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.
[8]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[9] 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[10] 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[11] 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[12] 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[13] 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[14] 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.
[15]“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.
