The Wolf-slayer; [Margaret Kaurner]
Date: 2024-10-15T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Children's stories; Epistolary fiction; Christian fiction; Sunday school literature; Storytelling -- Juvenile fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Wolf-slayer; [Margaret Kaurner]

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Title: The Wolf-slayer; [Margaret Kaurner]

Author: Christoph von Schmid

Release date: October 15, 2024 [eBook #74582]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: American Tract Society, 1911

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOLF-SLAYER; [MARGARET KAURNER] ***

Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

THE

WOLF-SLAYER;

[and]

[MARGARET KAURNER.]

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"BASKET OF FLOWERS."

[Christoph von Schmid]

AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY

150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.

CONTENTS.

THE WOLF-SLAYER.

MARGARET KAURNER. A STORY OF GOLD AND COPPER COINS.

INTRODUCTION.

LETTER I. MARGARET TO HER MOTHER.

LETTER II. MARGARET TO HER MOTHER.

LETTER III. MRS. KAURNER TO HER DAUGHTER MARGARET.

LETTER IV. MARGARET TO HER MOTHER.

LETTER V. GEORGE TO MARGARET.

LETTER VI. MARGARET TO HER MOTHER.

LETTER VII. GEORGE TO HIS MOTHER.

THE WOLF-SLAYER.

——————

IT WAS winter time; cold, bleak, sharp, piercing winds were blowing, scattering the snowflakes as they fell, and making doubly precious the cozy warmth and snug comfort of the fire-side. Through the windows of a pleasant country house, the red glow of fire-light was streaming, and fell in ruddy beauty on the snow-white ground, and while the wind kept howling and sweeping through the forest glades with melancholy music, the sound of pleasant voices and the shout of merry laughter betokened happiness within the house.

Happiness, ay, that there was, and plenty of it, and as the circle gathered round the blazing logs, one might have gone a long, long way to find a sight more cheerful, and without succeeding. There was the old grandfather with his silver locks, and the good grandame, with that high cap of hers which was a perfect marvel to behold, and her gold spectacles resting on her nose. There were the younger couple, a tall, stout, well-built man, with black curly hair, and about six and thirty years of age, and his wife, with a charmingly pretty face, and about three or four years younger, and a group of lighthearted children, some sitting on the ground before the fire, while two or three were climbing upon grandpa's knee and begging him, with all the winsome lovingness of children, to tell them a story.

"And what is there I can tell you, Annie dear," said the old man to a pretty dark-eyed girl who was looking up into his face, "that you have not heard a dozen times before?"

"O we like them all the better, grandpa, because we know them," said the children, "then we can pick and choose, you understand."

"Shall I tell you of little Mabel who was carried away by the gypsies?"

"No, grandpa, we should like something more exciting than that."

"Shall I tell you of Rosa Harebell, who was so good and pure and true, but who died so very young, and heard the voice of him that called to life again poor Jairus' daughter, saying, 'Arise, and live for ever'?"

"No, grandpa, the story is too sad."

And as the child spoke a melancholy expression stole over her countenance, and a tear stood in her beautiful eyes.

"Then," said grandpa, "there is the story of the long-bow archers, who once upon a time took up their abode in our own dear German forests, and played strange tricks with travellers."

"Ah, that will do bravely," said little Henry, "I love to hear of gallant heroes; do tell us all about it, grandpa; you have told us the story before, but I do so long to hear it again, and I feel sure we are all of one mind."

"Not so fast, Henry," returned the old man, "those heroes, as you call them, had but little to recommend them to honest folk and well-meaning people."

"Why, grandpa, were they not brave men?"

"Bravery, child, is a very doubtful word."

"Why doubtful, grandpa? Did they not live happily in the green wood, and did they not take away the money from hard-hearted rich people, and give it to deserving, good sort of people, who wanted it more than they?"

"Yes, Henry, they did all this, but still they are not to be commended."

Now you must know that Henry was a great hand at an argument; he was not more than ten and a half, half-past ten as the children say, rather young for a logician, but he loved to reason out a thing as well as he could.

"Well then," said Henry, "I cannot understand it at all."

"Why not, Henry?" replied grandpa. "The matter is plain enough."

"Is it not right that we should help the poor?" Henry put the question as solemnly as a counsellor in any court of justice.

"Yes."

"Did not these long-bow archers do this?"

"Yes."

"Then," said Henry, "they did right; I am sure they did."

"Not so; the Bible says we must not do evil that good may come; the Bible says 'thou shalt not steal,' they stole; and whatsoever their object, good or bad, no matter, it was a sin, a vice, a crime!"

Henry was silent.

"Shall I tell you of the Wolf-slayer?"

"The Wolf-slayer, O, what is that? We never heard that story yet. Do tell it to us. Is it very amusing, and is it true, quite true?"

"First," said the old man, "do you recollect last summer I showed you the remains of an old chapel all overgrown with ivy and other creeping plants, that is called the chapel of Wolfsbuhl?"

"O yes, quite well; on the top of a high hill, is it not?"

"It is; well, there is connected with that old chapel, the story of a Wolf-slayer. And it is that which I am about to tell you now. What sort of an animal is a wolf?"

"A cowardly, ferocious beast," said one.

"He is something like a dog, but larger and stronger," said another.

"He is generally of a pale gray color," said a third.

"And do you recollect," said the grandfather, "whether there is any Bible text concerning the wolf?"

Annie slowly repeated the words, "'Benjamin shall ravin as a wolf; in the morning he shall devour the prey, and at night he shall divide the spoil.'"

"Quite right; now for the story."

The whole of the party drew nearer to the fire, another log was cast upon the blazing pile, the children were all attention, and just as there was a temporary lull in the storm without, the old man began:—

"Once upon a time there was a poor widow named Margaret. She lived in a straw-thatched cabin, and a little field, a cow, and a grape vine, were all she was worth in the world. She had one son, and his name was George; he was a promising lad, the comfort and consolation of his mother, as well as her proudest hope. For him she labored from early morn to dewy eve; her spinning wheel was always at work, and with that and the returns of her little field, she was able to buy flour, and thus to use some of her milk and butter.

"In spring and summer time the good woman would direct the attention of her son to the up-springing flowers, and tell him how God cared for them all, and much more for people who called upon his name, and would impress upon him how thankful we ought to be for all that Heaven bestows, and to learn in whatsoever state we are, therewith to be content.

"So George grew up to be a fine, strong lad, and had what was still better than ruddy cheeks and stalwart arms, a good disposition and a pious heart. He was his mother's joy, her household treasure, and it was a comfort for her to think that he would one day be as good a laborer as his father. She was not ambitious, and she thought hard work rather honorable than otherwise.

"Well, she had formerly been at service with a farmer who lived about six miles from the cottage, and when the farmer's son succeeded to the property, she asked him to have George as a servant boy. The farmer very willingly consented, and the mother set about equipping George for his new employment.

"And here, my dear children, let me say a few words about work. It is a good and noble thing to work. Nothing puts more honor upon work than that saying of our Lord Jesus Christ, 'My father worketh hitherto and I work.' God meant us to work. He put Adam in the Garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it; labor did not altogether come in with the curse."

"But grandpa," said Henry, "would it not be better if there was no work to be done; if all our lives could be spent without toil?"

"No."

"Really grandpa, I think it would, I do indeed."

"Why so, dear Henry? Speak frankly, let me know your reason."

"A great many people are over-worked, grandpa, and if there were no necessity for labor, there could be no cause for this, and so one source of evil would be done away. That is what makes me think the world would be happier without work."

