Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan, and Distributed Proofreaders
WHAT SAMI SINGS WITH THE BIRDS
BY
JOHANNA SPYRI
TRANSLATED BY HELEN B. DOLE
1917
[Illustration: “Up in the ash-trees the birds piped and sang merrily
together.”]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
FIRST OLD MARY ANN
SECOND AT THE GRANDMOTHER’S
THIRD ANOTHER LIFE
FOURTH HARD TIMES
FIFTH THE BIRDS ARE STILL SINGING
SIXTH SAMI SINGS TOO
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
UP IN THE ASH-TREES THE BIRDS PIPED AND SANG MERRILY TOGETHER.
WHERE HAVE YOU COME FROM WITH ALL YOUR HOUSEHOLD GOODS?
SUCH STRAY WAIFS AS YOU ARE NOT WILLING TO DO ANYTHING.
WHAT SAMI SINGS WITH THE BIRDS
CHAPTER FIRST
OLD MARY ANN
For three days the Spring sun had been shining out of a clear sky and
casting a gleaming, golden coverlet over the blue waters of Lake Geneva.
Storm and rain had ceased. The breeze murmured softly and pleasantly up
in the ash-trees, and all around in the green fields the yellow
buttercups and snow-white daisies glistened in the bright sunshine. Under
the ash-trees, the clear brook was running with the cool mountain water
and feeding the gaily nodding primroses and pink anemones on the
hillside, as they grew and bloomed down close to the water.
On the low wall by the brook, in the shadow of the ash-trees, an old
woman was sitting. She was called “Old Mary Ann” throughout the whole
neighborhood. Her big basket, the weight of which had become a little
heavy, she had put down beside her. She was on her way back from La Tour,
the little old town, with the vine-covered church tower and the ruined
castle, the high turrets of which rose far across the blue lake. Old Mary
Ann had taken her work there. This consisted in all kinds of mending
which did not need to be done particularly well, for the woman was no
longer able to do fine work, and never could do it.
Old Mary Ann had had a very changeable life. The place where she now
found herself was not her home. The language of the country was not her
own. From the shady seat on the low wall, she now looked contentedly at
the sunny fields, then across the murmuring brook to the hillside where
the big yellow primroses nodded, while the birds piped and sang in the
green ash-trees above her, as if they had the greatest festival to
celebrate.
“Every Spring, people think it never was so beautiful before, when they
have already seen so many,” she now said half aloud to herself, and as
she gazed at the fields so rich in flowers, many of the past years rose
up and passed before her, with all that she had experienced in them.
As a child she had lived far beyond the mountains. She knew so well how
it must look over there now at her father’s house, which stood in a field
among white-blooming pear-trees. Over yonder the large village with its
many houses could be seen. It was called Zweisimmen. Everybody called
their house the sergeant’s house, although her father quite peacefully
tilled his fields. But that came from her grandfather. When quite a young
fellow, he had gone over the mountains to Lake Geneva and then still
farther to Savoy. Under a Duke of Savoy he had taken part in all sorts of
military expeditions and had not returned home until he was an old man.
He always wore an old uniform and allowed himself to be called sergeant.
Then he married and Mary Ann’s father was his only child. The old man
lived to be a hundred years old, and every child in all the region round
knew the old sergeant.
Mary Ann had three brothers, but as soon as one of them grew up he
disappeared, she knew not where. Only this much she understood, that
her mother mourned over them, but her father said quite resignedly
every time: “We can’t help it, they will go over the mountains; they
take it from their grandfather.” She had never heard anything more
about her brothers.
When Mary Ann grew up and married, her young husband also came into the
house among the pear-trees, for her father was old and could no longer do
his work alone. But after a few years Mary Ann buried her young husband;
a burning fever had taken him off. Then came hard times for the widow.
She had her child, little Sami, to care for, besides her old, infirm
parents to look after, and moreover there was all the work to be done in
the house and in the fields which until now her husband had attended to.
She did what she could, but it was of no use, the land had to be given up
to a cousin. The house was mortgaged, and Mary Ann hardly knew how to
keep her old parents from want. Gradually young Sami grew up and was able
to help the cousin in the fields. Then the old parents died about the
same time, and Mary Ann hoped now by hard work and her son’s help little
by little to pay up her debts and once more take possession of her fields
and house. But as soon as her father and mother were buried, her son
Sami, who was now eighteen years old, came to her and said he could no
longer bear to stay at home, he must go over the mountains and so begin a
new life. This was a great shock to the mother, but when she saw that
persuasion, remonstrance and entreaty were all in vain her father’s words
came to her mind and she said resignedly, “It can’t be helped; he takes
it from his great-grandfather.”
But she would not let the young man go away alone, and he was glad to
have his mother go with him. So she wandered with him over the mountains.
In the little village of Chailly, which lies high up on the mountain
slope and looks down on the meadows rich in flowers and the blue Lake
Geneva, they found work with the jolly wine-grower Malon. This man, with
curly hair already turning grey and a kindly round face, lived alone with
his son in the only house left standing, near a crooked maple-tree.
Mary Ann received a room for herself and was to keep house for Herr
Malon, and keep everything in order for him and his son. Sami was to work
for good pay in Malon’s beautiful vineyard. The widow Mary Ann passed
several years here in a more peaceful way than she had ever known before.
