There was yet another time when I just escaped the birch.
My father had a snow-white kid, my Cousin Jok had a snow-white head.
The kid loved chewing stalks and twigs; my cousin loved chewing a short
pipe. We--I and my younger brother and sisters--were ever so fond of
the kid and of Cousin Jok too. And so we lighted upon the idea of
bringing the kid and our cousin together.
One bright, sunny day in July, I took my brother and my two sisters out
into the cabbage-patch and there put this question to them:
"Which of you has a hat without a hole in it?"
They examined their hats and caps, but the sun shone through all of
them, making little flecks of light in the shadow on the ground. Only
Jakoberle's hat was without a flaw; so I took it in my hand and said:
"Cousin's called Jok and to-morrow is St. Jokopi's[7] Day. Now what
shall we give him for a present on his name-day? Why not the white
kid?"
"The white kid belongs to father!" cried little sister Plonele, shocked
at this arbitrary suggestion.
"That's just why I am sending the hat round," said I. "You, Jakoberle,
sold your rabbit to Sepp, the Knierutscher, yesterday; you, Plonele,
have had three groschen as a tip from your god-father; you, Mirzerle,
got a present from father two days ago. Look, I'll put in the five
kreuzer which I've saved up; and we must manage to buy the kid from
father between us. And then we'll give it to cousin to-morrow. Now here
goes for the collection!"
They looked into the hat for a moment and then began to feel in their
pockets. Then Plonele said, "Mother's got my money!" And Mirzerle
cried, in alarm, "I don't know wherever mine's got to!" And Jakoberle
stared at the ground and muttered, "There must be a hole in my pocket!"
And so my plan fell to pieces.
None the less, we petted and fondled the snow-white kid. It stood up
and put its fore-feet on our knees and looked at us roguishly with its
squinny eyes, as though it were mocking us for not being rich enough to
buy it between the lot of us. It tittered and bleated at us like
anything and showed us its snow-white teeth. It was hardly three months
old and already had a beard; while I and Jakoberle were seven years old
and more and had to make ourselves a beard of grey tree-moss when we
wanted one. And the kid ate even that off our faces!
In spite of that, each one of us was much fonder of the little
four-footed creature than of all the others put together! And so I cast
about for some other means of rejoicing my cousin with the gift of the
animal.
When father came home from the fields that afternoon, we all swarmed
about him and tugged at his clothes.
"Father," I asked, "is it true that 'The early morn has gold in its
mouth'?"
This being one of his own proverbs, he answered promptly:
"Indeed it _is_ true."
"Father!" the four of us immediately cried together. "How early must we
get up every day for you to give us the white kid?"
Father did not seem to jump at this business view of the matter. But,
when he heard of our proposal to give the kid to Cousin Jok, he
bargained that we should get up half an hour earlier every morning and
thereupon made the dear little beast over to us.
The kid was ours. We resolved with one accord to creep out of bed next
morning before cousin's time for getting up--and that was saying a
great deal--to tie a red ribbon round the kid's neck and to take it to
old Jok's bedside before he thrust his body into his long grey fur,
which he wore winter and summer alike.
This was our sacred intention.
But, next day, when mother called us and we opened our eyelids, the sun
shone so fiercely into our eyes that we had to shut them again until
she covered the window with her kerchief.
Now there was no excuse left. But cousin had gone out long before,
taking his fur with him. He had driven the sheep and goats to the
meadow in the valley where he always tended them and where he sat all
day smiling and chewing his pipe. And the little animals nibbled busily
at the dewy grasses and shrubs and skipped and gambolled merrily on the
sunny meadow.
The little kid was among them. And had nobody reminded Jok that this
was his name-day?
* * * * *
At the time of which I speak, lucifer-matches had not yet been invented
and so the beloved fire was a precious thing. You could not carry it in
your pocket as easily as to-day, without burning your trousers. It had
to be knocked out of stones with hard blows; no sooner hatched, it must
be fed with tinder, and it was long ere it derived strength enough from
this to peck at coarser food and then become fledged. On every separate
occasion, fire had to be formally brought into the service of man.
It was a toilsome and ticklish piece of work; my own mother, who was
usually so gentle, could get quite cross over it.
The glowing embers, however carefully preserved overnight in the
hearth, were generally dead by morning. Whatever pains mother might
take to blow up the sparks in the ashes, it was all in vain: the fire
had died during the night. And then the striking with flint and steel
began, and we children were often quite hungry before mother produced
the fire that was to cook the morning-porridge.
So it was on the morning of cousin's name-day. We had heard the
bellows-blowing and fire-striking for some time out in the kitchen.
Then our mother suddenly exclaimed:
"It's no good at all! One would think the devil had spat on the hearth!
And the flint hasn't a spark of fire left in it, and the tinder's damp,
and here's everybody waiting for their porridge!"
Then she came into the room and said:
"Come, Peterle, quick, and run across as fast as you can to the
Knierutscher woman. Tell her that I beg her to send me a handful of
embers from her hearth. And take her that loaf of bread over there for
her kindness. Hurry up, Peterle, so that we can get our porridge
quickly."
