After Long Years and Other Stories

T >> Translated from the German by Sophie A. Miller and Agnes M. Dunne >> After Long Years and Other Stories

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When he considered, above all, the loss of his little fishing line that
meant so much to him, he cried aloud: "Oh, what a misfortune this is!
Now, I'll die of hunger. I often heard my father say that from
misfortune, fortune sometimes grows, but, when I look at this damage, it
doesn't seem possible that any luck could come from it.

"Oh, how good it is to live with people. How easily one can help the
injury to another. Oh, if ever I have the luck to get back to my family,
how willingly will I help them in times of need. But who will help me, a
poor, lost boy, on this lonely island? I am like a poor bird driven from
her nest." A mighty painful longing for his father's house again seized
him. "If only a ship would come and take me back," he said.

CHAPTER III

THE SMOKE

His people too, were mourning through these weary, weary weeks. One day
the father said to the mother: "I need some willow branches and although
it is very painful for me to go to that island, still, there is no other
place where I can get them."

"Then you must not go alone," said the mother. "Take the children with
you. They will be a help and a comfort to you." Soon they were all ready
and rowed over to the island. After landing, they sat under a tree for a
while.

"This poplar tree," said the father, "is the very one under which David
and I sat the last day we were here. And over in that direction,"
pointing toward the island, "he was carried in his little boat." Tears
stood in the father's eyes; the boy, Andreas, turned his head to wipe a
tear; while the girls cried.

"Let us go now and gather nuts," said the father, to cheer them again.
They soon filled their baskets and were about to return to the boat,
when the boy said: "Dear father, let us go to the top of the hill and
get a view. I've never been up there." "Oh, yes," begged the girls, "do
let us go."

The father consented and they all mounted the hill. It was a beautiful
day. The sky was cloudless and the air was so clear and dry, that one
could see distinctly far out into the distance. Suddenly Andreas
shouted: "Father, what is that I see? Isn't smoke coming up out of the
water?" The father looked in the direction pointed, and seeing smoke,
said: "I don't know what it is. I fear it is a steamer on fire. It
seems," continued he, shading his eyes, "that I see a dark spot, out of
which the smoke is ascending. Don't you see it?"

"Oh, yes," cried the girls, "and it has two sharp points at the top."

"I see it, too," cried Andreas. "One point is higher than the other."'

"That is no ship," said the father, "for a ship would have a different
shape, and wouldn't look so big from such a great distance. It must be
an island, but I am sure I never heard of it. People must live there, or
how could smoke arise from it."

"Oh, my," cried one of the girls, "wouldn't it be wonderful if our dear
David lived there."

"Maybe so," cried Andreas.

"Nothing is impossible with God," said the father. "We must leave
nothing undone in our search for him. We will ask Uncle Philip's advice
and get him to help us. Let us retrace our steps, now, for it is time
for us to return."

Little did they know how truly they had prophesied, for the smoke which
they saw was ascending from the fire on the rocky island--the same that
had cost David many tears of anguish and fear.

When they reached home, they told the mother their happy conjecture at
once, and a faint ray of hope filled her heart.

The neighbors were now called together, but their ideas on the subject
were varied.

"Nonsense," cried one. "How did that island get there. I never heard
about it in my life. It must be a burning ship."

"No," cried another, who always thought he knew better than anybody
else, "that's no ship, but a volcano sending out its fire. I have often
heard that such islands appear over night. We would come to a nice
place, if we should sail near such a fire-brand."

"It's either a ship or a volcano," said a third; "but for a hundred
dollars I wouldn't go over there in such little boats as we have."

"If you'll pay me," said a fourth, "I will go, but not otherwise."

The old, honest Uncle Philip raised his quiet voice, and said: "Brother,
I will go with you. Here is my hand on it. David was my beloved nephew.
It may not be certain that he lives, hardly probable, but still
possible. Therefore it is worth the trouble of undertaking the dangerous
trip; and God, who gives us courage to go ahead, will also see us
through."

Peter, a young, strong lad, shouted: "I will go too. I have often risked
my life for a fish, so I'll risk it now to save a human life, if I can.
I want no money, for as long as I live I would be happy in the thought
that I had helped to save David, and this thought would be a sufficient
reward."

