Black Forest Village Stories Part 50

[Ill.u.s.tration: Spots of ground are always to be found in which no man has a property.]

"It is well that spots of ground are always to be found in which, strictly speaking, no man has a property, and where the poor may pluck their bundles of gra.s.s without molestation. Such are the steep banks, cliffs, gulches, and so on. And where even the poor can no longer find a footing, the goat--the companion of the needy--makes her way and picks a scented herb or an aromatic twig.

"On 'wood-days' the poor are allowed to appropriate the dry boughs of the green trees. I have read somewhere that kind Nature herself inst.i.tuted this traditional charity, and throws to the poor the crumbs of her laden board. The poor and the dry sticks.

"The weeds in the corn-fields are also no man's property until the poor take them away and convert them into nutritious food. Do you ask, of what use are weeds? Perhaps many other things should be judged by the same rule."

These leaves were the product of three months of comparative solitude.

His habit of writing when abroad had been discovered, and had subjected him to various uncharitable suspicions. As the reader may have divined, many of them were but the answers given by the peasants to questions on matters very familiar to them, and indeed to everybody except the very learned men of learned Germany. The villagers were at their wits' end.

They could not conceive how any one could be ignorant of these matters.

Those who travel afoot must have noticed the demeanor of peasants when asked the way to a place in the immediate neighborhood. At first they suspect that a joke is being played upon them; and then they give an explanation which presupposes a perfect acquaintance with other localities in point of fact equally unknown to the questioner. Yet educated men are often no wiser. Perfectly at home in a certain sphere of ideas, they take for granted that every one else is equally so, and explain themselves in such a manner as to leave the hearer more mystified than he was before.

Of course the teacher was no better known to the villagers than they to him. Very few of them had ever heard his name. One thing, however, they had discovered,--that the teacher came from Lauterbach; and this single fact was used by the wit and humor of the village as the rod with which to punish his pride and reserve. In the evening, whenever he was known to be in, the young fellows a.s.sembled under his window and sang the "Lauterbacher" without cessation. As he had taken the part of the societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals, they generally wound up with,--

"I won't sing any more: A mouse ran over the floor; I'll hunt it and I'll find it, Put out its eyes and blind it, Take out my knife and skin it, And lay it out and pin it,"

&.c. &c. &c.

This piece of vulgarity vexed the teacher; but he never quite understood the meaning of it all until the College Chap joined the singers; for, though a married man, he could not forego the privilege of being the leader in all sorts of mischief. He made a new verse, which was repeated again and again:--

"At Lauterbach I was born so proud, And proud I am going to die: Oh, carry me back to Lauterbach: That is where I ought to lie."

A light flashed upon the teacher's mind. It grieved him to the soul to find himself thus abused by those whom he meant so well. He mourned within-doors, and without the noise grew louder and louder. He gathered himself up, intending to open the window and address the crowd in conciliation: luckily, however, his eye fell upon his violin, and, taking it down, he played the air of the song with which they were persecuting him. There was a sudden silence below, interrupted by low chucklings. Presently the singing recommenced, and the teacher resumed the accompaniment as often as the provocation was repeated.

At length he appeared at the window, saying, "Is that the way?"

"Yes," was the general answer; and from this time forth he was unmolested,--for he had shown that his temper was proof against teasing.

But on this occasion he formed the resolution of seeking intercourse with his neighbors more than formerly. He saw that his duties to his fellows were not circ.u.mscribed by the school-room.

The execution of this design was not long without its reward.

One Sunday afternoon, on returning from church-service, he took his way by the street which skirted the hill-side, called the "Bruck," or Bridge. An old woman was sitting in front of her house with her hands folded and her head shaking with palsy. He said, kindly,--

"How do you do? The suns.h.i.+ne does you good, doesn't it?"

"Thank you, kind gentleman," answered the old woman, still nodding.

The teacher stood still.

"You have seen many summers, haven't you?" said he.