When the fourth Summer came to an end, Sami said to her one day:
“Mother, I must really marry young Marietta of St. Legier, for I am so
lonely away from her.”
His mother knew Marietta well and besides she liked the pretty, clever
girl, for she was not only always happy but there were few girls so good
and industrious. So she rejoiced with her son, although he would have to
go away from her to live with Marietta and her aged father in St. Legier,
for she was indispensable to him. Herr Malon’s son also brought a young
wife home, and so Mary Ann had no more duties there, and had to look out
for herself. She kept her room for a small rent, and was able to earn
enough to support herself. She now knew many people in the neighborhood,
and obtained enough work.
Mary Ann pondered over all these things, and when her thoughts returned
from the distant past to the present moment, and she still heard the
birds above her singing and rejoicing untiringly, she said to herself:
“They always sing the same song and we should be able to sing with them.
Only trust in the dear Lord! He always helps us, although we may often
think there is no possible way.”
Then Mary Ann left the low wall, took her basket up again on her arm and
went through the fragrant meadows of Burier up towards Chailly. From time
to time she cast an anxious look in the direction of St. Legier. She knew
that young Marietta was lying sick up there and that her son Sami would
now have hard work and care, for a much smaller Sami had just come into
the world. Tomorrow Mary Ann would go over and see how things were going
with her son and if she ought to stay with him and help.
Mary Ann had scarcely stepped into her little room and put on her house
dress, to prepare her supper, when she heard some one coming along with
hurried footsteps. The door was quickly thrown open and in stepped her
son Sami with a very distressed face. Under his arm he carried a bundle
wrapped up in one of Marietta’s aprons. This he laid on the table, threw
himself down and sobbed aloud, with his head in his arms:
“It is all over, mother, all over; Marietta is dead!”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, what are you saying?” cried his mother in the
greatest horror. “Oh, Sami, is it possible?”
Then she lifted Sami gently and continued in a trembling voice:
“Come, sit down beside me and tell me all about it. Is she really dead?
Oh, when did it happen? How did it come so quickly?”
Sami willingly dropped down on a chair beside his mother. But then he
buried his face in his hands and went on sobbing again.
“Oh, I can’t bear it, I must go away, mother, I can’t bear it here any
longer, it is all over!”
“Oh, Sami, where would you go?” said his mother, weeping. “We have
already come over the mountains, where would you go from here?”
“I must go across the water, as far as I possibly can, I can’t stay here
any longer. I cannot, mother,” declared Sami. “I must go across the great
water as far as possible!”
“Oh, not that!” cried Mary Ann. “Don’t be so rash! Wait a little, until
you can think more calmly; it will seem different to you.”
“No, mother, no, I must go away. I am forced to it; I can’t do any
different,” cried Sami, almost wild.
His mother looked at him in terror, but she said nothing more. She seemed
to hear her father saying: “It can’t be helped. He takes it from his
grandfather.” And with a sigh she said:
“It will have to be so.”
Then there sounded from the bundle a strange peeping, exactly as if a
chicken were smothering inside. “What have you put in the bundle, Sami?”
asked the mother, going towards it, to loosen the firmly tied apron.
“That’s so, I had almost forgotten it, mother,” replied Sami, wiping
his eyes, “I have brought the little boy to you, I don’t know what to
do with it.”
“Oh, how could you pack him up so! Yes, yes, you poor little thing,” said
the grandmother soothingly, taking the diminutive Sami out of one
wrapping and then a second and a third.
The father Sami had wrapped the little baby first in its clothes, then in
a shawl, and then in the apron as tight as possible, so that it couldn’t
slip out on the way, and fall on the ground. When little Sami was freed
from the smothering wrappings and could move his arms and legs he fought
with all his limbs in the air and screamed so pitifully that his
grandmother thought it seemed exactly as if he already knew what a great
misfortune had come to him.
But father Sami said perhaps he was hungry, for since the evening before
no one had paid any attention to the little baby. This seemed to the
sympathetic Mary Ann quite too cruel, and she realised that if she didn’t
care for the poor little mite it would die. She wrapped him up again
carefully in his blanket, but not around his head, and carried him
upright on her arm, not under it, as one carries a bundle. Then she ran
all around her room to collect milk, a dish and fire together, so that
the starving little creature might have some nourishment. As she sat on
her stool, and the little one eagerly sipped the milk, while his tiny
little hand tightly clasped his grandmother’s forefinger like a
life-preserver, she said, greatly touched:
“Yes, indeed, you little Sami, you poor little orphan, I will do what I
can for you and the dear Lord will not forsake us.”
And to the big Sami she said:
“I will keep him, but don’t take any rash steps! In the first great
sorrow many a one does what he later regrets. See, you can’t run away
from sorrow, it runs with you. Stay and bear what the dear Lord sends. He
is not angry with you. Hold to him still in time of sorrow, then the sun
will shine tomorrow! It will be the same with you as it has been with so
many others.” Sami had listened in silence, but like one who does not
understand what he hears.
“Good night, mother! May God reward you for what you do for the boy,” he
said then, after wiping his eyes again. Then he pressed his mother’s
hand, and went out of the door.
