SONNLEIN
And when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
To archèd walks of twilight groves.
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude axe with heavèd stroke
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt
There, in close covert, by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye.
--_Il Penseroso._
The dawn was still blushing at the greeting of the sun when, as usual, I
took my way with bowed head to an old monarch pine, my altar, to greet
the day with prayer. Absorbed in pious meditations I knelt down; but
just as I was closing my eyes, I felt something lightly strike, or push,
my knee. Still unheeding I knelt, when a more vigorous push made me
turn to see what venturesome creature had the temerity to disturb my
adorations. I shall never forget the bewilderment that encompassed me
when I beheld beside me, lying at the foot of the old pine, the form of
a child, almost covered with leaves and cones. But this little visitant,
of earth or heaven, child or cherub--I scarce could believe mine own
senses! In truth, I know not how long I knelt there, mouth agape, eyes
wide open and hands outstretched. But finally I recovered myself
sufficiently to see that miracle or no miracle, the being was a reality.
And then brushing aside the leaves I scrutinized the little foundling
more closely; for sleeping it was, as sweetly and trustfully as if in
the _Mutterchen's_ arms, instead of on the hard bosom of mother earth
with a wilderness about it. The little head with its tangled mass of
dark, silky hair was resting against a large, sheltering root that
reached out from the base of the pine, in a broad, tender arm-like curve
about the babe. Recently dried tears had furrowed the not over-clean
face, flushed with sleep, with grimy little water courses. A stained and
tattered white baby cloak afforded scanty covering for the child; for
beneath the frayed edges extended the poor, tiny, wayworn feet, which,
like the chubby hands, were torn and scratched with thorns, filling my
soul with pity, and with indignation at the wretch who could thus
desert an innocent child; and my wrath was not diminished when I felt
that hair and face and hands and feet were damp with dew.
[Illustration: "In truth I know not how long I knelt there." Page 22.]
And yet the dear stranger slept on so unconscious of such trifling
things as dew and hard, earthen cradle, I could not find the will to
awaken the little one. Instead, I turned again toward the east and
raising mine eyes to Him I implored and beseeched him, with all the
power I could put into my petition, to guide and direct me in the care
and conduct of this lost, orphaned one; for somehow--I never knew why--I
accepted the idea unhesitatingly that this child had come into my life
to be a part of it to the end of my days. My prayer ended, I saw that my
charge still slept. I quietly sat down on a rock near by and watched and
waited for the awakening.
How long I sat I know not, motionless as to body but of a verity sadly
puzzled in mind as to how the child came there and what I should do with
it in my hermit life amid such wild surroundings. From the leafy coverts
about me came the calls and the chattering of the birds greeting the
morn with such lusty will I was almost minded to join in, but wisely
refrained lest my heavy voice arouse the sleeper and mayhap drive far
from me the cheerful songsters. A saucy red squirrel with waving,
rearward plume came down the old pine, stopping now and then to bark
defiance at sleeper and watcher. Still nearer the red rover came, his
proud plume fairly quivering with excitement. Once he rushed down in a
burst of half-hearted confidence, coming almost to my feet, looking up
at me as though challenging to mortal combat--and then with might and
main he scampered back again, his long tail almost brushing the face of
the little slumberer, as the bold tree-dweller rushed far up into the
branches of the pine, as if he never again would be so rash and
heedless.
At last, however, the little form at the foot of the tree moved uneasily
and the yawnings and twistings showed that the awakening had come; and
so it had. The little one sat up rubbing its eyes and blinking and
winking, when suddenly it saw me and then such a full-lunged cry burst
forth as drove the red squirrel in precipitate flight far into the
depths of the forest and also drove me into a state verging upon
imbecility; for verily I knew not what to do. The more I tried to soothe
the child, the louder it yelled and truly my patience was tried most
sorely. But I have since learned that the cry of a healthy child,
however lusty, does not last long and so after many rubbings of the eyes
and gradually subsiding sobs, and sundry sniffs, the little wanderer
took out of my large, awkward hands the pretty wild flower I had
plucked, and actually laughed as the big, dark eyes looked trustfully
into mine.
I asked it in German to tell me its name--where was the _Mutterchen_?
but the big eyes grew bigger still and a quivering of the underlip
warned me I was only frightening the poor child. If not German, surely
English, and again I asked, and this time in English, "What is thy
name?" My little visitor looked at me gravely and then as if surprised
that I should not know, said--a trifle crossly, I thought--what sounded
to me like "Tass." "Tass what?" I insisted gently, but he only replied
more firmly as he rose to his feet holding on to my hand, "No Tass Wot,
Tass!" And then as if a great thought had come to him he said proudly,
"Me gone be man some day; me find faver." "Very well, 'Tass,' where's
_Mutterchen_--I mean mother, mamma?" But the mention of "mamma" was too
much for the over-burdened little heart and flinging himself into my
arms, his tiny hands clasping my neck, he cried as if he never would be
consoled again. But I did the only thing I could do, let him cry; and I
have since learned that it is an excellent thing not only for the tiny
folk, when troubles press heavily on their little souls, but even for us
larger children to cry it out and have done with it.
