Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: "Her surprise increased every moment."--_Page_ 90.]
[Illustration: Title page]
*THE MYSTERIOUS BASKET*
*OR*
*The Foundling*
*A Story for Boys and Girls*
London
GALL AND INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE;
_AND EDINBURGH_.
*CONTENTS*
CHAPTER
I. THE UNWELCOME DISCOVERY
II. THE VILLAGE MUSICIAN
III. THE NEW-FASHIONED NURSE
IV. THE BIRD-CATCHER
V. THE SINGULAR MEETING
VI. THE UNDESERVED PUNISHMENT
VII. THE TOWN MUSICIAN
VIII. THE CORRESPONDENCE
IX. THE JOURNEY ON THE ICE
X. THE SICK-BED
XI. THE MISTAKE
XII. THE UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY
XIII. THE BAD RECEPTION
XIV. THE REUNION
THE WOOD-GATHERER
*THE*
*MYSTERIOUS BASKET.*
*CHAPTER I.*
*THE UNWELCOME DISCOVERY.*
"They are wondrous merry to-night in the upper inn," said Hicup (the
landlord of the one lower down the village) to his wife, who was turning
over the leaves of the almanac. He sulkily threw his cap off his head,
and flung himself into an easy-chair.--"All the windows are lighted up
in the principal room, and there is no end to the strumming of fiddles;
the beer-room is swarming with customers and strangers, whose
conveyances are standing before the door as a show to torment me. Why
does no one ever come our way now? Although the wooden arm holding the
beer-can stretches itself out ever so far, inviting the travellers to
come in, not an individual enters the door, not a turn do we get!--Is it
any wonder, then, if the beer in the cellar turns sour, and that the
last customer who found his way here by chance, was frightened away by
it? But this is always the way in the world,--where pigeons are, there
pigeons fly."
"The people must be bewitched," said Dame Hicup, in a stammering voice.
Hicup looked attentively at his wife, and then at the brandy bottle,
which stood near her in a corner cupboard.
"So you have been at the brandy again, you old witch, and half-emptied
the bottle!" said our host in a rage, seizing his stick. "Wait, I will
give you"----. A loud knocking at the window-shutter interrupted both
the sentence and the intended castigation.
"Who's there?" he bawled out.
"A poor woman, who begs a lodging for the night," was the answer.
"A poor woman," continued Hicup sullenly. "Such guests are always to be
had; you had better go up to the other inn, you will be more comfortable
there than with us."
Dame Hicup, to whom this interruption was most opportune, having a due
regard for her bones, became, all of a sudden, compassionate. "He who
sends the poor from his door," she began, "to him Heaven will not send
the rich;" and, without waiting for the assent of her husband, she
stepped across the room, and opened the door. A woman, poorly clad,
with a large handkerchief hanging behind her head, and a basket on her
back, stood before her.
"Come in, come in," said Dame Hicup invitingly, bringing her into the
room.
"Have you a passport?" gruffly demanded the landlord.
"Yes; here it is;" and the woman drew from her pocket a piece of folded
paper, which she handed to the master of the inn, who, without looking
at it, said, "Where are you going?"
"To Neiderhaslich."
"What's your occupation? What are you carrying?"
"I deal in crockery and stoneware; therefore I must take care, and put
down my basket gently."
"Umph! umph!" growled Hicup; then, turning to his wife, he muttered in a
tolerably audible voice, "Do you mean to give the woman a bed in the low
room? It is not the first time that such gentry have packed up all they
could get, and gone off during the night, finding their way out by the
window."
The stranger had heard every word; but far from seeming offended, merely
said, "You need not put straw in the room for me, as any corner in an
out-house, or in a stable, will do well enough."
"All the stalls are empty, the more's the pity," replied Dame Hicup; "so
if you prefer being there,"----
"Oh! yes," eagerly interrupted the traveller, going to lift up her
basket again.
"Leave that where it is," said the suspicious Hicup, who saw in it
security for the reckoning; "it will be safer here, and more readily
lifted on again, than in the stable."
"Could we not make a bargain?" asked the landlady insinuatingly; "such
brittle goods are always wanted."
"No, no," replied the stranger hastily; "everything in the basket is
bespoke, and carefully packed up; I would lose my custom were I to open
it. Perhaps another time"----
"Oh! there is no haste," answered Dame Hicup; "the thought only happened
to come into my head."
The stranger quickly swallowed some liquid, took a piece of bread in her
hand, and, under the pretext of being very tired, went away, accompanied
by the hostess, who wished to show her where she was to sleep.
Our host, meanwhile, was still sitting in his arm-chair, thinking with
envy of his rival, the landlord of the upper inn. The moment his wife
came back, she made her way straight to the basket, with the intention
of having a peep at its contents in spite of its cover. The threatening
voice, however, of her husband defeated her purpose. "Hands off, there!
I see you are dying with curiosity to know what is in the basket; but,
as a punishment for your brandy-drinking, you shall not get leave to
touch it; and this is a far less punishment than you deserve."
In a very discontented mood, but dreading the anger of her husband, Dame
Hicup sat down again at the table. All was so quiet, that gradually the
eyes of both closed, and, not being disturbed with much light, as the
candle was burnt out, they fell asleep.
Suddenly Dame Hicup started up,--"Do you want anything?" she asked.
