1.
THE FIRST MASS.
[Illustration: Valentine the carpenter.]
One Saturday afternoon the busy sound of the hammer and of the adze was
heard on the green hill-top which served the good folks of Nordstetten
as their public gathering-place in the open air. Valentine the
carpenter, with his two sons, was making a scaffolding designed to
serve no less a purpose than that of an altar and a pulpit. Christian
the tailor's son Gregory was to officiate at his first mass and to
preach his first sermon.
Ivo, Valentine's youngest son, a child of six years of age, assisted
his father with a mien which betokened that he considered his services
indispensable. With his bare head and feet he ran up and down the
timbers nimbly as a squirrel. When a beam was being lifted, he cried,
"Pry under!" as lustily as any one, put his shoulder to the crowbar,
and puffed as if nine-tenths of the weight fell upon him. Valentine
liked to see his little boy employed. He would tell him to wind the
twine on the reel, to carry the tools where they were wanted, or to
rake the chips into a heap. Ivo obeyed all these directions with the
zeal and devotion of a self-sacrificing patriot. Once, when perched
upon the end of a plank for the purpose of weighing it down, the motion
of the saw shook his every limb, and made him laugh aloud in spite of
himself: he would have fallen off but for the eagerness with which he
held on to his position and endeavored to perform his task in the most
workmanlike manner.
At last the scaffolding was finished. Lewis the saddler was ready to
nail down the carpets and hanging. Ivo offered to help him too; but,
being gruffly repelled, he sat down upon his heap of chips, and looked
at the mountains, behind which the sun was setting in a sea of fire.
His father's whistle aroused him, and he ran to his side.
[Illustration: Valentine and his son folded their hands as the
vesper-bell rang.]
"Father," said Ivo, "I wish I was in Hochdorf."
"Why?"
"Because it's so near to heaven, and I should like to climb up once."
"You silly boy, it only seems as if heaven began there. From Hochdorf
it is a long way to Stuttgard, and from there it is a long way to
heaven yet."
"How long?"
"Well, you can't get there until you die."
Leading his little son with one hand, and carrying his tools in the
other, Valentine passed through the village. Washing and scouring
was going on everywhere, and chairs and tables stood before the
houses,--for every family expected visitors for the great occasion of
the morrow.
As Valentine passed Christian the tailor's house, he held his hand to
his cap, prepared to take it off if anybody should look out. But nobody
did no: the place was silent as a cloister. Some farmers' wives were
going in, carrying bowls covered with their aprons, while others passed
out with empty bowls under their arms. They nodded to each other
without speaking: they had brought wedding-presents for the young
clergyman, who was to be married to his bride the Church.
As the vesper-bell rang, Valentine released the hand of his son, who
quickly folded his hands: Valentine also brought his hands together
over his heavy tools and said an Ave.
Next morning a clear, bright day rose upon the village. Ivo was dressed
by his mother betimes in a new jacket of striped Manchester cloth, with
buttons which he took for silver, and a newly-washed pair of leathern
breeches. He was to carry the crucifix. Mag, Ivo's eldest sister, took
him by the hand and led him into the street, "so as to have room in the
house." Having enjoined upon him by no means to go back, she returned
hastily. Wherever he came he found the men standing in knots in the
road. They were but half dressed for the festival, having no coats on,
but displaying their dazzling white shirt-sleeves. Here and there women
or girls were to be seen running from house to house without bodices,
and with their hair half untied. Ivo thought it cruel in his sister to
have pushed him out of the house as she had done. He would have been
delighted to have appeared like the grown folks,--first in negligee,
and then in full dress amid the tolling of bells and the clang of
trumpets; but he did not dare to return, or even to sit down anywhere,
for fear of spoiling his clothes. He went through the village almost on
tip-toe. Wagon after wagon rumbled in, bringing farmers and farmers'
wives from abroad: at the houses people welcomed them and brought
chairs to assist them in getting down. All the world looked as
exultingly quiet and glad as a community preparing to receive a hero
who had gone forth from their midst and was returning after a victory.
From the church to the hill-top the road was strewn with flowers and
grass, which sent forth aromatic odors. The squire was seen coming out
of Christian the tailor's house, and only covered his head when he
found himself in the middle of the street. Soges had a new sword,
brightly japanned and glittering in the sun.
The squire's wife soon followed, leading her daughter Barbara, who was
but six years old, by the hand. Barbara was dressed in bridal array.
