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3.
CHILD'S LOVE

Next door to Valentine lived Mike Shackerle, a poor man, whose sole wealth was in his children, the youngest of whom was called Emmerence: the carpenter's wife was her godmother, and Emmerence spent almost all her time at. Valentine's house, ate and drank there, and only slept at home. She was of Ivo's age exactly, and the two children were inseparable. Although his ungallant schoolfellows called him "girl-runner," he stuck to Emmerence. They had a partnership in a lot of fruit they had buried in the hay-loft. Over this treasure they would often sit with quiet joy. Ivo showed himself as a man in being able to count up to a hundred. Emmerence listened devoutly and spoke the numbers after him. The damaged and the odd pieces were consumed in equal portions. Disputes were not wanting; when the partnership-goods were divided at once. But the separation never lasted longer than a day; for, if they did not "go joints," how could they talk to each other of their fortune?

Great changes took place, however. Ivo received from Nat the present of a whip, and Emmerence learned to knit. In towns children are presented with drums or with toy-shops, to play soldier and trader until life begins in earnest: in the village they begin to play farmer with a whip. Ivo would stand before the empty wagon, smack his whip at the bare pole, and cry, "Whoa! Gee! Get up!" The moment he came home from school, his slate and ruler were laid upon the footstool behind the stove, his whip cracked, and the geese and chickens routed up and down the road. While thus roystering about one day, he saw Emmerence sitting under the walnut-tree with her knitting. Her little kitten lay near her, purring and puffing in the sun. The plump little yellow-haired girl was taking up her stitches with a zeal which kept her eyes riveted to her work; her lips were pressed together with an air of determination, as if she was bound to make a woollen jacket for old Winter himself.

Ivo stood quietly looking at her for a while, and then asked, "Are you knitting stockings for your puss?"

Emmerence took no time to answer, but went on knitting. The spirit of mischief tickled Ivo, and he pulled the needle out of her fingers.

Emmerence got up to throw a stone after him as he ran away; but, girl-like, she never lifted it over her shoulder, but let it fall immediately at her own feet. Having gathered up her needles, she went home crying.

In the afternoon Ivo soon obtained forgiveness for his cruelty by presenting Emmerence with a piece of a broken blue-glass bottle. They looked at the sun through it by turns, exclaiming, "Oh, my! how pretty!" Ivo wrapped the gem in a piece of paper and left it with Emmerence.

From time to time the village was visited by a man who, like the bold Ratcatcher sung by Goethe, always had the children at his heels. It was the "saint-man," who would sell pictures of the saints to the children for broken glass. Ivo always ransacked the house until the glittering coin was found, and then brought Emmerence the prize.

Not in the sunshine alone, but also in the storm, we find the children together.

Old Valentine looked out of the window with a pleased expression in his face, – for it is easy to look pleased during a fine summer shower, even when there is not much to think about: body and soul are played upon as with a gentle dew, and the drops fall from the eaves of the opposite houses like the ripples of a stream: all around us-even the flood of the silent air itself-has acquired a voice and a meaning.

Ivo and Emmerence had taken refuge in the open barn: little Jake, the squire's son, who was but three years old, was there also. The chickens had betaken themselves to the same asylum: they stood beside the children, with drooping tails, often shaking themselves. The black kitten also crept along under the eaves of the house so softly that its coming into the barn was not perceived until the chickens cackled: it dived down into the stable immediately.

At first it dripped so slightly that you could only see the rain by looking at the dark windows opposite; but soon the drops swelled and pattered, and Ivo said, "Ah, this is first-rate for my pinks in the garden." "Pinks in t' garden," repeated little Jake. Again Ivo said, "Ah, that'll be a big puddle." "Big puddle," re-echoed little Jake. Ivo looked at him grimly.

Farmers drove by with empty sacks on their heads, crying out and trying to escape the storm: the children laughed at them and cried out, "Whew!" Emmerence stood with her head a little on one side, and her hands under her apron: just when it rained hardest, Ivo pushed her out under the eaves. Little Jake sprang out of his own accord, as if to challenge the rain, but still he shut his eyes and held down his head, so as not to get the very worst of it. With her apron over her head, Emmerence now did her best to get under cover again; but Ivo was on the look-out, and never let her in till she began to cry.