CHAPTER SECOND
AT THE GRANDMOTHER’S
Old Mary Ann had now to begin over again, where she had left off
twenty-one years before, to bring up a little Sami. But then she was
fresh and strong, she had her husband by her side, and lived at home
among friends and acquaintances. Now she was in a strange land and was a
worn-out woman, and felt that her strength would not last much longer.
But little Sami did not realise all this. He was tended and cared for as
if his grandmother wanted to make up to him every moment for what he had
lost, and she was always saying to him, pityingly:
“You poor little thing, you have nobody in the world now but an old
grandmother.”
Moreover it was so. Father Sami could not be consoled. As soon as his
young wife was buried he went away, and must have landed a long time ago
in the far away country.
Little Sami grew finely, and as his grandmother talked with him a great
deal, he began very early to imitate her. His words became more and more
distinct, and when the end of his second year came, he talked very
plainly and in whole sentences. His grandmother didn’t know what to do
for joy, when she realised that her little Sami spoke not a word of
French, but pure Swiss-German, as she had heard it only in her native
land. He spoke exactly like his grandmother, who was indeed the only one
he had to talk with.
Now every day her baby gave her a new surprise. First he began to say
after her the little prayer she repeated for him morning and evening;
then he said it all alone. She had to weep for joy when the little one
began to sing after her the little Summer song she had learned in her own
childhood and had always sung to him, and one day suddenly knew the whole
song from beginning to end and sang one verse after another without
hesitation.
In spite of all the grandmother’s trouble and work, the years passed so
quickly to her, that one day when she began to reckon she discovered that
Sami must be fully seven years old. Then she thought it was really time
that he learned something. But suddenly to send the boy to a French
school when he didn’t understand a word of French seemed dreadful to her,
for he would be as helpless as a chicken in water. She would rather try,
as well as she possibly could, to teach him herself to read. She thought
it would be very hard but it went quite easily. In a short time, the
youngster knew all his letters, and could even put words together quite
well. That something could be made out of this which he could understand
and which he did not know before was very amusing to him, and he sat over
his reading-book with great eagerness. But to go out with his grandmother
to deliver her mending and to get new work was a still greater pleasure
to him, for nothing pleased him better than roaming through the green
meadows, then stopping at the brook to listen to the birds singing up in
the ash-trees.
The changeable April days had just come to an end and the beaming May sun
shone so warm and alluring that all the flowers looked up to it with
wide-open petals. Mary Ann with Sami by the hand, her big basket on her
arm, was coming along up from La Tour. The boy opened both his eyes as
wide as he could, for the red and blue flowers in the green grass and the
golden sunshine above them delighted him very much.
“Grandmother,” he said taking a deep breath, “to-day we will sit on the
low wall for twelve long hours, won’t we, really?”
“Yes, indeed,” assented his grandmother, “we will stay there long enough
to get well rested and enjoy ourselves; but when the sun goes down and it
grows dark, then we will go. Then all the little birds are silent in the
trees and the old night-owl begins to hoot.”
This seemed right to Sami, for he didn’t want to hear the old owl hoot.
Now they had reached the wall. A cool shadow was lying on it; below the
fresh brook murmured, and up in the ash-trees the birds piped and sang
merrily together and one kept singing very distinctly:
“Sing too! Sing too!”
Sami listened. Suddenly he lifted up his voice and sang as loud and
lustily as the birds above, the whole song that his grandmother had
taught him:
Last night Summer breezes blew:--
All the flowers awake anew,
Open wide their eyes to see,
Nodding, bowing in their glee.
All the merry birds we hear
Greet the sunshine bright and clear;
See them flitting thru the sky,
Singing low and singing high!
Flowers in Summer warmth delight:--
What of Winter and its blight?
Snowy fields and forests cold?
Flowers are by their faith consoled.
Songsters, all so blithe and gay,
Know ye what your carols say?
How will your sweet carols fare
When your nests the snow-storms tear?
All the birdlings everywhere
Now their loveliest songs prepare;
All the birdlings gayly sing:--
“Trust the Lord in everything!”
Then Sami listened very attentively, as if he wanted to hear whether the
birds really sang so.
“Listen, listen, grandmother!” he said after a while. “Up there in the
tree is one that doesn’t sing like the others. At first he keeps singing
‘Trust! Trust! Trust! Trust!’ and then the rest comes after.”
“Yes, yes, that is the finch, Sami,” she replied. “See, he wants to
impress it upon you, so that you will think about what will always keep
you safe and happy. Just listen, now, he is calling again: Trust! trust!
trust! trust! trust! Only trust the dear Lord.”
Sami listened again. It was really wonderful, how the finch always
sounded above the other birds with his emphatic “Trust! trust! trust!”
“You must never forget what the finch calls,” continued the grandmother.
“See, Sami, perhaps I cannot stay with you much longer, and then you will
have no one else, and will have to make your way alone. Then the little
bird’s song can oftentimes be a comfort to you. So don’t forget it, and
promise me too that you will say your little prayer every day, so that
you will be God-fearing; then no matter what happens, it will be well
with you.”
Sami promised that he would never forget to pray. Then he became
thoughtful and asked somewhat timidly:
“Must I always be afraid, grandmother?”