She wore the veil and the wreath upon her head, and a beautiful gown.
As an immaculate virgin, she was intended to represent the bride of the
young clergyman, the Church.
At the first sound of the bell the people in shirt-sleeves disappeared
as if by magic. They retired to their houses to finish their toilet:
Ivo went on to the church.
Amid the ringing of all the bells, the procession at last issued from
the church-door. The pennons waved, the band of music brought from Horb
struck up, and the audible prayers of the men and women mingled with
the sound. Ivo, with the schoolmaster at his side, took the lead,
carrying the crucifix. On the hill the altar was finely decorated; the
chalices and the lamps and the spangled dresses of the saints flashed
in the sun, and the throng of worshippers covered the common and the
adjoining fields as far as the eye could reach. Ivo hardly took courage
to look at the "gentleman," meaning the young clergyman, who, in his
gold-laced robe, and bare head crowned with a golden wreath, ascended
the steps of the altar with pale and sober mien, bowing low as the
music swelled, and folding his small white hands upon his breast. The
squire's Barbara, who carried a burning taper wreathed with rosemary,
had gone before him and took her stand at the side of the altar. The
mass began; and at the tinkling of the bell all fell upon their faces,
and not a sound would have been heard, had not a flight of pigeons
passed directly over the altar with that fluttering and chirping noise
which always accompanies their motion through the air. For all the
world Ivo would not have looked up just then; for he knew that the Holy
Ghost was descending, to effect the mysterious transubstantiation of
the wine into blood and the bread into flesh, and that no mortal eye
can look upon Him without being struck with blindness.
The chaplain of Horb now entered the pulpit, and solemnly addressed the
"primitiant."
Then the latter took his place. Ivo sat near by, on a stool: with his
right arm resting on his knee, and his chin upon his hand, he listened
attentively. He understood little of the sermon; but his eyes hung upon
the preacher's lips, and his mind followed his intentions, if not his
thoughts.
When the procession returned to the church amid the renewed peal of the
bells and triumphant strains of music, Ivo clasped the crucifix firmly
with both his hands: he felt as if new strength had been given him to
carry his God before him.
As the crowd dispersed, every one spoke in raptures of the "gentleman,"
and of the happiness of the parents of such a son. Christian the tailor
and his wife came down the covered stairs of the church-hill in
superior bliss. Ordinarily they attracted little attention in the
village; but on this occasion all crowded around them with the greatest
reverence, to present their congratulations. The young clergyman's
mother returned thanks with tearful eyes: she could scarcely speak for
joyous weeping. Ivo heard his cousin, who had come over from Rexingen,
say that Gregory's parents were now obliged to address their son with
the formal pronoun "they," by which strangers and great personages are
spoken to, instead of the simple "thee and thou," by which German
villagers converse with each other.
"Is that so, mother?" he asked.
"Of course," was the answer: "he's more than other folks now."
With all their enthusiasm, the good people did not forget the pecuniary
advantage gained by Christian the tailor. It was said that he need take
no further trouble all his life. Cordele, Gregory's sister, was to be
her brother's housekeeper; and her brother was a fortune to his family
and an honor to all the village.
Ivo went home, each of his parents holding one of his hands.
"Father," said he, "I wish Gregory was pastor here."
"That won't do: nobody ever becomes pastor where he was born."
"Why not?"
"Confound your why and why not: because it is so," said his father. But
his mother said, "He'd have too much bias in the village, and wouldn't
be impartial." She either did not know or could not explain to the
child that in the case of a native of the village the sanctity of the
office and the reverence of the minister's person would suffer, his
human origin and growth being so familiarly known.
After some time Valentine said again, "A minister's life is the best,
after all. His hands are never sore with ploughing, nor his back with
reaping, and yet the grain comes into his barn: he lies on a sofa and
studies out his sermon, and makes his whole family happy. Ivo, if you
are good you can be a gentleman. Would you like to?"
"Yes!" cried Ivo, looking up at his father with his eyes opened to
their full width. "But you mustn't say 'they' to me," he added.
"Plenty of time to see about that," replied Valentine, smiling.
After dinner Ivo stood on the bench behind the table, in the corner by
the crucifix, where his father had been sitting. At first he only moved
his lips; but gradually he spoke aloud, and made a long, long sermon.
With the most solemn mien in the world, he talked the most rambling
nonsense, and never stopped until his father laid his hand kindly on
his head, and said, "There! that's enough, now."