The rain at last stopped: the sun came forth brightly, and the children rushed out with unspeakable joy. The human plants seemed to derive as much benefit from the freshened air as any others. Yellow torrents poured down along the road: the children launched chips upon them, and waded about in the water, looking for bits of iron. Ivo, who always had extended projects, wished to build a mill; but long before the mill was ready the water had run off. How often do we build up machines to be moved by the stream of our lives, and ere the machinery is half constructed the water-course is empty and dry!

Much as Ivo loved to tease Emmerence, he never permitted anybody else to harm her. Once he was returning home from school, armed, as usual, with his buckler the slate, and his sword the ruler, when he saw Emmerence pursued by two evil spirits in the shape of old gray geese. Crying and screaming, the poor girl fled, with her eyes turned upon her foes. Already had one of them seized her gown and was tugging at it, when Ivo rushed upon them, and a hard-fought battle ensued, out of which Ivo at last came forth victorious. With the consciousness of heroism, he helped Emmerence up from where she had fallen, and walked triumphantly by her side, armed as he was. Nat had told him stories of knights rescuing poor, helpless damsels from giants and dragons: he now felt as if he was something like one of these knights himself.

4.
BRINDLE AND THE GOSLINGS

The purchase of a horse or a cow is an event of absorbing interest in the family of every farmer; but, when it is remembered that in the Black Forest the dwelling-house, the stable, and the barn, are all parts of one and the same building, it is clear that the importance of such an occurrence is doubly great, for it makes a change, if not in the family itself, at least in the household.

An event of this kind took place one day when Valentine came home from the fair in the upper village with a fine heifer. Before it was taken into the house it was examined and praised by all the neighbors and passers-by. Ivo and his mother, and Nat, received the stranger at the door. A wooden horse fell to Ivo's share as his "fairing," and Valentine placed the end of the tether into Nat's hands, looked round with an air of triumph, and then dismissed the "cattle" into the stable with a good-humored stroke on the hocks. It was indeed a fine beast, just what farmers like to call a smart, strutty sort of cow.

Ivo, with his wooden horse on his bosom, hastened to help Nat prepare the stranger's supper. "Short feed" was heaped in the trough; but she would not open her mouth except to growl gloomily. Ivo passed his hand gently over her sleek hide: she turned her head and looked fixedly at the boy for a long time.

Ivo then played with his wooden horse, which showed no reluctance to make his acquaintance, but seemed at home everywhere and always carried its head high.

At night Ivo was waked out of his sleep by a wailing note which shook his soul. The poor heifer seemed to pour out her very bowels with lamentation.

Ivo lay awake a long time listening to the sounds which went forth so mournfully into the stillness. Whenever they ceased he held his breath, hoping that they would come no more; but the poor cow always began again.

At last Ivo waked his father.

"What's the matter?"

"The new heifer's crying."

"Let her cry, and go to sleep, you foolish boy: the heifer's homesick, and it can't be helped."

Ivo shut his ears with the pillows and fell asleep again.

For nearly three days the heifer refused to eat a morsel; but at last she grew accustomed to the other cattle in the stable, and ate quietly like the rest. But a new trouble arose when the claws of her fore-feet came off. She was only used to walk on soft pasture, but not to travel so much on hard roads as was necessary in passing between the stable and the fields.

Ivo often helped Nat to bind up the heifer's hoofs, and gave the greatest proofs of sympathy and tenderness; nor did she fail to return his kindness as far as she could, and Nat, who knew all about cows and their ways, used to say, "The herdsboy that minded her before must have looked like you, Ivo; be sure of that."

While the cow gave him so much pleasure, the wooden horse became a source of grief. It had become quite soiled. So, one morning, without saying a word about it to anybody, he ran down to the pond and gave it a good scouring, but returned home with loud wailing, for he found that all the color came out of it. Thus early did he discover how little artificial favorites are to be trusted.

But fate soon gave him ample compensation for his loss. Once more, late in the night, the whole house was astir on account of the heifer: she was calving. Ivo was not allowed to go into the stable: he only heard a low, distant wail, – for the curse is on animals also, and they must "bring forth with pain."

At dawn of day Ivo hurried into the stable. A fine brindled calf was lying at the dam's feet, and she kissed and licked it with her tongue. No one could go near it without setting the cow into a storm of rage; only when Ivo stepped up and timidly touched the calf she was quiet. Her first-born was a son, and Ivo never ceased to beseech his father to raise the calf until he consented.

