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^yTuihor of Heidi

Translated by HELEN B. DOLE

NEW YORK

THOMAS Y CROWELL CO PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1919, by THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY

Contents

CHAPTER

PAGE

FIRST

Chapter First

WHERE lovely, green willow-clad hills rise, one after another, and the intersecting valleys are covered with gleaming red and blue Summer flowers, there lies the little village of Altkirch. The neat, white church with the red tower, and the wooden houses round about, lie protected from every wind, in the green vale, for at the back of the village and from both sides, rise steep hills, and only the front side is free and open. This looks across towards the green height of Rechberg, on the wood-crowned summit of which another village with its white stone houses, shines afar, and like the mountain bears the name of Rechberg.

Between the hills the wild Ziller brook rushes along, bringing on its journey down from the mountains, much wood and stone, in its troubled waters.

A highway leads from Altkirch to Rechberg, but it makes a long journey. First it zigzags down the mountain to the Ziller brook, then over 9 the old covered bridge, and on the other side it again zigzags up to the village of Rechberg, in all good five miles long. A shorter and much pleasanter way is by the narrow foot-path, which leads straight over the mountain down to the brook, and straight across the narrow wooden bridge which spans the rushing torrent. The bridge is so narrow only one person at a time can go over it, and it is well that there is a railing on both sides, by which one can hold on firmly, for it is so lightly built it trembles and yields so much with every step, that the traveler feels’ quite unsafe as he crosses it.

Not a house is to be seen in any direction on all the green hills around, except on the last where the steep foot-path goes down to the brook, there stands a lonely chapel, looking down upon the rushing water from ancient times, and the bridge so often carried away and newly built again.

There are many poor people in Altkirch, for there is very little work there. Most of the men go as day-laborers to the farms in the neighborhood; a few own a bit of land which they cultivate. Only two or three peasants in the village have enough land to keep a few cows.

One of the poorest families was that of Willow- Joseph, in the old tumble-down cottage, standing opposite the chapel on the foot-path and quite alone. The cottage is almost covered with the long overhanging branches of an ancient willowtree, which had spread out more and more until it had at last wholly surrounded it. From this tree the owner was called Willow- Joseph. He had always hved in the cottage, for it had belonged to his father, who had lived there a long time before. Now Willow- Joseph was himself an old man, and lived in the cottage with his aged wife, who had been ill for a good while, and his two grandchildren.

Willow- Joseph had an only son, Sepp, who had always been a good-natured, but rather shiftless and unsteady man.

Where he was living now, the old parents did not know, for he had gone away from home six years before and little had been heard from him during that time. Sepp had married very early in life, and his parents had been glad, for his wife was the good industrious Constance, whom everybody hked. She was also good-looking and as she went quietly on her way, working conscientiously, she was equalled by few. She kept everything in beautiful order about her husband’s house, and Willow- Joseph and his wife had good times as long as their daughter was with them. She worked from early until late and did not let the parents lack for anything. She said father and mother must now rest, as they had done enough, and they two young people must give the old ones happy days.

Sepp went to work every day on the big farm the other side of the brook and on Saturday brought home a good sum of money. Everything was so well ordered and went on its lovely course in health and happiness that Sepp became a very steady man and had no desire to depart from it.

Three years passed thus in undisturbed happiness, and old Father Klemens, who lived in the long old house back of Altkirch and often came to Willow- Joseph’s cottage, said many times;

“Joseph, it is good to live at your house. No unkind words are heard there. Honor your Constance!”

And his kind eyes lighted up with joy, when Constance, neat and trim as she always was, came in and welcomed him with her merry voice, and little Stanzeli in her arms would hold out her tiny hand while he was still some distance away, to Father Klemens. Then he would say again:

“Yes, surely, it is good to hve with you, Joseph!”

When Stanzeli was two years old little Seppli came into the world. This was a great joy for all, but soon after the greatest sorrow that could happen came to Willow- Joseph’s house. Constance died and left her husband and little children, causing a gap that never more was filled.

From that time on Sepp ran about aimlessly. A restless and unsteady spirit came over him again; he could no longer stay at home on Sunday, as he formerly was so glad to do; it drove him farther and farther away, and at last he decided if he could go away altogether and find other work, far off, it would be better for him. He promised to send his parents from time to time a good sum of money to provide for them and his children ; then he went away.