"Dear child, there are many people who think with you, but they forget that nearly every good thing under the sun has been abused, and that man has often turned God's best blessing into his worst curse. Work strengthens the body, invigorates the mind, enlivens the feelings, and gives zest to recreation, as long as it is confined within proper limits; when it goes beyond this and becomes a drudgery, the evils that you talk about ensue."

"And what should we do," said Henry's father, "if there were no work done; no sailors to fetch far-off treasures, no herdsmen to take care of our flocks, no farmers to grow corn, no builders to build our houses, no—why I might make a longer catalogue than you would like to read Master Henry, about the good that work has done. The people of Palestine made a rule, and it was a very good rule, that everybody should learn a trade; high and low, rich and poor, wise and simple; and you recollect that the Apostle Paul says about the man who will not work, neither shall he eat; a rule, by the way, the bees observe, the thriving, bustling honey-bees, who tumble out the drones."

"And you remember," said grandpa, "that Jesus was not ashamed to work; people called him not only the carpenter's son, but—what was it, Amy?"

"The carpenter."

"George was glad to be employed, for he would now be able to help his mother; but still it is not to be wondered at that he should shed a tear or two before he left his old home. He went to all his playmates and bid them good-bye. Then he went into the meadow and saw the cow to which he had carried so many bundles of hay. She was lying down on the grass with her soft eyes blinking in the sunshine. The little fellow went up to her and stroked her forehead.

"'Poor cow,' said he; 'you and I have been old friends; you gave me milk many a year. And now I'm going away. I can't feed you any more, but my mother will take care of you.'

"He took an affectionate leave of his mother, who kissed him tenderly and gave him much prudent advice. The poor child stood weeping on the threshold and listened to her words, then bidding her farewell, he brushed away his tears and trudged off like a hero.

"After his departure his mother worked harder than ever, and lived more frugally than before. She seldom boiled anything for her dinner or supper, and the neighbors noticed that the smoke did not come out of the chimney as it was wont to do. She was anxious to lay by a little money in order that when George came home he might be able to enjoy himself. So she seldom took anything but bread and milk. But though she was frugal, she was not mean. Some people mistake niggardliness for domestic economy; the widow Margaret never did. She was still generous. She often gave her neighbors' children a bowl of milk, and if she saw the little ones eating dry bread, she would call them in and give them butter, and sometimes honey. But the good advice she used to give them was better than milk or honey.

"Alas! A sad reverse of fortune awaited her. It was a cold, bleak night; the valleys were clothed with deep snow, and the cold north wind was blowing fiercely. Widow Margaret was driving her cow to the stream which flowed at the base of the mountain. As the poor animal was drinking at the stream, a frightful howl was heard, and suddenly an enormous wolf sprang out of the forest and tore the cow before the widow's eyes. Margaret fled. The snow was red with the blood of the cow. The poor widow wept bitterly. Not only for the loss was her grief so great, but because she pitied the defenceless animal.

"The report of the disaster soon spread. The wolf committed other depredations. Now a lamb was torn from the fold, now a horse was left dead upon the road; people were afraid to stir out of their homes, so terrible were the ravages of the monster.

"Of all gallant sportsmen there were none more fond of the chase than knight Ulrich of Wildburg. To him it was the breath of his nostrils. His whole being appeared made up of intense love for the chase, and when the bugle horn was ringing in the sharp, clear morning air, none were so happy as the gallant Ulrich. His son Conrad, a lad about fourteen, shared his father's admiration for the chase, and a great delight it was to him to ride into the forest depths when one was at hand.

"It was determined to make a regular foray on the wolf. To hunt him would be fine sport, to kill him would be a public benefit; Knight Ulrich sallied forth. A gallant train attended him, all armed with swords and javelins, and bows and arrows, and accompanied by a fine pack of wolf-hounds.

"Slowly and cautiously they entered the forest, the huntsmen keeping within call of each other, that they might be able to help one another, should the necessity of the case require it. Conrad soon grew tired of this slow work, and hoping that he might be fortunate enough to kill the wolf single-handed, quietly slipped away from his father's side, and pushed into the heart of the forest. Cautiously removing the stems and branches in his way, so that he might not disturb the wolf too quickly, he advanced with bended bow into an open space in the wood, and then he discovered the wolf issuing from a thicket.

"The twang of his bow-string was heard, and the arrow shot through the air, and struck the shaggy monster on the chest; but the distance was too great to allow the arrow to do its work, and the animal was only slightly wounded. With a ferocious howl, he sprang forward, smarting from the wound.

"Conrad saw his danger, and endeavored to escape by climbing a tree. He stood on one of the boughs, and supported himself by resting his body against the trunk. The wolf retreated a few paces, and then sprang forward, his wide gaping jaws, bristling with frightful teeth, almost touched the trembling boy, but did not actually reach him. Again and again with new fury, the wolf repeated the attempt, but in vain. At last he lay down under the tree, whining and howling, and glaring upon his destined victim. Conrad was almost dead with fear—a cold perspiration stood upon his brow; he shouted for help, but no help came, and the sun began to sink, and twilight to deepen into night.

"Suddenly, as hope was nearly gone, the distant bay of the hounds was heard. They had come upon the scent of the wolf, and were drawing nearer every moment. Then came the loud clear sound of the bugle, and the shouts of men. The wolf heard the cry of the dogs, and the sound of the approaching hunters, and arising, took precipitately to flight.

"The moon had just arisen. Conrad's father and the rest of the party approached the tree. With shame, Conrad descended, and acknowledged how foolishly he had acted. The old huntsman gave his young master a sharp rebuke—'Young folks always imagine they understand everything better than old ones; but the egg can't be wiser than the hen. May this adventure be a warning to you.'

"Meanwhile George served his master very faithfully. He set manfully about his work, was never lazy and indolent, but was indefatigable in his exertions till the work was done. And work did not make him sad or heavyhearted; he was always merry, kind, and obliging to every one. And this sort of conduct is sure to make friends. The farmer and his wife loved the boy as their own child, and the children loved him as if he had been their own brother.

"One evening, while he was busily engaged, tying up pine branches into bundles for fire-wood, a man came from his native place and told him the misfortune that had happened at home. George began to weep very bitterly, and the children wept with him for company. The good farmer and his wife came out to see what was the matter.

"'O, my dear mother!' said George. 'What will become of her now? She will be sadly cast down at the loss of the poor beast. Poor old Mayflower, she was the prettiest cow in the whole village. She was a beautiful brown, with a light white stain on her forehead, and was so sleek and glossy that a drop of water would not remain upon her hide. She was all my poor mother had. She yielded six or eight measures of milk a day. Alas! Alas! My poor mother,—now she will be poor indeed. The milk was her best, almost her only support, and she was not able to buy another cow. Alas! Alas!'

"The farmer and his wife tried to comfort the child as well as they could, who soon afterwards went to his bed-room, crying very bitterly. There he prayed, and then began to think what he could do to render help to his poor mother. Now George had a favorite scheme. When he went to service, he was warmly, but not smartly clothed, and he had made up his mind to purchase a new hat, and a scarlet jacket. He had not as yet received his wages, and with his mother's consent, he had determined to appropriate those wages to that purpose. A black hat and a red jacket were brave things in his eyes. All the boys of the village wore them. But this favorite project was now entirely forgotten.