From this time on Ivo was always in the kitchen when warm food or drink was being prepared for the mother, and no one but he had leave to hold the pail for her to drink.

But Ivo was destined to find that no pleasure is to be enjoyed without interruption. One day, coming home from school, he saw a large dog on the threshold. Passing him carefully, he went on to the stable. There he found a man in a blue smock and red and yellow checked neckcloth, which hung in a loose knot to his neck. In his hand he held a hawthorn stick with a handle of brass thread.

Ivo saw at once that he was a butcher. His father, who stood by him, was just saying, "For eight florins you may have it; but it's a pity to kill it with such fine hoofs."

"I'll give seven."

His father shook his head.

"Well, split the difference and say done."

Ivo saw what it all meant in an instant. Leaving his slate and books against the wall, he rushed into the stable, fell upon the calf's neck and cried, embracing it tenderly, "No, no, Brindle! they sha'n't stab your poor neck." He cried aloud, and could hardly pronounce the words, "Why, father, father, you promised me!"

The calf bleated with all its might, as if it knew what was about to happen, and the cow turned her head and growled without opening her mouth.

Valentine was puzzled. He took off his cap, looked into it, and put it on again. Smiling on Ivo, he said at last, "Well, let it be so; I don't want to fret the child. Ivo, you may raise it, but you must find the food for it."

The butcher walked away, his dog barking as he ran before him, as if to give vent to his master's vexation. He made a rush at Valentine's geese and chickens, and scattered them in all directions: it is the way with underlings to expend their ill will on the dependants of their master's foes.

The thought that he had saved the calf's life made Ivo very happy; yet he could not but feel sore at the idea that, but for an accident, his father would have broken the promise he had made him. He forgot all this, however, when the time came for him to lead his pet out into the grass and watch it while grazing.

One afternoon Ivo stood holding Brindle by the tether while it browsed. With a clear voice he sang a song which Nat had taught him. The tones seemed to tremble with half-suppressed yearnings. It was as follows: -

 
"Up yonder, up yonder,
At the heavenly gate,
A poor soul is standing
In sorrowful strait.
"Poor soul of mine, poor soul of mine,
Come hither to me,
And thy garments shall be white
As wool to-see.
"As white and as pure
As the new-driven snow,
And, hand in hand, together
Into heaven we'll go.
"Into heaven, into heaven,
Upon the heavenly hill,
Where God Father, and God Son,
And God the Spirit dwell."
 

Hardly was the song ended when he saw Emmerence coming toward him from the brick-yard. With a dry fir-twig she was driving some young ducklings before her. On coming up to Ivo she stopped and began to talk.

"Oh, you can't think," said she, "what trouble I had getting my four ducklings out of the puddle in the brickyard. Four gray ones and two white, you see. They're just a week old now. Only think, my mother made a hen sit on the eggs, and now the hen won't take care of 'em: they run about, and nobody looks after 'em at all."

"They're orphans," said Ivo, "and you must be their mother."

"Yes, and you don't know how pitifully they can look at you one-sided,'-this way." She laid her head on one side, and looked up at Ivo prettily enough.

"Look at them," said he: "they can't be quiet a minute, they keep splashing and floundering about all the time. It 'ould make me giddy to go on that way."

"I can't see," said Emmerence, looking very thoughtful, "how these ducklings found out that they can swim. If a duck had hatched 'em out, she might show 'em; but the hen never looked at 'em; and, for all that, as fast as they could waddle they toddled on till they got into the water."

Here the thoughts of two infant souls stood at the mysterious portal of nature. There was silence a little while, and then Ivo said, -

"The ducklings all keep together and never part. My mother said we must do so too; and brothers and sisters belong together; and, when the cluck culls, all the chickens run up."

"Oh, the nasty chickens! The great big things eat up all I bring my poor ducklings. If it would only rain right hard once more and make my ducklings grow! At night I always put 'em in a basket, – they're too soft to take in your hand, – and then they crowd up to each other, just as I crowd up to my grandmother; and my grandmother says when they grow up she'll pull out the feathers and make me a pillow."

Thus chatted Emmerence. Ivo suddenly began to sing, -

 
"Far up on the hill is a white, white horse,
A horse as white as snow;
He'll take the little boys that are good little boys
To where they want to go."
 

Emmerence fell in, -

 
"The little boys and the good little boys
Sha'n't go too far away;
The little girls that are good little girls
Must go as far as they."
 

