It was a fresh, cool summer morning; the birds appeared to have
exhausted themselves with singing; but the breeze was not exhausted,
for, if it seemed lulled for a moment under the clustering leaves of
the trees, it was but suddenly to shake them about, and mingle its
sighs with their rustling sound; there waved to and fro the heavy heads
of the ears of corn in the fields, and the more lowly clover scattered
its fragrance around. On the summit of yon green eminence, under the
swaying branches of those oak-trees, stands a young peasant, a robust,
vigorous youth. Shading his eyes with his hand, he is gazing across the
fields, where the public road winds along, separated from the luxuriant
corn by rows of young trees, and deep narrow ditches, whose edges are
bordered by wild flowers.
Yet it was but a short time before, that war--savage and bloody
war--had raged there; that the heavy trampling of the cavalry had
torn up that ground, now covered with the plentiful grain; that the
thunder of cannon had hushed every wild bird's song, and that those
flower-bordered ditches had been the death-beds of many a sinking
warrior. The traces of such scenes are soon effaced in nature; it is
only in the minds of mankind that they remain, and cannot be blotted
out.
Is it this remembrance which calls an expression of gloom to Johan's
eyes, as he surveys the meadows, and casts a shade over his brow, as he
turns his head and looks into the quiet valley beneath? In it stands a
pretty cottage, newly whitewashed and repaired, with white curtains
adorning its low windows, and surrounded by a neat little garden, gay
with flowers of every hue. There dwell his mother and his betrothed;
she who is soon to become his wife--for the wedding-day is fixed. But
it is not the preparations for that event which have set the whole
house astir; it is a festival of the village, a general holiday; for
this day they are preparing to receive the men who had left their homes
in order to defend their native land. These had been long absent, had
encountered many hardships and perils, and many of them had been
prisoners in the enemy's country. Most among them had one true loving
heart at least awaiting his return with anxiety--therefore the whole of
the little village was preparing a festal welcome for them. But why
does Johan look as if he did not observe the promise of abundance
around him--as if he were not himself the most fortunate among the
villagers--he, who is about to celebrate a double festival? Why does he
throw himself down beneath yon tree, and hide his face with his arm?
Ah! memory has recalled to him _that_ day when he and his brother--two
strong, active boys--had stopped at this very place to look at a little
girl who was crying bitterly. She was very poorly clad, and the
curiosity of the boys passing into sympathy, they inquired why she was
in tears? It was a long time before she would impart the cause of her
grief to them; but when they placed themselves by her on the grass,
patted her little cheek, and spoke words of kindness to her, she
confided to them that she had recently come to their village. On the
other side of the hill stood the small house in which her mother had
lived: but she was now dead, and strangers had brought her over to the
village. The overseer of the poor had placed her in service with a
peasant woman; but she felt so lonely--so forsaken! She would fain
return to her cottage, which stood by itself on the heath; but she
dared not leave her mistress. Johan took her hand, looked earnestly
upon her, and asked what there was so uncommon about her mother's
cottage?
'Ah! there is no house like it here in your village,' replied the
little girl, with animation. 'You see, it stood so entirely alone,
nobody ever came near it, and out before the door the purple heather
grew so thickly! When I lay there in the morning, it was so warm and
still, and one never heard a sound but the humming of the wild bees and
the whirring of the great flies' wings. In the autumn, my mother and I
used to cut off the long heather, bind it into bundles, and sell them
yonder in the village. There was a well near our door, and when one
looked down into it, oh! it was so dark, and deep, and cold! And when
one was drawing up the bucket, it creaked and creaked, as if it were a
labour to come up; and if it were let go again, one might wait and
watch a long time before it got down to where the water was. In winter,
my mother sat in the house spinning; then the snow almost blocked up
our little windows; we dared not peep out of the door, for fear of the
cold north wind getting in; and if one ventured into the outhouse to
get peats for the little stove, one's teeth chattered with the cold. On
the long, pitch-dark nights, when we went to bed early, to save
candles, we used to lie awake, and creep close to each other, listening
to every sound. Oh! how glad we were that we were too poor to fear
robbers or bad men. Do you think it possible that there can be such a
dear cottage as ours anywhere?'