His mother took Ivo upon her lap, hugged and kissed him, and said,
almost with tears, "Mother of God! I would be content to die if our
Lord God would let me see the day on which you held your first mass."
Then, shaking her head, she added, in a low voice, "God forgive me my
sins! I am thinking too much of myself again." She set down the boy,
and placed her other hand on his head.
"And Mag shall be my housekeeper, sha'n't she?" said Ivo; "and I'll
have city dresses made for her, just as the parson's cook wears."
Madge, Ivo's cousin from Rexingen, rewarded him for his sermon with a
creutzer. Then he ran out to Nat the ploughman, who was sitting under
the walnut-tree at the door, and told him that he was going to be a
gentleman. Nat only shook his head and pushed the glowing tobacco down
into his pipe.
The afternoon service was not so well attended as usual: the morning
had absorbed all the devotion of the worshippers. Toward sundown the
young minister, with the chaplain of Horb and some other clergymen,
took a walk through the village. All the people who sat before their
houses arose and greeted them: the older women smiled on the pastor, as
if to say, "We know you and like you. Do you remember the pear I gave
you? and I always said Gregory would be a great man some day." The
young men took their pipes out of their lips and their caps from their
heads, and the girls retreated into a house and nudged each other and
looked out stealthily. The children came up and kissed Gregory's hand.
Ivo came also. Perhaps the young clergyman perceived the boy's tremor
and the pious warmth of his kiss; for he held his hand a while, stroked
his cheek, and asked, "What's your name, my dear?"
"Ivo."
"And your father's?"
"Valentine the carpenter."
"Give my love to your parents, and be good and pious."
[Illustration: Ivo hastened home and told the whole adventure.]
Ivo remained spell-bound long after the men had passed on: it seemed as
if a saint had appeared and conversed with him. He looked upon the
ground in wonder; then, hastening home in long leaps, he told the whole
adventure.
The family were seated on the timbers under the walnut-tree, Nat not
far from them, upon a stone by the door. Ivo went to him and told him
what had happened; but the ploughman was out of humor that day, and Ivo
sat down at his father's feet.
It had grown dark, and little was spoken. Once only Koch the
cabinet-maker said, "I'd like to see you get money under five per
cent."
Nobody answered. Ivo looked up at his father with a silent light
beaming out of his eyes: no one could guess what was stirring in that
infant soul.
"Father," said Ivo, "does Christian the tailor's gentleman sleep just
like other folks?"
"Yes; but not as long as you do: if you want to be a gentleman you must
get up early and mind your prayers and your books. Off with you now to
bed."
Ivo's mother went with him; and in his evening prayer he included the
name of the minister as well as those of his parents and his sister.
The ceremony was not without immediate results. The next day, our old
friend Hansgeorge, of the pipe of war, called, with his son Peter, on
the chaplain at Horb; and rich Johnny of the Bridge, sometimes called
Mean Johnny, brought his son Constantine, a bright, quick-witted lad.
Both of them were admitted to the grammar-school at once: Ivo was yet
too young.
We shall probably meet with both of these boys again. For the present
we must remain with Ivo and watch the progress of his boyhood as
closely as we can.
2.
THE TEACHER.
The schoolmaster of the village was a clear-headed man, but of a
violent temper. His fancy and his strong point was music. He had but
little influence on Ivo,--which is not surprising, as he had a hundred
and twenty boys to attend to. The boy's best teacher--though you would
not have thought it--was Nat, who could not write, and hardly read.
Even in towns the servants of a household may be called the "lesser
Fates" of the family. In a village this is doubly the case, for the
whole house is there a community of labor and repose. When in such
close contact with their employers, bad servants become insupportable
and are not long retained: one, therefore, who is good enough to be a
servant of the family is generally good enough to be intrusted with the
company and unconscious education of the children. Nat, at all events,
was safe enough. In the crib and on the hay-loft he would erect his
professional chair, answer the eager questions of his pupil or tell him
wonderful stories.
Nat liked to be with the animals on which he waited; yet, though he
could speak to them, and though the dun horse at least was as sensible
as a man, they could not give a satisfactory answer to what was told
them. Ivo, on the contrary, was always able and willing to clap his
hands and say, "Oh, my!" So Nat was never tired of Ivo's company. As a
colt runs by the side of the horse, bounding and frisking, so did Ivo
skip around Nat wherever he went.