"'No,' said he, 'when I take my wages, I will buy a goat, and bring it home to my mother; that will be some comfort to her under her misfortune. I can live well enough without the new jacket, or the new hat, but my mother cannot live well without a goat. Farmer Buhel has two fine goats, and I will buy one of them.'

"When he made known his intention to his master, the farmer paid the wages, and applauded his filial piety; but—alas! the goats were not for sale, their owner said, but still if a good price were paid, he might be willing to part with one. A good price was what George could not give, and sad at heart he returned to his master. His joy was gone. He was pondering some new way of helping his mother. We have said before that the children loved George as a brother, and so when they found him in distress, they began to plan, in order to devise some means to make up the money.

"Lizzy, the eldest, suggested that they should raise the sum out of their pocket-money. To this the others readily assented. Their mother highly approved the plan, but when their money was counted out, it was still found deficient. The children then wanted to give away their gifts, but this their mother would not allow.

"'No,' said she, 'you must not give away your gifts. I will complete the sum out of my own private purse.'

"So the money was made up. George, accompanied by the children, and shedding tears of gratitude, went to bring home the goat. And when they had obtained her, what a triumphal procession it was. How handsome she was—with her white skin, and coal-black spots, and her long soft hair, and curling horns, her bright glowing eyes, and her long flowing beard! How all the children patted, and extolled the purchase, and brought together more hay and grass, than the goat could eat in a week!

"Having obtained the permission of the farmer to visit his mother on the following day, and having been assured by several of the peasantry that there was no fear of the wolf, as he had kept aloof from the neighborhood since Baron Ulrich's hunt—the poor child made all his preparations. He was overjoyed at the thought of again seeing his mother, and being able to surprise her with so valuable a present. He scarcely slept a wink that night.

"Early next morning George set out on the road home. He hail a nice piece of bacon, a fair white loaf, and some flax for his mother, all wrapped up in a bundle at his back. He tied a cord round the goat's neck, and drove her before him. It was a sharp cold morning. The ground was hard with frost, and covered lightly with snow, and the hoar frost hung on every leaf and branch.

"As the little boy passed over the hill toward the village of Wolfsbuhl, he came to the ruined chapel. The door was open, and tying the goat to the iron handle of the door, he entered. Within, seated on a stone bench, he found a gray-haired and decrepid old man, with a large bundle of wood lying at his feet. He was weeping, and regarding the goat with a fixed attention.

"'Why do you weep, good father?' said George.

"'Alas!' said the old man. 'My heart is sorrowful, and the sight of the goat awakened the memory of my grief.'

"'How so?'

"'Ah!' said the old man, 'I had one of the kind, whose milk was my best nourishment, but the wolf killed her. Now I have nothing but bread and water, and my strength is fast failing. I am not even able to carry this bundle of sticks to my cottage, which lies at the bottom of the hill.'

"George remembered that his mother had always taught him to do good to those who needed his help, so telling the story of his own sorrow, he offered to carry the old man's bundle to his door. The old man declined the offer.

"'Indeed,' George said, 'it is no trouble to me. God has given me health and strength. I will early your bundle to your cottage, and the goat can meanwhile stay with you.'

"Said the old man, 'There is no danger of the goat, the people about here are honest folk, and I pledge my word that she will not be stolen.'

"So George took up the bundle, placed it on his shoulders, and at a rapid pace, now running, now bounding, began the descent of the hill. The old man leisurely followed, heartily thanking the poor boy for his kindness and charity.

"'God will reward,' he said, 'a hundred thousand fold this act of kind courtesy to a poor stranger.'

"Shaking the old man's hand, George began bounding up the hill, thinking to himself that it was quite possible for those who had no money to do acts of charity if they would.

"Scarcely had he proceeded ten paces, when a number of people met him, crying out, as loud as they could, 'The wolf! The wolf!'

"'Where is the wolf?' cried George, begin-fling to tremble with alarm.

"'On the top of the hill, running toward the old chapel.'

"'O my goat, my goat,' said George, 'how shall I be able to help my poor mother now?'

"He thought not of his own danger, as he hastily ascended the hill; when he gained its summit, surprise and joy filled his heart. The goat was alive and unhurt, though struggling to free herself from the cord which bound her. The door of the chapel was closed, and the head of the wolf, its eyes glowing with rage, and the foam flying from its mouth, was seen through one of the grated windows.

"When the wolf saw George, it renewed its effort to burst the iron bars, but the goat became still, and began to bleat for joy. How the affair had happened was this: When the wolf scented the goat, and spied her at the door, he suddenly sprang towards her—she retreated into the chapel, but as she was tied fast to the door, which opened inwards, she could not advance, and turned aside to conceal herself behind the open door. The wolf having for a moment lost sight of her, ran into the chapel, which the goat perceiving, rushed out, and pulled the door by the string after her, thus making a prisoner of the wolf.

"George stood for a few moments in great surprise, caressing his goat and looking at the monster shut up within the chapel. But soon he was disturbed by a number of persons, all rudely armed, ascending the hill. It seemed that the prince of the country had offered ten gilders to any one who should take the wolf alive or dead, and all were anxious to secure the prize. With them came the old man that George had so recently assisted, armed with a long sharp hunting-knife.

"'The reward is yours,' he said to George, 'our gracious prince will undoubtedly bestow it upon you.'

"'In that case,' George answered, 'I can buy a cow for my mother, and then you shall have the goat. If I had not met you at the chapel, I should have untied my goat, instead of leaving it there alone, and most likely have fallen a victim to the fury of the monster. I should have lost my goat, and my life too.'

"While they were yet speaking, the wild strain of a bugle horn was heard, and then the deep bay of the hounds, and then the shouts of men, and then a gay cavalcade came riding up the hill, led by the Knight Ulrich. A loud shout broke from the crowd—a shout which was replied to by the hunting-party—

"'Stand back,' cried the knight, 'what of our old enemy the wolf?'

"We have him here, so please your worship,' said one of the crowd, 'and this good lad has taken him alive.'

"'What! Another David?' cried the knight. 'Well-done, my brave boy, you may yet wear golden spurs. You have done a noble deed.'

"Young Conrad, who rode at his father's side, smiled upon the young peasant, who stood still with the goat beside him. The knight rode up to the window of the chapel.

"'True, beyond a doubt,' said he, 'the wolf is surely there; the stoutest brute I have ever seen. How shall we serve him?'

"One of the party suggested that in order to avoid endangering human life, the best plan would be to starve the wolf to death; but the knight spurned the proposal:

"'No, no; let us have fair and honorable sport. We are no cowards, and while we have strong hands and sharp lances, the brute shall fall by forest law!'

"In those days there was nothing the knights loved so well, next to a battle, as a good bear or wolf hunt. And hunting a wolf, was really rendering good service to the state, and thankful enough the farmers were that the brave knights would do it. It was better, far better, than hunting the dappled roe, or the timid hare, better than going forth with hawks and hounds to the sport of falconry—better, a thousand times better, than doing fierce cruel work on battle-fields.

"How the horses pawed the ground, while the noble creatures tossed their heads and champed upon the bit, and seemed to cry 'hurra!' as the men, the servitors and pages, gathered round with brightening looks, and whispered cheerful words, and poised their lances in the air ready to take deadly aim.

"'Now,' cried the knight, 'if any man is unwilling for the fray, let him fall back; I would not force a man to risk life or limb for me.'

"Force them!—As if they wanted forcing! Why, there was not a man there, but was as ready as the knight could be himself to see the end of Master Wolf.