For some time he kept his promise and sent the contribution. Then it ceased and for six years they had known nothing more about him, neither where he had gone, nor even if he was still alive.

Meanwhile both parents had kept growing weaker and poorer. The only small earnings left to them was derived from little baskets which the grandfather wove from the willow twigs and gave every Friday to the dairy man, who carried his cheese to market in the town. The grandfather did not make much from his baskets and the grandmother had to portion out every slice of bread, to get along from one day to another.

Stanzeli was now almost nine, and Seppli seven years old, and Stanzeh had to help her grandfather in everything he did, for her grandmother had been sick in bed for four months, and could do nothing more. So the grandfather and Stanzeli had to do the cooking together every day, but this was not very extensive for there was nothing cooked but corn-meal mush and potatoes, and very rarely a httle coffee. But it needed both of them to prepare the food, for Stanzeli was too small still to lift the pots and the grandfather did not always know how to mix things for cooking, while Stanzeli knew this quite well. So they always worked together in the kitchen, and Seppli usually stood also in the little room where the two could hardly move without getting in each other’s way, and gazed in wide eyed expectation at the grand things which were prepared there. And neither the grandfather nor Stanzeli tried to keep Seppli out of the little kitchen, for they knew very well that he would be back again in two minutes, for Seppli had remarkable persistence in many ways.

A beautiful, warm September sun was shining outside over the green hills around Altkirch. Even a few beams fell through the opaque window panes on the grandmother’s bed.

“O God!” she sighed, “is the sun still shining? If I could only go out once more! But I would be still if my bed was not as hard as wood and nothing more in my pillow. And when I begin to think of the Winter, if I must lie here so on the hard sack, under the thin little cover and without a good pillow, I shall die of cold. I am cold already.”

“You mustn’t worry about the Winter yet,” said the grandfather soothingly; “Our Lord will still be alive then; He has ‘helped us many times, when things looked bad, you must not forget that. What do you say if we make a little drop of coffee to warm you up?”

The grandmother was glad to drink a little cup of coffee, and the grandfather opened the door into the kitchen, for you went directly into it from the room where the grandmother’s bed stood. A little flight of stairs behind the stove led up to the sleeping room, where the grandfather slept with the children. Then he beckoned to Stanzeli to come, and immediately Seppli followed after, for he had to see what was going to be prepared to eat. Outside the grandfather took down the saucepan from its place and poured water into it. Then he said :

“Stanzeli, what do you do first?”

“First I must grind the coffee-beans,” explained the child and immediately sat down with the old coffee-mill on the stool and turned it with all her might. But there was something wrong with it, and she examined it in first one way and then another, and finally drew out the little drawer carefully underneath. Instead of the fine powder she ought to have found in it, were big pieces almost half coffee-beans. Stanzeli, in horror, held out the drawer to her grandfather, and showed him the trouble. Her grandfather looked at the damage and- tried to keep her quiet, saying :

“You mustn’t make any noise, for your grandmother to hear, or she will be troubled and think she can’t have any more coffee to drink. Just wait a little.”

Whereupon the grandfather went out and soon came back with a big stone in his hand. With this he broke and crushed the coffee-beans on a paper, and then Stanzeli shook the coarse powder into the saucepan. But when the grandmother took her cup in her hand, she exclaimed pitifully:

“Oh dear! oh dear! big grains are floating on the top, the coffee-mill is broken. Oh, if she had only brought it to me. We are not able to buy a new one.”

But the grandfather said in a soothing tone:

“You mustn’t make yourself sick about it. With patience many things are made right.”

“Yes, indeed, but no coffee-mill,” complained the grandmother again.

Stanzeli and Seppli each had a little cup of coffee, and some pieces of potato, for they had bread only on Sunday, each a small piece.

Then the grandfather brought out his baskets, which he had finished weaving, tied them together in pairs with a string and placed a little bundle of them in each child’s hand. Then he told the children to go along with them, and charged them not to be too late in coming home. They knew where they had to go with the baskets, for every two weeks they went to the dairyman’s on such an errand. He lived quite far from the village. They had to go over the hill, past the chapel, up to the woods, where his cottage stood.

