THE LITTLE BAREFOOT.
[Illustration: THE CHILDREN KNOCK--PAGE 8.]
THE
LITTLE BAREFOOT.
_A TALE._
BY
BERTHOLD AUERBACH.
TRANSLATED BY ELIZA BUCKMINSTER LEE.
ILLUSTRATED.
BOSTON:
H. B. FULLER AND COMPANY,
(SUCCESSORS TO WALKER, FULLER, & CO.,)
245 WASHINGTON STREET.
1867.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
H. B. FULLER,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
Stereotyped by C. J. Peters & Son, 13 Washington Street, Boston.
Printed by John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.
CONTENTS.
_CHAPTER I._
THE CHILDREN KNOCK 7
_CHAPTER II._
THE FAR-OFF SPIRIT 16
_CHAPTER III._
THE TREE BY THE PARENTS’ HOUSE 25
_CHAPTER IV._
OPEN THE DOOR 31
_CHAPTER V._
UPON THE HOLDER COMMON 53
_CHAPTER VI._
HER OWN COOK 74
_CHAPTER VII._
THE SISTER OF CHARITY 92
_CHAPTER VIII._
SACK AND AXE 112
_CHAPTER IX._
AN UNBIDDEN GUEST 123
_CHAPTER X._
ONLY ONE DANCE 142
_CHAPTER XI._
AS IT IS IN THE SONG 159
_CHAPTER XII._
HE HAS COME 168
_CHAPTER XIII._
OUT OF A MOTHER’S HEART 183
_CHAPTER XIV._
THE HORSEMAN 196
_CHAPTER XV._
BANISHED AND SAVED 205
_CHAPTER XVI._
SILVER TROT 223
_CHAPTER XVII._
OVER MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY 232
_CHAPTER XVIII._
THE FIRST FIRE UPON THE HEARTH 248
_CHAPTER XIX._
SECRET TREASURES 260
_CHAPTER XX._
FAMILY WAYS 268
[Illustration]
THE LITTLE BAREFOOT
CHAPTER I.
THE CHILDREN KNOCK.
Early in the morning of an autumnal day, when the morning mist lay
upon the ground, two children, a boy and a girl of six and seven years
old, went hand in hand through the back, or garden path, out of the
village. The girl appeared the oldest, and carried slate, books, and
a writing-book under her arm; the boy had the same in a gray linen
satchel, which was slung over his shoulder. The girl wore a cap of
white drill that reached only to the forehead, and made the full arch
of her brow the more conspicuous. The boy was bareheaded. The footstep
of the boy only could be heard, for he had strong shoes on his feet;
but the girl was barefoot. Where the path permitted, the children went
close together; but, when the hedges made it too narrow, the girl
always went first.
Upon the yellow leaves of the shrubbery lay a white frost, and the
berries of the hawthorn, the tall stems of the wild brier, looked as
though they were silvered over. The sparrows in the hedges twitter
and fly in uneasy flocks close to the children, then light again not
far from them, twittering and chirping, till at length they fly to a
garden, where they light upon an apple-tree, so that the dry leaves
rustle, and fall to the ground. A magpie flies quickly up from the path
across the fields, and then rests upon the great pear-tree, where the
ravens still cawed. This magpie must have told them a secret, for the
ravens flew up and crossed over the tree, and an old one let himself
down upon the topmost wavering branch, while the others found for
themselves, upon the lower branches, good places, where they could rest
and look out. They appeared to desire to know why the children, with
their school-books, struck into the side street, and wandered out of
the village. One of the ravens flew like a scout, or spy, and placed
himself upon a stunted willow by the fish-pond. But the children went
quietly on their way by the alders near the pond, till they came out
again into the street; then crossed to the other side of the street
where stood a small, low house. The house is entirely closed, and
the children stand at the door and knock softly. Then the girl calls
courageously, “Father! Mother!” and the boy timidly repeats, “Father!
Mother!” At length the girl seizes the door-latch, and presses it
softly up; the boards rustle and she listens, but nothing comes. Now
she ventures in quicker strokes to press the latch up and down, but
only the sound echoes from the deserted house. No human voice answers.
The boy places his lips upon a crack in the door and calls again,
“Father! Mother!” Inquiringly he looks up to his sister; and when he
looks down again his breath upon the door-latch has become hoar-frost.
From the mist-covered village sound the measured strokes of the
thresher; now rapid and loud, falling confusedly, and now with slow
and wearied strokes; then again clear and vivid; then stifled and
hollow. The children stand as though bewildered. At length they cease
to call and knock, and sit down upon scattered logs of wood. These lay
piled around the stem of a mountain-ash, overshadowing the side of the
house, and now ornamented with its red autumn berries. The children
rivet their eyes upon the door of the house; but all remains silent and
closed.
“Father brought this wood from Moosbrunnenwood,” said the girl,
pointing to the log upon which she was sitting; then she added, with a
wise look, “it gives good warmth, and there is a great deal of rosin in
it that burns like a torch, but it costs a great deal to split it.”
“If I was grown up,” said the boy, “I would take father’s great axe and
the two iron wedges and split it into pieces as smooth as glass, and I
would make a beautiful pile of it, like that of the coal-burner Mathew,
in the forest; and then when father comes home he will be glad, and he
will say, ‘Who did that?’ Don’t you dare to tell him,” and he pointed
his finger threateningly at his sister.
