HERR ADLER.
Squib was sitting on his favourite stone in the middle of the brawling
stream. He had left Seppi absorbed in one of his most ambitious attempts
at sketching—so much absorbed that conversation for the time being was
impossible. When that sort of thing happened, Squib generally wandered
down to “his island,” as he had come to call it. He liked to sit here in
the midst of the tossing and foaming water, and think of all the things
that came crowding into his head—that seemed to him often like the talk
of the water as it leaped and rushed onward down its rough bed. To-day
its voice was softer and quieter than it had been when first he heard
it. The fine weather had lasted long now, and the water no longer raved
and foamed, and dashed itself about like a wild thing. Where the stones
impeded its course it broke into spray and ran foaming in little
cascades, or leaped like a live thing into the air; but there were other
places where it flowed quietly between its green banks, making a placid
murmur of content; and Squib would lean over his rock and listen to the
many voices, and dream all sorts of dreams for which he never could have
found words.
Czar sat on the bank with his head on his paws, and blinked contentedly
at his little master. Czar seldom crossed to the island, unless
especially invited. He did not find enough room there to dispose his big
limbs in comfort, nor were the slippery stepping-stones or the bed of
the stream much to his mind. He preferred to keep a watchful eye upon
his charge from the bank, and Squib had ceased to try to tempt him
across.
Now all this time Squib had never seen anybody in his quiet valley
except Seppi himself. He had come to regard it almost as his own little
kingdom, much as he did his favourite haunts at home, where he and Czar
reigned supreme. True, there was a rough, overgrown path along the
margin of the stream, but he had never seen a living creature treading
it, nor had the sound of a human voice ever broken in upon his solitary
musings; so that it was with a feeling of great surprise that he
suddenly saw Czar rear himself up on his haunches to-day, and give one
of those deep bays that he uttered at home when somebody strange passed
near his kennel at night. Squib himself sat up to listen, and soon heard
the sound of an approaching footstep. The steps seemed to be coming
towards him through the little wood opposite. Czar bayed again, and put
up the rough all down his back.
“Quiet, Czar, quiet,” said Squib in his commanding way. “This isn’t our
wood really. You mustn’t be angry if other people come. We’re not the
masters here.”
The hound ceased baying at the word of command, and wagged the tip of
his tail as much as to say that he understood and would obey; but he
still stood very erect and bristling, his great eyes, with the red gleam
in them, fixed intently upon the spot whence the sounds came. The little
boy also watched with considerable curiosity, and thought that the
traveller, whoever he was, did not seem in any hurry. He must be walking
very leisurely.
The steps came nearer and nearer, the brushwood moved and rustled, and
then the traveller came into view, and Squib saw him quite clearly. It
was a gentleman—not a peasant—as Squib saw at a glance. He wore a long
grey coat, and a soft black hat was on his head. His head was bent as
though in thought, or in close observation of the things about him, and
his hands were loosely clasped behind his back. He must be old, Squib
decided at the first glance, for his hair and beard were quite white;
but when, at the sound of Czar’s short explosive bark, he suddenly
raised his head and Squib saw his face clearly, he never thought again
about his being old, for it was such a kind, good face, and the look in
the clear blue eyes was so friendly and gentle, that the child’s heart
went out to him at once. He knew instantly that here was somebody
“nice.”
“Don’t be afraid of my dog, sir,” he called out in German; “he won’t
hurt you. It’s only because he’s so surprised to see anybody here.
Generally we are all alone all the time.—Be quiet, Czar,” he added
sternly to the dog, “I won’t have you make that noise.”
The traveller looked up at the child, perched upon his mimic throne in
the midst of the stream, and a smile of amusement and friendly interest
dawned slowly over his face.
“And who may you be, my little man?” he asked, speaking in English,
although there was something in the accent which told Squib that it was
not his native tongue. “Are you a water-sprite? And is this your
faithful guardian?” and he held out his hand to Czar, who came slowly up
to him, sniffed at his hand and his coat, and then lay down again with
his head on his paws, quite content with his investigation.
“He likes you,” cried Squib, skipping across the stones towards the
stranger, to whom he felt curiously drawn; “he doesn’t like many people.