“No, no! Did you think so because I said God-fearing? It doesn’t mean
that: I will explain it to you as well as I can. You see to be
God-fearing is when one has the dear Lord before his eyes in everything
he does, and fears and hesitates to do what is not pleasing to Him,
everything that is wicked and wrong. Whoever lives so before Him has no
reason to fear what may happen to him, for such a man has the dear Lord’s
help everywhere, and if he has to meet hardship oftentimes, he knows that
the dear Lord allows it so, in order that some good may come out of it
for him, and then he can sing as happily as the little birds: ‘Only trust
the dear Lord!’ Will you remember that well, Sami?”
“Yes, that I will,” said Sami, decidedly, for this pleased him much
better, than if he had to be always afraid.
Now the setting sun cast its last long rays across the meadows, and
disappeared. The grandmother left the wall, took Sami by the hand and
then the two wandered in the rosy twilight along the meadow path,
then up the green vine-clad hill to the little village of Chailly up
on the mountain.
CHAPTER THIRD
ANOTHER LIFE
One morning, a few days later, Mary Ann was so tired she couldn’t get up.
Sami sat beside her waiting for her to be fully awake in order to go into
the kitchen and make the coffee. His grandmother opened her eyes once and
fell asleep again. She had never done anything like this before. Now she
was really awake. She tried to raise herself up a little, then took Sami
by the hand and said in a low voice:
“Sami, listen to me, I must tell you something. See, when I am no longer
with you, you have no one else here, and are an entire stranger. But
there over the mountains you have relatives, and you must return to them.
Malon will tell you how to get there. You must go to Zweisimmen. There
ask for the sergeant, your cousin, who lives in the house with the big
pear-trees near it. Tell him your grandmother was the sergeant’s Mary Ann
and your father was Sami. Work hard and willingly, you will have to earn
your living. There in the chest is some money in the little bag; take it,
it is yours; don’t spend it foolishly. Sami, think of what you promised
me. Don’t neglect to pray, it will bring you comfort and happiness which
you will need. Try to associate with God-fearing people and live with
them, then you will learn only good. Go, now, Sami, and call Herr Malon.
I must talk with him.”
Sami went and came back with the man of the house. He stepped up to Mary
Ann’s bed, and tried to encourage her, as that was his way. But he was
alarmed at her appearance and wanted to go for the doctor, as he told
her. But she held him fast and tried with great difficulty to express
herself in his language, for she had only a scanty knowledge of it. Malon
nodded his head understandingly and then hurried away. When he returned
to the room a couple of hours later with the doctor, Sami was still
sitting in the same place by the bed, waiting very quietly for his
grandmother to wake up again. The doctor drew near the bed. Then he spoke
with Malon a while, and finally came to Sami. He told him his grandmother
would never wake again, that she was dead.
Malon was a good man; he said he himself would go with Sami part of the
way until he found some one who could talk with him and take him further;
but he must put all his belongings together in a bundle. Then the two men
went away.
After a while the young woman of the house came, for the forsaken boy had
deeply aroused her sympathy. She found Sami still sitting in the same
place by the bed. He was looking steadfastly at his grandmother and
weeping piteously. The woman spoke to him, but he did not understand her.
Then she took everything out of the cupboard and drawers, packed them
into a bundle and showed Sami that he was to eat the bread and milk on
the table. Sami swallowed the milk obediently, but the woman put the
bread in his pocket. Then she led the boy once more to the bed, that he
might take his grandmother’s hand in farewell.
Sami obeyed still sobbing, and let himself be led away by the woman. Herr
Malon was already waiting beside his little cart in which lay Sami’s
bundle. The boy understood that he was to draw the cart, but he knew not
where. He wept softly to himself for it seemed to him as if he were going
out into the wilderness where he would be wholly alone. Malon went on
ahead of him.
It was the same way Sami had often gone with his grandmother down to La
Tour. When he came to the wall by the brook, he sobbed aloud. How lovely
it had been there with his grandmother! He could not see the way because
of his falling tears, but he heard Herr Malon’s heavy step in front of
him, and he followed after. At the little station house above the
vine-covered church Malon stopped. Soon after the train came puffing
along. Malon got in and pulled Sami after him, and they started away.
Sami crouched in a corner and did not stir. They travelled thus for an
hour. Sami did not understand a word that was spoken around him, although
several times one and another tried to talk with him a little, for the
softly weeping boy had indeed awakened their sympathy.
The train stopped again. Malon got out and Sami followed him. They went a
short distance together and then Malon stepped to the left into a large
garden and then into the house. Here he talked a while with the man of
the house, who from time to time looked pityingly at Sami. Then Malon
took Sami’s hand, shook it and left him behind alone in the big room.
After some time the man of the house came back and a sturdy fellow behind
him. The latter began to talk in Sami’s own language. He wanted to
console the boy and said he would soon go on in a carriage. Then Sami
asked if he was his cousin, and if this was the village of Zweisimmen?
But the fellow laughed loudly and said he was no cousin, but a servant
here in the inn, and the place was called Aigle. Sami would have to
travel an hour longer and would not reach Zweisimmen before twelve
o’clock at night. But there was a coachman here from Interlaken, who had
to go back and would take him along.