Ivo went on: -

 
"Far up on the hill is a black, black man,
A man as black as a coal;
He open'd his mouth and he grit his teeth,
And he wanted to swallow me whole."
 

Then they sang on, sometimes one beginning a verse, and sometimes the other.

 
"Sweetheart, see, see!
There comes the big flea:
He has a little boy on his back,
And a little girl in his ear.
"Don't you hear the bird sing?
Don't you hear it say,
In the wood, out of the wood,
Sweetheart, where dost thou stay?
"Don't you run over my meadow,
And don't you run over my corn,
Or I'll give you the awfullest waling,
As sure as you were born."
 

Many such little rhymes did the children sing, as if each tried to outdo the other in the number of songs they knew. At length Ivo said, "Now you drive your duckies home; I'm coming soon too." He was a little ashamed of going home with Emmerence, though conscious of nothing but the fear that his silly comrades would tease him. After she had been gone for some time he followed with his calf.

It gave Ivo pain to see that, as soon as the calf was weaned, the heifer, its dam, seemed to care no more about it. He did not know that the beasts of the field cling to their young only so long as they actually depend on and are in bodily connection with them. It is only while young birds are unable to fly and get their own food, only while the young quadruped sucks its dam's milk, that any thing like childlike or parental love subsists. This connection once severed, the old ones forget their young. Man alone has a more than bodily relationship to his child, and in him alone, therefore, the love of offspring continues through life.

5.
LIFE IN THE FIELDS

Ivo's life was rich in suggestions, not only at home, among men and beasts, but also with the silently-growing corn and in the rustling orchard. All the world, with its glories and its noiseless joys, entered the open portals of his youthful soul. If we could continue to grow as we do in childhood, our lot would be replete with all the blessings of Heaven; but a time comes when the sum of all things breaks upon us in a mass, and then the remnants of our lives are occupied in the dreary labor of dissecting, puzzling, and explaining.

During the summer holidays, in haying and harvest time, Ivo was almost constantly afield with Nat. There his real life seemed to begin; and, when he looked upward, the blue of his eyes was like a drop fallen from the sky which sprang its broad arch so serenely over the busy haunts of men; and it seemed as if this bit of heaven, straying upon earth,

 
"but long'd to flee
Back to its native mansion."
 

Something of this kind glimmered through Nat's thoughts one day when he took Ivo by the chin and kissed him fervently on the eyelids. The next moment he was ashamed of this tenderness, and teased Ivo and playfully struck him.

When the cows were hooked up, Ivo was always at hand, and took pains to lay the cushion firmly on the horns of the heifer: he was glad that the wooden yoke was not made to lie immediately on the poor beast's forehead. In the field he would stand near the cows and chase the flies away with a bough. Nat always encouraged him in this attention to the poor defenceless slaves.

Often Ivo and Emmerence would stand and dance on the wagon long before the cows or the dun were hooked up: then they would ride to the field, gather the hay into heaps, and push each other into it.

Whenever Nat went afield, Ivo stood by him in the wagon. Sometimes he would sit up there alone, with his hands in his lap, and as his body was jolted by the motion of the wagon his heart would leap within him. He looked over the meads with a dreamy air. Who can tell the silent life beating in a child's breast at such a moment?

Nor did Ivo fail to practise charity in his early youth. Emmerence, being a child of poor parents, had to glean after the harvest. Ivo asked his mother to make him a little sack, which he hung around his neck and went about gleaning for Emmerence. When his mother gave him the sack, she warned him not to let his father see it, as he would scold; for it is not proper for a child whose parents are not poor to go gleaning. Ivo looked wonderingly at his mother, and a deep sorrow shone out of his eye; but it did not long remain. With a joy till then unknown to him, he walked barefoot through the prickly stubble and gleaned a fine bagful of barley for Emmerence. He was by when Emmerence took a part of it to feed her duckies with, and mimicked them as they waddled here and there, grabbing at the grains.

One day Ivo and Nat were in the field. The dun-a fine stout horse, with hollow back, and a white mane which reached nearly down to his breast-was drawing the harrow. As they passed the manor-house farmer's, a whirlwind raised a pillar of dust.

"My mother says," Ivo began, "that evil spirits fight in a whirlwind, and if you get in between them they throttle you."

"We're going to have a gust to-day," said Nat: "you'd better stay at home."