"God give us all this joy," said Uncle Philip. "If wind and weather
continue favorable, we will set sail at daybreak." The other men
departed, shaking their heads and predicting misfortune.

Peter and Uncle Philip remained and discussed the matter a little
further. "I will take my sail boat and furnish the food," said Philip.

The following morning proved perfect and a light wind was blowing.
Mother and daughter accompanied the men to the boat landing, and said:
"God grant that you may return safely, bringing our David with you."

The men unfurled the sails and pushed off from the land, passing the
green island and going in the direction of the smoke. Nearer and nearer,
did they come, and at last Peter cried: "It is really an island. Let us
help with the oars." Suddenly Uncle Philip shouted: "Stop, and furl the
sails. There are many dangerous rocks in the sea. We must be very
careful or we will founder."

By means of the rudder and much care and pains, they at last made a
landing. Peter was the first to leap on shore, and cried: "Now we have
reached the island and perhaps we shall find David. Whatever is begun in
God's name and out of love to humanity, will succeed."

The other two men now stepped out and fastened the boat securely. Uncle
Philip looked at the rocks, shook his head and said: "This isn't a nice
place to live."

They began to search the island and climbed over the rocks and deep
clefts. At last they reached a little trodden path which led them to
David's retreat. Peter hurried ahead.

David had passed a sleepless night in fear and sadness. As the morning
sun shone over all, a little lightness had crept into his heart, and he
sank upon his knees and prayed.

As David was kneeling, the three men came behind him. But he was so
absorbed that he heard no steps.

Peter saw him first, and said to the others: "See, there is a hermit,
maybe he can direct us. Brother, can you tell us?"--he had no time to
finish his question, for David had risen to his feet. He recognized his
father, and cried: "Oh, my father! my father!" Then a silence broke over
them, for neither had the power to speak.

At last they controlled their emotion and thanked God in one voice, for
bringing them together. David then greeted his uncle and Peter and
gathering up his belongings, hastened with them to the boat.

On the homeward trip, David related all his adventures, and shed tears
of joy. Even his father had to dry his eyes several times. "You were
very wise, and helped yourself wonderfully. Necessity awakened your
understanding," said Peter.

"Don't you remember?" said his uncle, "what I once said to you that God
would send you to a special school? That's where you've been. In the
school of Experience. In this school you learned to know God, to pray to
Him, to love Him, and to thank Him for his blessings. What I find most
wonderful of all in your story is about the smoke which arose from your
island. What is more trivial than smoke, yet the smoke was like a sign
from heaven, that this was an island upon which some one lived. That was
God's finger." All silently gave thanks for the sign.

"I thought," said David, "that the fire was the worst thing that could
have happened to me, but now I see it was my greatest fortune."

Then Uncle Philip said: "Our beloved ones at home are watching and
waiting for our return." So, Peter quickly busied himself with a stick
upon which he fastened some ribbons.

"What are you going to do with that?" asked David.

"I promised your sisters if we succeeded in finding you, to raise this
banner. How they will rejoice when they see it." Then and there he
fastened it to the prow of the ship.

Each moment brought them nearer home and David's heart beat high with
hope, for on the shore his mother and sisters and all the villagers, big
and little, were gathered. As David stepped on land, a cry of joy arose
from the people; but the mother's joy at seeing her David was so intense
that she wept.

Men and women, boys and girls, shook his hand and wished him a thousand
times welcome. David's mother wanted to hear his story and was about to
drag him home but the people wouldn't let her. "We want to hear it too,"
and they led him to a big linden tree and bade him step upon the seat
and tell his story. All pressed around him. All eyes were on him. When
it was still, David began. He told them of his dangers, trials and
suffering, and said, in the end, that these had taught him the things
which he had never learned before. "I am grateful to God for my
deliverance and for the joy of being with you all again."

Thanking them for their interest in him and bidding them good-bye for
the present, he entered his father's house, where a hearty meal was
spread before him.

When the meal was over, David opened his little bundle and displayed his
pearls and corals and said: "I have brought you all a present from my
island." All stood in astonishment and admired them.

"My, my," cried Uncle Philip, examining them closely, "you have brought
some valuable things. These pearls and corals will yield much money, for
some of them are very large. Now you have helped your father out of all
his debts and trouble."