The children now started and since Stanzeli always went on her way conscientiously, Seppli had to follow, even when he would like to stop and look at one thing or another. When they came to the chapel, Stanzeli stood still and said:

“Lay the baskets here on the ground, Seppli; we must go into the chapel and say the Lord’s Prayer. They can lie here until we come out.”

But Seppli was obstinate.

“I will not go in, I am too hot,” he said and sat down on the ground.

“No, Seppli, come. You must come in,” commanded Stanzeli. “Don’t you know that Father Klemens said when you went by a chapel you must always go in and say a prayer? Stand up and come quickly!”

Seppli remained obstinately sitting on the ground. But Stanzeli gave him no rest. She took him quite anxiously by the hand and pulled him up.

“You must come, Seppli. It is not right to do so. You ought to want to pray.”

At that moment some one came up from below to the chapel. Suddenly Father Klemens stood before the children.

Seppli sprang to his feet in a twinkling. The children offered their hands to the Father.

“Seppli! Seppli!” he said very kindly, as he pressed his hand, “what did I hear? You will not follow Stanzeli, when she wants to go into the chapel with you? I will tell you something.

You see, it is not a command of our Lord’s, that we should go into the chapel to pray, but it is a privilege that we may pray to Him so. And every time when we do this. He sends us something, which we cannot always see right away.”

Then the kind priest continued on his way and Seppli went without further opposition with Stanzeli into the chapel and said his prayer reverently. After sometime when the children had come out again, they heard loud voices and a heavy panting sounded up the foot-path, which descends very steep to the brook.

Then one after another three heads came into sight, first a little girl’s head, and then two boys’ heads, and then all at once three children stood before the other two and they all looked at one another with mutual astonishment.

Chapter Second

The little girl who had just appeared was the largest of them all. She must have been quite eleven years old and the larger of the brothers a little over a year younger, while the other was considerably smaller, but very stockily built.

The little girl came a few steps nearer the children and said :

“What are your names?”

The children mentioned them.

“Where is your home?” asked the child further.

“In Altkirch, there. You can see the church tower,” replied Stanzeli, pointing to the red tower between the hills.

“So you have a church too ! We have a church like that, but it is closed and we only go in on Sunday. But we have no chapel like that. There stands one higher up. Just see, Kurt, away up in the woods.”

The little girl pointed up with her finger and 20 her brother nodded to show that he saw what she wished him to.

‘T should like to know why you have such chapels here on so many of the hills.”

“So that you can go in and pray, when you pass by,” said Stanzeli quickly.

“You can do that any way,” replied the other little girl; “you can pray anywhere, wherever you are, for the dear Lord hears us everywhere, that I know.”

“Yes, but you don’t think you ought to pray, until you come to the chapel, then you know right away, and do it too,” replied Stanzeli earnestly.

“Now we must go, Lissa,” urged her brother Kurt, for this conversation was too long for him.

But Lissa did not hurry at all, she enjoyed making this acquaintance, and Stanzeli pleased her because she made such decided answers and had just said what Lissa could not deny, for she knew it herself. It was really so : it never came into her mind to pray and thank the dear Lord, when she went out for a walk and was happy, although she had just said decidedly to Stanzeli that you could pray everywhere. All at once the chapel made a new impression on Lissa, for until now she had looked upon it as only a building, standing there merely because it had been placed there a long time before. She had never thought that to-day it was still making a definite call to every one who passed by. Now it was as if the dear Lord pointed down from Heaven to the chapel and said :

“There it stands, so that you may think of me.”

As Lissa, absorbed in thought, did not speak for a long time, Stanzeli continued :

“And it is not like a command, but rather a favor that we may go in and pray, for when we do so, the dear Lord always sends us something, although we cannot see it. Father Klemens said so.”

“Yes, but I would rather have something I can see,” broke in Seppli, who had remained standing by Stanzeli and had listened attentively.

“Do you know Father Klemens too?” asked Lissa, quite delighted, for he was well known to all the children on the other side of the Ziller brook for a long distance, and their good friend. Wherever he was seen by them, in his long cloak, the big crucifix hanging at his side, they would run to him from every direction to shake hands with him, and he would immediately take out his old pocketbook from his full robe and give a lovely, bright-colored picture to each one. Lissa had already received many of them, with rosy angels, scattering flowers, and others with a bush full of blooming roses, and a little bird sitting on the very top, and many others besides, so the name of Father Klemens called up the dearest memories.