"No," answered her partner, angry at being awakened; "but, yes, I would
like to be the landlord of the inn up there."
After these few words, all was quiet again, until a kind of creaking
noise was heard, and a half-suppressed cry struck their ears; at which
Hicup, terrified, sprang from his chair. "Wife! wife!" he shouted,
shaking the Dame; "do you not hear?--thieves are breaking in!"
No thieves broke in, but the voices of two children broke out into a
cry, and, at the same time, the basket creaked and moved. With eyes
wide open, the angry landlord stared at the mysterious basket. His
wife, on whose mind the truth seemed to flash, hastily pulled away the
cover, and saw, to her no small dismay, the heads of two children lying
close together. She clasped her hands in terror, while her husband
muttered to himself,--"Fine earthenware indeed! Out of such clay are we
all made."
"Come! come!" quickly cried his wife, dragging him after her; "a thought
strikes me!" It struck the good man too, when they had sought the
stable in vain for the owner of the basket. Hicup again wished to make
use of his stick to put his wife in remembrance that she had brought the
vagabond into the house; but Dame Hicup retorted, throwing the blame on
her husband, who, by preventing her looking into the basket, had given
the woman time to escape. Our hostess examined minutely the foundlings
and their cradle, and our host gave vent to his wrath in every variety
of words.
"Now, truly, we have got all at once precious guests!" he said, laughing
scornfully. "Fine food this for the village gossips! But he who has
the misfortune, need not concern himself about the joking. Wife, if you
don't get rid instantly of the squalling brats, you shall pay dearly for
it. We have scarce bread enough for ourselves, and are we to divide it
with cast-away infants? Take them up to the landlord at the other end
of the village, from whose table plenty crumbs fall to keep them. It is
a good thing that we have neither servant-maid nor boy in the house to
carry tales."
By this time, Dame Hicup had lifted the children out of the basket, and
again, by dint of hushing, made them quiet. They fixed their eyes on
their new nurse, and stretched out their little arms in the air. They
were both boys, of the same size, remarkably alike, and about seven or
eight months old.
"They are twins," said Dame Hicup with the greatest certainty; "as for
their mother, the woman who left them is too old, and their linen too
fine."
"Would it were coarse as hemp!" interrupted the wrathful landlord, "to
hang the vagrant. Make haste, I tell you, and free the house of these
urchins; put some brandy into their milk, that they may sleep soundly,
and then make the landlord of the upper inn a present of them."
The Dame did as she was bid, without making the slightest attempt to
induce her husband to keep the deserted infants. She mixed the brandy
with the milk, which the children greedily swallowed, and soon after
fell asleep.
With one small burden under each arm, the mistress of the inn left her
house late in the night. When she returned with empty hands in about
half-an-hour, her husband, who was anxiously waiting, cried out to her
in great glee,--"So you have really got rid of them! tell me how."
"There were too many people in the inn for me to venture within the
door," answered his wife; "but at the outside of the entrance a
travelling carriage was standing, whose driver had gone seemingly into
the beer-room to get a glass of something. I heard a loud snoring from
some one in the back seat; but in the front there was nothing but
parcels and packages; so I laid the one youngster softly down on the top
of them, and the other I slipped into a horse's manger which was close
to the door of the inn."
"Thank our stars!" said worthy Master Hicup, "that we have escaped at
the expense of only a good fright."
*CHAPTER II.*
*THE VILLAGE MUSICIAN.*
It was already far past midnight, and still the dance in the salle in
the upper inn had not ceased. Never had the dancers been more
indefatigable at their hardest work than they were now, as they panted
for breath, and glowed with heat. More and more wearied became the
musicians, as they wetted their parched throats alternately with beer
and brandy.
"Let us have the grandfather's dance for a finish!" cried the boldest
dancer--one who was always last at work, and therefore last at the
dance--to the young girls, who were preparing to go away. "Holloa! you
fiddlers, play us something sprightly, and don't spare either your
breadth or your bones. The grandfather's dance! do you hear?" and
seizing the hand of his partner, he began to sing in a loud voice,
"When our grandsire took our granddame home,
The lady was bride, and he bridegroom."
The player of the clarionet blew until his thin cheeks were puffed out
like a drum, and his eyes almost started out of their sockets. The
violin-player showed equal zeal in the use of his bow; while the
violincello sounded mightily; and the tones of the flute pierced through
bones and marrow. When the dance was finished, its hero, wiping the dew
from his forehead, addressed his companions in amusement, saying, "All's
well that ends well;" and drinking a glass of cold beer, he left the
inn, accompanied by the whole party, who went shouting and laughing
through the silent village, disturbing the quiet of its inhabitants.
"Young blood is warm," said the landlord, as he heard the noise, and was
extinguishing the lights in the salle.
A traveller, who had been prevented by the uproar of the dancers and the
sound of music from going to bed, heard the remark of the landlord, and
replied, with asperity, "Certainly a noble way of exercising youthful
spirits to destroy the night's rest of industrious peasants, to waste
the earnings of honest parents, and to ruin their own health. Such a
dancing-room is a chapel of Satan, and the landlord and the musicians
are the priests."
Had the speaker been a common person, assuredly the landlord would have
poured out his wrath on him. He contented himself, however, by saying
to the musicians, when the stranger had left, "That fellow must surely
be a Methodist, a Quaker, or a Herrnhuter! Were all the world of his
way of thinking, we should soon be ruined."