"No, no," said his father, "we will share them with Peter and yourself.
You shared the dangers of this trip with me, and you shall also share
the treasures. Philip, you take first choice, and then Peter next."

Two of the men who had offered to go on the trip for money, now entered
the room and wished they had gone for nothing. "For such a reward as
that," they said, "it would have been worth while."

"Go, go, you poor, miserable wretches," cried Philip, "you wouldn't move
a hand or foot to help a fellow man in trouble without being paid for
it. It serves you right that you get nothing,"

"I wish none of this money," continued Philip, "I have enough and ask no
more. But Peter must take his share, for the spirit which he showed gave
all of us courage, and he must be rewarded. Besides, he needs it."

Deeply touched, Peter took the reward with thanks.

Then the grateful parents again urged Philip to take the pearls, but he
replied: "Let it be, as I said before. The pearls and corals are the
least that David brought back with him; for he has gathered unto himself
costlier treasures: 'Love for God and to humanity.' These are priceless
pearls."

Turning to David, he said: "Not only have you found these treasures for
us, but you have brought good fortune to our little community. For
pearls and corals can now be gathered by the men of this village, and
offered for sale. This will furnish a comfortable living for many of
them. So, you have become a public benefactor."

The little household soon resumed its usual routine and David entered
into the life and spirit of his home. He became a model of virtue for
the village youths, and the joy, staff and crown of his parent's life.
He grew to be a noble, pious man, full of love and helpfulness to his
fellow men; and his memory remains blessed.

FROM ROYAL PALACE TO LOWLY HUT

Chapter

I. The Suburbs

II. The Retreat

III. The Prison

IV. The Purchase

V. Reunited

FROM ROYAL PALACE TO LOWLY HUT

CHAPTER I

THE SUBURBS

During those unhappy times when the Empire of France was overthrown and
a number of the richest people were plunged into the deepest misery, a
very wealthy family, named Berlow, lived in a palace in Paris.

Count Berlow was a high-minded, honorable man, and his wife was good and
charitable. Their two children, Albert and Marguerite, were the exact
counterpart of their parents.

Just as those revolutionary times broke forth, Count Berlow, with his
family, moved from Paris to his mansion in the suburbs. Here he lived
quietly, surrounded by orchards of fruitful trees, free from the turmoil
of the noisy city. His family rejoiced at having him constantly in their
midst and he was glad at the opportunity of being the instructor of his
children, particularly in music.

One gloomy winter evening, the family was gathered in the brilliantly
lighted music room. Count Berlow had composed a pretty little poem, and
had fitted it to music. Albert had with difficulty mastered the playing
of it, but Marguerite could sing the song remarkably well. The children
had practised this piece faithfully and diligently and purposed to
surprise their mother by singing and playing it that very evening. After
the Count and Countess had sung several operatic selections, the father
turned to his children, saying: "Let us hear what you can do." Albert
seated himself at the piano and played, while Marguerite modestly sang
in a sweet tone.

The Countess was delighted over this, their first song. She embraced
both the children affectionately, and praised them for their efforts and
the pleasure which they had afforded her.

Suddenly, the door was thrust open, and armed soldiers crowded into the
room. The leader presented an order in which the Count was declared a
friend of the King and an enemy of freedom and equality, and in
consequence he was to be conducted to prison. Although the Countess,
weeping and lamenting, threw her arms about her husband's neck to hold
and guard him, and his children clung to his knees, the soldiers rudely
tore him from their embrace. The cries of the mother and children were
heart-rending.

The unhappy wife did everything in her power to save her dear husband.
She hastened to the city and appeared before the magistrate, to prove
the Count's innocence. She called upon all her neighbors to bear
testimony to her husband's quiet, retiring life, and to the fact that he
had taken no share in the affairs of his country, and had talked with no
one concerning them. But everything was in vain, and she was informed
that in a few days her husband would be sentenced to death.

After an absence of several days, the Countess returned to her country
seat and found her home occupied by soldiers, who had ransacked it and
reduced it to a common tavern to which admittance was denied her. Her
two children were nowhere to be found, and all her servants had been
driven away. It was late at night, and she knew not what to do next.

