THE TWO FARMS
The house at Lindenhof had a big, comfortable living room, with a green
Dutch-tiled stove in the middle and wooden benches all along the walls.
Around the stove there was also a bench, where an old gray cat usually
lay purring lazily. Wide steps, that were like many little benches set
over one another, led upstairs to the sleeping rooms. In this way there
was abundant opportunity for sitting down in any part of the room, and
this gave the place an air of ease and comfort.
The farmer and his wife had two daughters, one twenty, the other
nineteen years old; but they were no longer at home, both having
married in the previous summer, one soon after the other. They had both
married well, for the young farmers whom they had taken to husband had
farms of their own and were comfortably established. Now the father and
mother were by themselves again, as in the beginning. At first they
kept only one hired man, for the husband said, "We'd better hire day
laborers in the busy season, and then be alone the rest of the time,
than to keep several men in the house."
And the wife said: "I think so, too. I do not like the tramp of heavy
boots about the house."
So the household went on in its old quiet way, and still the work was
properly done.
But when autumn came the farmer said: "We must have a herd boy. The
hired man cannot sit out in the meadow all day when there is so much
work still to be done, and yet we cannot leave the cows out in the
pasture all alone."
And the wife said: "That would suit me very well; for a nimble little
boy would often be handy for me in the work about the kitchen, the
well, and the shed. He might look after the chickens, too; I cannot
call the man for all these little services."
"Then I will go and get one," said the farmer, reaching for his coat
and his heavy cane. The alms commissioner always knew of boys to hire;
he would go to him.
Now it happened that on that very day the butcher had sent his delivery
boy to the commissioner with a message that a new place should be found
for the boy, as he himself had bought a cart and would have no more
need of him.
This boy was Renti. He was quite alone in the world, having neither
father nor mother nor any one else who belonged to him. Where he had
come from no one knew.
Nine years before, on Laurentius Day, a tiny baby boy, wrapped in a
coarse cloth, had been left on the doorstep of the church. The sexton,
coming to ring the bell for evening prayers, had found a bundle at
the door, and on discovering that it contained a living child he had
taken it to the pastor. On the following Sunday the little boy was
baptized, and received the name of Laurence in honor of the saint on
whose day he had been found. Then he was intrusted to the care of the
old washerwoman Katrina, who kept him clean and decent as long as she
lived. But she died after a few years, and then Renti passed from one
hand to another. Sometimes he was treated kindly, sometimes quite
otherwise; up to the time of his tenth year he had never known how it
felt to have a home, for he had never been kept more than a year in one
place. In the last few years, since he had been able to do light work,
he had gone to a new place almost every three months, wherever people
happened to have need of him.
When the farmer of Lindenhof arrived at the commissioner's, the latter
was at his door and Renti was standing before him delivering the
message from the butcher.
The farmer did not notice the boy especially, but began at once to
state his wants, whereupon the commissioner drew Renti forward and
said: "You have come at an opportune time. Here is a boy ready to go
right home with you. And he will do what is right, won't you, Renti?"
The boy nodded his head. There was something about him that the farmer
liked.
"Then come along," said the farmer.
So Renti trotted along beside him. Barefooted, with no other clothes
than the little jean trousers and coarse shirt he had on,--for his
little jerkin had fallen into rags,--Renti entered upon his life at
Lindenhof.
The farmer's wife looked out in surprise when she saw her husband
returning so soon with a boy. She scrutinized the newcomer more
carefully than her husband had, for she knew the boy would be with her
a great deal of the time, and she was particular as to the people she
had about her. Renti had big brown eyes that looked out upon the world
and its people with open, frank gaze. Thick brown hair waved about his
brow. The woman liked him.
"I'll manage somehow about his clothes," she said to herself, for she
surmised that the garments he had on were his only ones.
On the following morning Renti was at once sent out to take the cows
to pasture. There he met Gretchen, who had but a few days before been
initiated into the duties of herding and who was very glad to find that
she was to have a companion.
Into this new life for Renti there came a joy that he had never known
before,--he had found a home. Out on the sunny meadow, under the alders
with Gretchen, the boy was happy. Joy shone in his eyes from morning
till night, and when he was not talking to Gretchen he had to express
his happiness in singing or yodeling.
The farmer's wife was kind to him. She had a neat suit--trousers and
jacket--made for him for Sundays, and a white shirt to go with it.
Then she taught him to wash carefully at the well every morning, and
he was pleased and willing about it all, for he himself liked to look
neat. In his little room there was a real bed, such as he had never had
before, and no one was ever cross to him now, as his former masters and
mistresses had often been. So Renti was as happy as the birds in the
air, and his whistling stopped only with their own songs, and probably
would have continued all night if the housewife had continued her
demands for wood and water that long. He always did the kitchen errands
at night, for the housewife was systematic and wanted everything made
ready for the next morning.