The musicians nodded their assent to this remark; and after dividing
their gains, they likewise left the house.
It was quite dark, therefore no wonder that the tired and not perfectly
sober band had great difficulty in finding their way down the flight of
steps which led from the house to the street. The violincellist missed
his footing, and rolled from the top to the bottom of the stairs. A
crashing noise announced his arrival on the ground, and also the fate of
the instrument.
"So the violincello is in the mud!" cried the clarionet-player, with the
utmost stoical indifference, from the top of the stairs.
"Not at all; quite the reverse!" replied the prostrate fiddler, with
equal calmness; "the mud is in the violincello." He raised himself up
from the instrument, which had so broken his fall, that he felt not much
the worse of it; and amidst jokes and laughter, the damage done to the
violincello was examined, and was found to be considerable, as the back
part of it was entirely broken to pieces.
"I have heard my father say," began the flute-player, in a tone of
condolence, "that the more a violincello was glued together, the finer
were its tones."
At this moment sounds were heard, not exactly like the tones of a
violin, but rather resembling those of an oboe. The artists, amazed,
looked round for their invisible companion, but saw nothing. Again the
sound was heard, and more distinctly. It was the voice of a crying
child, that seemed to come from a manger close beside them. As soon as
the musicians had satisfied themselves, by seeing as well as hearing,
with the exception of the bassist, they all took to flight.
"I have children enough to feed," thought the flute-player.
"And I, I have scarcely bread for myself," said the player on the
clarionet.
"My wife would scratch out my eyes," ejaculated the violin-player, "were
I to bring a foundling into the house."
Kummas, the violincellist, who had fallen down the stairs, felt a spark
of pity for the poor child, whose bitter cries broke the stillness of
the night. He went up the steps again, in order to acquaint the landlord
with what had been found, and to induce him to take the infant under his
care.
But he found the house-door firmly locked, and all his knocking and
calling remained unanswered. This deafness, however, of the master of
the inn had nothing to do with hard-heartedness, as he knew not of the
poor child, whose cold cradle was becoming every moment more
uncomfortable.
Sunk in profound meditation, the village musician now stood before the
screaming infant. A complete revolution seemed to be taking place in
his mind,--one of those sudden, incomprehensible, and unlooked for
changes which sometimes passes over the spirit of man. He had seen,
with utter indifference, hundreds of young blooming creatures led into
much evil by the wild excess of dancing; indeed, helped them on by his
music, without his conscience ever having reproached him. Beer and
brandy were his gods. Them he had worshipped; and his memory could not
call up a single action that he had done in accordance with the will of
his Creator. But the hard crust of his heart now gave way. Feelings
came over him like those with which, as a child, he had regarded
pictures of the manger where his Saviour lay cradled, given him by his
pious parents at the good Christmas time, to keep him in remembrance of
the sacred event. Now there lay before him, in such a manger, a
helpless infant, stretching out its little arms towards him. Kummas
remembered the long forgotten words of the Lord Jesus, "Whoso shall
receive one such little child in my name, receiveth me." He took up the
infant, pressed it tenderly to his heart, spoke to it caressingly,
silently promising never to leave it, or forsake it. Already he
received the reward of his first good deed. An undescribable joy, such
as the most intoxicating draught had never caused, filled his whole
soul, and made everything appear brighter in his eyes. Softer blew the
night air on his burning face. More beautiful shone the silver stars;
and even the voice of the village watchman appeared melodious, as he
greeted the coming day with the words,
"Jesus' goodness has no end,
It is every morning new!"
The foundling appeared to be neither bad tempered, nor accustomed to
very careful nursing. Quicker than Kummas hoped, it became quiet, and
fell asleep. He remembered his broken violincello, and, gently as
possible, he laid the little sleeper in the musical cradle, carried it
carefully, and began in this fashion his pilgrimage to the next village,
and to his miserable cottage, into which he brought his little
clarionet, as he sportingly called the child, in safety. Only once had
he found it necessary, before day-break, to set the new-fashioned cradle
in motion, and to sing, "Hush! hush!"
*CHAPTER III.*
*THE NEW-FASHIONED NURSE.*
"Have you not made a mistake, neighbour?" asked Anne Maria, the peasant
into whose house Kummas had gone very early in the morning. "The tavern
is lower down the village, and I keep no brandy."
For the first time for many years, Kummas felt his face grow red. "I
wish to buy a can of milk," he replied.
"Milk!" exclaimed the peasant, astonished. "This must be before your
end! I have certainly heard that milk-drinkers may become
brandy-drinkers; but never the reverse."
Kummas patiently endured the rebuke of the good woman, as a punishment
for his former mode of life. He then continued, "If you could give me
the milk new from the cow, and still warm, I would like it better. I
have got a guest. The stork last night brought me a little child; and,
as you have children, I wish you to tell me how it must be treated and
nursed."
"Go away!" said the woman angrily; "I have no time for your foolish
jests."
"Well!" answered Kummas, "if you will not believe my words, you will,
perhaps, believe your own eyes."
It may be imagined how great was the astonishment of the peasant, when,
in a few minutes, Kummas returned with the infant in his arms. When her
surprise at the unexpected appearance had somewhat abated, she said to
Kummas, at the same time laying her hand on his shoulder, "Neighbour,
you are really better than I gave you credit for, and are an honest man.
