Seite - 73 - in The Forest Farm - Tales of the Austrian Tyrol

dear High-German language. And there was a certain book, too, with its “date of debt” and “date of payment,” which gave me an idea of the force that lies concealed in the language of Schiller and Goethe. It was a real live “hundred” which the timber-merchant held by the corner between his two fingers. Did not a chill shudder, at that moment, go over the tops of the larches that were dotted here and there in the pine-woods outside, I wonder? Nor any anxious foreboding trouble the hearts of the little birds that had built their nests there? My father did not put out his hand for the money, but neither did he hide it in his pocket; he did not busy it with the lever of the oil-press; he just kept it, half-open, as nature had bent it, on his knee, while he sat exhausted with his labour. Clements dropped the rare bit of paper into it; then the lank fingers closed softly—instinctively—and held it tight. The larch were sold. “I have only one condition to make,” said the timber-merchant, when he saw that the poor small farmer lay duly under the spell of the money. “I shall have the trees felled late in the autumn, when the snow comes. You will be astonished, forest-farmer, when I tell you that the emperor will ride over your larch-trees! Yes, yes, we shall use them for building the railway. My condition is that my wood-cutters shall be allowed to cook their meals and sleep in your house as long as they are working in the woods.” “Why not?” said father. “That’ll be all right, if it’s good enough for them under my roof.” What mischief those good-natured words brought down upon our peaceful forest home! Clements went away happy and contented, after presenting me with a bright new groschen for myself. I remember being surprised at this: it was obviously for us to be contented, seeing that we had the money! Father took his up to the loft and hid it in the clothes-press: it was very soon to come out again. Then the days passed, as usual, and the larch stood in the woods and rocked their long branches in the wind, as usual, and got ready their twigs for next spring, as usual. “They don’t know how soon they are to die!” my father said to me once, as we were coming from the meadow through the woods. But I comforted myself with the hope that Clements the timber-merchant, who lived out in the merry Mürzthal and never came back to our neighbourhood at all, would forget all about the larch. My mother, to whom I confided this view, said sharply: