Page - 95 - in The Forest Farm - Tales of the Austrian Tyrol

was going up. It was already dusk, and the homely smell of charcoal-burning, which I knew so well, came from among the tall pines. On the road we made many halts by ant-heaps, foxes’ holes, hedge-stiles, little streams and puddles; but now Simmerl hurried up. I did not want to go on, I wanted to turn back. I should be going into a strange house for the first time in my life—my courage gave way. But Simmerl gripped me quickly by the arm and led me into the farmyard and through the great door into the house. The air was cool in the entrance and scented with fruit; the kitchen was plastered and had nearly white walls, like an inn. At the open hearth women were busy with pots and kettles, and to one of them, who had a pale, pretty, kind face, went Simmerl, gave her his hand and said, “God greet you, mother!” It was in this house that I first heard children reverently greeting their parents at coming in and going out, just as if they were going to a distant country or were coming back from one. In our district at home we ran out like a calf from its stall, and the most that I ever said in the morning when I was off to school was, “I’m going now,” and the mother answered, “Well, go, in God’s name.” That was certainly something, but it was not so cordial and fine as when the Zutrum children said “God greet you!” or “God keep you!” and clasped their parents’ hands. In short, this entrance into the Zutrums’ house appeared very splendid to me. “And that is my school-friend, Peterl, from the Forest farm,” so Simmerl introduced me to his mother. “Now, that’s nice!” she said; wiped her right hand on her blue apron and held it out to me. I was not quite sure if my little paw ought to be stretched out too, hesitated, but finally did it. “Mother,” called Simmerl, “we are running down to the brook.” “Not too far—it will soon be supper-time.” We were in the open air again, and it had all gone off very smoothly. We did not get to the brook that evening, for there was the white, spotted yard- dog with puppies! These last were all together in mottled heap, which constantly surged and twisted, while every now and then a tiny creature hardly bigger than a rat got loose and rolled clumsily away. These things were absolutely all head, and the head again was all muzzle, and the muzzles burrowed to the teats which the old white dapple placed ready for use. All that, and the anxious growling of the old dog and the frightened whimpering of the young ones, and the doggy smell which came out of the kennel, nearly stupefied me with sheer delight. “Does she bite?” I asked Simmerl; for I wanted to stroke the puppies.