in, dear brother! Very softly, if you please, for you know
your brother-in-law is busy at work."
So the three moved noiselessly along the corridor and crept into the
sitting room. Uncle Titus' study was the very next room, so that the
conversation was carried on almost in whispers, but it must be said Major
Falk was less liable to forget the necessary caution against disturbing
the learned writer than Aunt Ninette herself, for that lady being
oppressed with many cares and troubles had always to break into frequent
lamentation.
When June came, it was safe and pleasant to linger late under the shade of
the lindens, but the pair in whom we are interested often turned their
steps homeward earlier than they wished, in order not to arouse Aunt
Ninette's ever-ready reproaches. But one warm evening when the sky was
covered with rosy and golden sunset clouds, the Major and Dora lingered
watching the lovely sight longer than was their wont. They sat silent hand
in hand on the bench by the side of the promenade, and Dora could not take
her eyes from her father's face as he sat with upturned look gazing into
the sky. At last she exclaimed:
"I wish you could see yourself, papa, you look all golden and beautiful. I
am sure the angels in heaven look just as you do now."
Her father smiled. "It will soon pass away from me, Dora, but I can
imagine your mother standing behind those lovely clouds and smiling down
upon us with this golden glory always upon her face."
As the Major said, it did pass away very soon; his face grew pale, and
shone no longer; the golden light faded from the sky and the shades of
night stole on. The Major rose, and Dora followed him rather sadly. The
beautiful illumination had passed too quickly.
"We shall stand again in this glory, my child, nay, in a far more
beautiful one," said her father consolingly, "when we are all together
again, your mother and you and I, where there will be no more parting and
the glory will be everlasting."
As they climbed up the high staircase to say good night to Uncle and Aunt,
the latter awaited them on the landing, making all sorts of silent signs
of alarm and distress, but she did not utter a sound until she had them
safely within the sitting room. Then, having softly closed the door, she
broke forth complainingly,
"How can you make me so uneasy, dear brother? I have been dreadfully
anxious about you. I imagined all kinds of shocking accidents that might
have happened, and made you so late in returning home! How can you be so
heedless as to forget that it is not safe for you to stay out after
sunset. Now I am sure that you have taken cold. And what will happen, who
can tell? Something dreadful, I am certain."
"Calm yourself, I beg you, dear Ninette," said the Major soothingly, as
soon as he could get in a word. "The air is so mild, so very warm, that it
could not possibly harm anybody, and the evening was glorious, perfectly
wonderful. Let me enjoy these lovely summer evenings on earth as long as I
can; it will not be very long at the farthest. What is sure to come, can
be neither delayed nor hastened much by anything I may do."
These words, however, although they were spoken in the quietest possible
tone, called forth another torrent of reproach and lamentation.
"How can you allow yourself to speak in that way? How can you say such
dreadful things?" cried the excited woman over and over again. "It will
not happen. What will become of us all; what will become of--you know what
I mean," and she cast a meaning glance at Dora. "No, Karl, it would be
more than I could bear, and we never have more trouble sent to us than we
can bear; I do not know how I should live; I could not possibly endure
it."
"My dear Ninette" said her brother quietly, "Do not forget one thing,
"'Thou art not in command,
Thou canst not shape the end;
God holds us in his hand:
God knows the best to send.'"
"Oh, of course, I know all that well enough. I know that is all true,"
assented Aunt Ninette, "but when one cannot see the end nor the help, it
is enough to kill one with anxiety. And then you have such a way of
speaking of terrible things as if they were certain to come, and I cannot
bear it, I tell you; I cannot."
"Now we will say good-night and not stand and dispute any longer, my dear
sister," said the Major, holding out his hand, "we will both try to
remember the words of the verse--'God knows the best to send.'"
"Yes, yes, I'll remember. Only don't take cold going across the street,
and step very softly as you go down the stairs, and Dora, do you hear!
Close the door very gently, and Karl, be careful of the draught, as you
cross the street!"
While the good irritating Aunt was calling after them all these
unnecessary cautions, Dora and her father had gone down the stairs and had
softly closed the house-door. They had only a narrow alley to cross to
reach their own rooms opposite.
The next afternoon, as Dora and her father seated themselves on their
favorite bench under the lindens, the child asked,
"Papa, is it possible that Aunt Ninette never knew the verse you repeated
to her last night?"
"Oh yes, my child, she has always known the lines," replied the Major. "It
is only for the moment that your good aunt allows herself to be so
overwhelmed with care and worry as to forget who governs all wisely. She
is a good woman, and in her heart she places her trust in God's goodness.
She soon comes to herself again."
Dora was silent for a while, and then she said thoughtfully,
"Papa, how can we help being 'overwhelmed with care and worry?' and
'killed with anxiety,' as Aunt Ninette said."
"By always remembering that everything comes to us from the good God, my
dear child. When we are happy, we must think of Him and thank Him; when
sorrow comes we must not be frightened and distressed, for we know that
the good God sends it, and that it will be for our good. So we shall never
be 'overwhelmed with care and worry,' for even when some bitter trouble
comes, in which we can see no help nor escape, we know that God can bring
good out of what seems to us wholly evil. Will you try to think of this,
my child? for sorrow comes to all, and you will not escape it more than
another. But God will help you if you put your trust in Him."
"Yes, I understand you, papa, and I will try to do as you say. It is far
better to trust in God, than to let one's self be overwhelmed with care
and worry.'"
"But we must not forget," continued her father, after a pause, "that we
must not only think of God, when something special happens, but in
everything that we do, we must strive to act according to His holy will.
If we never think of Him, except when we are unhappy, we shall not then be
able easily to find the way to him, and that is the greatest grief of
all."
Dora repeated that she would ask God to keep her in the right way, and as
she spoke, her father softly stroked her hand, as it lay in his. He did
not speak again for a long time, but his eyes rested so lovingly and
protectingly on his little girl, that she felt as if folded in a tender
and strengthening embrace.
The sun sank in golden radiance behind the green lindens, and slowly the
father and child wended their way towards the high house in the narrow
street.