The man of the house had bread and eggs brought for Sami and when he said
he wasn’t hungry, he put everything kindly into the boy’s pocket. Then he
led the boy out. Outside stood a large coach with two horses and high up
on the top sat the driver. No one was inside. Sami was lifted up, the
driver placed him next himself and drove away. At any other time this
would have pleased Sami very much, but now he was too sad. He kept
thinking of his grandmother, who could no longer talk with him and would
never wake again. After some time the driver began to talk to him. Sami
had to tell him where he came from and to whom he was going. He told him
everything, how he had lived with his grandmother, how she had fallen
asleep early that day, and did not wake up again; and that he was going
to find a cousin in Zweisimmen and would have to live with him. Sami’s
childish description touched the driver so deeply that he finally said:
“It will be too late when we reach there, you must stay with me
to-night.”
Then when he saw Sami’s eyes close with the approaching twilight and only
open again when they went over a stone, and the two of them up on the box
were jounced almost dangerously against each other, he grasped the boy
firmly, lifted him up and slipped him backwards into the coach. Here he
fell at once fast asleep and when he finally opened his eyes again, the
sun was shining brightly in his face. He was lying in his clothes on a
huge, big bed in a room with white walls. In all his life he had never
seen such walls. He looked around in consternation. Then the coachman of
the day before came in the door.
[Illustration: “Where have you come from with all your household goods?”]
“Have you had your sleep out?” he said laughing. “Come and have some
coffee with me. Then I will take you to your cousin. Some one else must
carry your bundle. It is too heavy for you.”
Sami followed him into the coffee-room. Here the good man kept pouring
out coffee for the boy, but Sami could neither eat nor drink.
When the coachman had finished his breakfast, he rose and started with
Sami on the way to the sergeant’s house. It was not far. At the house in
the meadow among the pear-trees he laid Sami’s bundle down, shook him by
the hand and said:
“Well, good luck to you. I have nothing to do in there and have
farther to go.”
Sami thanked him for all his kindness, and gazed after his benefactor,
until he disappeared behind the trees. Then he knocked on the door. A
woman came out, looked in amazement first at the boy, then at his big
bundle, and said rudely: “Where have you come from with all your
household goods?”
Sami informed her where he had come from and that his grandmother was
Mary Ann, and his father, Sami. Meanwhile three boys had come running up
to them, placed themselves directly in front of him, and were looking at
him from top to toe with wide-open eyes. This embarrassed Sami
exceedingly.
“Bring your father out,” said the mother to one of her boys. Their father
was sitting inside at the table, eating his breakfast.
“What’s the matter now?” he growled.
“There is someone here, who claims to be a relative of yours. He doesn’t
know where he is going,” exclaimed his wife.
“He can come in to me, perhaps I can tell him, if I know,” replied the
man, without moving.
“Well, go in,” directed the woman, giving Sami an assisting push. The boy
went in and replied very timidly, where he had come from and to whom he
had belonged. The peasant scratched his head.
“Make quick work of it,” said the woman impatiently, who had followed
with her three boys.
“I think we have enough with the three of them, and there are people who
might need such a boy.”
“This is quickly decided,” said the peasant, thoughtfully cutting his
piece of bread in two; “send all four boys out.”
After this command had been carried out, he continued slowly: “There is
no help for it. It was stipulated at the time the house was sold, that
room must be made in the house if either Mary Ann, Sami or the child
should come back. Besides, it is not so bad as it seems. Where three
sleep together there is room for a fourth, and he can do some work for
his food. The parish can do something for his clothes.”
His wife had no desire to have a fourth added to her three boys, for her
own made enough noise and trouble for her. She protested, saying she
knew how it was with such stray children and they could expect to have a
fine time!
But it was of no use; it was decided that Sami should have a place in the
house. The farmer brought in the bundle and carried it up to the oldest
boy’s room, where until now the broad-shouldered Stöffi had slept in a bed
alone. He could take Sami in with him, for he was smaller than the other
two; Michael and Uli could stay together as before.
Then the woman opened the bundle. She was not a little surprised, when
she found inside not only Sami’s clothes, all in the best of order, but
also two good dresses, aprons and neckerchiefs. She called Sami up to
her, and showed him the corner in the chest where she had put his things.
Then she said she would take the woman’s clothes for herself, since he
could surely make no use of them. The clothes which his grandmother had
always worn were so dear to Sami, that he looked on with sad eyes, as
they were carried away, but he thought it had to be so.
He had already made the acquaintance of the three boys. They had shown
him below in front of the house how one of them could best throw down the
others, and had demonstrated all sorts of useful tricks. But as each
tried to outdo the others in showing off his knowledge, a struggle ensued
and the tricks were immediately applied; one threw another over the
third, Sami was knocked and thrown around by all three.
When he now came down from his room a voice from the barn called out:
“Come here and help pull.”
Sami ran along. There stood the two younger boys, Michael and Uli, with
great hoes on their shoulders, and Stöffi beside a cart which had to be
taken along. They waited for their father, and then all went out to the
field. Here Stöffi and Sami had to rake together the grass, which the
father cut, and load it on the cart, and bring home to the cows. Michael
and Uli had to hoe the weeds in the next field near by. Now it appeared
that Sami did not know at all how to use the rake, for he had never done
such work.