I had my little white linen breeches on in no time and, as I was,
barefoot and bareheaded, I took the heavy round loaf under my arm and
ran off to the Knierutschers' house.
"You old sunshine!" I said, as I went. "You ought to be ashamed of
yourself, that you can't even warm a mouthful of porridge, and here
I've got to go running to the Knierutscher woman for fire--But just you
wait: things will soon be bright and jolly on our hearth--the flames
will leap over the sticks, the walls will light up red, the pots will
bubble, the smoke will rush out of the hearth and the chimney and hide
you from sight! And quite right too, for then we shall eat our
porridge and our stew in the shadow, and the pancake, too, that's to be
fried to-day for Cousin Jok, and you shall see nothing of all these
nice things!"
As I went down the hill after my lecture to the sun, I had a happy
thought. My loaf was as round as a ball and as hard as if it had been
turned out of larch-wood. In my part of the country, they let bread
grow stale, because it makes it last twice as long; even though it has
occasionally to be smashed up, at mealtimes, with a sledge-hammer.
Well, seeing that my loaf was so round that there was nothing rounder
on the face of the earth, I let it run loose down the slope, raced
nimbly after it and caught it up again.
That was a thoroughly jolly game; and I should have liked to call all
my brothers and sisters to see it and share in it. But, as I was
jumping up and down the slope in my delight, my loaf suddenly played me
a trick and darted like the wind between my legs. Hurrying and hopping
away it went, fleeter than a roe before the hounds--it bounded down the
hill, leapt far over the edge into the valley below and vanished from
my sight.
I stood there like a block, feeling as if I should drop with fright and
go rolling into the valley in my turn. I went to and fro and up and
down for a while; and, then as I could nowhere see the loaf, I slunk
with hanging head into the Knierutschers' house.
There was a fine big fire burning on the hearth.
"What have you come for, Peterle?" asked Frau Knierutscher, kindly.
"Our fire's gone out," I stammered, "we can't cook a thing and so my
mother sent me to ask for a handful of embers and she will return them
very soon."
"You little silly, you! Who ever heard of returning a few embers?"
cried she, as she took the tongs and raked some into an old pot. "Here,
tell your mother to make up a good fire and cook you a nice stew. But
take care, Peterle, don't you let the wind get at them, or it will blow
the sparks up to the roof. There, go now, in God's name!"
So gentle was she with me, who had so lightly played away her loaf! It
weighs upon my conscience to this day.
When, at last, I got back to the house with my pot of fire, I was
greatly surprised to see blue smoke rising out of the chimney.
"You're one to send to fetch death and not fire!" cried mother, as I
entered.
And she busied herself about the fire crackling in the hearth and did
not so much as look at me.
My coals were now hardly flickering and looked wretched beside that
fire. I put the pot down sadly in a corner of the hearth and slunk
away. I had been gone much too long; then, by good fortune, Cousin Jok
had come home from the meadow, and he had a burning-glass, which he
held over a piece of tinder in the sun until it caught. And so the sun
which I had slandered had stolen a march upon me and provided fire for
the porridge before I did. I was heartily ashamed of myself and, to
this day, am unable to look the benefactor straight in the face.
* * * * *
I slunk into the paddock. There I saw Cousin Jok squatting in his long
grey, red-embroidered fur, with his white head. And, when I drew nigh,
I saw why he was squatting here like that. The snow-white kid lay in
front of him, with its head and its feet outstretched and Cousin Jok
was stripping off its hide.
At that I burst into loud weeping. Cousin Jok stood up, took me by the
hand, and said:
"There it lies and looks at you!"
And the kid really was staring into my face with its glassy eyes. And
yet it was dead.
"Peterle!" whispered my cousin, gravely. "Mother sent the Knierutscher
woman a loaf of bread."
"Yes," I sobbed, "and it ran away from me, right down over the edge."
"Since you own up, laddie," said Cousin Jok, "I will arrange things so
that nothing happens to you. I have told mother that a stone or
something came rolling down and killed the kid. (Somehow, I thought in
my own mind that Peterle was at the back of it!) That loaf of bread
came straight out of the air, down over the high edge, passed me and
hit the kid right on the head. The poor little thing staggered and fell
and was dead as a mouse at once. However, don't be afraid, we'll keep
to the stone idea. I'll make things all right with the Knierutscher
woman too; and now be quiet, laddie, and don't pull such dismal faces.
To-night we'll eat the poor beastie, and mother will cook us a
horseradish-soup to go with it."
In such wise died the little white kid. My brother and sisters told me
it had been killed by a naughty, cruel stone.
To please me, mother added my coals to the fire on the hearth, and
before this fire the kid was roasted. It was to have been a gift for
Cousin Jok; and now he was to have roast kid instead. But he invited
all of us to join him and gave us the best bits. I did not relish mine
at all.
The next morning, Jakoberle armed himself with a cudgel, followed
Cousin Jok with it into the lower meadow and wanted to see the stone
that killed the little kid.
"Child," said Cousin Jok, chewing hard at his pipe, "it rolled further
on and the water's running over it now: it's down in the glen."
The dear, good old man! The stone that killed the little kid was lying
on my heart.