Generally he’s very suspicious for a long time, but he’s not suspicious
of you. Some people think he’s a very fierce dog, and are afraid of him;
but you weren’t afraid, were you?”
“I didn’t know he was fierce,” answered the stranger, smiling and
patting Czar’s great head, while the dog wagged his tail benevolently.
“It is not worth while to be afraid of a danger beforehand. Is your dog
very clever as well as very fierce?”
“I don’t know,” answered Squib. “Czar understands me, I think, but I
don’t think he’s particularly clever. Ought he to be, do you think?”
“I am not sure. Sometimes when dogs are fierce and clever both, they can
be very dangerous. Shall I tell you a story I heard not very long ago
about a dog that was both, and what he did?”
“Oh, if you please, sir,” answered Squib, who delighted in an animal
story whenever he could hear one.
“I am not sure what kind of dog it was, but I think it was a hound of
some sort. A farmer had it who lived in a lonely place. He wanted a
rather fierce dog to guard his house at night and be about the place by
day. He had a daughter who was fond of the creature, and it would obey
her, and she looked after it, and called it in when any person came up
to the farm and was afraid of the dog. It seemed fond of her, and she
was fond of it.
“I don’t quite know how long it was after the dog came, but at any rate
by-and-by the shepherd came to tell the farmer that every night a sheep
was missing from the flock. He kept a close watch and found out that it
was a dog that came every night, ran down and killed a sheep, and ate a
part of the carcass. In the dark he was not able to see exactly what
kind of dog it was, but he said that it looked to him like the hound the
farmer had bought. This, however, seemed impossible, for the hound slept
in the kitchen and was locked in there every night, and was always safe
there each morning, doors and windows being all locked. But still the
sheep were killed night by night, and still the shepherd declared
himself more and more certain that the hound was the culprit.”
“Oh, what a wicked dog!” cried Squib, drawing a long breath; “but I
think these dogs could be very fierce if once they had begun to do
things like that. Please go on, sir.”
“Well, the thing was getting so serious that the farmer said something
must be done, and his daughter suggested that she should sleep one night
in the kitchen, where the dog stayed, and really see if it was possible
that he could get in and out. So that night she made up a bed on the old
settle that stood in the kitchen, and when the time came she fastened
herself in and went to bed. The dog lay in front of the fire as usual,
and looked as if he never meant to move all night. The girl was getting
very drowsy, when she fancied she heard the dog move cautiously. There
was enough light from the fire for her to be able to see what went on in
the kitchen, and very soon she saw that the dog had got up and was
looking at her intently. She closed her eyes almost, just peeping out
through the lids, and breathed heavily as if she were asleep. The dog
came stepping up to her very, very quietly, and she felt his breath on
her cheek as he seemed to be actually sniffing at her to make sure she
was asleep. She was almost afraid of him then, there seemed something
unnatural about him; but she lay perfectly still, and he seemed to be
satisfied. Then she felt him move away, and just opening her eyes a
little she saw him go across to a window, rather high up in the wall,
that was fastened by a little bolt. The dog got upon the window seat,
unfastened the bolt with his teeth, pulled the window open by the bolt,
and sprang out into the night with a curious whimpering sound like that
of a wolf. The girl lay quite still, rather frightened, but resolved to
see the thing through, and in about an hour or more, I don’t know how
long it might be, the dog came back. He sprang through the window,
pushed it to, drew the bolt again with his teeth, and then turned round
to look at her, and she saw that there was blood round his mouth.”
“He had killed a sheep!” cried Squib under his breath. “Oh, what a
wicked dog!”
“Yes, he had killed a sheep; but he was able to do worse than that. For
the girl had been so astonished to see the creature’s cleverness in
getting in and fastening up the window, that she was sitting up in bed
to watch him, when he turned round and saw her. It seemed then as if he
were clever enough to know himself found out, for suddenly his eyes grew
fierce and red, and he made a roaring noise like that of a wild beast.
The girl sprang from her bed, and had just time to reach the door before
he made his spring; she knew that had she been a moment later he would
have flown at her throat. She saw by his eyes, and heard in that horrid
roaring noise he made, that he would have flown at her and killed her
had she not been able to escape.”
“Oh, what a dreadful dog!” cried Squib, his eyes fixed upon the face of
the narrator with the gaze of fascination. “What did the farmer do with
him then?”