That is a splendid child. God bless it! Stout and strong as a young
lion. Now he opens his pretty blue eyes. So you would like something
to drink, my fine fellow? Eh! Haste, Hannah, and bring us some milk
from the cow," she said, turning to a young girl who was beside her;
"and now, let me see if you are rightly dressed. There, neighbour, hold
the young rascal, until I bring something else to put on him. He is so
strong that you may hold him upright already."
Kummas knew not how to hold the half-naked child; and from pure terror,
lest he might hurt it, allowed it almost to fall out of his arms. He
paid particular attention to what the peasant did as she dressed it
again, and gave it the warm milk, which it seemed to like very much.
"And how sensible it is!" began again the good woman. "Does it not
drink out of the cup just like one of ourselves? Hark ye, neighbour,
you must just leave the youngster with me."
"No! no!" replied Kummas most decidedly.
"I will give you a bottle of brandy for him," again said the peasant.
"I will not give him for a whole cask!" exclaimed the musician.
"Indeed! that from you says much. But what will come of the child when
you go out to play at night?" asked the kind woman.
"I do not mean to play any longer," answered Kummas.
"Are you in earnest?" said Anne Maria. "If so, heaven be praised! for
truly the beer-fiddling is a wretched sort of life,--a way of living
that makes weak legs and red faces. I have seen all such persons die in
poverty and misery; for they almost all took to brandy drinking; and you
were far on the road yourself."
Once more Kummas felt ashamed at the truthful words of his neighbour,
who kindly, however, added, "Don't take amiss what I say. I mean well
to you. Every morning I will give you milk for the foundling, and will
look after its clothes. And I have nothing to say against your playing
at a respectable marriage, or on a feast-day, when I will take good care
of your youngster in your absence. But what do you call him?"
"He has no doubt been baptised," answered Kummas; "however, as I know
not his right name, I will just call him Christlieb Fundus."
Had the poor child been forcibly thrust upon the village in which Kummas
lived for maintenance, in all likelihood the inhabitants would have
resisted doing anything for it. As the case stood, it was quite the
reverse. A blessing seemed to have come along with the foundling.
Everybody was curious to see the new-fashioned cradle; and no one came
empty-handed; so that Kummas saw himself in possession of different
articles of food, clothes for the child, and other things,--all unlooked
for, and most unexpected; while he himself rose in the estimation of the
villagers,--an advantage which formerly he had neither known nor prized.
Some weeks had passed away, when one morning Kummas received a visit
from one of his former companions, in the shape of Schubert, the
flute-player.
The interior of the small apartment presented to the visitor, at his
entrance, a singular enough appearance. His eye fell first on the
well-known large violin, which, still without its back, had its two
sides supported by rounded pieces of wood,--such as cradles usually
have. On the soft bedding, which filled the hollow space, lay a
sleeping infant, whose rosy cheeks told of health and plenty. A few
steps from this sat Kummas at a low table, which was covered with wire,
small pieces of wood, and various kinds of implements. On the floor
were scattered about sauce-pans, pots, and all sorts of broken
earthenware, waiting to be mended by the hands of the late musician,
who, at that moment, was occupied repairing an old bird-cage. A string
was fastened to his right foot, the other end of which, being attached
to the violincello-cradle, served as a means for setting it in motion
whenever the little sleeper showed symptoms of restlessness.
"It is true, then, what I heard, but would not believe!" exclaimed
Schubert, in a scornful voice. "So you have become an old woman!--a
nurse! Are you mad, or"----
"I wish you good morning," said Kummas coolly, thus reminding his
comrade of the omitted salutation. "You ask how I am? and I answer
quite well. Never was better in my life."
"That shows me you are a fool!" replied Schubert. "Have I not children
myself; and do I not know how I am tormented at nights by their
squalling and screaming, not to speak of the thousand things my wife has
to do for them?"
"It is true," said Kummas, "that Master Fundus there sometimes makes a
noise during the night, especially just now, when he is getting his
teeth, and I am obliged to creep out of my warm bed, although ever so
tired, take him in my arms, walk about with him, and sing until my
throat is sore, and my arms aching."
"Am I not right, then?" said Schubert.
"My back too is like to break," continued Kummas, "when I put the rogue
on his feet, and let him totter up and down the room."
"And so does my wife complain," added Schubert. "Teaching them to walk
must be a perfect martyrdom."
Kummas nodded assent, and went on,--"Neither am I any longer my own
master. I cannot go where I will, or remain as long away as I please.
The youngster is as a chain round my leg, which I must drag about.
Besides, I must work hard, as my Christlieb needs many odds and ends,
though the people in the village are very kind, and often send us
presents. Afterwards will come the numerous diseases of
children,--scarlet fever, measles, hooping-cough, &c., and then farewell
to sleep; and all my earnings must go to the doctor and apothecary."
"That is precisely my case!" exclaimed Schubert in a loud tone.
"Softly! softly!" said Kummas, "or you will wake up my little rogue.
Yes, I assure you, a whole night's playing on the violincello is a mere
joke, compared with the watching all night by the bed of a sick child.
I now see how much a mother has to do for her children, and how well
founded are her claims to their gratitude."