"The crowd pressed closer, and George's eyes grew bright. Now the wolf, the cruel wolf was to be slain; he clenched his hands, and a bright flush was on his cheeks, as he waited to see what would be the end of it.

"That group was one of the most curious pictures you ever saw. There were many of the peasants in their simple homely dress: shepherds from the sheepcotes; and tillers of the ground; and old Martin the miller—a great stout man, nearly as broad as he was long; and the smith, the strong, sturdy, horny-handed farrier; and there, too, was the gallant retinue of the count, in all the glitter of silk and gold, green silk and golden lace in vast abundance; and there was Conrad in his tightly-fitting suit of purple velvet, mounted on his neat little white horse, and balancing his lance as if he had been used to the sport for fifty years or more; and there, too, was the knight himself, a really noble-looking gentleman. The knight and his retinue contrasted strangely with the humble group of peasants, and especially with the old man, to whom George had lent help, and with George himself, as he stood there, with his pretty piebald goat by the side of him.

"The old man placed the long sharp knife in George's hand, and led aside the goat. Conrad, delighted beyond measure, was poising a lance in the air, and galloping from place to place, quite overjoyed. The peasants shrank back in dismay, as the knight gave the word of command:

"Quick! Fall into order, let whoever has courage open the door!'

"There was a momentary pause, and then one of the huntsmen, armed with a lance, cast back the stout oaken door. There was no sign or sound from within.

"'Send in the dogs,' cried the knight.

"The mandate was obeyed. A wild howl was heard from within—the sound re-echoed from the vaulted roof.

"'He comes! He comes!'

"'We shall have fine sport,' said Conrad.

"Scarcely had he spoken when the enraged monster rushed forth; the spear of the knight severely wounded him; the horse which Conrad bestrode, reared and plunged; the young count was thrown to the ground, and the wolf sprang on him.

"A cry of dismay arose, a cry that was heard far and near, when suddenly George leapt upon the wolf with his sharp knife, and buried its shining blade in the neck of the monster—a stream of dark blood gushed out, and quivering and convulsed, the animal fell dead. The cry of dismay was changed into a shout of triumph—a shout in honor of the heroic boy. The crowd pressed around him, extolling his courage, and praising his zeal, everybody lauding his bravery to the skies.

"'Green boughs in your helmets and bonnets,' cried the knight, with a cheer; 'so shall every robber perish. The lad has acted nobly, and to him Conrad owes his life.'

"The crowd now began to gather round the wolf, which lay at the knight's feet.

"'Not for the whole world,' said the knight, 'would one of you come near the monster while living, but now that this good youth has shown true courage, and slain the brute, you can venture near enough. Ay, look at his terrible jaws, look at his sharp teeth, look at his shaggy paunch, look at his enormous length.'

"The bailiff, who was one of the hunting-party, now asked the knight whether George was to receive the promised reward.

"'Assuredly,' said the knight; 'come hither, good youth, and I will pay the money down at once.'

"He counted the guilders into the boy's hand.

"'This,' said he, 'is the reward offered by our prince; here is another on my own account;' and he handed him a well-filled purse, bright with new coins.

"The old man now stepped forward and told how George had made him a present of the goat, and how kind and good the lad had behaved.

"'Why,' said the knight, 'surely I have some recollection of you; did you not serve under me in the wars?'

"'I did.'

"'Here are some golden crowns; truly this George is a fine fellow—something more must be done for him. Here, my good youth, to-night you shall lodge in my castle, and to-morrow my people shall see you safely home.'

"The knight turned to a page who was near him, and bade him dismount, and lend his horse to the gallant little hero who had saved the count's life. The boy readily obeyed, and George mounted the pony and rode on with the rest.

"Oh how proud and happy he felt at that moment!

"'Your name, good lad,' asked the knight, 'I have learnt is George—and a good name; you have the courage of your saintly name-sake, who, as the story goes, slew the dragon centuries ago.'

"The boy smiled.

"'Jesting apart, dear boy,' the knight went on, 'you have acquitted yourself better than many and many an older hand would have done.'

"'I have only done my duty,' said George.

"'Rightly spoken; if we all did that, this world of ours would be a better and a nobler place; your duty! Fairly put; but had you no fear?'

"'Fear,' repeated the boy, 'no, I had none; I never thought of fear, I never thought of danger; I only saw that the young knight was in jeopardy, and I did what I could to help him; I would have done the same for the simplest peasant boy that ever lived: I really mean it, noble sir.'

"'I am sure you do; those eyes of yours were not meant for deceit, nor that voice for lying; you have done a noble action, and your words are worthy of it.'

"So with that the knight relapsed into silence, and the procession went on its way.

"The castle was a noble structure, and its gray battlemented turrets were soon in sight. George had often seen it before, but now he looked upon it with new and strange emotions. He was to enter; to ride over the clanking drawbridge, under the dark arch, and see—what he had often longed to see—the splendors which those walls shut in. So, on they rode into the broad court-yard, and then dismounted.

"In the hall of the castle stood the Lady Adelaide, anxiously awaiting her lord's return. She was a fine, tall, handsome woman, clothed in costly attire; the jewels on her dress made George's heart tremble with surprise.

"She threw her arms around her husband's neck and kissed him on both cheeks—tears were in her eyes—tears of joy, as she did so.

"Tenderly she embraced her son, and then turning to George, inquired, not with words, but by a glance, how and why the boy was there, and the old soldier his companion.

"'This noble lad,' said the knight, 'has done us both good service.'

"The countess smiled upon the lad, and oh, that smile, it seemed better to him than all the guilders that the knight had given to him.

"'Rendered us both good service,' repeated the knight, 'in rescuing Conrad from a violent death.'

"The countess uttered a half-suppressed scream.

"'He has slain an old enemy, and brought back an old friend.'

"'An enemy,' said the countess, 'how is this: I cannot understand it?'

"'Enemy enough, full surely,' said the knight, 'none other than the wolf!'

"'Thank God for that!'

"'Amen: but let us not forget the instrument He has used.'

"So the knight told the whole story of the wolf's capture and death, not forgetting to mention how the lad had purchased a goat for his mother in place of the cow whom the wolf had slain, and how he had afterwards made a present of it to the old soldier, when his mother no longer required it.

"The countess praised the boy for his courage; she thanked him again and again for having saved the life of her son, and said:

"'I would that Conrad was more like you in his temper and disposition; it would be of greater honor to him than all the gold lace on his clothes.'

"There was great feasting in the hall that night, and the merriest company that you can well conceive. When the hour of rest came, the boy was led to a comfortable chamber, and left alone. What did he do first?"

"Looked about him on his new lodging?"

"Not at all."

"Began to speculate," said Henry, "on what had happened."

"Not at all."

"Why, what did he then, grandpa?"

"He knelt down and prayed, and thanked God for all his goodness toward him and his.

"The countess had received the boy very cordially, and asked him many questions, for she thought the mother who had reared such a son must be a superior woman. George's answers delighted her; and after having given the highest praise, she had taken leave of him in the most gracious and affectionate manner.

"When he had retired for the night, she addressed her son, young Conrad:

"'I am very glad you are sensible of the worth and goodness of the lad who has saved your life. That wolf was very near giving us another and a different tale to tell. Your impatience and disobedience had nearly sent you to the grave, and plunged both your father and myself in the deepest woe. God, however, has preserved you, and directed all for the best. O that you in your smart doublet would imitate that boy in the fustian dress! O that you were less like your present self and more like him!'