“He lives near us in Altkirch, up in the old monastery, and he often comes to see us,” Stanzeli informed them.

“Yes, and he often brings grandmother a whole loaf of bread,” added Seppli, in whose memory this fact stood out very clearly.

“Now we must go, it is still a long way to the dairyman’s,” said Stanzeli, as she took up her bundle of baskets, and gave Seppli his.

“Will you come to see me sometime, in Rechberg?” asked Lissa, who wanted to continue the new acquaintance a little further.

“I don’t know the way. I have never been on the other side of the brook.”

“Oh, that is very easy to find, only come early some Sunday afternoon,” said Lissa encouragingly. “Then we can play until evening. You have only to go along the path below, and up and up, to the very highest point, and there is Rechberg, and the big house, that stands all alone above all the rest, is our house. So come then!”

Then the children parted. Stanzeli went with

Seppli up the mountain and Lissa looked around for her brothers for she had heard nothing of them for a long while. Kurt had climbed up into the old fir tree, standing next the chapel, and was swinging boldly back and forth on a rotten limb, which cracked suspiciously so that Lissa watched with interest to see whether Kurt would soon come down with the branch, which seemed more amusing than dangerous.

Not far from the tree lay little fat Karl stretched out on the ground fast asleep, and so fast asleep that Lissa’s loud calls to get up were entirely lost on him. But now there came something tumbling down the hill that suddenly brought Kurt from the tree and Karl to his feet. It was a big flock of sheep, old and young, big and small: all were swarming, hopping, jumping together and beside them the big sheep dog ran barking so loud and emphatically to prevent any from being lost, that Karl was immediately wakened and sprang up quickly to look at the passing crowd.

The shepherd drove his flock past the children towards Altkirch. The three looked in silent amazement at them as they went by and their eyes could not take in enough of the merry gambols, which the pretty young lambs made beside their mothers, who looked carefully after the little ones, lest they should run away mischievously from the others and be lost.

When the flock had almost passed out of sight, and only the old sheep were left running after the others, Karl, still lost in astonishment, drew a long breath and said :

‘Tf we only had a little lamb like them!”

That was exactly what Kurt and Lissa thought, and all three were wholly agreed, which was seldom the case. Lissa at once proposed to return home quickly and to beg their papa and mamma to grant their request and give them a lamb. Then she pictured to her brothers how it would be if they could take the lamb everywhere with them and lead it up to the pasture and always see its merry gambols and watch it carefully as the old sheep did ; and all three with the prospect of such a possession became so delighted, that they rushed down the mountain with all their might and ran over the bridge, Lissa going first. Behind her followed Kurt, and both bounded so high over the lightly built bridge that it tottered and trembled under their feet, and the loose boards laid on it sprang up and down, so that Karl following after lost his footing and fell in the middle of the bridge, and almost plunged into the rushing brook. Kurt turned around and pulled him up, and since Lissa had already come to solid ground, the bridge no longer swayed up and down and the brothers came safely to the other side.

The way from there up to Rechberg was quite far, and it took the children a good three quarters of an hour before they came to the last steps and saw the lights from the windows in their house shining towards them, for it had meanwhile grown quite dark.

Already for an hour past the magistrate’s wife had walked anxiously to and fro, first from the room out on the stone steps of the house, then down into the garden, looked around and then turned back, and after a little while, took the same walk over again.

She had not seen anything of the children since dinner and they were usually at home by four o’clock at coffee-time or even sooner. Their mother had allowed them to spend the free Saturday afternoon up in the woods, so they had run off all three of them in high spirits directly after dinner. But now it had grown quite dark and still not a sound of the children was to be heard anywhere. Where could they have been delayed so long? Or could something have happened to little Karl, who was not quite so strong on his feet? Every possible anxiety rose in the mother’s mind and she ran more and more restlessly out and in and to all the windows.

But now — there were their well-known voices ; they sounded quite excited although still far below. The mother ran out — ^to be sure, they were coming up the hill, and as the children caught sight of her, they ran pell-mell one after the other, each trying to be the first to tell her their experience, but little Karl was now quite far behind. Kurt and Lissa rushed towards their mother almost together and were about to relate everything at the same time, but at that moment a loud voice sounded from the other side :

‘‘Come to supper! Come to supper!”