But when he was through crying for the time at least for his "mamma,"
another problem stared me in the face like some hungry beast; for the
poor child cried over and over with irritating persistence, "Me wants
sumfin to eat"; and "me hungry"; or "Me want watta," or "Me want mik."
The "watta" I readily interpreted was water, which was soon supplied to
him from the fresh, sweet product of the spring in the rear of my hut;
but what "mik" meant I could not for some time decide; for I did not
recollect that I had ever heard such a word in German, or English, or
Latin, or Greek, or Hebrew, or any other language. At last it struck me
it was an English baby word for milk. But I hardly knew how to get him
that, since I kept no cows or goats. In short, in my hermit's life I
never saw any milk and I could not run the risk of destroying the
child's stomach with my acorn coffee; yet I did not know how to get him
the milk, for which he cried incessantly. It was some distance to the
nearest clearing where I could procure milk and it was much too far for
him to walk, and indeed, rather far for me to carry him. Moreover, I did
not care as yet to introduce him to the simple-minded but suspicious
settlers, for I knew full well what a harvest of insults and taunts I
should reap from my enemies who had not gone out with me should I
suddenly appear with this little boy.
But if I could not take him along I did not see how I could leave him
behind. However, I took him into my hut, and for the first time it
seemed bare and cold and cheerless. I ventured a small piece of a loaf
of acorn bread on which my teeth had been paying penance for over a
week. He ate the hard dry crust as though it had been the choicest
morsel and then calmly announced that he wanted "moe."
"Merciful Father," thought I, "where am I to find food for this little
glutton?" as I respected his request by handing him such a generous
portion of the loaf as I thought would surely keep him quiet for the
rest of the day.
It was evident I must take account of his appetite, and leaving him in
the hut, closing the door behind me and fastening it so, as I thought,
that such a small child could not open it, I marched forth to the
nearest settler's, to one of the families that had followed me in my
baptism by Brother Beissel.
After loading me up with _Swartzbrod_, a rough sort of rye bread, but
exceedingly wholesome, and with a small crock of apple butter and some
smoked meat of the pig, besides giving me a jug of fresh milk, the good
sister remarked with that inquisitive hunger for news that is ever
present in the lonely dwellers of the wilderness, whether I had company,
because I took so much more than usual.
In my confusion, I hurriedly said "Nay," but recollecting I must not
lie, I shouted back as I started off rapidly, "Yea, a little, not much,"
leaving the good sister staring at my retreating form as though she
greatly feared much piety had made me mad.
As I approached the clearing, burdened with my rich cargo--even to this
day I smile when I think how eager and anxious I was to get back and
find that boy safe--I saw that the door of my hut was wide open. I
fairly gasped with apprehension. Had he been spirited away as
mysteriously as he had come? I rushed into the cabin letting my load
fairly fall from me as I looked about everywhere and into the most
foolish places for this strange child. Then out again and to the old
pine where I had first found him; but he was not there; back again
toward the hut, my heart in my throat, I went, but how joy possessed my
soul when hearing a gurgling and a bubbling and a laughing and crowing
behind me I turned about like a flash and there sat the blessed rogue,
his bare legs and feet swinging and splashing, kicking up and down, in
my spring.
When he saw me he looked up with such a glad knowledge of me that I
forgot to scold him for his vandalism and catching him in my arms I
carried him crowing and kicking to the hut, where he filled himself so
full with milk and ment and the fresh rye bread that I was greatly
alarmed immediately lest he might become ill from his gorging; but he
minded it not in the least and ere many hours had gone by was clamoring
for more, so that I doubted not the rest of my hermit life would be
spent in making trips to the settlements for something to eat for this
hungry mannikin.
Indeed, I should like to tell of all his bright ways and the wonderful
things he would say all during the remaining summer we lived here in
this lonely spot. At first he often cried for "mamma," but gradually he
seemed to forget her and greatly delighted me by calling me "faver,"
which in later years he changed to the more affectionate _Vaterchen_. I
tried almost every day for a long while to get him to tell me his name,
but beyond assuring me it was "Tass," I never could learn anything. At
first, I called him _Söhnlein_, but soon after, upon reflecting that he
was English and not German, it seemed but just that I should make his
name at least half in his mother tongue, and this I did by calling him
Sonnlein, for a precious little son he was to me.
The cloak I preserved most carefully hoping that some day it might help
me find my boy's parents; especially did I care to keep it because I had
noticed worked on it in pretty red letters the initials "C. S.," but
beyond this there was absolutely nothing about the cloak or any of the
child's clothing in which I found him, to tell who he was or whence he
came; nor did any reports come as to any lost child, so that I was
confirmed in my first belief that he was mine for the rest of my days.