"No, no; let me go with you," said Ivo, taking Nat's rough hand.

Nat had prophesied aright. Before they had been in the field an hour, a terrible hailstorm was upon them. In a moment the horse was unhooked from the harrow, Nat mounted on his back with Ivo before him, and they galloped homeward, Ivo nestled timidly in Nat's bosom. "The evil spirits in the whirlwind have brought this storm, haven't they?" he asked.

"There are no evil spirits," said Nat, "only wicked men."

Strange! Ivo began to laugh aloud for fear, so that Nat became very uncomfortable. Fright and pleasure are so nearly related that Ivo had almost an agreeable tingle in the trembling of his soul.

Pale as death, and with his teeth chattering, Ivo came home. His mother put him to bed, partly to conceal him from his father, who disliked to see the delicate child that was to be a parson going into the fields. He had not been in bed many minutes before Nat came with a phial and gave him a few drops, which threw him into a gentle sleep; and in an hour he awoke as sound as ever.

Never, perhaps, was Ivo happier than on one memorable day which he was permitted to spend entirely in the field without coming home to dinner. At early morning, long before matins, he went out with Nat and the dun, the latter dragging the plough to Valentine's largest and farthest field, which is far away toward Isenbrug, in the Worm Valley. It was the opening of a beautiful day in August; a little rain had fallen over-night, and a fresh breath of life passed over the trees and grasses. The red clover was winking at the coming sun, which could not be seen, though it was broad daylight: he had risen behind the hills of Hohenzollern.

The plough grasped well: a refreshing steam arose from the brown, dewy soil. The dun seemed to make little exertion, and Nat guided the plough as easily as if it had been the tiller of a floating skiff. Every thing around was bright and clear, and men and beasts might be seen here and there, working cheerily for their daily bread.

When the matin bell rang at Horb, Ivo stopped. The horse stood still; the plough rested in the furrow; Ivo and Nat folded their hands: the dun seemed to be praying too, – at least he flung his head up and down more than once. They then drew the furrow to the end, sat down on the fallow, and eat some bread.

"If we were to find a treasure to-day," said Ivo, "like that farmer, you know, that Emmerence's mother told of, that found a heap of ducats right under his foot when he was ploughing, I'd buy Emmerence a new gown and pay her father's debt on his house. What would you do?"

"Nothing," said Nat: "I don't want money."

He went to work again, and found it so easy that he began to sing, – not of ploughing or sowing, though, nor of any thing connected with work in the fields: -

 
"Oh, we are sisters three, -
Kitty and Lizzie, and she,
The youngest, she let the boy come in.
"She hid him behind the door
Till her father and mother were gone to sleep;
Then she brought him out once more.
"She carried him up the stairs,
And into her chamber she let him in,
And she threw him into the street.
"She threw him against a stone,
And his heart in his body he broke in two,
And also his shoulder-bone.
"He pick'd himself up to go home;
'Oh, mother, I fell and I broke my arm
Against such a hard, hard stone.'
"'My son, and it serves you right,
For not coming home with the other boys,
But running about at night.'
"So he went up-stairs to bed.
At the stroke of twelve he was full of fright,
At the stroke of one he was dead."
 

Here Nat jerked the rein, fixed his hat more firmly on his head, and sang, perhaps in remembrance of the past: -

 
"You good-for-nothing boy,
Your drink is all your joy;
Dancing's what you're made for,
And your coat has never been paid for.
"If I'm a little short,
What need you care for't?
When I've emptied my glass
They'll fill it, I guess.
"If I can't pay the score
They'll mark it on the door,
So every one can read
That I'm running to seed.
"So seedy I've grown,
Not a thing is my own:
The world's here and there,
But I haven't a share."
 

Nat suddenly broke off, and cried, "Hee, oh!" to the horse. It was hard to tell whether it occurred to him that Ivo was by, or whether he had forgotten him entirely. So much is certain, however, that this sort of songs is by no means so injurious to the children of a village as is generally supposed. From his very cradle, Ivo had heard all sorts of things spoken of by their most natural designations and without the least reserve, which to those who grow up in towns are first left unmentioned entirely, so that ignorance stimulates curiosity, and are then discussed in ambiguous terms, which aggravate the temptation to evil by the additional zest of the mysterious. Thus, instead of festering in his mind, they glided through it without leaving a trace behind them. Nat was full of reminiscences to-day; and, after a pause, he sang again, in a muffled voice, -

 
"I'm forty years to-day;
My hair is turning gray:
If none of the girls will marry me,
I'll set my house on fire;
If none of the girls will marry me,
I'll drown myself in the mire."
 

