At home we had a book called _The Lives of Jesus Christ, Our Lady, and
of many of God's Saints: a spiritual treasure by Peter Cochem_. It was
an old book, the leaves were grey, and each chapter began with
wonderful big letters in black and red. The wooden cover was worm-eaten
in many places, and a mouse had nibbled away one of the leathern flaps.
Since my grandfather's death there was nobody in our house who could
have read it; no wonder, then, that these creatures had taken
possession of it, and thus gained their bodily sustenance from the
spiritual treasure. Then came I, the little book-worm, chasing the
little beasts out of the book and devouring it myself instead. I read
out of it daily to the members of our household. The younger farm-lads
and girls did not care much for this new custom, for they dared not
joke and yodel during the reading; the older people, however, being
rather more God-fearing, listened devoutly and said, "It's just as if
the parson were preaching; so solemnly done and with such a loud
voice!"
I got quite a reputation as an able reader, and was much sought after.
Whenever anybody in the neighbourhood lay ill or dying, or was even
dead already, and there was watch being kept by the corpse during the
night, my father was asked to let me go and read. On such occasions I
took the weighty book under my arm and set off. It was hard work
carrying it, for at that time I was but a little shrimp of a fellow.
Once, late at night, when I was already asleep in the sweet-scented
hay-loft where I sometimes had my bed in summer-time, I was awakened by
one of our men tugging at my coverlet. "You must get up quickly, Peter,
get up! Meisensepp has sent his daughter, and begs that you'll come and
read to him--he's dying. Get up!"
Of course, I got up, dressed myself hastily, took the book, and went
with the girl from our house up across the heath and through the
forest. Meisensepp's hut stood quite alone in the midst of the forest.
Meisensepp had been gamekeeper and woodward in his younger years;
latterly he occupied himself mostly with sharpening saws for the
wood-cutters. Then suddenly this severe illness overtook him.
While the girl and I were going through the wilderness in the still,
starlit night neither of us spoke a word. Silently we went on together.
Only once she whispered, "Let me have the book, Peter; I'll carry it
for you."
"You couldn't do it," I answered; "you're even smaller than me."