"Seventy-eight: a good number. Seventy years is the life of man, says the Scripture. I often think Death must have forgotten me. Well, our Lord G.o.d will fetch me in his own good time: he knows when. I sha'n't get out of his sight."

"But you seem to keep up very well."

"Not very well,--the cramp; but this helps it." She pointed to the gray threads she had tied around her arms, the veins of which were swollen.

"What is that?"

"Why, a pure virgin spun this before she broke her fast in the morning, and spoke the Lord's Prayer three times while she did it. If you put that round your arm, and don't cry out about it, and speak the prayer to the Lord's holy three nails nine times over, it drives away the cramp. I have to cough so much," she said, pointing to her chest, to excuse the frequent interruptions in her speech.

"Who spun the threads for you?" inquired the teacher, again.

"My Hedwig,--my grand-daughter. Don't you know her? Who are you?"

"I am the new teacher."

"And don't know my Hedwig! Why, she's one of the choristers. What's the world coming to, I'd just like to know! The schoolmaster doesn't know the choristers any more!

"I used to sing in the choir myself,--though, to hear me cough, you wouldn't think so. I was a smart la.s.s: oh, yes. I was fit enough to be seen: and once a year there was a grand dinner, and the parson and the schoolmaster were there. Oh, they did use to sing the funniest songs then, about the Bavarian Heaven, and such things! That's all over now: the world isn't what it used to be when I was young."

"You love your grand-daughter very much, don't you?"

"She is the youngest. Oh, my Hedwig is one of the old sort; she lifts me up and lays me down, and never gives me an unkind word. I almost wish to die, just for her good,--she's kept home so much on account of me; and, after I'm dead, I'll pray my best for her in heaven."

"Do you pray a great deal?"

"What can I do better? My working-days are over.

"I know a prayer which brings the souls out of the moon right into heaven, and so that they don't get into purgatory at all. The Holy Mother of G.o.d once said to G.o.d the Father, 'My dear husband, the way the poor souls squeak and howl down there in purgatory is too bad: I can't stand it any longer.' So he said, 'Well, I don't care: you may go and help them.' So, there was a man in the Tyrol with eight children: and his wife died, and he went on about it dreadfully when they carried her to the churchyard. But the Mother of G.o.d came every morning and combed the childrens' heads and washed their faces, and made the beds; and for a long time the man never found out who did it all. At last he went to the parson, and the parson came very early with the sacrament, and saw the Mother of G.o.d flying out of the window, as white as snow; and the prayer was lying on the sill; and they built a church on the spot."

"And you know this prayer, ma'am?" said the teacher, taking a seat beside her.

"You mustn't say 'ma'am' to me: it's not the way hereabouts."

"Have you more grandchildren?"

"Five more; and fourteen great-grandchildren,--and I'm going to have another soon by my Constantine. Don't you know my Constantine? He is studied too, but he's a wild one. I have no reason to complain of him, though, for he's always good to me."

Suddenly there appeared, coming from behind the house, a girl, closely followed by a snow-white hen. "Ha' ye gude counsel, grandmammy?" she asked, scarcely looking up as she pa.s.sed. The teacher was so taken by surprise that he rose involuntarily and touched his cap.

"Is that your grand-daughter?" he asked, at length.

"To-be-sure."

"Why, that is splendid," said the teacher.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Coming from behind the house a girl appeared.]

"Isn't she a smart-looking la.s.sie? Old George the blacksmith always tells her, when she goes into the village, that she's just like his grandmother. George the blacksmith is the last of the young fellows I used to dance with: we might as well be three hundred miles apart as the way we are: he's down in the village and can't come up to me, and I can't get down to him. We'll have to wait until we meet each other half-way in the churchyard. I expect to find all the old world there, and in heaven it'll be better yet. My poor Jack Adam has been waiting a long time for me to come after him: he'll be getting tired of it."

"All the people in the village must like you," said the teacher.