It was the voice of the magistrate, who had just returned from his business and had strict household regulations.

When they were all quietly seated at the table, they began their story, but now it was not so easy, for the children had first to explain what had happened that they had not come home at coffee-time as they ought.

Finally it came out that Lissa had found it too dull in the little woods and had proposed that they climb up to the old linden tree. Since from there they could look down on the old chapel and the Ziller brook and the narrow foot-path, Lissa had an irresistible desire to run there at once and see it all near to, for she had a pleasant memory of the swaying and trembling of the bridge on an earlier excursion there. The brothers consented and the journey was undertaken in haste. Finally it had proved to be much farther than it had appeared.

When the children had confessed the forbidden journey, which was followed by a warning not to carry out such a sudden idea again, then came the whole story in full force, first about the chapel, then the two children, then the flock of sheep and afterwards everything all over again from the beginning and in still greater detail. Finally came the description of the jolly crossing over the brook, and what had happened there. This description naturally resulted in their father’s strictly forbidding any future expeditions to the Ziller brook. The swaying bridge was a contrivance, against which the magistrate had long protested, but still the rickety means of crossing remained.

“Karl, the fat, is resting after his day’s work, and yours must come to an end too,” said their father, shaking the chair next him a little, on which Karl had fallen asleep, for he had made a great exertion. But it was not so easy to break this first good sleep, and the father seized the chair, and carried it together with the sleeper into the bedroom, and the other children followed him jumping and shouting at the huge joke. Finally their mother came and had no end of trouble to wake up the one and quiet the others.

From that day on, no breakfast, dinner or supper passed that the children did not break forth one after another and in every tone, with these words :

“If only we had a little lamb!”

Finally the magistrate had had enough of it.

One evening, when the mother was sitting with the children around the table, and little Karl, who was somewhat bored by the studies of the older ones, had just said for the sixteenth time:

“If we only had a little lamb — ” suddenly their father opened the door wide and in sprang a real, live lamb. The little creature was covered with curly snow-white wool and the prettiest the children had ever seen. Such shouts of delight, such a noise was raised in the room that not a word could be understood, for the lamb ran bunting and bleating from one corner of the room to the other, because it could find no way out and all three children ran after it, screaming with delight. But suddenly sounded their father’s loud voice :

“Now, that is enough! First of all the little lamb is coming to its brand new stall and you come too, and listen to what I have to say.”

The children went out with the lamb. They wondered very much where the new stall for the little creature could be, and how it looked.

To be sure, there was a little partition of brand new boards put up in the back of the stable, and in it lay fine, soft straw for the lamb to sleep on. A little crib had also been brought in, where they could throw grass and hay for the creature and other good things, which would taste good to it.

When the lamb had been put to bed on the straw, and lay quite still, only breathing a little anxiously, the father said it must now go to sleep, closed the low door, and beckoned the children to follow him.

Inside the room he sat down, placed the three children in front of him, raised his fore-finger high and said earnestly :

“Now listen to me well and think about what I say. I have taken the little lamb away from its mother, to give it to you. Now you must take the mother’s place, watch over it carefully and tend it so that it will be content with you and not die of homesickness. You may take it out in every free hour, to play with you and go to walk with you. You can take it to the pasture so it can crop the grass for itself; you can go with it wherever you like. But never must you leave the little creature alone, not for a moment, for it is still too small to find its way; it would run away at once, and never find its stall and miserably perish. Whoever takes it out of the stable, must keep it under his eyes until he brings it back again to its place. Have you understood me well and will you care for the lamb exactly as I have said, or if you would rather not, tell me and I will take it to-night back to its mother?”

The children all three cried out, that their father should leave the lamb with them. They would not give it back at any price. All three promised from their hearts, and with all sincerity, to Watch over it and care for it, as their father required, and never for a moment to leave the creature standing or running alone, and each one assured him that he himself would always bring back the lamb to the stable, when it was time, for that would be the greatest delight. But their father said that would be unsafe; it must be decided that whoever took the lamb out must bring it back again and so it must remain. Once more the children promised to treat the lamb exactly as their father had ordered, and all three gave him their hand on it, and all three were so full of excitement at the prospect of having a live lamb to keep for their own, that they could not go to sleep that evening for the longest time. Even sleepy little Karl sat quite upright in his bed and exclaimed again and again to Kurt :