“Of course he was shot in the morning, and no sheep were killed after
that. It had been this clever dog that had done it all the time, just as
the shepherd believed.”
“Oh, sir, I am glad Czar is not fierce like that. Do you think that is a
true story?”
“It was told me as true,” answered the stranger, “and I have heard other
stories of hounds that have been known to be terribly fierce and savage
when their jealousy has been aroused. And I can quite believe that if a
dog once took to killing and eating sheep, the wild beast in him would
get the upper hand very quickly, and he would soon be quite unsafe.”
“I suppose that’s what father feels about Czar. I’ve heard him say that
if he ever did bite anybody he would have to be shot. That’s why I try
so hard to make him kind and good to people. I should be so sorry if he
got fierce, he’s such a nice dog to have with one in a lonely place. I
think a dog is great company. But Czar doesn’t like my island, it’s too
small and slippery for him. Would you like to see my island, sir? It’s
such a nice place. Shall I help you across to it? The stones are rather
slippery, but there are not many of them.”
Squib received a friendly smile and nod in reply, and found that the
stranger was quite able to make his way over the stepping-stones without
assistance. The little boy showed all the wonders and beauties of his
mimic kingdom with great pride: the little delicate flowers shooting up
from the crevices filled with earth, the willow tree growing out of the
solid stone, as it appeared, and the beautiful green moss which clothed
the sides of the boulder. The traveller was such a nice person to show
things to and to tell things to! He was interested in everything, and
had a hundred wonderful things to say about the island—things which
Squib himself had hardly observed, and which had never struck him as
they did now. Very soon Squib found that it was he who was listening and
his new friend who was talking, telling him about the wonderful way in
which the rocks were made, what sand was, what chalk was, how the world
had come to be the wonderful and beautiful place it was. Squib listened
as he listened to Lisa’s tales of fairies and goblins, and found it just
as interesting. No matter whether they spoke of rocks or flowers or
trees, or the rushing, tumbling water, there was always something
wonderful to be learned, and presently Squib drew a long breath and
said,—
“Oh, sir, I never knew before what a wonderful place my island was
really!”
A very kind smile shone in the stranger’s eyes as he answered,—
“And you will find more and more wonders there every day of your life,
my child; and if you go through the world with open eyes, you will find
that it is full, crowded, with the most wonderful things, of which you
will be able to learn only a little here and a little there. But the
wonder and the beauty will fill your heart, and make you very happy in
the thought that some day it will be given to us, we hope and believe,
to understand much, much more of all these wonders than we can ever hope
to do now.”
Squib looked up at him quickly, not quite certain of his meaning. He
hardly knew whether the next words were an answer to his unspoken
question.
“You know, my child, that the world is full of the wonders of God.
Everything speaks of Him to those who have ears to hear. That is why I
think we can never know more than just a very little of all these
wonders till we know Him in His glory.”
Squib looked up into the kind face, and saw there a look which drew him
like a magnet, he could not have said why. He instinctively slipped his
hand within that of his new friend, and said with sudden conviction,—
“I think you must be Herr Adler.”
The stranger put his head on one side and looked at the child smilingly.
“Now what fairy or little bird has whispered that to you?”
“Neither,” answered Squib laughing; “it came into my head from something
that Seppi said. He told me about Herr Adler. He called him a man of
God. I didn’t know what he meant. And then he said that everybody in the
valley felt better and happier when he had been there. I think I
understand now. I am sure you must be Herr Adler.”
A hand was laid for a moment on Squib’s head in a touch that felt in
some way like a blessing. Then Herr Adler said,—
“So you know my little friend Seppi, do you? I was on my way to find him
when I fell in with another little boy friend.”
Squib looked up brightly.
“I should like to be your friend. I didn’t know little boys could count
as friends with grown-up people. Seppi and I are great friends. I go and
see him almost every day. He draws all sorts of things. He is very
clever, and he teaches me to carve animals and things for the children
at home. Will you come and see him now? He will be _so_ pleased!”
“Yes, I should like to go if you will take me. And you shall show me
your carving and Seppi’s drawings. But you must tell me your name if we
are to be friends, for I am not such a clever guesser as you.”
“Oh, as for that, they just call me Squib at home.”