Often when the boy's whistle was heard at night in the stable, the
shed, or the henhouse, the farmer, hearing it, would say: "Do send the
boy to bed. His workday should be over by this time."
But the wife would answer: "Work never hurts any one; he gets sleep
enough, and his whistling shows that he is not unhappy."
Then the farmer was satisfied, and his wife was glad that she could
have her own way with the boy, and that he was cheerful and content.
When winter came she proposed that they keep him, for she would have
work for him when he was not in school, and when spring came and they
had to take laborers she would have extra work in the kitchen and would
find the boy very useful. The work of carrying meals to the field hands
three times a day was alone worth keeping him for.
In his various duties the boy was often with Gretchen, for she had many
of the same tasks as he had, and the two estates ran side by side. In
the summer the children were sent to the fields to glean after the
harvesters. They had discovered that it was much pleasanter to do
this work together, first in one field, then in the other, than to
do it alone. So it was with many of their tasks, and they were much
together. But they were happiest when autumn came and they were sent
to pasture with the herds. Renti had become so familiar with the life
at Lindenhof that he knew every cow by looks and disposition; he had
become so well acquainted with the hens that he could pick out any egg
and tell just where and when it had been laid. It took close watching
to keep track of the eggs, for the hens liked to lay in secret places.
Every creature, large or small, that belonged to the farm was more
familiar to Renti than to the farmer himself, or to any hired man that
they had ever had on the place.
At The Alders life went on in the same quiet, orderly way as at
Lindenhof. In fact, there had always been great similarity in the
manner of running the two farms. In the stables there were always eight
cows, and if either of the farmers had seen fit to have nine, then
there would have been no sleep for the other until he, too, had nine
cows in his stall; for it was an old custom to have everything alike on
the two farms.
The farmers were the best of neighbors, however, and there never was
a thought of unpleasant rivalry between them. Each was content to
have everything remain just as it had always been in the fathers' and
grandfathers' and great-grandfathers' time.
It had happened, strangely enough, that on both occasions when there
was a christening party at Lindenhof there was one on the same Sunday
at The Alders,--with this difference, however, that the babies
christened at Lindenhof were both girls, while at The Alders they
were boys. Hannes had come first, and then, a year later, Uli,--the
boys being now in their twentieth and nineteenth years. But the most
important difference between the two households was, that while the
number of children at Lindenhof remained at two, a third child had come
to the other family years afterward. A little girl had made a late but
by no means unwelcome appearance, proving a great joy to the family as
the years went on. She was a winsome, happy child and did credit to the
careful training of her parents, for they were proper people, both of
the opinion that their first care should be to educate their children
to a decent, orderly life.
Regularly on Sundays the family might all be seen going to church
together,--father and mother in advance, with little Gretchen between
them, and Hannes and Uli behind, all in their Sunday clothes and all
looking so neat and honest that it warmed the pastor's heart to see
them filing into church.
As little Gretchen grew along in this well-ordered life she won the
heart of every one; for she was pleasant and courteous at all times
and sweet to look upon, with her bright, laughing eyes, blue as the
cornflowers, and her long, blond braids like the golden grain above
them.
When she had reached her ninth year her father said one day: "Gretchen
is old enough, I believe, to herd the cows this year, and we might get
along without a boy. It is hard to find one whom you can trust, and
Gretchen is a sensible child and the cows are all gentle."
The mother thought that they might at least try it. Uli would, of
course, go with her for the first day to see that she got along without
any trouble, and was not afraid,--for she was a slight little thing, to
be sure, to take care of the cows all alone.
Gretchen herself liked the idea of going, and Uli said: "She need not
be timid. Our neighbors have a herd boy who seems gentler than most
boys, and I will tell him to look after her."
So Gretchen started out a few days later, accompanied by Uli. In the
neighboring pasture Renti was already at his post. Uli called him to
the stone wall and made him understand that if anything should happen
among the cows he must come to Gretchen's assistance. In return he
should have plums and nuts when they came in season.
Now Renti needed only this to complete his happiness,--to have a
companion in the meadow,--and by the end of the first day the children
were such good friends that the boy would have gone through fire and
water for Gretchen's sake. A more faithful protector could not have
been found for her.
So the children passed the autumn season in daily companionship. When
winter came they went back and forth to school together twice a day.
