Page - 26 - in The Forest Farm - Tales of the Austrian Tyrol

I gave a piercing cry. A few seconds later I was lifted out of my shell by my parents, and I fell at my father’s feet and clung whimpering to his knee. “Father, father!” were the only words I could stammer out. He reached down to me with both his arms, lifted me up to his breast, and my hair was wet with his tears. In that moment the eyes of my understanding were opened. I saw how dreadful it was to anger and offend such a father. But I saw, too, why I had done so—from sheer longing to see my father’s face before me, to be able to look into his eyes and hear his voice speaking to me. If he could not be cheery as others were with me, and as he, at that time so care-laden, seldom was, then I would at least look into his angry eyes, hear his harsh words. They went tingling deliciously all through me, and drew me to him with irresistible might. At least they were my father’s eyes and words. No further jar unhallowed our Christmas Eve, and from that day on things were very different. My father had become deeply aware of his love for me and my devotion to him; and, in many an hour of play, work, and rest, bestowed upon me his dear face and kindly conversation, so that I never again needed to get them by guile. Footnote: [2] A place of pilgrimage in Styria.