“Squib! Why, isn’t that a sort of firework? Now, didn’t I say you were a
sprite? I suppose when you get tired of being here you just set yourself
alight and go fizzling back into elf-land.”
Squib laughed delightedly.
“I wish I could! It would be jolly to go fizzling through the air and
get somewhere you don’t know how! I should like that awfully! But you
see I can’t. People can’t do that, can they?”
“I only heard of one man who did it and lived to tell the tale. It was
at that wonderful siege of Antwerp, of which you will read when you grow
up, when the citizens tried to blow up the bridge the Spaniards had
thrown across the mouth of the Scheldt. In that terrific explosion there
was one man lifted up off his feet, and taken right across that wide
river and set down on the opposite side without being hurt, and he told
his friend afterwards that all the while he believed himself a
sky-rocket going off, and felt no fear, having no time or breath to
think of anything as he was hurled through the air. Many people have
been blown into the air, but very few have lived to say what it feels
like afterwards.”
Squib listened with the concentrated attention which was one of his
characteristics, and asked some questions about the bridge and the
explosion, which led to a story from Herr Adler of such thrilling
interest that they had almost reached Seppi’s knoll before the little
boy realized it. What brought him back out of the past to the present
was the sound of a joyful cry and as joyful a bark. Moor came bounding
down the slope and made such a jump at Herr Adler that he was almost
able to lick his face, whilst Seppi was scrambling down the greensward
with a rapidity Squib had never seen in his movements before.
“Well, good creature! well, good creature!” said Herr Adler, caressing
the eager and delighted dog.
“How well he knows you! How he remembers you!” cried Squib, looking on
with a beaming smile. “Seppi, I have found Herr Adler! Here he is. He
was coming to look for you, and I showed him the way.”
Then he stood aside and watched the meeting, noting the rapture of
welcome in Seppi’s face which he could not put into words, but which
brought the tears into his eyes, and thinking what a beautiful, kind
face Herr Adler had as he stood talking to the little boy, holding his
thin hands all the while, and asking him of his mother, his family and
home, and how things had gone with them during the past winter.
Herr Adler spoke Seppi’s country patois as easily as he spoke English,
and whilst he talked to Seppi, Moor kept putting up his paws and
stuffing his nose into his hand to try to attract attention, and win one
of those quiet caresses and kind words of which Herr Adler had many to
give him.
After a little while they all moved up again towards the knoll in the
pleasant shade of the pine trees, and Squib set himself to gather
together Seppi’s chalks and papers, which, in his delight at seeing Herr
Adler, he had cast hither and thither in unceremonious fashion.
“Do look at Seppi’s drawings, Herr Adler!” cried the little boy, as he
took the sketch-book to his new friend; “doesn’t he draw beautifully?
Hasn’t he got on well?” and he turned the leaves with pride, whilst
Seppi sat with crimson cheeks, as though almost afraid to draw breath
till he heard what the Herr thought of his work.
Herr Adler looked through the book very carefully, and said many kind
things about the progress Seppi had made. But he also pointed out many
faults in his work, and generally showed him how to avoid that fault
another time. He also told Seppi that he did better when he took easy
subjects, such as a goat, or a few ferns growing out of some stones, or
a single clump of flowers, and advised him to give up for a time trying
to make pictures of the great mountains and valleys, because he had not
sufficient knowledge for that yet, but to content himself with
progressing a step at a time, and then he would gradually find himself
farther and farther along the road, and be able to succeed with larger
things as his skill increased. But he said it all so kindly, and with so
many illustrations and stories interspersed, that Seppi was not one whit
discouraged, laughed quite merrily over some of his own obvious failures
with difficult subjects, and agreed that it was far better to succeed
with some study than to make a grand-looking daub which had so many
glaring faults in it.
Squib thought it was very good and humble of Seppi to be willing to set
aside the sort of drawing he loved so much.
“I think it was my fault that he stopped doing goats and things and did
the mountains,” he remarked. “I wanted him to get on, and to be a great
artist and make grand pictures. It seems tiresome always doing easy
little things, and I thought his pictures were so very good.”
“I knew they weren’t,” said Seppi softly. “I liked doing them; it gave
me such nice thoughts about what I should like them to be. But now when
I look at them I can see they are frightful. I will go back to my
goats!”