"Then she turned to her husband and said:

"'I am now more convinced than ever, that the most essential thing for parents is to bring up their children in the fear and love of God, to make them submissive and respectful to their parents. Recollect the commandment, "Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee:" and the injunction, "Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right"—and not only so, but to teach them to be respectful, and kind, and generous to all their neighbors.

"'To effect this, the first, the essential point, is to teach them to subdue and control their self-willed and unruly inclinations. The heart of the child is like the ploughed field: thorns and thistles must be torn out before it can produce fruitful corn. This is of equal necessity in all children, whether born under the thatch, or beneath the gilded dome; whether destined to hold the plough, the quill of office, or the sword.'

"The countess was right, dear children, in all that she said. George would never have been the good lad that he was—for he was a good lad, and I do not wish to deny it—except it had been for the teachings of his mother. Under God, he owed it all to her. To her prayers, to her teachings, all that he did is to be traced—she had taught him industry, kindness, and a desire to help those who needed help, and above all other things, to look to God; and by God's blessing, he profited by her instruction. The good seed sown in his heart, sprung up to God's glory.

"The news of her son's good fortune soon reached the widow. At first she refused to believe a word of it, for she could not think it possible that George, who never followed the hunt, who never used lances, or bows and arrows, and who never even killed a little bird; who was even a boy still, not even a young man, could kill so terrible a brute.

"'Surely,' she said, 'this story is a pure invention. Sorry am I to find that I am so treated; it almost brings the tears into my eyes.'

"The more she thought about it, the more incredible the tale appeared. Her grief for her loss was stirred up afresh; but at last adown the village street came George himself, driving the sleekest, handsomest cow you ever saw, and one of the castle's servants with him; and from his own lips she learned the story of his bravery. The widow was greatly amazed, and falling on the neck of her son, wept bitterly; but not with grief—they were tears of joy that she was shedding, and her widowed heart began to sing for joy.

"George took his mother by the hand and led her outside the door.

"'Come out and see the cow which our good friend Knight Ulrich has sent to you; I am sure you will be pleased with the present.'

"Pleased! Ay, that she was, dear heart, and kissed her son again and again, as the servant retold the story of his courage.

"'This cow,' said the man, as he patted its sleek hide, 'is the best in the stall; I am very sorry to lose her, but I know that she is falling into good hands; I recollect what good care you took of your old cow: she was the best cow in these parts, except the one I bring you.'

"Margaret overwhelmed the man with thanks.

"'Yes,' said she, 'it is a beautiful cow; look at its shiny hide, look at its well-formed horns, look at its soft, loving eyes—surely there never was such a cow before or since. O, I cannot thank the knight enough for this kind present. How can I show my gratitude?'

"'Nay,' the man answered, 'this is but a part of the reward which your son is to receive. He has done the country good service, and well deserves all that he gets.'

"Margaret offered the servant money, but the honest man replied that his master had strictly forbidden him to accept any gratuity.

"'My good lady,' he said, 'has already given me for this very journey more money than I could think of accepting from you. Farewell. God's blessing be on you.'"

"What a fortunate thing it was," said Henry, "that the goat should have been tied to the door of the old ruin; how lucky it was for George."

"Dear child," said grandpa, "fortune and luck had nothing to do with it."

"Nothing to do with it, grandpa? Why was it not luck, and good luck too, that it all turned out so well; I am sure it must have been."

"There was no luck in it, child; it was something far different from that."

"What was it then, grandpa?" asked Henry seriously.

"It was God's providence."

"That was what I meant, grandpa," said Henry.

"My dear child, there is a wonderful difference between the two things; one is real and the other is not—one true and the other false—there is no such thing as what you call luck, or fortune, in the world."

"I have seen," said Amy, "an old print called 'Fortune scattering her Favors,' just as we scatter flowers in the summer."

"Exactly; but it is only a heathenish notion."

"I know that, grandpa, and knew that at the time."

"And this Luck, this Fortune, had she her eyes wide open?"

"No, grandpa, a tight bandage was over both her eyes. She could not see at all; as blind as when we play at blindman's buff."

"Just so," said the grandfather, "and this is the wide distinction. People who have not learnt to put their trust in God, ascribe their success in life, or the misfortunes they may meet with, to blind fortune, who neither sees nor understands who are they to whom she deals her favors—her blanks or prizes in her lottery.

"But the Bible has taught us something better than this. It tells us that the great God ruleth over all things; that he who counteth the stars hath numbered the hairs of our heads; that he who gave the angels all their brightness, clothed the lily and the violet, and painted all the flowers of summer. That he overrules everything; governs all, directs all, controls all; great and small, old men and babes, kings and emperors and pauper children; that our happiness, or adversity and misfortune, are not the results of blind fortune, or dead chance, but the will of the Mighty One who made heaven and earth. But to proceed.

"So the widow and her son went back into the cottage, after putting the cow into the stall, and giving her plenty of hay, which for some time past had been suffered to lie waste. When indoors, Margaret sat down before her spinning wheel, and again began to weep for joy; the good news had shaken her as much as if it were a gift of terror. She felt weak and exhausted. Again and again she made George repeat the story of his prowess.

"'Dear George,' said she, 'you have followed my advice, and you have reaped the benefit of doing so. You have placed your hopes in God, and He has been your friend; you have been kind and charitable to men, and they have been good and generous to you. True religion is loving God and loving man, and holiness is only another name for happiness. Let us thank God for all things, and do you, my dear son, still continue to acknowledge the Lord in all your ways. They that wait upon the Lord shall not want any good thing. "Never saw I the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread!"'

"Well, the knight took George into his service, and he rose in favor and influence with his master. He always remembered the injunctions of his mother, who lived happy and comfortable for many a year."

"Thank you, thank you a thousand times grandpa, it is a beautiful story," said Amy.

"So it is indeed," said Henry, "and I cannot help thinking how good came out of evil."

"Right, my boy," responded grandpa, "we should indeed remember that; what says the beautiful text in that comfortable chapter in the Romans? 'For we know—'"

Amy repeated—

"'That all things work together for good to them that love God.'"

"Yes, dear children, that should always make us trustful. Let us keep this steadily in view; God cares for us. We may meet with trouble and adversity, but this should be our consolation, God cares for us. His love never grows cold, his eyes neither slumber nor sleep. And he is working. All these changing fortunes, these painful sufferings, these beds of sickness, these death-partings, these trials of poverty, and so on, are working together for good. Viewed singly we cannot understand them; viewed together, they tell the story of God's handiwork.

"Sometimes it may happen we have a dear friend sick, nigh unto death; we have called in doctors and they have written down what medicine must be taken; we notice the busy apothecary making up the mixture, when lo, after putting three or four different things into the phial, he lays his hand upon a bottle labelled poison.

"'Hold,' we cry, 'you must not use that—poison! It will surely kill, instead of curing the patient!'

"'Not at all,' he answers, 'alone it would do so, but mingled with the rest, and working together with them, it is certain to turn out well.'

"Now this is how we should look at God's dealings with us; all our trials and troubles, that threaten to bring us with sorrow to the grave, are working together. One day we shall shout with joy at the result. God's providence led George and his mother through deep waters of affliction, but the hand of God was in it all and gave a blessing at the end."

"And what became of George, grandpa?"

"He grew up to be a man."

"And what then?"

"Then he was married, and had sons and daughters of his own."

"And what then?"

"Then he grew old, and saw his children married, and have little ones, who called him grandfather, and on one cold, sharp, wintry night he told the story of his early life, with a pretty dark-haired girl looking up into his eyes, whose name was Annie!"