“He shall weed with Uli, and Michael can do this work,” said the farmer.
But when Sami tried to do this, the hoe was too heavy for him, and he
could do nothing.
“Then kneel on the ground and pull them up with your hands,” said
the farmer.
Sami squatted down and pulled at the weeds with all his might. The ground
was hard and the work very tiresome. But Sami did not forget how his
grandmother had impressed it upon him to do all his work well and
willingly.
At noon the two weeders took their hoes on their shoulders and Sami had
to pull the cart, which was now much heavier than on the way there. The
boy had to use all his strength, for Stöffi showed him plainly that he
would not take upon himself the larger part of the work.
Then when they passed by the field the father indicated to each one the
piece he would have to weed that afternoon; for he himself would be
obliged to go to the cattle market. They would find a smaller hoe at home
for Sami to take with him in the afternoon, for pulling up the weeds was
too slow work.
After the boys had worked several hours in the afternoon, they sat down
in the shade of an old apple-tree to eat their luncheon, and the piece of
black bread with pear juice tasted very good after the hot work.
“Have you ever seen a bear?” asked Stöffi of Sami.
He said he had not.
“Then you would be fearfully frightened if you should suddenly see one,”
continued Stöffi; “only those who know them are not afraid of them. This
evening there is to be one in the village, and, as I am almost through
with my piece in the field, you can finish it, so I can go early to see
the bear.”
Sami agreed. When all four had begun to hoe again, Stöffi soon exclaimed:
“Well, you won’t have much more to do now, Sami, but keep your
promise, or--”
Stöffi doubled up his fist, and Sami understood what that meant.
He had hardly gone when Michael said:
“See, Sami, there isn’t much left of mine, you can do that too; I am
going to see the bear.”
Whereupon Michael ran off.
“Me, too,” cried Uli, throwing down his hoe. “You can finish that
also, Sami.”
When the twilight came on and the family put the sour milk and the
steaming potatoes on the table, Sami was missing.
“I suppose he will keep us waiting,” remarked the farmer’s wife
sharply. When all had finished and the milk mugs were empty, the woman
cleared them away and placed the few potatoes left over on the kitchen
table and growled:
“He can eat here, if he wants anything.”
It was quite dark, and Sami still had not come. Just as the other three
were being sent to bed, he came in, so tired he could hardly stand. The
woman asked him harshly, if he couldn’t come home with the others. The
farmer assumed that the piece he had told Sami to weed had been too much
for him to do, and he said consolingly:
“It is right that you wanted to finish your work, but you must
work faster.”
Sami understood the signs which Stöffi made behind his father’s back,
that he was to keep silent about the bear, and he was too much afraid of
the three boys’ fists to say anything about it.
He preferred to go straight to bed, for he was too tired to eat. But he
couldn’t go to sleep. He had received so many new impressions, he had
borne so much anguish, and had to do so much work besides, he could think
of nothing else. But now his grandmother came before his eyes again as
she had prayed with him at evening and had been so kind to him, and
everything she had told him. He wanted so much to pray, it seemed to him
as if his grandmother was near and told him the dear Lord would always
comfort him if he prayed, and that comfort he was so anxious to have.
He was so troubled, when he wondered if he could do his work the next
day, so that the farmer would not be cross, and how his wife would be,
for he was very much afraid of her, and how it would be with the boys,
who forced him to make everything appear contrary to the truth.
Then Sami began to pray and prayed for a long time, for he already began
to feel comforted, because he could take refuge with the dear Lord and
ask Him to help him, now that he had no one left in the world to whom he
could speak and who could assist him. When at last his eyes closed from
great weariness he dreamed he was sitting with his grandmother on the
wall and above them all the birds were singing so loud and so joyfully
that he had to sing with them: “Only trust the dear Lord!”
CHAPTER FOURTH
HARD TIMES
The following morning Sami was awakened by loud tones, but it was no
longer the birds singing; it was the farmer’s wife ordering the boys
harshly to get up right away. She had already called them three times,
and if this time they didn’t obey, their father would come. Then they
all sprang out of bed and in a few minutes were down-stairs, where
their father was already sitting at the table and would not have waited
much longer.
The day did not pass very differently from the one before, and thus
passed a long series of days. There was already a change in the work.
Sami, little by little, learned to do everything very well, for he took
pains and followed his grandmother’s advice carefully. He always had
something to do for the other boys still, so that he never finished his
work a moment before supper-time. But he was no longer late. A change had
also come about in this. Stöffi had learned that there was one thing Sami
could not or would not do which he himself could do very well: he could
not tell a lie.
He had been late again a couple of times, but had never told the reason.
Finally, however, the farmer had spoken harshly:
“Now speak out, and tell why you can’t get through your work faster; you
are quick enough when anyone is watching you.”
Then Sami had accordingly told all the truth, and the father had
threatened to beat the boys if they didn’t do their work themselves.
Afterwards Stöffi had thrashed Sami to punish him, and had warned him
that he would do it every time Sami complained of him.
Sami had replied that he had never complained and didn’t want to do so,
but when his father questioned him he could only tell him the truth.
Stöffi tried to explain to him that it didn’t matter whether he told the
truth or not, but here he found Sami more obstinate than he had expected,
and no matter what fearful threats he hurled at him, he always said the
same thing in the end:
“But I shall do it.”