Herr Adler looked at Squib with one of his kind smiles, and said,—
“What do you think it is to be a great artist, my little firework
friend?”
“Oh, why, to paint great big pictures that everybody looks at and talks
about, isn’t it, sir?”
An amused look crept into Herr Adler’s eyes.
“That would be a very easy way of getting to be a great artist. I think
even you or I could paint a great monster picture that everybody would
stare at who saw it, because it would be so bad.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” answered Squib laughing; then he paused,
looked into Herr Adler’s face, and said, “Tell me what you call a great
picture, please.”
Then Herr Adler’s blue eyes seemed to look out beyond the faces of his
listeners in a way Squib quickly came to know well, and he answered,—
“I think that a great picture is one into which the painter has put
something of his own self—his own soul—as well as that thing which he
has tried to draw; something which lifts us up above just the thing
itself, and makes us feel a breath from the world of nature, or draws
our hearts and thoughts upwards towards the Maker of the world. It need
not be a large, grand, ambitious work to do that; but it must be the
best that the painter has to offer—and it must breathe the spirit of
truth.”
Seppi’s face suddenly kindled and glowed.
“Oh, I think I know what you mean!” he cried. “Oh, how I wish that you
painted pictures!”
Squib was not sure that he did quite understand, but he liked to hear
Seppi and Herr Adler talk, and meantime he busied himself in unpacking
the luncheon and in spreading it invitingly upon green leaves on their
stone table. Lisa had given him a generous supply of provisions that
day, and there was enough and to spare for all. Herr Adler told them
many stories as they sat and ate; and then Squib rose and said good-bye
for that day, as he thought that Seppi might have things to say to Herr
Adler that he would not care for anybody else to hear.
“If I had anything troubling me, I’m sure I should like to tell Herr
Adler about it,” he said to himself as he fastened up his satchel. “I
think perhaps Seppi would like to talk to him alone. I’ll go home now;
but I hope I shall see Herr Adler again.”
“Are you going to shoot yourself off, my little friend?” said Herr
Adler, as Squib came up with outstretched hand.
“I think I must go back home now,” answered the little boy; “but I hope
you’ll come again to our valley, sir, and have lunch with us, and tell
us some more of your stories.”
“That I will with pleasure,” answered Herr Adler. “This valley and I are
old friends. When I am far away in quite different places, I often shut
my eyes and see it all again: the green slopes with the rocks and the
pine trees lying in the sunlight, and those two great white peaks
towering above, sometimes dazzlingly white, and sometimes blushing red
in the sunset.”
“I call them the Silent Watchers,” said Squib, looking from one to the
other, “because they seem always to be watching. Perhaps you can tell us
a story about them some day.”
Herr Adler smiled very kindly.
“I am not sure that I know any story about them; but I used to be very
fond of a certain walk up towards the glacier under one of them. If I am
not too old and you are not too young, perhaps you and I might find our
way there one of these fine days.”
“Oh, I should like that!” answered Squib with a beaming face; “I have so
often wanted to go nearer and see the glacier. Father and Uncle Ronald
say that I walk very well. I hardly ever get tired; and they have taken
me to a lot of places.”
“Then we will think about it,” answered Herr Adler; and Squib went home
with a happy heart, feeling that something new and interesting had come
into his life.
Next day he started off early for the valley, and found Seppi there as
usual, hard at work drawing. But the chalks and sketch-book had been
laid aside, and the little goat-herd was making careful studies from his
own flock on odd bits of paper; and so earnest was he over his task,
that Squib had sat some few minutes looking over his shoulder before he
was aware of his presence.
“O Seppi, you _are_ clever!” cried the admiring Squib, as he took up the
little studies one after the other, laughing heartily at some of them,
where a goat was depicted in the act of butting its fellow, or executing
some antic over a jutting rock.
“No, no,” answered Seppi quickly; “don’t praise me any more, little
Herr. It makes me conceited, and that spoils my work. I’m not clever. I
began to think I was; but when I saw Herr Adler looking at my drawings,
then I knew how bad they were, and I was horribly ashamed of them! When
you were gone I told him so; and do you know what he said?”
“What?” answered Squib eagerly.
