BERTHA’S WISH.
It was one night after they had been to visit the kind old German
lady, their mother’s friend, that this wonderful wish came into
Berty’s heart.
Madame Hansmann, as this old lady was called by the people of Biddy’s
house, was not yet weaned from the dear _Vaterland_, as she called
her native country, and liked nothing so well as talking of its
kindly ways and pleasant customs to any one who would listen. She
knew no English; but the homely German, which, I dare say, sounds
harsh and unpleasant enough to you, was music in Bertha’s ears; for
it was the language in which she had always heard her mother speak.
Berty had, too, or fancied she had, a dim remembrance of some of the
scenes which the good old lady described, especially of the Christmas
trees, and birthday feasts, and the concerts in the _Volksgarten_,
or public park, of the city where her parents had lived.
It was, as I said, one night after a visit to old Madame Hansmann
that Berty’s wish came into her heart. She was sitting in her attic,
striving patiently, by the light of a candle-end which Biddy had
given her, to fashion a frock for little Fritz from an old one of
her own. She was not a very skilful seamstress, and her materials
were none of the best; so, as you may imagine, she was much too
busy at first to pay much attention to the children’s chatter, as
they frolicked and tumbled upon the old straw bed in the corner.
Presently, however, having planned out her work to her mind, her
attention was attracted by their talk.
“Wasn’t it nice,” said Lina, “what she told about the Christmas
trees? And Berty’s seen one; but we never did.”
“Poh!” cried Gottlieb, turning a very contemptuous somerset; “poh!
_I_ have: but I never told though before. It was last Christmas,—that
night, you know, I ran away from Bert. We went to the avenue, Martin
Fischer and me, and we saw one. It was in that big stone house where
the Dutchman lives—Herr Westermann. It was very cold, and we stood
upon the sidewalk, and the wind blew so hard; but the blinds were
open just a bit, and we saw it! O my!—but wasn’t it jolly! The great
green tree most up to the top of the wall; and the lights blazing
on every limb; and the gold and silver nuts shining; and the apples
and oranges and candy!—and O, flowers, too! and hobby-horses! and
dolls!—and all the children dancing round and laughing! I tell _you_,
you never saw anything so fine,—never! never!”
“Did you see the Christ-child, Lieb?” asked little Rosa, in a tone of
awe.
“I saw a little blue angel with gold wings, quite up in the top of
the tree,” answered Gottlieb; “only its face was turned the other
way.”
“_That_ was He!” cried Rosa, clapping her hands joyfully. “_That_ was
He! O how I wish I could see Him! Mina Schaeffer says it is He brings
all the things,—only she says He will never come to us, because we
are poor,—and it is only the rich ones He takes them to.”
“Fie, Rosa,” said Lina, reprovingly; “don’t you remember what _die
liebe Mutter_ said, how Jesus (He’s the Christ-child, you know) was
very poor, and how the Holy Virgin laid Him in a manger when He was
born. I don’t believe _He_ would forget us because we are poor.”
“Will He come, then, do you think?” asked Rosa, eagerly. “Will He
come this Christmas, if we are very good? Perhaps we were naughty
last year,—I don’t remember,—and _die Mutter_ said He don’t love us
but when we are good. Let’s be _very_ good now, and see if He will
come.”
“I don’t believe it is the Christ-child does it,” said Gottlieb, who
had been lying quite still, thinking, for some time. “I don’t believe
it is the Christ-child does it at all. Mina Schaeffer knows nothing,
and the little blue angel looked just like a doll. I’ll bet you it
was Herr Westermann bought all those things, and Frau Westermann put
them on the tree;—only she’s a little woman, I know, and the tree was
very high. But, any way, I don’t believe it’s the Christ-child does
it. Martin says it isn’t. They had a tree to Martin’s house once, and
he peeped, and he thought he saw his mother; but then their tree was
little, and Herr Westermann’s was ever so big.”
“Perhaps Frau Westermann had a ladder,” said Lina, coming to her
brother’s assistance in his puzzle.
“A ladder! to be sure, so she must!” cried Gottlieb, much relieved.
“Yes, you may be certain she had a ladder.”
“But the tree,” put in little city-bred Rosa; “where would he get the
tree?”
“Pshaw, stupid!” answered her brother, impatiently; “don’t the trees
grow, and couldn’t he cut one and bring it home on a dray?”
“But wouldn’t the policeman catch him then?” asked poor puzzled Rosa,
whose only idea of trees was of those in the city parks.
“But, Rosa, there are woods,” explained Lina,—“great fields full of
nothing but trees,—that’s in the country. Mina Schaeffer went there
once to visit her cousin, and she told me. People may cut them if
they like, and there are no policemen; only I don’t think Herr
Westermann could bring one on a dray because it is so far, Lieb. I’ll
tell you, though: I think they bring them on the railroad to the
markets, and then the people can buy them. I saw some once—very tall
and full of green prickles, and Biddy said they were for Christmas
trees. I guess Herr Westermann bought his, Lieb.”
“Well, perhaps he did,” answered Lieb, sleepily; “and a ladder,—O
yes, a ladder! You may be sure it’s the father and mother do it,
Lina.”
“And we have no father—no mother,” said Rosa, with a sigh. “We have
nobody,—at least we have only Bert.”
“And Bert could not make a Christmas tree,” added Lina, sadly.
“Yes, Bert tould!” cried little Fritz, giving Lina a vigorous
punch with his stout little fist. Fritz had been lying broad awake
listening to all this wonderful talk without understanding it in the
least; but he firmly believed that his Berty could do anything, and
so he felt bound to defend her from Lina’s assertions. “I tell ’ou,”
said he, “Bert _tould_,—Bert tould had a laddy and make a kissmas
tee for Fitzy, and the bu andel tould hep her.”
It was just here, at these words of little Fritz’s, that the
wonderful wish came into Bertha’s heart, and set it throbbing, so
that the poor child forgot all about her troublesome work,—noticed no
longer the children’s talk, or the waning candle; but just sat with
her hands clasped in her lap, till the children were fast asleep and
the candle quite burnt out, thinking and thinking; then crept away
to her place by Fritzy’s side, and lay awake far into the night,
thinking and thinking still.
Perhaps you can guess now what was Bertha’s wish; at least, if you
cannot, you must be almost as stupid as was Gottlieb with his ladder.
[Illustration: Decoration]
[Illustration: Decoration]