This firmness was the result of Sami’s sure conviction that the dear Lord
heard and knew everything and that lying was something wicked, which did
not please Him.
So Stöffi had to find some other way to get off from his work early and
make Sami finish what he left. He found that all three could never dare
abandon their work and leave it for Sami, but one of them might do so
each evening, and he threatened to punish his brothers severely if they
would not agree to this. Then there would always be three or four
evenings in succession when Stöffi wanted to go away early; then the
brothers had to stay and work, and this led to many a quarrel, with heavy
blows which regularly fell upon Sami.
So he never had any happy days. But every evening he could be alone with
his thoughts of his grandmother, of all the beautiful bygone days and all
the good words she had spoken to him. Nobody troubled him, or called to
him, or pulled him then, as usually happened all day long.
Thus the Summer and Autumn passed away, and a cold Winter had come. There
was no more work to be done in the fields and meadows, but there were all
sorts of things to be done to help the farmer in the barn and his wife in
the house and the kitchen. This Sami had to do.
Meanwhile their own three boys could go to school, which had now begun
again, for they had to get some education. Sami could get that by and by.
In the Summer he had acquired a good deal of quickness and now did his
work so skilfully that the farmer said a couple of times:
“I would not have believed it, for in the Summer he was always the last.”
Sami now thought that everything would go easier than in the Summer, but
something came which was much harder to bear than the extra burden of
work, which was too much for the others.
Every day the boys fought in the field outside, and Sami, as the
smallest, always came off with the most blows. But that was the end of
it, and when the boys came home at night no one thought any more about
it. In the evening the three boys were assigned to the little room with
the feeble light of a low oil lamp, to do their arithmetic for school,
while Sami had to cut apples and pears for drying. From the first the
three were angry because Sami had no arithmetic to do, and then one would
accuse the other of taking the light away from him, and all three would
scream that Sami didn’t need any at all for his work. Then one would pull
the lamp one way, and another the other way, until it was upset and the
oil would run over the table into Sami’s apples. Then there would be a
really murderous tumult in the darkness; all hands would grope in the oil
and one would always outcry the others. Then the mother would come in
very cross and want to know who was always starting such mischief. Then
one would blame the other, and finally the blame would fall on Sami,
because he made the least noise. Usually the farmer too came in then, and
his angry wife would always reply that she had indeed said the boy would
be an apple of discord in the house, and a Winter like this they had
never experienced. Often Sami had to endure many hard words and
undeserved punishment. On such evenings he remained sleepless for a long
time sitting on his bed.
Then he would rack his brains as to how it could happen so, since his
grandmother had told him that if he was God-fearing everything would
happen for the best. That he should be so scolded and badly treated was
not the best for him. He really wanted to be God-fearing and not forget
that the dear Lord saw and heard everything. But Sami was still very
young and could not know, what he later knew, that it is good for
everyone if he learns early in life to bear hardship. Then when the evil
days, which none escape, come again later on, he can cope with them
bravely, because he knows them already and his strength has become
hardened; and when the good days come he can enjoy them as no one else
can who has never tasted the bad ones.
At this time Sami knew nothing about this and almost never went to sleep
without tears; indeed, he often wondered whether the birds were still
calling up in the ash-trees: “Only trust in the dear Lord!” and if it
were still true that everything would come out right. The only comfort
for him was that his grandmother had told him so positively, and he held
fast to that.
It was a long, hard Winter. The snow lay so deep and immovable on the
meadows and trees, that Sami often asked with anxiety in his heart, if it
would ever entirely disappear, so that the meadows would be green
again, and the flowers become alive. It was already April, and the cold
white covering of snow still lay all around. Then a warm wind from the
South blew all one night into the valley, and when on the next day a very
warm rain fell, the obstinate snow melted into great brooks. Then came
the sun and dried up all the brooks, and everywhere the new young grass
sprang up over the meadows.
The four boys came across the big street of the village and turned into
the meadow. They were pulling along the cart, on which lay the cooking
utensils which the farmer’s wife had just purchased at the annual fair in
the village. The boys had followed their mother’s command to go slowly
and carefully, so that nothing would be broken, for they knew very well
that their mother set great store by these things, and it was worth while
to follow her instructions.
Now that they had come safely over the rough street and had turned into
the meadow road, two pulling, two pushing, they wanted to rest a little
while. They stopped under the first large pear-tree, stretched
themselves out on the ground and looked up into the blue sky. In the
pear-tree above, the birds were singing merrily together, and suddenly
one piped up in the midst of the others, always the same note, exactly as
if he had a special call to give.
“There he is,” cried Sami, springing up from the ground with delight.
Then he listened again, and again sounded the staccato call, clear and
sharp above the singing of all the other birds.
“Do you hear it? Do you hear it?” cried Sami in his delight. “Now he is
calling again: ‘Trust! Trust! Trust! Trust!’ And then they all sing
together: ‘Only trust the dear Lord!’”
“You are just talking nonsense!” exclaimed Stöffi to the happy Sami. “The
bird is more knowing than you are. That is the rain bird; I know him
well. He notices the rain-wind and is calling: ‘Shower! Shower! Shower!’