Seppi paused awhile, and then replied,—
“I can’t say it after all; I mean not as he did. The words are quite
different when he says them. You know what I mean, don’t you? But it was
something like this—that our lives were somehow like my drawings. We
tried to make them good and beautiful and clever, and sometimes thought
we were getting on and doing something fine. But when God came and
looked at all we had done, we should just feel as though it was—oh, so
worthless and poor and bad! not because He would not accept it from us,
but because we should feel it all so dreadfully unworthy to offer.”
Squib looked grave and a little puzzled.
“I never thought of things that way,” he answered; “I wish I’d heard
Herr Adler talk about it. But I don’t see how _he_ can feel that. He is
so very good.”
“Oh yes,” answered Seppi earnestly; “I think he’s the best man in all
the world. Everybody here knows that he is a man of God.”
“What _is_ being a man of God, Seppi?” asked Squib curiously.
Seppi found that rather a hard question to answer.
“I can’t tell,” he replied; “one feels it somehow. And then Herr Adler
has talked sometimes to me about the Kingdom. That helps to make one
feel it. It is all so very beautiful.”
“Tell me,” said Squib drawing nearer, “what is the Kingdom?”
“I’m not sure that I can explain. I can’t say things right even when I
seem to feel them inside of me. Herr Adler says that the Bible tells us
that some day Jesus Christ will come back again and reign on earth; and
that all things will be made new and beautiful; and that His saints will
reign with Him. You know about the servants who had the money, and some
did well with it and had cities to rule over, and one did nothing and
had his money taken away. Herr Adler thinks it will be like that with
us. If we use what is given us now, and do our very best with it, we
shall have things set us to do in the Kingdom; but if we have wasted it
all, or done nothing, then we shall not be fit to help, and nothing will
be trusted to us. It doesn’t matter what it is that we do, however
little the talent is. If we do our best with it, and do not waste or
bury it, we shall use it again—oh, so much better then! I can’t say it
as he does. But I feel it is all true; so I’m not going to try any more
to do things much too difficult for me. That’s not getting on; I think
that’s just conceit. I’m going to draw the things I can do, and do them
as well as ever I can. I want to make a lot of little pictures from my
goats; and then put them together in one big picture to give Herr Adler
before he goes.”
This was a very long speech for Seppi to make, and it was not made all
at once, but just a bit at a time as he sat looking out before him, with
Squib at his side looking earnestly into his face as though to learn all
his meaning and encourage him to proceed. The magnitude of the thoughts
suggested was rather much for his brain, although he apprehended much of
it with the quick intuition of childhood. But Seppi’s last words
suggested a new train of thought; and Squib answered eagerly,—
“Oh yes, you do that! Make him a beautiful picture of your goats and the
valley and the Silent Watchers—”
“No, no, no!” cried Seppi almost vehemently. “Not the valley and the
mountains. I can’t do them. Just a group of my own goats, with Moor
watching them, and some stones and flowers in front, and just a rift in
the sky behind, and the light coming through. I can see it all—if only I
could do it! But it shan’t be anything grand. I should only get all into
a muddle! I’ll do it all again and again in pencil; and then I’ll try
the chalks for the colours of the goats and the sky and the flowers.”
“And I’ll carve him something!” cried Squib, fired by sudden desire.
“I’ll make him a carving of Czar! I think he’ll like Czar when he knows
him. He likes Moor, and Moor is very fond of him. Perhaps I’ll do Moor
and Czar playing together. They do have great games. I wonder if I could
do that.”
“Try something easy, and do it well,” advised Seppi, with the touch of
diffidence he always showed in offering an opinion of his own to the
little gentleman. He admired Squib with all his heart, and thought him
wonderfully clever, but he knew that his carving was crude and
unfinished, and that a group of dogs at play was far beyond his powers.
Squib, however, set to work with great zeal, shaping a bit of wood to
his purpose, and chatting gaily all the while; and Seppi was soon lost
again in his work—studying the attitudes of his goats as he had never
studied them before, and learning new things about them every hour.
“Oh!” he cried at last, throwing down his pencil almost in tears; “I
hardly believed it when he said it; but it seems as if there were never
any end of learning about the least thing in the world! I’ve been with
goats all my life, and I don’t know yet what they’re like!”