Sundays they invariably spent together, for Renti was treated as a
neighbor because he belonged to the household at Lindenhof. So he went
to The Alders every Sunday afternoon and stayed with Gretchen until
supper-time,--that had become a matter of course. And every Sunday
afternoon had slipped by so fast that when it was over they wished it
were just beginning; they hadn't had time for half their plans and
projects. Renti was skillful at carving wooden whistles and making
lanterns out of pumpkins, and Gretchen had a supply of colored paper
from which they manufactured whole cities, including the inhabitants,
and boats with movable oars, and churches, and houses with swinging
windows.
Then came the work of spring and summer, and the children met
continually in the fields. When they were not together each knew
exactly where the other was, what he or she was doing, and when they
would meet again.
Now autumn had come and the children were enjoying happy days in the
meadow. There had been but few rainy days to keep Gretchen at home, for
the season had been unusually fair. In wet weather Renti had to wander
about alone, with a feed sack wrapped about his shoulders to keep off
the rain. On such days he took care of Uli's cows also, after the
latter had brought them to pasture in the morning. In this way he kept
his pockets full of nuts. When Gretchen came out on the next day there
was always a great deal to talk over, about how the cows had behaved,
about the little birds in the alders and how they had crept into
their nests, and about the big crows that had suddenly swooped down
on the pasture, croaking so hideously that Brindle, in sheer terror,
had run right into their midst, whereupon the whole flock started up
and flapped about, frightening Brindle still more, so that she went
galloping wildly about, and Renti had to catch her and stroke her head
until she became quiet.
All these incidents were the subject of earnest conversation when the
children were together once more under the alders. So the days passed,
and there were no happier children in all the country round than Renti
and Gretchen.
October came, and the bright, sunny weather continued until past the
middle of the month, so that the children still remained in the meadow
all day without feeling cold,--only they went home rather early in
the evening. On a Saturday afternoon of the third week black clouds
began to pile up in the sky and the children started for home at four
o'clock. A sudden darkness had come on, and a violent downpour of
rain, or perhaps hail, seemed about to break forth. Gretchen was quite
downcast, for she feared that snow and cold weather would now set in
and put an end to the herding. But Renti was hopeful and thought that
winter was still a long way off. Monday would be fair again, he said,
and they would come out as usual.
They bade each other good night and hurried home with their herds, for
the first drops had begun to fall and the sky was growing darker and
darker. Renti, after reaching the barn and tying the cows in their
stalls, scrambled about in all the corners, as he did every evening,
to find the eggs. Presently he heard a furious storm beating down upon
the barn. The rain and hail and wind were almost crushing the roof. He
stood in the barn door holding the eggs in his cap, for he was afraid
they would be broken by the hail if he started for the house.
While he stood there the farmer was looking out of the kitchen window
at the storm. His wife was blowing the fire that had several times been
put out by the wind and rain. The farmer watched the gusts sweep by and
said: "I have been expecting this. I've seen it coming for some time.
It is hard on the fruit trees. Well, this makes an end of autumn and we
may look for cold weather. The farmer of Broadwood told me to-day that
he wants a boy for the winter. He means to get along with one hired man
and a boy, for he has his two sons to help him. So I told him he might
have Renti."
"You did!" exclaimed the woman. She stopped blowing the fire and looked
around at him. "Why did you tell him that? Shall I do my work alone all
winter merely to let the farmer of Broadwood have a good boy?"
"No, no," said the farmer in conciliatory tones; "I had no such
thought. On the contrary, you are to have better help than you have
now,--a young fellow who is stronger than Renti and can be of more use
to you. I have a great deal of wood to cut this winter and shall need
an extra hand. A young fellow of seventeen or eighteen can do my work
and can also help you in the kitchen. I have my eye on one."
"I was satisfied with Renti," said the wife; "but if you need an older
hand we must give up the boy, for we do not need three servants." Then
after a moments she added: "If Renti must leave us, I am glad that he
is to have a good place. I shouldn't like to send him away without
knowing what sort of people he goes to, but the household at Broadwood
is well managed. But whom will you get in his place? I hope it will be
some one fit to have in the kitchen."
"Yes, he will do very well," said the farmer. "He is young enough to do
little errands about the house and kitchen, but at the same time strong
and sturdy. For carrying wood and water he will be better than a little
boy. To-morrow he is to come along this way, and if we wish him to, he
will stay. They will expect Renti at Broadwood to-morrow evening."
The wife thought this was hurrying matters somewhat, but her husband
explained that as the herding season was now ended the wood felling
might as well begin at once.
So they decided to let Renti go on the morrow and to keep the young man
when he came, for the wife remembered, after her husband had mentioned
the youth's name and described him somewhat, that she had seen him once
or twice, and that he came of a decent family in one of the neighboring
parishes.
The storm had now abated and the farmer went out to see that everything
was in order for the night. At the same time Renti came running into
the kitchen with eager, happy face, holding out a cap full of eggs
toward the housewife.