Then we know it is going to rain.”
But Sami would not give up what was so dear to him and kept saying
to himself:
“But he is singing: ‘Trust! Trust! Trust! Trust!’”
“Keep quiet!” continued Stöffi sharply to him. “You are nothing but a
little tramp, who can’t do anything and doesn’t know anything and twists
everything he hears.”
Then the blood rose to Sami’s cheeks and the tears came into his eyes
and, more courageously than usual towards Stöffi, he cried:
“I don’t do that, but you have done it many times!”
Then Stöffi sprang up and seized hold of Sami to throw him down; but in
his anger Sami turned quite differently from usual, so that Stöffi had to
call the others to help him.
A great struggle ensued; the blows became more and more violent, first on
one side and then on the other. Suddenly the cart was upset. A fearful
cracking and crashing sounded, and a great heap of red, brown and white
crockery lay on the ground. Dumb with fright, the boys stood and looked
at the destruction.
Stöffi was the first to recover himself.
“We will say that a wheel came off the cart, and it suddenly fell down.”
He immediately picked up a big stone in order to pound out the nail and
take the wheel off from the axle.
“I shall say just how it all happened, that we quarreled, and upset the
wagon,” said Sami calmly.
Then Steffi’s wrath rose to its height.
“You traitor, you spy and mischief-maker!” he screamed. “You are nothing
but a ragamuffin. We will force you.”
“You cannot,” said Sami, “and you are no good either! If you were
God-fearing, you would not want to lie so.”
“Well, well,” they all screamed together, and shaking their fists in the
most threatening way. “You needn’t say that. We are just exactly as
God-fearing as you, and even much more so!”
Suddenly a new thought came to Stöffi. He ran off with all his might, and
Michael and Uli rushed after him. Sami saw that they were hurrying to the
house; he followed slowly after. The farmer’s wife had come back to the
house by a shorter way, and the farmer was just returning home too from
the field, when the three boys came rushing along. The whole family was
standing in great excitement at the door and all were talking loudly
together and making threatening gestures, when Sami came along. He was
met by the farmer, shaking his fist, and his wife threw such harsh words
at him that he stood quite dumfounded.
“That was the last straw,” she said, “that after all the kindness he had
received he should tell them they were not God-fearing people.”
Then the farmer joined in. Such talk was insolent from Sami, and it had
been known for a long time how upright they were in his house, before
such a scamp had come there and tried to show them the way. Then his wife
began again and said Sami would have nothing more to do in her house; for
he had brought nothing but trouble since he stepped into it; he could go
to his room, and she would come right along.
Sami was so surprised and confused by all the attacks and charges, that
he had stood quite dumb until now. Now he wanted to explain how the cart
had been upset, but the father said they knew everything already, and all
he had to do was to go to his room. He obeyed.
Soon the farmer’s wife came upstairs, packed Sami’s things together and
tied them up again into a bundle, which was now much smaller than when
he had brought it there, for some pieces of his old things had been
worn out and were not replaced, and his grandmother’s clothes were no
longer there.
While she was packing the woman kept on talking very angrily about Sami’s
wickedness and insolence, so that he now for the first time understood it
all. The boys had stated that he had reproached them for not being
God-fearing people; they had punished him for it, and through his
resistance he had overturned the cart. Sami now tried to explain to the
woman that it had not happened so, but she said she knew enough, threw
his tied-up bundle beside his bed, and went out.
Now for the first time Sami was able to think over what had happened to
him and what was going to come. Then he was angry because he had to bear
such injustice and not once have a chance to speak. And now he was driven
out, or perhaps he would be sent to people where it would be even worse
for him. Then he was so overcome with anger and fear and anguish, that he
began to cry aloud and called out:
“Yes, yes, Grandmother, you said if I was God-fearing everything would
happen to me for the best; and I have been, and now it has happened
this way!”
But with the thought of his grandmother, there rose in his heart all the
memories of his life with her, how they had wandered so peacefully
through the meadows, and how beautiful it had been under those trees, how
the birds had sung and the brook murmured, and suddenly Sami was mightily
overcome, and he exclaimed:
“Away! away! Over there! over there!”
From that moment on a bright light rose in his heart. It was hope in a
new life as beautiful as the first had been. Then Sami said his evening
prayer gladly and fell asleep.
CHAPTER FIFTH
THE BIRDS ARE STILL SINGING
The next morning when Sami sat at the table with the family, no one said
a word to him. The farmer’s wife pushed a piece of bread towards his
coffee-cup and made up an unfriendly face. The farmer was no different.
The three boys looked sourly down at their coffee-cups, for they had no
good consciences, and all three feared that their lies of the day before
might yet be found out, if Sami should happen to speak.
When they rose from the table, the farmer said shortly:
“Get your bundle! I shall have to lose more time with you, until I have
found a place for you, for surely no one will want you.”
Since the night before a change had taken place in Sami. He no longer
hung his head, as he had done almost always before from fear; he lifted
it up and said:
“I know already where I must go.”
The farmer and his wife looked at each other in astonishment.
“I want to go over the mountains,” he added.
“Yes, that is best, that he should go back there, where he came from,”
said the farmer’s wife quickly; “there will no doubt be someone going
over there from the inn. Go quickly with him up there.”