Sometimes they would sit quietly together on the straw, Nat telling the
story of Firnut Pete, of the juniper-king, or of the charmed lady of
Isenberg; while the muffled noise of the feeding horses and cows
accompanied the story with a mysterious undertone. Firnut Pete--who
wantonly pulled the crests from the young firs while they were still
bleeding--is doomed, as a restless ghost, to haunt the heath of
Eglesthal; and the juniper-king has one gray and one black eye, which
exchange their colors every year. These stories Nat had to tell again
and again; for children are not so spoiled as to be always craving for
something new.
But these repetitions gave Nat some trouble; for as often as he had
forgotten a little of the story, or wished to tell it in a different
way, Ivo would say, "Why, that isn't the way it was." Nat would take
him on his lap, saying, "You're right: I didn't exactly remember.
There's a good many other things in my head, you see." Then Ivo would
tell the rest of the story with great interest, so that Nat was
delighted at the aptness of his pupil.
Often, also, they would speak of the fortunes of life, and things of
which children brought up in towns have little idea or knowledge until
they grow older,--of poverty and wealth, honesty and knavery, trade and
barter, and so on; for the life of a village is a life in public: the
inmost recesses of every house are known to all the inmates of every
other.
One day, as Ivo was going home with his father from the place where the
latter had been at work, "Father," he asked, "why didn't our Savior
make the trees grow square and save all the trouble of chopping?"
"Why? You stupid boy, there wouldn't be any work for carpenters then,
and no chips."
Ivo said nothing; and his father reflected that, after all, the boy had
a good head, and that it was not right to speak so harshly to him. So
he said, after some time, "Ivo, you must ask your teacher in school, or
his reverence the parson, about such things: remember that."
This was well done in Valentine. Few parents are sufficiently shrewd
and conscienscious to hit upon this only means of escape from their own
ignorance.
But Ivo, instead of going to the schoolmaster or the parson, asked Nat,
and received for answer, "Because trees are wanted for a great many
things besides building."
Ivo was astonished: that, he thought, was an answer worth giving.
A consequence of his intimacy with Nat was that Ivo had no companion of
his own age. But then Nat regarded him as his confidant, and would call
him, caressingly, a "good old soul." In particularly-favored moments he
would tell him of his dog Singout, who had been with him when he had
watched the sheep, and who "had more wit than ten doctors." "I tell
you," Nat asseverated, "Singout used to understand my secret thoughts:
if he only looked at me he knew what I wanted immediately. Did you ever
look at a dog right sharp? They often have a face on which grief is
poured out, just as if they meant to say, 'I could cry because I can't
talk with you.' When I looked at Singout then, he would bark and howl
till my heart ached. If I said a single cross word to him, he wouldn't
eat a morsel for a whole day. The dumb beast was too good for this
world."
"Do dogs go to heaven?" asked Ivo.
"I don't know: there's nothing written about it."
What pleased Nat most of all was Ivo's love for animals; for both old
people and children, who do not know exactly what to love, make animals
the objects of their affections. These pets make no pretensions, exact
no duties; and never contradict us, which is particularly distasteful
to young and old children.
"What a poor beast piggy is!" said Ivo at one time: "she isn't in the
world for any thing but to be killed: other beasts are of some use
while they're alive." Nat nodded complacently. After a while he said,
"Perhaps that's the reason a pig squeals worse than any other beast
when they kill it."
His merry questions, remarks, and odd speeches gained for Ivo
throughout the village the reputation of a "smart, quick-witted boy."
Nobody surmised to whom this early activity of his mind was to be
ascribed. The schoolmaster was displeased with him because he never
went home from school quietly, as the rules prescribed, but always
screamed and whooped like an Indian. Poor children! For hours they are
compressed into themselves: when released at last, how can they be
blamed for shaking themselves and greeting the free air to which they
return? That is the reason that eleven o'clock in a village often seems
to be the hour for the Wild Huntsman to make his round.
No one doubted that Ivo would be a good parson in time, he was so
orderly and well-behaved. Valentine once boasted at the Eagle that his
Ivo would go far ahead of George's Peter and John's Constantine.
We shall see.
3.
CHILD'S LOVE.