"What a boy you are to find nests!" she said, as she bustled about the
hearth. "To-morrow you are to go to Broadwood, Renti. There you will
have plenty of eggs to hunt, for they keep a large flock of chickens,
the finest in this whole region."
Renti stared at the woman and almost dropped the eggs from his hand,
but he did not utter a word.
"Lay the eggs on the table," said the woman; "I haven't time to put
them away now; and bring in a stick of wood. You needn't go for water
while it rains so hard. Then come in to supper."
Renti laid down his cap and went out to the shed. He was paralyzed by
the news he had just heard; he could scarcely lift the stick of wood,
although he usually carried such a burden on a run.
The housewife looked at him questioningly. "I believe you are tired,
Renti. Come, eat your supper and then go right to bed."
At the table Renti never once looked up, and for the first time since
he came to Lindenhof he had no appetite.
"He is tired; I noticed it awhile ago," said the wife in answer to her
husband's puzzled look,--for the boy's spoon was not traveling back and
forth in its usual way, in and out of the big bowl of sour milk.
"Pshaw! that wouldn't take away his appetite," said the farmer.
But Renti could not swallow his supper.
"Perhaps the storm oppresses him. Let him go to bed," said the farmer.
"Yes, yes; you'd better go to bed," said the wife in friendly tones. "I
will look after the shoes myself. Go and have one more good sleep in
your comfortable bed."
Renti crept upstairs to his dear little room. He felt as though a heavy
weight were upon him; he could hardly breathe. But after he was in bed
and everything about him seemed just the same as it had always been,
and always must be, he thought, he breathed more easily. Something
would surely happen overnight to straighten the matter out. When things
had gone on so long and so smoothly without change, they could not all
be upset in one night. And with this thought Renti finally fell asleep.
Next morning, as the farmer and his wife returned from church, Renti
came out of the barn to meet them as usual. On Sunday mornings, when he
had plenty of time to scramble about all the corners of the barn, he
always made new discoveries in the way of hidden nests.
"Now go and put on your Sunday clothes, Renti," said the wife. "After
dinner you may run over to The Alders and tell them 'God keep you,' for
you probably won't see them again for some time. It is a long way to
Broadwood. Then you must come home for a timely start, so that you will
reach your new quarters before nightfall. It would not look well for
you to get there late."
Renti felt as though a thunderbolt had struck him. The morning having
passed in its usual quiet way, just the same as all other Sunday
mornings, he thought that the danger must be over and that things were
to remain as of old. But now he was to be sent away, after all! He put
on his Sunday clothes; dinner came and went, he knew not how; he was as
if stunned. After dinner he went to the barn and sat down on the lowest
round of the hay ladder. There he stayed for hours without stirring. He
could not go to The Alders and tell them "God keep you." No, no, no! he
could not go away! he could not!
[Illustration]
The housewife, thinking he had done as she told him, packed his clothes
into a bundle and then joined her husband in the sitting room, where
they always sat together on Sunday afternoons. Here she waited for
Renti to return.
When the clock struck half-past three and he had not yet appeared, she
said: "He is late. He ought to be here by this time."
"He knows that it is Sunday, and that coffee will be on the table at
four o'clock. He will be here," said her husband.
The wife went out to prepare the coffee. When she returned with the
tray Renti had not come. She went to the door to look for him and
called his name. He answered from the barn.
"If you were back, why didn't you come in?" she said. "Come and drink
your coffee. It is high time that you were started."
Renti came in and gulped down his coffee, but he could not eat
anything. The woman laid a piece of the fresh Sunday _Kuchen_ into his
bundle and held it out toward him.
"There, Renti; God keep you! Be a good boy and do what is right. Come
to see us some Sunday and tell us how you are getting on," she said,
as she laid the bundle on his arm. He extended his hand to the woman,
then to the man, without saying a word; then he turned and went out.
The wife went as far as the outer door with him.
Renti left the house without looking back. Once outside, he ran as fast
as he could.
"It is better so, after all," said the woman, coming back to her
husband's side. "He might have said a word of good-by; but it is better
than if he had been sad at going, for then it would have been hard to
send him away."
"You need not worry about him," said the farmer. "Youngsters always
like a change. He is glad to get into something new."
Renti ran with all his might until he was beyond the house and land of
Lindenhof. Then he threw himself down on the ground and wept and moaned
as though his heart would break. Not a gleam of hope could he see
before him,--not a ray of comfort.
The sky was covered with stars when he finally arose. Then he ran
without stopping until he reached Broadwood. It took more than half an
hour of fast running to cover the distance,--so far away from home was
his new life to be.
[Illustration]