"Therefore you are an old ass," said Schubert, quite angrily. "Shake
yourself free of the child again."
"No!" answered Kummas firmly. "Some one must act the part of a mother
to the poor thing, or it would perish, and that would be a sin. But
after all, I must say, that my cares, my self-denial, and watchings are
over-balanced by the pleasure I find in the child. When the little
rascal smiles in my face, pinches my cheeks, or plays with my hair, all
my trouble is forgotten. Nothing delights him so much as when I play a
tune on the violin. Then is he all life; beats with his feet and claps
his hands. He must be a musician, but a proper one. Not a miserable
beer-fiddler, like you and me."
"I beg to decline the compliment," said the flute-player displeased.
"You have become a fool about the child. I have only now to ask whether
you are coming to play on Sunday along with us?"
"Since I know, from experience," replied Kummas, "how great is the
trouble of bringing up a child, I cannot lend my aid by playing at
dances, to destroy, perhaps, in one night the many years incessant
labour of conscientious parents."
"What have we to do with that?" asked Schubert.
"Much, as I now perceive," replied the old man. "Yet I will not promise
never to play again, were it only for the sake of Christlieb. But as
long as I find some other kind of employment, and until the child is
older, I will not."
"Do as you like, you old fool!" said Schubert in a passion, and went
away.
Kummas comforted himself with the knowledge that he was doing right.
"What! you young monkey; are you awake, and smiling? Oh! yes, I see you
want your meat. So come away, and you shall have it directly."
*CHAPTER IV.*
*THE BIRD-CATCHER.*
"Take heed, boy, and pay great attention to my words!" said Kummas to
his now ten-year-old Christlieb. "Look well at this thing which
resembles a lady without legs or arms. See how its head is thrown back,
with its round curls on each side, while its penetrating voice is even
clearer than the voice of any dame. Now, what is the youngster laughing
at? Eh! young sir?"
"It is only a violin, and not like a lady," said Christlieb laughing.
"Is the chick wiser than the hen? I tell you," said Kummas half
scolding, "it is a lady; and violin, or violincello, is only its
nickname. The throat of no lady, not even of a Catalina, can bring forth
more beautiful and sustained notes than can the black throat of my
violin. It is wonderful how the most insignificant of things may become,
in the hands of a clever man, the source of inexhaustible treasures.
Only think!--a few horse hairs rubbed against a few strings of cat-gut,
placed across a piece of hollowed-out fir-wood, can be made to produce
the most delicious tones! I tell you, boy, that a violin is a more
productive mine than the famed one of Frieberg in the kingdom of Saxony.
There a hundred miners do not dig out so much silver in a whole week as
a single man, called Paganini, gets for one night's playing on the
violin. But the lad looks at me as a cow does at a new gate! Well,
well, you will understand this better by and by. Here, take hold of the
violin with the left hand, and handle the bow so (showing the child how
to use it). You must move the right hand regularly up and down, while
the left hand, on the contrary, must spring nimbly like a squirrel from
one place to another on the touch-board. If you wish to learn how to
draw a good bow, place yourself in a corner, so that the wall may
prevent your elbow from going out too far. The four strings are called
G, D, A, E; but you will remember this rhyme perhaps better,---_Giess
dir anis ein_!"
"Why not rather caraway-seed or peppermint?" asked a strange voice at
the door. "Why must it be precisely anise, which, besides, is not good
for the boy? Good-day, neighbour. I suppose you have never taken a
glass of anything since you took home the foundling, and adopted him?"
Saying these words, the speaker came into the room. It was the aged
Butter, the bird-catcher,--a good customer for the cages of Kummas.
"Good day, friend Butter," answered Kummas cheerfully. "What do we want
more? We have now Butter in the house, and the bread must be
forthcoming."
"The butter, I fear, will not taste well," replied the former; "it is
too old. But tell me, is my bird-cage ready?"
"All except a few wires," said Kummas; "and I will send Christlieb with
it immediately. Are you going to market already? Have you caught many
birds to-day?"
"None worth speaking of; only a few larks and chaffinches. The larger
birds come later;" and the old man drew out a lot of dead birds from
under his cloak.
Christlieb quickly threw down the violin to look at the birds.
"Take care; they will bite you!" said Butter in a joke, shaking them in
the face of the child.
"Poor things! how pretty they are with their beautiful feathers! But
why are they all dead?" asked Christlieb in a tone of pity.
"Would you like to eat them alive?" said Butter.
"What!" exclaimed the boy in astonishment; "are they to be eaten?"
"Wherefore not, young friend?"
"The creatures are so very small, and when their feathers are off, they
will be still less."
"That is quite true," replied Butter; "such a bird makes but two bites;
and if one does not wish to leave the table as hungry as when he sat
down, he must eat a dozen of them at least. Therefore rich people are
rightly called bird-devourers."
"How much does one cost?" inquired Christlieb.
"For a halfpenny I will give you a lark or two finches."
"For a single halfpenny!" repeated the boy, much surprised. "Their
feathers alone are worth more."
"I will make you a present of them," rejoined Butter, "if you will be at
the trouble of plucking them off."
"Ah!" said Christlieb, "if they were alive, I would buy two
chaffinches."
"I have a word to say to that," began Kummas; "where will you find meat
for them?"