Next door to Valentine lived Mike Shackerle, a poor man, whose sole
wealth was in his children, the youngest of whom was called Emmerence:
the carpenter's wife was her godmother, and Emmerence spent almost all
her time at. Valentine's house, ate and drank there, and only slept at
home. She was of Ivo's age exactly, and the two children were
inseparable. Although his ungallant schoolfellows called him
"girl-runner," he stuck to Emmerence. They had a partnership in a lot
of fruit they had buried in the hay-loft. Over this treasure they would
often sit with quiet joy. Ivo showed himself as a man in being able to
count up to a hundred. Emmerence listened devoutly and spoke the
numbers after him. The damaged and the odd pieces were consumed in
equal portions. Disputes were not wanting; when the partnership-goods
were divided at once. But the separation never lasted longer than a
day; for, if they did not "go joints," how could they talk to each
other of their fortune?
Great changes took place, however. Ivo received from Nat the present of
a whip, and Emmerence learned to knit. In towns children are presented
with drums or with toy-shops, to play soldier and trader until life
begins in earnest: in the village they begin to play farmer with a
whip. Ivo would stand before the empty wagon, smack his whip at the
bare pole, and cry, "Whoa! Gee! Get up!" The moment he came home from
school, his slate and ruler were laid upon the footstool behind the
stove, his whip cracked, and the geese and chickens routed up and down
the road. While thus roystering about one day, he saw Emmerence sitting
under the walnut-tree with her knitting. Her little kitten lay near
her, purring and puffing in the sun. The plump little yellow-haired
girl was taking up her stitches with a zeal which kept her eyes riveted
to her work; her lips were pressed together with an air of
determination, as if she was bound to make a woollen jacket for old
Winter himself.
Ivo stood quietly looking at her for a while, and then asked, "Are you
knitting stockings for your puss?"
Emmerence took no time to answer, but went on knitting. The spirit of
mischief tickled Ivo, and he pulled the needle out of her fingers.
Emmerence got up to throw a stone after him as he ran away; but,
girl-like, she never lifted it over her shoulder, but let it fall
immediately at her own feet. Having gathered up her needles, she went
home crying.
In the afternoon Ivo soon obtained forgiveness for his cruelty by
presenting Emmerence with a piece of a broken blue-glass bottle. They
looked at the sun through it by turns, exclaiming, "Oh, my! how
pretty!" Ivo wrapped the gem in a piece of paper and left it with
Emmerence.
[Illustration: The "saint-man."]
From time to time the village was visited by a man who, like the bold
Ratcatcher sung by Goethe, always had the children at his heels. It was
the "saint-man," who would sell pictures of the saints to the children
for broken glass. Ivo always ransacked the house until the glittering
coin was found, and then brought Emmerence the prize.
Not in the sunshine alone, but also in the storm, we find the children
together.
Old Valentine looked out of the window with a pleased expression in his
face,--for it is easy to look pleased during a fine summer shower, even
when there is not much to think about: body and soul are played upon as
with a gentle dew, and the drops fall from the eaves of the opposite
houses like the ripples of a stream: all around us--even the flood of
the silent air itself--has acquired a voice and a meaning.
Ivo and Emmerence had taken refuge in the open barn: little Jake, the
squire's son, who was but three years old, was there also. The chickens
had betaken themselves to the same asylum: they stood beside the
children, with drooping tails, often shaking themselves. The black
kitten also crept along under the eaves of the house so softly that its
coming into the barn was not perceived until the chickens cackled: it
dived down into the stable immediately.
At first it dripped so slightly that you could only see the rain by
looking at the dark windows opposite; but soon the drops swelled and
pattered, and Ivo said, "Ah, this is first-rate for my pinks in the
garden." "Pinks in t' garden," repeated little Jake. Again Ivo said,
"Ah, that'll be a big puddle." "Big puddle," re-echoed little Jake. Ivo
looked at him grimly.
Farmers drove by with empty sacks on their heads, crying out and trying
to escape the storm: the children laughed at them and cried out,
"Whew!" Emmerence stood with her head a little on one side, and her
hands under her apron: just when it rained hardest, Ivo pushed her out
under the eaves. Little Jake sprang out of his own accord, as if to
challenge the rain, but still he shut his eyes and held down his head,
so as not to get the very worst of it. With her apron over her head,
Emmerence now did her best to get under cover again; but Ivo was on the
look-out, and never let her in till she began to cry.