As she turned, she met Richard, her old, true and faithful servant, who
said to her: "My dear, good Countess Berlow, you, too, stand in danger
of suspicion this very minute, for you have been heard to speak of the
injustice and cruelty of the government. There is no escape for you,
except by secret flight. You cannot save your husband, and your presence
here will only bring trouble upon your own head. Your children are both
in one of the out-houses with my wife. Follow me there. My brother,
John, the old fisherman, has been notified, and I will take you to him
to-night. He will conduct you and your children across the river to
safety. In this way you will at least save your lives."

She entered Richard's house, but there a new trouble awaited her, for
Marguerite had become suddenly ill from the fright and the shock, and
lay unconscious, sick with a high fever. The Countess wished to nurse
her child back to health, but the doctor would not hear of it, and
advised her immediate flight. Richard and his good wife promised to care
for the sick child, as if it were their own.

Countess Berlow knelt beside the bedside of her beloved daughter, and
said: "If I must bow to this decree, I leave her in your care, my good
people, and ask God in His mercy to watch over her and restore her to me
in His good time." She paused for a moment, then rose quickly from her
knees, kissed her unconscious child, took her son by the hand, and
trembling and swaying, hastened out of the house, without one backward
look.

CHAPTER II

THE RETREAT

Richard now conducted the Countess and her son to John, the fisherman,
who quickly rowed them over the river to safety. As there was no time to
rest, with the help of a guide, the fisherman's friend, she hastened on
with her son to find the hut which Richard had suggested.

After days and weeks of journeying hither and thither, over hills and
through valleys, they found that their strength was almost exhausted. At
last they came to a little low hut in a thickly wooded country. The
guide pointed to it with his staff, saying: "That is the hut; there live
the old shepherd and his wife who will harbor you."

Countess Berlow sighed, and followed the narrow path to the hut.

The old shepherd, who had been expecting her, came forward with a
pleasant smile and welcoming, outstretched hands. To show his great
respect for her, he had dressed himself in a gray suit. Around his neck
he had tied a red handkerchief, and he wore a nice, green hat with a
little bent feather at its side.

"Greetings to you, noble lady," said he. "I consider it a great honor to
protect you and your son. This is my wife, and between us we will do all
in our power to make you feel contented."

So saying, he turned to his wife, who repeated his greetings, and
invited all to partake of her simple meal, which consisted of bread and
milk and a few apples.

The good shepherdess then conducted the Countess to a room which opened
on an adjoining room. These two rooms were to serve as bedrooms. The
larger one was meagerly furnished, and its only window looked out upon
the forest and two high mountain tops.

Countess Berlow was thankful for having been guided to this humble
retreat. She cared for her own rooms daily and spent the remaining time
in knitting, sewing or reading. But her greatest anxiety was to find
amusement for her son, Albert. She undertook to continue his
instruction, but she was at a loss for books.

One morning, as she sat musing over her wants, she was aroused from her
reverie by the ringing of the near-by church bell. The good, old
shepherdess came running into the room saying that the clergyman from
over the hill would hold services in the chapel that day. Countess
Berlow, with her son, hastened at once to attend.

The clergyman delivered a short sermon, every word of which touched the
hearts of his earnest listeners. After the services, the Countess sought
the clergyman and engaged him in conversation. She found him to be a
thoughtful, devout, kind-hearted old man. He showed great interest in
Albert. He promised to supply the much needed books for his use, and
offered to give the boy two hours' instruction each day, provided Albert
would take the trouble to journey over the hills to his house.

Albert promised to come, overjoyed at the prospect of continuing his
studies under such an able teacher. He could scarcely wait each day for
the hour when, with his books under his arm, he would set out over the
hills, whistling lively tunes and keeping step to his music.

On rainy days, when the roads were heavy and ofttimes dangerous, he was
obliged to forego his visits. His mother would then suggest some
recreation for him, for she well knew that all work and no play would
tend to make him dull.

In this locality, large numbers of canary birds were raised and sold and
sent far and wide to other countries. Even the old shepherd had many of
these birds. Albert begged his mother to purchase one of them for him.
"Marguerite always had one," said he, "and I would dearly love to own
one, too. It would remind us of her and our own dear home."

His mother agreed, and Albert chose a bird that closely resembled the
one belonging to his sister. The bird with its beautiful yellow plumage,
its clear, brilliant, coal-black eyes, afforded Albert much pleasure.
Soon the bird became tame, flew upon Albert's outstretched finger and
ate seeds from his lips.