Christlieb made no answer; and Butter, changing the subject, said,
"Neighbour, it is pretty cold in this room of yours; what will it be
when the new year comes with its twenty degrees colder?"
"What!" exclaimed Kummas; "do you say it is cold here? It is an utter
impossibility; for this morning I put into the stove sixteen dollars
worth of wood!"
"Don't tell me such nonsense! who would believe that?"
"Well, then, look in and convince yourself," replied Kummas. "My
violincello is burning there, and I can show you by writing that it cost
me sixteen dollars."
"So, so, ah! I understand," continued Butter, laughing. "But what a
dreadful spendthrift you are! No millionaire, no, not even a king,
burns such precious wood."
"Therefore I can imagine myself somebody!" retorted Kummas, laughing
heartily.
Christlieb, meanwhile, had been carefully examining the birds as they
lay on the table. "I do not see," he said, turning round, "how they
have been killed."
"That would not be easy to see," said Butter; "we are not on much
ceremony with them, and just squeeze them to death in our hand. Look, I
take my thumb and forefinger and press their little heart close to their
wing. They open their beak, turn round their little eyes, and away they
are."
At this description of how the poor things were put to death, the eyes
of Christlieb filled with tears. With secret horror he looked at the
unpitying, murderous fingers of the old man, whom his foster-father was
accompanying to the door. He felt as if his cruel hand were pressing
his own heart, and as if he could scarcely breathe. With a deep sigh,
he said to his father when he came back, "And must the poor larks and
chaffinches who sing so sweetly really be eaten?"
"Yes," answered Kummas; "and I do not think it altogether right. To eat
singing birds is much the same as if I were to put violincellos and
violins into the stove instead of common wood. The burning of the old
piece of lumber, that was not worth any more mending, and in which you
could no longer lie, was a mere exception. But truly, the greatest of
all gluttons, the most voracious of all animals, is man. There is
nothing safe from his palate. Earth, and air, and sea, the wilderness,
and every corner of the world is ransacked for dainties to gratify it.
However, I believe a simple meal is much better for health; one which
willingly permits the feathered singers to pass their short lives
unmolested."
When the bird-cage was finished, Christlieb was sent off with it to the
cottage of the old man, which was situated a short way within a small
wood. As the boy approached it, he found fresh cause for grief. He saw
on many of the trees pieces of bent willow, to which were fastened loops
of horse-hair; and here and there a poor little bird hanging in them,
allured by the sight of the red berries close to where the nets were
hung. He saw, at the same time, various other kinds of snares laid to
entrap the unwary tenants of the grove.
For the first time, Christlieb entered the dwelling of the bird-catcher.
He found it filled with cages, from which sounded all manner of
chirping, piping, and singing. There was no one in the room except a
little girl about his own age, who was busy playing on a small pipe the
first part of an old march to four bulfinches.
Glad at having an excuse for giving up for a time her wearisome task,
Malchen got up to receive the visitor, and take the cage from him. When
Christlieb had softly delivered it into her hands, his whole attention
was absorbed by the pretty prisoners, whose beautiful plumage he admired
exceedingly; while Malchen answered all his questions with the utmost
simplicity and childish pleasure.
In one cage there were chaffinches, in another larks, in others
blackbirds, crossbills, lapwings, thrushes, and Bohemian chatterers and
starlings. Christlieb was especially attracted by the sight of two
greenfinches, who, by a singular contrivance, pulled up and down by
their feet two small pails, in which was their food, holding them by a
string attached to the cage for that purpose, until they were satisfied.
This sight was, however, by no means pleasing to Christlieb; it rather
made him sad, when he saw how often the pail slipped away before the
poor little bird could get either one grain of seed, or one drop of
water.
"How are they taught to do this?" asked Christlieb, surprised at the
seemingly rational act of the tiny creatures.
"By hunger and thirst," replied Malchen. "Before they can be brought to
pull up their seed and water, they are almost dying of hunger."
"Do they likewise sing?" he again asked.
"Not much," answered the girl; "only a few notes. But do you know that
birds and animals have a language of their own?" And she began to tell
the wondering boy a great many things which she had heard her
grandfather repeat.
"I should like to be able to know also what they say," answered
Christlieb.
"You must just pay great attention," said the little Malchen, "and you
can learn it yourself."
"Are all birds here to be killed?" asked Christlieb.
"No; not these ones," replied Malchen. "They are sold alive. Only we
cannot keep them long, for then their meat costs more than they are
worth."
"I should like very much to have a goldfinch," said Christlieb, "or a
thrush."
"Oh, no!" cried the little girl; "a starling would be much nicer; it is
such a droll bird, and can learn to speak like a man."
"Is that true?" asked Christlieb doubtingly.
"Quite true; only his tongue must be loosened," replied Malchen.
Christlieb determined to try and get as much money as would buy a
speaking bird; and in this hope he took great pains to learn to play on
the violin, in the expectation of learning something.
How joyfully he ran home one day, when a traveller had given him
twopence for playing a tune, and accompanying it with his clear sweet
voice. This was the beginning of a treasure, which every week he
divided most faithfully with his dear foster-father.
*CHAPTER V.*
*THE SINGULAR MEETING.*
Two years had now passed away, and harvest, with its rejoicings and
feasts, was at hand. The evening preceding one of the festivals, our
Fundus, now twelve years of age, was standing before a rather roughly
constructed music-stand, on which was placed a sheet of written notes
for the violin. He was again rehearsing what, on the succeeding day, he
had to perform, and played and sung his appointed parts alternately.
