Seite - 162 - in The Forest Farm - Tales of the Austrian Tyrol

“Who closed her eyes?” A sound of hammering came from the parlour. The carpenter was knocking together the last dwelling-house. After a while, Maria drew the shroud over the head again, as softly and carefully as when she used to cover up our little mother, hundreds and hundreds of times, in the long period of sickness. Then I went into the small, warm parlour. Father, my elder sister, my two brothers, of whom the younger was still a boy, came up to me with mournful looks. They hardly spoke a word, they gave me their hands, all but the little fellow, who hid himself in the chimney-corner, where we could hear his sobbing. Joseph the carpenter was calmly planing away at the coffin, which he had now finished joining, and smoked his pipe as he did so. Later, when the afternoon shadows had lengthened outside, far over the glittering snow-clad meadow-land, when, in the parlour, Joseph was painting the black cross on the coffin-lid, father sat down beside it and said, softly: “Please God, after all, she has a house of her own again.” On the first day after mother’s death, no fire had been lit on the cottage- hearth. One and all had forgotten that a mortal man wants a basin of hot soup in the morning and at mid-day. On the other hand, a blazing fire had been kindled on the field behind the little house, to burn the straw bedding on which she had died, even as, long ago, the forefathers had fanned their Odin fires, commending the beloved dead to the Goddess Hella, the great concealer.[21] I had sat down on the bench and lifted my little brother up to me. The little man glanced at me quite fearsomely: I had a black coat on and a white scarf round my neck and I looked very grand in his eyes. I held his little hand, which already had horny blisters on it, in mine. Then I asked father to tell us something of mother’s life. “Wait a little,” answered father and looked on at the drawing of the cross, as in a dream. At last, he heaved a deep sigh and said: “So it’s finished now. Her cross and suffering lasted long, that’s true; but her life was short. Children, I tell you, not everyone has a mother like yours. For you, Peter, she nearly gave up her life, when you came into the world. And so they followed one after the other: joys and sorrows, care and want, poverty and wretchedness! And, when I was sick unto death and the doctors