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who knows his own value does not exactly care to make himself cheap. But
now came a great embarrassment. The weather, to be sure, was fine and
warm; the days were long, and mother was quite ready to go. But how were
we to carry her on that many-hours’ road to Tom of the Footpath? It was
impossible. Drive? We had no cart; and the last pair of draught-oxen had been
taken from us by the creditors to whom we had had to apply once more during
mother’s illness. The neighbours were using their oxen just now for
ploughing the fields. The jobbing farmer had two horses: he was willing to let
them out to us, but his charge for the day—father struck his hands together at
the thought—was five florins and their oats.
And, as we were all sitting in deep distress around our sick mother, seeking
for a way out of the difficulty and finding none, the door opened and the lad
from the road-side tavern walked in.
“What do you want, my boy?” asked my father.
The boy stood dangling his arms.
“Ay,” he said, “it’s this way: Samersteffel sends word to say that, if the
woodman likes to have his horse and cart, he can have them.”
Samersteffel was what Stephen, the local carrier, was called.
“Where is Carrier Steve?”
“He’s with us and he’s put up his horse and cart at our place.”
My father thought over what he had better say; then he said:
“Steve is sure to want a good price; tell him from me, no, but I’m obliged
to him.”
The boy went away; and, in an hour’s time, Carrier Steve came round in
person. He was a little fat man, who, in the old days, before the road was
made, used to carry all sorts of things over the mountain-path with a pack-
horse. Now that the road was there, he had set up a little light cart, in which
he conveyed corn, salt, cider and so on, but all for money, of course, as that
was what he lived by; and not only that, but he wanted to get rich, so as to
build a big inn on the new road. To be an innkeeper was the dream of his life;
and he had the making of one in him, for he was always in a good temper and
would certainly know how to entertain his visitors.
But to-day, when he walked into our parlour, he was in anything but a good
temper.
“You’re making a lot of useless trouble for one of us,” he said, and sat
down puffing and panting on the bench against the wall. “Have you ever
heard, woodman, that I have pressed myself on anyone for the sake of gain?
The Forest Farm
Tales of the Austrian Tyrol
- Titel
- The Forest Farm
- Untertitel
- Tales of the Austrian Tyrol
- Autor
- Peter Rosegger
- Verlag
- The Vineyard Press
- Ort
- London
- Datum
- 1912
- Sprache
- englisch
- Lizenz
- PD
- Abmessungen
- 21.0 x 29.7 cm
- Seiten
- 169
- Kategorien
- Geographie, Land und Leute
- International