Kummas, whose hair had now become white, sat listening in his arm-chair,
congratulating himself on having made such a fine player of the child.
He nodded time with his head, and his eyes sparkled with delight, as the
youthful scholar succeeded in mastering a difficult passage far beyond
the expectation of the old musician. The very starling, who had been
long asleep in its accustomed place (the back of the old man's chair),
awoke and became quite merry, screaming an accompaniment to its young
master.
At length the rehearsal was ended, and Christlieb packed up his music,
awaiting the judgment of his preceptor.
The old man, hiding his delight, said, "Well, I hope you will get on
to-morrow, only be sure and keep the time. Remember there is a great
difference playing before four eyes, and playing in the church before
four hundred. However, don't let this remark make you afraid."
Kummas had not received much education; but he was of opinion that a
child might be spoiled through too much praise, and therefore he was
very sparing in his commendation. However, when Christlieb was fast
asleep, he gave vent to his joy while, as usual, smoking his pipe before
he went to bed. With a grateful heart he thanked God that in the
foundling there was given to him a support and a pleasure for his old
age. All his privations and cares were richly repaid by the admirable
behaviour of the boy, with whom he would not part for any worldly
consideration whatever.
The church festival, with music, singing, prayers, and sermon, was now
over, and the churchyard filled with people returning to their various
homes. In the midst of them were the pastor and the schoolmaster, with
the happy Kummas at their side; while Christlieb, with his violin under
his arm, followed at a respectful distance.
"That foster-son of yours is a fine youth," began the pastor.
"He is like a pearl in a dirty oyster-shell," responded the
schoolmaster.
"Your simile is rather a lame one," said the priest; "for neither is our
village nor the house of Kummas like a dirty oyster-shell, as the owner
of the latter has now become an honest Christian; yet it is true that
Christlieb is not in his proper place here. He should be sent where he
can have more advantage than with us."
"He far excels all my pupils," continued the teacher; "and even in Latin
he is well advanced. He ought to study."
"Aye, aye," said Kummas, smiling with pleasure; "but to study, I am
told, costs a deal of money, and I have none. If I could do as I
wished, I would like to make the boy a fine musician,--one who would
bring my art to honour. I had an idea of sending him to some
band-master in a town, in order that he might have more teaching; yet it
will be very hard for me to part with him, as he now plays more than I
do, and brings more bread into the house. To be sure that would be made
up for were he to become a little Paganini."
"Certainly," said the pastor, laughing. "We shall see what time will
do. Meanwhile, take care that Christlieb remains as modest and gentle
as he is now; as that makes him well-pleasing in the sight of God, as
well as of men."
When the pastor and the schoolmaster had left, Kummas went and spoke to
Butter, whom he saw standing near him.
"Your Fundus played and sang to-day like a lark. My Malchen was all ear
and eye. There they go like brother and sister. But tell me, what does
the boy do with all the birds he buys from me? I thought by this time
that your room would be quite full of them; but I only see the starling
marching about at its ease. Besides, he has a shocking taste; for he
buys almost only those which are good for nothing, except to twist off
their heads, and lay them in the frying-pan."
"Indeed! I know nothing about the matter," answered Kummas, "and never
ask him; for, as I am sure he does not waste the little money he gets, I
let him do whatever he likes with his few halfpence."
"I suppose you think, at the same time, I have no cause to complain of
his spending his money in this way?" Saying these words, the old men
separated.
On the same Sunday, Christlieb, accompanied by Malchen, came out of the
bird-catcher's house. "Stop a minute," said he to the young girl, taking
out of her hand a finch, round whose right leg he fastened a small piece
of red thread, but not very tightly.
"Why do you do that?" asked Malchen.
"Oh! it is a fancy of mine," said Christlieb, taking hold of the bird,
and bidding the girl good-bye; who looked after him with curiosity
before she again went into the house.
Christlieb went a considerable way into the wood. "Don't be afraid," he
said softly to the little bird, whose heart he felt beating as he held
the terrified creature in his hand; "from me you have nothing to fear.
Perhaps your young ones are dying with hunger, for want of you, in their
solitary nest; or your father and mother are seeking you everywhere,
calling to you to come back to them. Now take care, little stupid
thing, and don't let wicked boys catch you by mock whistles, mock pipes,
or mock food; and there, now, fly away!" With these words he opened his
hand, and the finch, not needing to be told twice, flew quickly away.
Christlieb looked after it until it disappeared in the blue distance.
He then took a piece of paper out of his pocket, on which he made a
small mark with a pencil. "Twenty-six finches," he repeated to himself,
"nineteen larks, five thrushes, nine lapwings, two goldfinches, three
blackbirds,--four-and-sixty birds I have saved from death or
imprisonment.--Hurrah! hurrah!"
The same evening, Christlieb was again playing; and in the same room of
that inn in which his foster-father had played twelve years before,--at
the door of which he had found him. Waltzes, country dances, galops,
quadrilles, and all manner of tunes dropped from his hand like water.
He played unweariedly, although sleep every now and then shut his eyes,
and the player of the violincello had to give him a gentle push with the
point of his bow at the end of the hundredth-time-played pieces.