Immediately after, he sang again, -

 
"Sweetheart, sweetheart,
How is't with thee,
That thou wilt not speak to me?
"Hast thou another lover,
To make the time pass over,
Whom thou likest more than me?
"If thou likest him more than me,
I'll travel away from thee,
I'll travel away from thee.
"I travel far over distant lands,
Leave my love in another's hands,
And write her many a line;
You must know
Where I go, -
A horseman bold am I.
"I travel far over distant lands,
Leave my love in another's hands;
Oh, that is hard to do
When my love is fair and true!
"Oh, that is easily done
When love is past and gone!
To sleep without a sorrow
From the even to the morrow;
Oh, that is easily done
When love is past and gone!
"Fine cities too there are
Where I have wander'd far, -
In the Spanish Netherlands,
And in Holland and in France;
But over all this ground
My love nowhere I found.
"Who made the song and who sang it first?
He made it and he sang it first, -
A fine young fellow, -
When his love was at the worst."
 

The long-drawn notes swept over the lea as if borne on the wings of old yet unforgotten wishes. But they died away, in all probability, long before reaching the ear for which they were intended.

Could the old ploughman still carry in his heart the roots of so deep-seated a passion?

At eleven o'clock there was another halt and another prayer; the horse was unhitched and received a bundle of clover for his dinner. Ivo and Nat sat down at the edge of the field, in what would have been a fence-corner if there were fences in that part of Germany, and waited for Mag, who soon appeared with their dinner. They ate out of one bowl, with a good appetite, for they had worked hard. The bowl was so entirely empty that Mag said, -

"There'll be fine weather to-morrow: you make the platter clean."

"Yes," said Nat, turning the bowl upside down; "you couldn't drown a wasp there."

After dinner they took a little siesta. Ivo, stretched out at full length, was listening to the many-voiced chirpings among the clover; and, closing his eyes, he said, -

"It is just as if the whole field were alive, and as if all the flowers were singing, – and the larks up there, – and the crickets-" He never finished the sentence, for he had fallen asleep. Nat looked at him for some time with an expression of delight; then he brought a few sticks, fixed them carefully into the ground, and hung the cloth in which the clover had been tied over them, so that the boy slept in the shade. This done, he got up softly, hitched the horse to the plough, and went on noiselessly with his work.

It would be hard to tell whether he kept down the songs which mounted to his lips, or whether solemn thoughts made him so quiet. The dun was very true to the rein, and a slight jerk was enough, without a word, to keep the furrow straight.

The sun was sinking when Ivo awoke. He tore away the tent which was stretched over him, and looked about him in wonder, not knowing, for a while, where he was. On seeing Nat he bounded toward him with a shout of joy. He helped Nat to finish the job, and was almost sorry to find that Nat had managed to plough without him; for he would fain have thought himself indispensable to the progress of the work.

At nightfall they quitted the field, leaving the plough behind them. Nat lifted Ivo on the horse, and walked by his side up the hill; but, suddenly remembering that he had left his knife where the plough was, he ran back hastily, and thus found himself again in the valley. Looking up, he saw the sun set magnificently behind two mountains draped in pine woods. Like the choir of a church built all of light and gold were earth and sky; the treasures of eternity seemed to blink into time; long streamers of all shades of red and purple floated about; the little cloudlets were like, angels' heads; while in the midst was a large, solemn mass of vapor like a vast altar of blue pedestal covered with a cloth of flame. The sight provoked a wish to rise upward and melt in rapture, and again an expectation to behold the bursting of the cloud and the coming forth of the Lord in his glory to proclaim the millennial reign of peace.

On the crown of the hill was Ivo. The horse, bound to the earth and tearing up its bosom all day, seemed now to stride in mid-air and to travel gently upward; his hoofs were seen to rise, but not to stand on ground. Ivo was stretching out his arms as if an angel beckoned to him. Two pigeons above his head winged their flight homeward: they rose high and far, – what is high and what is far? – their pinions moved not: they seemed to be drawn upward from above, and vanished into the fiery floods.

Who can tell the pride and gladness of the heart when, glowing with the spirit of the universe, it overpeers every limit and looks into the vast realms of infinity?