The rain at last stopped: the sun came forth brightly, and the children
rushed out with unspeakable joy. The human plants seemed to derive as
much benefit from the freshened air as any others. Yellow torrents
poured down along the road: the children launched chips upon them, and
waded about in the water, looking for bits of iron. Ivo, who always had
extended projects, wished to build a mill; but long before the mill was
ready the water had run off. How often do we build up machines to be
moved by the stream of our lives, and ere the machinery is half
constructed the water-course is empty and dry!
[Illustration: Ivo rushed upon the geese.]
Much as Ivo loved to tease Emmerence, he never permitted anybody else
to harm her. Once he was returning home from school, armed, as usual,
with his buckler the slate, and his sword the ruler, when he saw
Emmerence pursued by two evil spirits in the shape of old gray geese.
Crying and screaming, the poor girl fled, with her eyes turned upon her
foes. Already had one of them seized her gown and was tugging at it,
when Ivo rushed upon them, and a hard-fought battle ensued, out of
which Ivo at last came forth victorious. With the consciousness of
heroism, he helped Emmerence up from where she had fallen, and walked
triumphantly by her side, armed as he was. Nat had told him stories of
knights rescuing poor, helpless damsels from giants and dragons: he now
felt as if he was something like one of these knights himself.
4.
BRINDLE AND THE GOSLINGS.
The purchase of a horse or a cow is an event of absorbing interest in
the family of every farmer; but, when it is remembered that in the
Black Forest the dwelling-house, the stable, and the barn, are all
parts of one and the same building, it is clear that the importance of
such an occurrence is doubly great, for it makes a change, if not in
the family itself, at least in the household.
An event of this kind took place one day when Valentine came home from
the fair in the upper village with a fine heifer. Before it was taken
into the house it was examined and praised by all the neighbors and
passers-by. Ivo and his mother, and Nat, received the stranger at the
door. A wooden horse fell to Ivo's share as his "fairing," and
Valentine placed the end of the tether into Nat's hands, looked round
with an air of triumph, and then dismissed the "cattle" into the stable
with a good-humored stroke on the hocks. It was indeed a fine beast,
just what farmers like to call a smart, strutty sort of cow.
Ivo, with his wooden horse on his bosom, hastened to help Nat prepare
the stranger's supper. "Short feed" was heaped in the trough; but she
would not open her mouth except to growl gloomily. Ivo passed his hand
gently over her sleek hide: she turned her head and looked fixedly at
the boy for a long time.
Ivo then played with his wooden horse, which showed no reluctance to
make his acquaintance, but seemed at home everywhere and always carried
its head high.
At night Ivo was waked out of his sleep by a wailing note which shook
his soul. The poor heifer seemed to pour out her very bowels with
lamentation.
Ivo lay awake a long time listening to the sounds which went forth so
mournfully into the stillness. Whenever they ceased he held his breath,
hoping that they would come no more; but the poor cow always began
again.
At last Ivo waked his father.
"What's the matter?"
"The new heifer's crying."
"Let her cry, and go to sleep, you foolish boy: the heifer's homesick,
and it can't be helped."
Ivo shut his ears with the pillows and fell asleep again.
For nearly three days the heifer refused to eat a morsel; but at last
she grew accustomed to the other cattle in the stable, and ate quietly
like the rest. But a new trouble arose when the claws of her fore-feet
came off. She was only used to walk on soft pasture, but not to travel
so much on hard roads as was necessary in passing between the stable
and the fields.
Ivo often helped Nat to bind up the heifer's hoofs, and gave the
greatest proofs of sympathy and tenderness; nor did she fail to return
his kindness as far as she could, and Nat, who knew all about cows and
their ways, used to say, "The herdsboy that minded her before must have
looked like you, Ivo; be sure of that."
While the cow gave him so much pleasure, the wooden horse became a
source of grief. It had become quite soiled. So, one morning, without
saying a word about it to anybody, he ran down to the pond and gave it
a good scouring, but returned home with loud wailing, for he found that
all the color came out of it. Thus early did he discover how little
artificial favorites are to be trusted.
But fate soon gave him ample compensation for his loss. Once more, late
in the night, the whole house was astir on account of the heifer: she
was calving. Ivo was not allowed to go into the stable: he only heard a
low, distant wail,--for the curse is on animals also, and they must
"bring forth with pain."
At dawn of day Ivo hurried into the stable. A fine brindled calf was
lying at the dam's feet, and she kissed and licked it with her tongue.
No one could go near it without setting the cow into a storm of rage;
only when Ivo stepped up and timidly touched the calf she was quiet.
