Seite - 47 - in The Forest Farm - Tales of the Austrian Tyrol

from under his homespun cloak, gripped it between his front teeth, and, while striking a light, remarked, “Having a shave, Farmer?” “Yes, I’m having a bit of a shave,” answered my father, and went on scraping with the razor, and cut a really God-forsaken grimace. “That’s all right,” said the stranger. And later, when he was quite hidden in tobacco smoke and the icicles were dripping from his beard, he uttered himself thus: “I don’t know if so be you know me or not, Farmer. Five year agone I passed your place and took a drink of water at your spring. I come from Stanz; I’m Frau Drachenbinder’s farm-hand, and I’ve come about the matter of that big lad of yours.” Under the table, I went hot to the tips of my toes at these words. My father had but one big lad at the time, and that was myself. I drew back into the darkest corner. “Come about my boy?” returned my father. “You can have him if you want him—we can easily spare him; he’s just too bad for anything!” (Peasant folk are very fond of talking like that for the sake of teasing and overaweing their forward children.) “Come, come, Farmer! Not so bad as all that! Frau Drachenbinder wants to get something written down—a will or some such matter—and she don’t know anybody, far and wide, that’s a good writing scholar. But now she’s heard tell that the farmer at Vorderalpel has got an uncommon kind of boy that can do such things as that with his little finger alone! And so she’s sent me off here, and I was to beg of you, Farmer, if you’d be so kind as to lend her the loan of the boy over there for a day. She’ll soon pack him off back again, and give him something for his trouble as well.” When I heard him say that I rattled my shoe-tips against the table legs: that wouldn’t come at all amiss, I thought. “Go along with you!” said my father when he had scratched one cheek quite smooth. “However is my small boy to go to Stanz in the dead of winter? It must be at least a four hours’ walk!” “Just so,” answered the big man, “and that’s why I’m here. He’s only got to climb up on my back and open his legs and shove ‘em along past my ribs, both sides of me, towards the front, where I’ll lay hold of them; and then he must hug me round the neck with his hands, like as if he was my sweetheart, so that he don’t go falling off backwards.” “I see,” replied my father; “you needn’t make such a talk about a pig-a-