"Why, grandpapa, are you the little boy that slew the wolf?"

"Even so, dear children; old, weak, infirm now, but once strong, and vigorous, and daring. Yes, I am George the Wolf-Slayer."

MARGARET KAURNER.

A STORY OF GOLD AND COPPER COINS.

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INTRODUCTION.

NO unimportant branch of education is letter writing. A great part of the commerce of human life is carried on by this means. In the days of old we find that letter writing was esteemed by the Romans in the number of liberal and polite accomplishments. Thus Cicero, a great and learned man, mentions with pleasure an elegant letter he had received from his son.

A fine letter does not consist in saying fine things, and the following anecdote of the Rev. R. Robinson, of Cambridge, is perhaps one of the most complete essays on the true art of letter writing that is to be found. The reverend gentleman was very fond of children, and used to make himself very familiar with them by adapting his conversation to their capacities, and joining heartily in all their sports. Still he never lost an opportunity of throwing out some hint that might be useful in after life.

Among his little favorites were two fine boys, sons of a much-esteemed member of his congregation. The elder, named John, was about ten years old; the younger, Robert, about eight. Upon one of Mr. Robinson's visits to their father, Robert, being told of his arrival, came bounding into the room, and, as usual, jumped upon his knee, when they entered into the following dialogue:—

Mr. R. Well, Robert, so you have taken your old seat; but how is it my other knee is unfurnished? Where is John?

Robert. Oh, sir, John is gone to London.

Mr. R. Indeed! How long has he been gone?

Robert. More than a fortnight, sir.

Mr. R. How many letters have you written to him?

Robert. None, sir.

Mr. R. How is that?

Robert. Because I do not know how to write a letter, sir.

Mr. B. But should you like to know how?

Robert. Oh, yes sir, very much indeed.

Mr. R. Then suppose you and I, between us, try to make up a letter to John; shall we?

Robert. Oh, dear yes, sir, if you please: I should so like to do that.

Mr. R. Well, then, let us begin: "Saucy Jack." Will that do?

Robert. Oh dear, no, sir, I should not like to say that at all.

Mr. R. Why not?

Robert. Because that would be so rude, sir.

Mr. R. Let us try again then: "My dear brother." There, will that do?

Robert. Oh, yes, nicely, sir.

Mr. R. Well, then, let us go on. "Last Thursday half Cambridge was burnt down, and—"

Robert. Oh, no, no, sir; that will never, never do.

Mr. R. Why won't it do?

Robert. Because it is not true; you know, sir, there has not been any fire at Cambridge.

Mr. R. Then suppose we alter it to "Last night our tabby had three kittens." That's true, you know, because you told me so just now.

Robert. (Hesitatingly.) Y-e-s, sir, it is true, but I should not like to write that.

Mr. R. But as you know it to be true, why should you not like to write it?

Robert. Because I do not think it worth putting into a letter, sir.

Mr. R. Oh, oh! Then, if I properly understand you, friend Robert, you think that when we write to our friends, we should, in the first place, never be rude; secondly, we must never say what is not true; and, thirdly, we must never tell them what is not worth their knowing. Am I right?

Robert. Yes, sir; if I were to write a letter, I should try to think of all that.

Mr. R. Then, my dear boy, you must never again tell me you don't know how to write a letter; for I assure you that you have a much better notion of letter writing than many people have who are five times your age.

The narrative we are about to relate is contained in a series of letters; and though, perhaps, this is not the most interesting form of story-telling, the events described are of so amusing a character that we feel sure our young readers will feel pleasure in their perusal. They are very simply written, affording a fine illustration of the recipe for letter writing—civility, truth, and interest.

LETTER I.

MARGARET TO HER MOTHER.

DEAREST MOTHER:—You will be glad to know that I have arrived safe in the city. I came exactly at the appointed time, and my mistress was much pleased with my punctuality. She welcomed me affectionately.

I think you will be pleased to know the reason of her taking me into her service. She very kindly told me what induced her to select me for the vacant situation. It appears that when she came on a visit to our good pastor last spring, that she had occasion to consult a great number of papers, and had but little time to devote to her children.

In order to divert and gratify them, our good minister sent for me, that I might take care of the children and lead them into the woods and fields, so that they might thoroughly enjoy the country while they were in it. One day, the lady, accompanied by our minister, who you must know is the lady's brother, followed us to the meadow, and watched us, though we knew nothing of their presence. It was a bright morning, and the sun was shining on the little stream. The youngest boy saw some glittering fish and wished to wade into the waters to catch them. In order to turn his attention from this, and to lead him away from the stream, where I feared some accident might occur, I called him to follow me, and the children gathering round me, we sought out a pleasant spot all filled with flowers. There I know the children were secure, and there I knew they would be very happy. Children love flowers. Flowers, you used to tell me, are the children of the earth.

"Now," said I to the children, "cannot God make beautiful flowers? Is He not good to care for them, and give them rain and sunshine?" The children agreed. "Then," said I, "how much more does He care for children! And how ought we to love Him, who loves us so fondly and so constantly." I had no thought that anybody was listening but the dear little ones, but it was overheard. My observations pleased the lady. The good minister praised you, dearest mother, for the instruction you had given me. He spoke very favorably of my attention at school, and the lady was so well pleased, that when the children's maid was obliged to return to her parents who needed her, and the situation became vacant, she sent for me; and kind enough was she to say that she thought it was God who had brought us together.

Her house is very grand, the furniture splendid, the grounds delightful; but after all, I love the green walls of the light airy nursery, and am never so happy as when surrounded by my little charge. When she took me into the room, the children recollected me, and came and kissed me, and said they were glad that I had come. They all began to ask me questions about the country, and about their uncle. It was late in the autumn, but the children did not think of that, and wanted to know whether I had brought them any bright beautiful flowers. I told them the flowers were all gone, but that I had brought them some apples from the trees which were covered with blossoms when they saw them in the spring.

The fruit was divided between them, and they were greatly delighted. They praised the apples for their fine red cheeks. The lady bade me take good care of the children which I faithfully promised to do, and she then told me she would ever be a kind and affectionate mother to me. She is very good and kind, but she can never supply your place, dearest mother. Never can I forget your kindness and your care. If I live to be very old, I shall always remember how you went with me all through the rain to the place from which the coach started, how you had carefully prepared a cake and had gathered some of the rosiest apples, but more than all, how you kissed me while the big tears were on my cheeks, and how warmly and lovingly you bade God bless me!

Dearest mother, I shall never cease to remember your counsel, and shall always pray, that I may remain—

Your dutiful and affectionate daughter,

MARGARET KAURNER.

LETTER II.

MARGARET TO HER MOTHER.

DEAREST MOTHER:—It is but a week since I wrote to you, and here I am inscribing another letter. O how thankful ought I to be that I was ever taught to write; it is such a pleasure and comfort to sit down and pen one's thoughts. I feel as if I were chatting with you as I used to do in our pretty little parlor. All is now very quiet in the house, the children are sleeping softly, and nothing can disturb me.

I am a very happy girl. My mistress is so reasonable, so kind, and so considerate. I have seen mistresses in this city who seem to imagine that their servants are destitute of all feeling; but my mistress is a Christian, all her orders are given in the kindest manner, and she takes great pains to teach me everything that I do not know. My happiness is increased by the happiness of the children. They are quite fond of me. They will stay with me as willingly as with their mother. This is a great advantage to her, for her husband being very often absent from home, she has to attend a great deal in the ware room—O, such a ware room, filled with muslin, in which my mistress deals. It is really beautiful. The muslin is so fine and even, and such a lovely white, the texture, too, is so delicate, that I think, dear mother, you would be as surprised as I was. I could not cease wondering how it was made. My mistress told me it was all spun by machines.