Her first-born was a son, and Ivo never ceased to beseech his father to
raise the calf until he consented.
From this time on Ivo was always in the kitchen when warm food or drink
was being prepared for the mother, and no one but he had leave to hold
the pail for her to drink.
But Ivo was destined to find that no pleasure is to be enjoyed without
interruption. One day, coming home from school, he saw a large dog on
the threshold. Passing him carefully, he went on to the stable. There
he found a man in a blue smock and red and yellow checked neckcloth,
which hung in a loose knot to his neck. In his hand he held a hawthorn
stick with a handle of brass thread.
Ivo saw at once that he was a butcher. His father, who stood by him,
was just saying, "For eight florins you may have it; but it's a pity to
kill it with such fine hoofs."
"I'll give seven."
His father shook his head.
"Well, split the difference and say done."
Ivo saw what it all meant in an instant. Leaving his slate and books
against the wall, he rushed into the stable, fell upon the calf's neck
and cried, embracing it tenderly, "No, no, Brindle! they sha'n't stab
your poor neck." He cried aloud, and could hardly pronounce the words,
"Why, father, father, you promised me!"
The calf bleated with all its might, as if it knew what was about to
happen, and the cow turned her head and growled without opening her
mouth.
Valentine was puzzled. He took off his cap, looked into it, and put it
on again. Smiling on Ivo, he said at last, "Well, let it be so; I don't
want to fret the child. Ivo, you may raise it, but you must find the
food for it."
The butcher walked away, his dog barking as he ran before him, as if to
give vent to his master's vexation. He made a rush at Valentine's geese
and chickens, and scattered them in all directions: it is the way with
underlings to expend their ill will on the dependants of their master's
foes.
The thought that he had saved the calf's life made Ivo very happy; yet
he could not but feel sore at the idea that, but for an accident, his
father would have broken the promise he had made him. He forgot all
this, however, when the time came for him to lead his pet out into the
grass and watch it while grazing.
One afternoon Ivo stood holding Brindle by the tether while it browsed.
With a clear voice he sang a song which Nat had taught him. The tones
seemed to tremble with half-suppressed yearnings. It was as follows:--
"Up yonder, up yonder,
At the heavenly gate,
A poor soul is standing
In sorrowful strait.
"Poor soul of mine, poor soul of mine,
Come hither to me,
And thy garments shall be white
As wool to-see.
"As white and as pure
As the new-driven snow,
And, hand in hand, together
Into heaven we'll go.
"Into heaven, into heaven,
Upon the heavenly hill,
Where God Father, and God Son,
And God the Spirit dwell."
[Illustration: Emmerence was driving some young ducklings before her.]
Hardly was the song ended when he saw Emmerence coming toward him from
the brick-yard. With a dry fir-twig she was driving some young
ducklings before her. On coming up to Ivo she stopped and began to
talk.
"Oh, you can't think," said she, "what trouble I had getting my four
ducklings out of the puddle in the brickyard. Four gray ones and two
white, you see. They're just a week old now. Only think, my mother made
a hen sit on the eggs, and now the hen won't take care of 'em: they run
about, and nobody looks after 'em at all."
"They're orphans," said Ivo, "and you must be their mother."
"Yes, and you don't know how pitifully they can look at you
one-sided,'--this way." She laid her head on one side, and looked up at
Ivo prettily enough.
"Look at them," said he: "they can't be quiet a minute, they keep
splashing and floundering about all the time. It 'ould make me giddy to
go on that way."
"I can't see," said Emmerence, looking very thoughtful, "how these
ducklings found out that they can swim. If a duck had hatched 'em out,
she might show 'em; but the hen never looked at 'em; and, for all that,
as fast as they could waddle they toddled on till they got into the
water."
Here the thoughts of two infant souls stood at the mysterious portal of
nature. There was silence a little while, and then Ivo said,--
"The ducklings all keep together and never part. My mother said we must
do so too; and brothers and sisters belong together; and, when the
cluck culls, all the chickens run up."
"Oh, the nasty chickens! The great big things eat up all I bring my
poor ducklings. If it would only rain right hard once more and make my
ducklings grow! At night I always put 'em in a basket,--they're too
soft to take in your hand,--and then they crowd up to each other, just
as I crowd up to my grandmother; and my grandmother says when they grow
up she'll pull out the feathers and make me a pillow."