Meanwhile, Kummas enjoyed rest at home. The grateful foundling now
supplied his place, which he felt it neither difficult nor unpleasant to
do. Obedient to the command of his father, he steadfastly refused to
taste either beer or brandy, and contented himself with pure water,--an
abstinence not at all disagreeable to the other musicians, as by that
means their portions were the larger. About three o'clock in the
morning, the dance ended, and dancers and musicians left the inn; all
except Christlieb, who laid himself down on a bench, near the stove in
the lower room, and slept for three hours the pleasant sleep of youth
and weariedness. When he awoke, the landlady gave him a cup of
delicious coffee, and a piece of fine cake, after partaking which he
prepared for his walk home.
With his violin under his arm, and twelve groschens in his pocket,
Christlieb descended the steps which led from the inn door to the road.
His eye fell upon the manger, which always stood ready for horses
passing with travellers. He looked at it much affected, as he thought,
Who knows but that may be the very one in which I was found twelve years
since! What would have become of me had not Kummas taken me with him?
Feelings of gratitude to his foster-father filled his heart. Ah! why
had his parents deserted him? How had the poor infant offended them,
thus to be driven from them? How often have I watched the care which
geese, hens, dogs, cats, little birds, and all animals take care of
their young ones,--defending them at the risk of their own lives! Even
the defenceless insect, the ant, when a ruthless hand destroys its nest,
first tries to save its eggs,--and yet, has a heartless mother forsaken
me? Or may I not have been taken from her by force, or stealth?---in
which case she will be more unhappy than I am. But the sadness of youth
resembles a soap-bubble, which, when broken, leaves no trace behind; and
with the rising of the golden sun, Christlieb's sorrow vanished.
Although it was November, the weather was fine, and there still were
some vestiges of verdure to be seen. With a merry heart, and a quiet
conscience, Christlieb pursued his journey homewards, while he gave
outward expression to his gladness by playing a beautiful church melody
on his violin.
An echo in the neighbouring wood gave back the clear notes, accompanied
by those of all the birds who had not fled with summer. This singing
allured him to his favourite spot, where the rustling of the leaves of
the trees greeted him like the voices of old acquaintances. He slung his
instrument over his shoulder, and, like a squirrel, sprung up a tall
pine tree, where, among its green branches, he comfortably seated
himself. From this leafy height there was soon heard the cheerful note
of the cuckoo, the melancholy song of the yellow thrush, the melting
call of the nightingale, the monotonous cry of the crow; in short, all
the feathered tribe seemed to have met in this one spot, in order to let
each other hear their different music. And Christlieb, the sole artist
and imitator of the various notes, rejoiced beyond measure, when the
whole flock of the still remaining birds, allured by the sounds, came
and flew around him. Still more zealously did he copy on his obedient
violin the language of the feathered tribe, when the whole concert was
destroyed and quickly ended, by the rattling of carriage wheels. In a
moment, Christlieb was down the tree, and, led by curiosity to take a
peep at the supposed travellers, he speedily made up to the carriage. It
was a handsome equipage, whose driver no sooner saw Christlieb, than he
called out, seemingly very ill pleased, "What are you about, young sir?
Does the young gentleman think I have nothing else to do but keep my
mouth open, shouting after him, instead of swallowing the good soup of
the postmaster? Come, make haste and get in!" Saying these words, the
man leapt from the driving box, and opened the door of the carriage.
"And now," continued he, muttering to himself in a bad humour, "we have
to wait for the tutor, who, full of anxiety, is seeking up and down for
his idle pupil."
When the driver, after letting down the steps, looked round for the
object of his wrath, the astonished Christlieb was no longer to be seen,
which gave rise to a fresh burst of angry words and oaths. The puzzled
violin player had run away as fast as he could, and was now again within
the wood, when his flying steps were arrested by another person, who
came up to him, looking very exhausted and tired, and likewise very
angry. "Balduin! Balduin!" he exclaimed, in a tone of vexation and
displeasure, "will this thoughtlessness never end, which annoys and
torments every one connected with you? Where have you been? Since you
left the carriage under a pretext of only remaining away a few minutes,
you have remained almost an hour! But how is this?" he continued in
surprise. "Where have you exchanged your dress? and how did you get
this instrument?"
The stranger stretched out his hand to take hold of the violin, whose
possessor, however, firmly retained it, and took to his heels, flying
through the wood as if winged.
He still, at a considerable distance, heard the voice of his pursuer
entreating him to remain.
He arrived at home out of breath, and had scarcely time to put away his
violin, when the bell rang for school; so that for some hours, he had to
keep his adventure to himself.
"Only think, father!"--With these words, he entered the small room, in
which, besides Kummas, he found the old bird-catcher, who looked at him
with an angry countenance, and his father, too, seemed unusually
disconcerted.
"There comes the young good-for-nothing," said Butter. "Bird-thief, and
not Christlieb, should he be called."
Christlieb's words stuck in his throat at this salutation; and, much
amazed and perplexed, he looked at the old man, to see whether he were
speaking in jest or in earnest. But his father ended his doubt by
saying, in a serious tone of voice, "What have you done, Christlieb?
Confess the truth."
A deep red suffused Christlieb's face, as, with the greatest
faithfulness, he related what had happened to him.