Whenever Albert wrote, the bird would alight on his penholder and peck
his fingers. Though he enjoyed the bird's presence and tricks, yet he
was obliged at times to cage him, in order to carry on his work
undisturbed. Later, when the bird began to sing, Albert could not praise
it enough.

"You must teach it to whistle nice songs," said the old shepherd one
day.

Albert thought the old man was joking. He did not yet know that one can
teach a bird to imitate. The old man then brought out a flute and
presented it to him.

"Oh, what a fine flute! How glad I am to own one," said Albert.

The old shepherd took the flute, played a waltz upon it, and showed
Albert how to use the stops, Albert was pleased with the light, clear
tones of the flute, and as he had talent for music and had a good ear,
he soon mastered the difficulties of the instrument.

Often he played tirelessly for the bird and always a song which his
father had taught him. After striving for hours and days and weeks to
teach the bird, lo! his wonderful patience was rewarded. The bird began
to sing the song, and sang it through without a mistake.

[Illustration: "Soon the bird became tame and flew upon Albert's
outstretched finger."]

Albert leaped with joy and thanks. He praised the bird, over and over
again, and rewarded it with lettuce, apple and hemp seed. The little
flute and the little bird helped Albert and his mother to while away
many an hour.

As the months rolled along, the sorrows of the Countess still lay
heavily on her heart. Many a night she spent in tears and sleeplessness,
and many a day was sad and dreary. She tried very hard to cloak her woe,
and hide it from her son. In her unselfishness, she choked back her
tears and grief, filled each day with work, and gave strict attention to
her son's comfort, instruction and diversions. She always had a pleasant
word and smile for the old shepherd and his wife, whose life, though
lonely, was spent in the satisfaction of right living and lending a
helping hand. The joy that comes from doing one's best is the only
lasting joy, for every other pleasure fades and passes away.

Countess Berlow tried in every way to get news of the Count, but she had
not been very successful, although some news was printed in the daily
papers. The thoughtful old clergyman sent her a copy of the news, once
each week, as he did not receive it any oftener.

One night Albert returned carrying the paper, and said: "The good
clergyman did not have time to read it through, but he noticed from the
head lines, that the paper contains much good news."

The Countess took it and read anxiously. Finding the news somewhat
encouraging, she built hopes that soon she might return to her much
loved home; but, alas, in the very last column of the paper, she read
that many noblemen were to be sentenced to death for their loyalty to
the king. In the list, she found the name of her worthy husband, Count
Berlow. She reeled as if struck by a thunder-bolt, the paper fell from
her hands and she sank in a swoon.

A few minutes passed before the good shepherdess came in response to
Albert's cry, and brought the Countess back to consciousness. She had to
be carried to her bed, and it seemed as if she would never recover. Poor
Albert, who rarely left her bedside for a moment, began to fail and fade
day by day.

The old shepherd often said, shaking his head at the same time: "The
coming fall will surely scatter its leaves upon the grave of the
Countess, and her poor son will doubtless never see the spring."

CHAPTER III

THE PRISON

The faithful old Richard had waited on that memorable day of the flight
for the return of his brother John, the fisherman. He was elated when he
heard of the safety of the Countess. Richard's greatest trouble now was
how to save his master, the good Count Berlow. He considered it very
unjust and cruel that an honest and right-living citizen should be
sentenced to death for loyalty to his king.

On the following morning, Richard hurried to the city where his son,
Robert, served in the National Guard. With help he hoped to gain a
meeting with this good-natured, intelligent boy, who from time to time
acted as sentinel before the prison. He would try to secure his son's
aid in releasing the Count, so unjustly imprisoned. At last the
opportunity presented itself, and father and son had a hasty talk over
the situation. Robert found no chance, however, and gave up hope of
saving the Count.

At last the day arrived when the Count's sentence was to be carried out.
Sleepless and sad, with his head resting on his hands, the Count sat in
his lonely cell. The warden had not considered it worth while to bring
him a light, and heavy darkness enveloped him. He thought of his wife
and his children. Not for himself did he suffer so much, but for those
who were so dear to him. He knew not where they were, and he was greatly
troubled about their condition.

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