The latter appeared to have a dawning perception that it would be of no
use to wait for father and mother, and she cast a melancholy glance at
the boy; and then, looking at his shoes, she said, “Then you must also
put on father’s boots. But come, we will skip stones in the lake, and
see if I can throw farther than you; and, as we go, I will give you a
riddle to guess. What wood is that which warms without burning?”
“The master’s ruler when the palms catch it,” said the boy.
“No, I don’t mean that. The wood that they split makes one warm without
burning it.” When standing by the hedge she asked, “It sits upon a
little stem, hath a little red coat, and its belly is full of stones.
What may that be?”
The boy knit his brows and cried out, “Hush! Don’t tell me what it is.
It is a hip-berry.”
The girl nodded applause, and made a face as though she told him the
riddle for the first time, whereas she had often told it before to
divert him from sorrow.
The sun had now scattered the fog, and the little valley came out in
clear shining sunlight as the children turned towards the pond and
began to make the flat stones dance through the water.
In passing, the girl lifted the latch again many times, but the door
did not open, and nothing appeared at the window. They soon played,
full of joy and laughter, at the pond, and the girl seemed especially
glad that her brother was always the most skilful, and, beating her at
the sport, he became wholly gay. She, indeed, made herself less skilful
than she really was, for her stones plumped, at the first throw, deep
into the water, at which the boy laughed loud. In the zeal of their
sport, both children forgot where they were, and why they had come
there, and yet to both it was melancholy and strange.
In that house, now so silent and closed, had dwelt for some time back
Josenhans, with his wife and two children, Amrie (Anna Maria) and
Dami (Damian). The father was a wood-cutter in the forest, but also
handy at any work; for the house which he had purchased in a neglected
condition, he had repaired himself, and wholly covered in the roof. In
the autumn he intended to whiten the wall of the interior. The chalk
for that purpose was lying in a pit covered with brushwood. His wife
was one of the best workwomen in the village. Day and night, in sorrow
and in joy, she was a helper to every one; always willing, always
ready, for she had early taught her children, especially Amrie, to take
care of themselves. Industry, contentment, and domestic competency made
the house one of the happiest in the village. An insidious illness
prostrated the mother, and the next evening the father also, and after
a few days two coffins were borne on the same evening from the humble
house. The children were taken into one of the neighbor’s houses during
the illness of their parents, and they learnt their death only on
Monday, when they were dressed in their Sunday clothes, to follow in
the funeral procession.
Neither Josenhans nor his wife had relations in the place, and yet loud
weeping and praise of the dead were heard at the grave; and the Mayor
of the village led both children by the hand, as all three followed in
the procession. At the grave both children were still and quiet; they
were even cheerful, although they often asked, “Where were their father
and mother?” They ate at the table of the Mayor, and everybody was kind
to them. When they left the table, they received little tarts wrapped
in paper to take with them.
As the evening came on, the Mayor ordered a man of the name of
Krappenzacher to take Dami home with him, and a woman, called Brown
Mariann, to take care of Amrie; but now the children would not be
separated. They wept aloud, and insisted upon being taken to their
parents. Dami, at length, was coaxed by false pretences, but Amrie
could not be forced to leave her brother. At length the foreman of the
Mayor took her in his arms and carried her, by main strength, to the
house of Brown Mariann. There she found her own bed from the parents’
house; but she would not lie down upon it, and wept herself to sleep
upon the floor, when they laid her all dressed as she was upon her bed.
Dami was also heard weeping and screaming aloud, but soon he was still.
The much defamed Brown Mariann showed this evening how considerate and
tender she was for the orphan intrusted to her care. For many years
she had been bereft of her children, and as she stood by the sleeping
girl she said in a low voice, “Ah! happy sleep of childhood; it weeps
and instantly falls asleep without the twilight of hope, without the
anxiety of dreams.” She sighed deeply.
The next morning, early, Amrie went to dress her brother and to console
him for what had happened. “As soon as father comes back,” she said,
“he will take you home and pay the Krappenzacher.” Then both the
children went out to the parental house, knocked on the door and wept
aloud.
At length Mathew, the coal-burner, who lived near, came and carried
them both to school. He asked the schoolmaster to make the children
understand that their parents were dead, for Amrie especially appeared
incapable of believing it. The teacher did all that was possible, and
they became more quiet and resigned. But from the school they went
again to the parents’ house, and waited there, hungry and thirsty, till
some compassionate person carried them away.
The person who had a mortgage upon the Josenhans house took it, and the
payment which Josenhans had already made was lost; for, according to
the custom of the village, whatever had been paid was forfeited. There
were many houses in the village beside the Josenhans that remained
untenanted. All the possessions of their parents were sold, and a small
sum obtained for the children, but not sufficient to pay their board.
Thus they became parish orphans, and were of course boarded with those
who would take them at the lowest price.
Amrie informed her brother one day with delight, that she had found out
where the cuckoo clock of their parents was. Mathew, the coal-burner,
had bought it; in the evening they went and stood near the house and
waited till the clock cried _cuckoo_,--then they looked at each other
and laughed.
The children continued every morning to go to their parents’ house,
knock at the door, call and wait. Then they played at the fish-pond, as
we have seen them to-day. Afterwards they listened to a call which they
used not to hear at this season of the year, for the cuckoo at Mathew’s
called eight times.
“We must to the school,” said Amrie, and hastened with her brother
through the garden paths into the village. As they passed behind the
barn of Farmer Rodel, Dami said, “Our guardian has had a great deal
of threshing done to-day,” and he pointed to the straw that hung as a
trophy over the half door of the barn. Amrie nodded silently.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]