Page - 136 - in The Forest Farm - Tales of the Austrian Tyrol

neighbours seed, as he used to; indeed, he was barely able to provide for his own household. But he was not discouraged, for he had a young, careful, industrious wife in the house—a happy state of things which will always render bad years more bearable. His wife had proposed that they should grow more turnips than usual, and a big plot of cabbages, to make up to some extent for the lack of grain. Peter followed her counsel, and by June new beautiful seedlings were set out. In July down came the rain and mist on the Wilderness again, but the garden stuff went on slowly, steadily growing. During the raw days Clara stayed a good deal within doors, because Peter, mindful of her condition, would not have her out in the cold. But one day he came to her room, saying: “I don’t know what it means, Clara; there must have been some animal about—a whole row of the best cabbages has been eaten.” The farm-hand said he had that morning seen a stag running from the kitchen-garden towards the forest. Heidepeter set to work and heightened the wooden paling round the garden. When, very soon after, he saw Count Frohn crossing the field with his gun and gilded powder-horn and proudly curving cock’s feather, he called to him, “Your honour, I humbly beg pardon—but there’s a stag that’s always coming out of the forest, and he’ll eat up all our cabbages.” “Indeed?” answered the huntsman, laughing, and whistled to his dogs and went on. A night or two later the beast came again and ate a whole row of cabbages. And so the next time Peter met the Count he said, for the second time, and with his hat under his arm, “I hope your honour won’t be angry with me—but I’ve no help for it, save this. There’s been so many bad seasons, and we’ve hardly anything left to eat. Please rid us of that stag, for he’s eating up our food-stuff, leaf and root and all.” “Aha!” remarked the Count facetiously. “You’d prefer eating the stag with your cabbages to that, wouldn’t you, eh?” He whistled to his dog and went on. Quite downhearted, Peter went home, sat down on the bench, and for some time did not say anything. Suddenly he struck his fist upon the table and sprang up. Before he went out again, however, he went to his wife and said quietly: “Clara, I’m the sort of man that people can twist round their finger—they