Seite - 50 - in The Forest Farm - Tales of the Austrian Tyrol

“That’s Frau Drachenbinder,” remarked my guide. “She’ll soon come and speak to you, and meantime you sit down there on the stool near the bed and put on your shoes again.” I did what he bade me, and he seated himself on a block of wood near by. When the woman became composed, she moved lightly about the stove and soon brought us a steaming grey meal-soup in an earthenware pot, and two bone spoons with it. My man ate solemnly and steadily, but I couldn’t quite fancy it. Then he got up and said softly to me, “Sleep well, boy!” and went away. And when I found myself alone in the close room with the sleeping child and the old woman I began to feel downright creepy. Frau Drachenbinder came up to me, laid her light, lean hand on my cheek, and said, “I thank the dear Lord God that you’ve come!—It’s barely six months since my daughter died. That there”—she pointed to the child—“is my young branch—such a dear mite— he’s my heir. And now I hear Death knocking at the door again. I’m very old. I’ve saved all my life—I’m going to beg my coffin from kind folks’ charity. My husband died long ago and left this little house to me. My illnesses have cost me the house—but they weren’t worth it. Whatever I leave behind me is for my grandchild’s very own. As yet he’s too young to take it into his heart, and I can’t give it into any man’s hand, and so I want to have it written down so that it’s kept. I won’t do it through the schoolmaster in Stanz, and the doctor can’t do it without the stamp-duty. And then people told me about the son of the farmer at Vorderalpel, and how he was such a scholar that he could write out people’s last wills without the stamp! That’s why I’ve had you brought all this long way. Do this favour for me to-morrow, and to-night go and get a good rest.” She ushered me, by the light of the burning splinter, into the little room adjoining. It was made only of boards. A bed of hay, with a covering in the shape of the woman’s thick, best Sunday dress, was there, and in a corner stood a little brown church with two small towers in which little bells were set a-tinkling whenever one trod the shaky floor. Frau Drachenbinder stuck the burning pine-wood in the window of one of the towers, made the sign of the cross on me with her thumb, and then I was alone in the room. It was cold: I was shivering with the bitter winter, and with a fear of my hostess too, but, before ever I crept into my nest, curiosity impelled me to open the door of the little church. Out sprang a mouse who had just made her supper off the gold- paper altar and St. Joseph’s cardboard hand. Saints and angels were there within, and gay banners and wreaths—it was a lovely toy. I thought to myself that this must be Frau Drachenbinder’s parish church, for the little body was far too feeble to walk to Stanz for mass. I said my evening prayer before it, asking Our Lord to protect me during that night; then I extinguished the