Who are the machines, I said, for I thought it was some particular sort of people to whom she referred. She heartily laughed at my blunder, and explained the thing to me. This surprised me more than before. She afterwards showed me some lace handkerchiefs, and dresses, the flowers on which were amazingly beautiful. These, she said, were not made by machines, but worked by the hand, by thousands and thousands of poor industrious people.

I mentioned to you in my last letter, that my mistress's house is very large and fine, and so it is. It stands in one of the broadest and handsomest streets in the city. A lady of rank lodges on the first floor. What a gay grand place is the city; how different from the quiet country village where I dwelt with you! The morning after my arrival the maidservant of our lodger came down to me with a clean white jug, with a plated lid.

"I say," she cried to me, "the girl that was here before you came, used always to bring the spa water from the fountain for my mistress. Will you do the same? It does not suit me to go tramping about with a jug in my hand, but you could easily spare a quarter of an hour in the evening, after the shop is shut up, and the children in bed; and my lady will very willingly give you a kreuzer * for every jug; and more than that, she will pay you regularly at the end of every week."

* About the value of one cent.

"I should be very glad to do what you require," I answered, "if my mistress were willing that I should do so. But I do not require payment for fetching a drink of water."

"Take the money, by all means," said my mistress; "the lady can well afford it, and a kreuzer a day is worth having. The secret of all greatness lies in littles."

I was very much pleased, as you may readily suppose, and, taking the jug, entered at once upon my duties as water carrier. Well, dear mother, as I was just lighting the lamp to-night, the maid came in and handed me six kreuzers. I was delighted with the money. It was fresh from the mint, and though it was only copper, shone just like gold. I thought myself amazingly rich. But the pieces will be far more valuable to you than to me; here I have every thing I need. These new coins I now send to you; I shall send you at the end of each month, all the kreuzers I get. All my letters the carrier has promised to take free.

I know that the present is a small one, but the will must be taken for the deed. If the pieces were gold instead of copper, they would better testify the love and affection of your daughter,

MARGARET KAURNER.

LETTER III.

MRS. KAURNER TO HER DAUGHTER MARGARET.

MY DEAREST MARGARET:—I write to you in a state of the greatest surprise. My dearest child, what can you have been doing? I know not what to make of your last letter; there you talk of copper coins, and in it you enclose solid gold pieces. My heart misgave me; surely, thought I, in the gay city my dearest Margaret cannot have forgotten the lessons of virtue which were instilled into her mind in days long gone by. Surely, she cannot have been blinded by the glitter of gold, and betrayed into such an evil deed as robbery.

Dearest Margaret, you cannot tell the grief that these thoughts cost me. I then read your letter; you speak of shining kreuzers, and call them a poor present. This language puzzled me. Copper, thought I, cannot have turned into gold; perhaps, said I, one of her fellow-servants may have played a trick upon her, and put brass counterfeits into the letter instead of the kreuzers, in order to raise my hopes at first, and then disappoint them.

But of this I soon satisfied myself, by taking the coins to a money changer, who assured me that they were perfectly pure gold; every piece worth more than ten florins. I told him the whole circumstances of the case, and he advised me to send the money back at once.

"No doubt," he said, "the lady has given the gold coins by mistake for kreuzers. You say it was night, and then the blunder might very easily occur; send them back, by all means; otherwise, this little incident may become a bad business."

You recollect the old proverb, my dearest Margaret—"Coin brings care." I never felt the truth of that proverb so much as during the night after receiving your letter. I counted every hour. I listened to every sound. I trembled at every breath of wind, and kept fancying all sorts of horrors. I was so afraid that the house would be broken into, and the money stolen. This morning, I return the coins to you, and am very glad to be well rid of them. Go instantly to the lady, and give her back the gold. I shall not lay my head quietly to rest, till I know the money is again in the hands of the rightful owner. As soon as you have restored the money, write me word.

You remember the day when your brother George was marched away, with the other recruits from the village, how sadly both of us felt the loss; but now that George is more content and happy in his situation, I am more composed. Meanwhile, however, he is in want of all sorts of things; all the recruits receive something from home, but I have nothing to send him, not even a single kreuzer. If the gold pieces were my own, then—but not a word about them, my dearest daughter. Truly, the love of money is the root of all evil! Farewell. I beg of you to write immediately, and send a letter by the returning carrier, to your anxious, loving mother,

LOUISA KAURNER.

LETTER IV.

MARGARET TO HER MOTHER.

DEAR MOTHER.—I wept very bitterly on the reception of your letter. How could it occur to you for a single moment, that I had stolen the money? Surely, I would sooner suffer my hand to be cut off, than commit any injustice!

Up stairs I ran to Madame Von Holme, and laid the six gold pieces on the table.

"Your ladyship," said I, "must have given me gold pieces instead of copper kreuzers."

The lady examined the pieces, and appeared very much astonished.

"This," said she, "is no mistake of mine. It is very extraordinary; perhaps some unknown hand, guided by a generous heart, has put the gold into the letter for your mother's use."

"And, dearest lady," said I, "this unknown hand was yours."

"No, indeed," she replied, "I have scarcely any gold at all, and of these new pieces not a single coin."

"But what shall I do, dear lady?" said I.

"Send back the gold to your mother," she replied, "for whom you intended the copper kreuzers; she may, with a safe conscience, apply the money to her own use, and should any mistake have arisen, and any one afterwards claims the gold, I will make it good."

While I was talking, two young ladies, friends of Madame Von Holme, walked in to pay a morning visit. My country costume was new to them, and they made me turn round and round, to get a good look at me. The little blue collar, with black edging; the red bodice; the green skirt; and the white sleeves and apron, were all examined. Madame Von Holme told them the story of the gold coins, with which they were much interested.

"Very strange indeed," said they, "and a great piece of luck for you; now, instead of your country costume, you must buy a new dress, such as the city girls wear."

"No," said I, "I cannot take your advice in this matter; the fine dresses of the town girls do not suit the country girls at all."

Madame Von Frame applauded my resolution, and said, "That many a country maiden had laid aside with her rustic costume, the purity of country manners, and in the smart dress, and smarter bonnets of the city girls, had become as vain and frivolous as they."

She told me to employ my money for some better purpose; and what better purpose can I put it to, than sending it to you? Send a part of it to dear George.

Mrs. Mayer, my mistress, was very much delighted to hear that I could spin, and requested me to spin her some fine yarn for a piece of cloth, during the winter. This I readily consented to do. But I cannot get on without my own nice spinning wheel, which my father made especially for me, a little before his death. Can you send it to me by the carrier? I wish we could sit together in the evenings, with our wheels humming in concert, how happy we should be! But still as I sit by the fire-light, and the wheel is humming its own home music, my thoughts will go wandering far away, and my heart itself leaps up with gladness, as I think of my old home, and think, as I am sure I may, that you will be thinking of me, and that in our own dear little parlor, sitting beside your spinning wheel, you still remember, with your old love,—

Your loving daughter,

MARGARET KAURNER.

LETTER V.

GEORGE TO MARGARET.

DEAREST SISTER:—God bless you! Mother has sent me, through the post, three letters which you have written to her, and first-rate scholarly letters they are, dear Margaret, and do you great credit; and besides these letters, two of the gold pieces which you gave her. Why Margaret, you recollect the fairy tales, that amused our childhood in days gone by. It really seems that the good fairies have you under their keeping, and are going to make you as rich as a queen.

But more than with the letters, and more than with the gold, was I pleased with your honesty. Virtue is a brighter jewel than ever flashed from emperor's crown! What a strange commotion the letters made! My comrades all know that my dear mother is very poor, and when they heard of the money which the letter contained, and of the mysterious manner in which my mother obtained it, they came to the conclusion that the gold was stolen.

The affair came to the ears of my captain, who, though a young officer, is yet a man of great prudence and courage. He sent for me. "How is this, Kaurner?" said he, "you appear to have grown suddenly rich, and the story of your wealth is a very romance in itself. Have you got the letters with you?"

I answered that I had; gave him the four letters, and laid down on the table the two gold pieces, which I had not yet changed. He read the letters carefully, with evident pleasure.

"Your mother is a truly honorable woman," he said; "Your sister, an upright, virtuous girl, and you have always shown yourself an honest, brave lad. Your mother has brought you both up in honest principles. Always continue to love your mother as you do, and follow her good counsels. Your sister's kindness and civility to Madame Von Holme in offering to bring her the Spa water without fee or reward, particularly pleases me. Madame Von Holme is my aunt, and a more upright, excellent woman, does not exist."

"Perhaps," said I, "this good lady put gold coins in place of the copper ones."

"No," he answered, "that cannot be it; her will is good, but her means are limited, and she could not afford to give a gold piece for a jug of water. The matter of the coins is at present a mystery. Be content to know that the upright and the honest will never be in want of friends."

A day or two afterwards, I was summoned to the captain's presence. He asked me whether I would be his servant. You must know that many of the private soldiers act as servants to the officers, and that the soldier who had been employed in this domestic capacity by the captain, had been drafted to another regiment, and the situation was therefore vacant.

"Your sister," said the captain, "is so faithful and honest towards my aunt, so active and obliging, that I think you will serve me with equal fidelity."

Of course, I gladly accepted the offer, and promised to serve him truly and well. He is an excellent man, and a kind master. The duties of the situation are light, and he pays me handsomely for them. Having a great deal of writing to do, he requested me to copy two sheets for him, and he was so well pleased, that he now occupies a considerable part of my time in that employment, and pays me specially for it. Many a rich farmer's son with full pay, and an allowance from home, is not half so comfortable as I am. The captain calls me Mr. Secretary. The changes that have recently occurred in the seat of war, will soon bring us into open conflict with the enemy. It is good and noble to fight for fatherland; how goes the song,—

"On in the van,
Man to man,
Whoe'er a falchion's hilt can span."

And it is a noble thing to die for fatherland, if it comes to that; but let us hope, dear sister, that God will save us from much bloodshed, and soon give peace to Germany. Meanwhile, believe me—

Your affectionate brother,

GEORGE KAURNER.

LETTER VI.

MARGARET TO HER MOTHER.

DEAREST MOTHER:—God be praised, it is peace once more. Bonfires have been lighted in the square. Fireworks have been exhibited in the public places. The bells of all the churches have been ringing. I have been watching the crowds that throng the streets welcoming the soldiers on their return from the war. How many happy meetings there have been already. Husbands with their wives, fathers with their children, brothers with their sisters.

Oh, how that last sentence makes my heart leap up with joy! For only think, yesterday, George came here quite unexpectedly. I cannot express to you how delighted I was. At first I was not a little terrified when a tall stately soldier, with a moustache and a frightful sabre at his side, strode into the room, and hastened up to me. I screamed for terror.

But at this, he only laughed, and threw his arms about me, saying, "Margaret, don't you know me?"

Then it was I found out that it was George, and I was actually wild with joy—my heart beat quicker from joy now, than it had done from terror before.

You can readily imagine how affectionately George inquired for you, how he sent a thousand, thousand loves, and desired me to say that the first time he could, he would come himself to see you.

My mistress was very kind to George, and having cake brought out, made him sit down, and tell us his adventures: one part of them was very interesting. He rescued his gallant captain from the hands of the enemy and from certain death. The poor gentleman was wounded, and his fine black horse was shot under him; he had sunk upon his knees. One of the hussars had raised his sabre to cleave his skull. George came up at the moment and warded off the blow, while he struck down the fierce hussar. Several of the enemy came up, but George's comrades hastened to his assistance at the cry "To the rescue." The enemy was put to flight. The captain recovered from his wounds which are now perfectly healed.

The captain is now staying with his aunt, Madame Von Holme. He requested to see me, and as I entered, said, "I am delighted to know the sister of the man who has saved my life. I have a deep debt of gratitude to discharge both to him and to you. To your mother also I am deeply indebted; for how much do I owe to the careful education which she has bestowed upon her children."

Early on the following morning, the captain set out again, as he was anxious to see his father and mother. George accompanied him, and left for you all sorts of kind messages.

To-day Madame Von Holme said to me, "I have just been giving thanks to God for permitting me to see my dear Charles again.—What a world of blessing we owe to those kreuzers! Had you not forwarded them to your mother, your brother would not have been Charles's servant, and perhaps Charles would now be among the number of those for whom many a bitter tear is shed."

"I should much like to know," said the maid who accompanied her mistress, "how it was those copper coins turned into gold."

"Indeed, I should be equally glad to find out the real author of this novel bestowment," said Madame Von Holme; "whoever it is, God will graciously bless him."

So he will, dear mother, so he will. With a heart full of purest love, I remain,—

Your ever dutiful daughter,

MARGARET KAURNER.

LETTER VII.

GEORGE TO HIS MOTHER.

DEAREST MOTHER:—How glad will it make my heart to see you once again, but at present it is not possible for me to leave my good master. However, very soon I hope to come to you and not to part any more. I have good news, and am anxious to let you know, so I take the readiest means of doing so, and write at once. It has now come to light who put the gold into my sister's letter.

It is only yesterday that I returned with my master to Madame Von Holme's. A dinner party was held in honor of the colonel of the regiment, who had just arrived. During dinner, Madame Von Holme related the story of the kreuzers. Everybody was anxious to know whether the mystery had been solved; and at last the colonel, who had been listening with peculiar attention, broke into a gay laugh and said, "I fancy that I can satisfy your curiosity. I will do so in a few words. During the war we had a sharp eye upon all letters. We needed all the intelligence we could get of the movements of the enemy. Among other letters which fell into our hands, was one addressed to—'My Dear Mother, the wheelwright's widow: with six kreuzers.' It was a very strange address; it attracted my marked attention.

"Doubtless, thought I, there is some great plot at work, for the spies often send their information under simple addresses, and to persons in a very humble grade in life. I opened it. It was to widow Kaurner. I knew her husband, the wheelwright, well. He was a good honest soul; he worthy of her, she worthy of him. I was gratified with the filial affection which the letter exhibited. Well, for old acquaintance sake," said he, "I took out the kreuzers and put gold pieces in their place, real, true, gold pieces. And how has heaven blessed my bounty! 'Cast thy bread upon the waters, and after many days thou shalt find it again.' I thought some reference might be made to-day to the story of the kreuzers, and I have brought them with me."

So out he took the shining copper coins, and gave one to Madame Von Holme, one to the captain, and reserved one for himself. "I am sure," said he, "we shall all prize them more than ducats of gold! As for the remaining kreuzers, one is for George, one for her mother, and one for honest little Margaret."

Madame Von Holme shed tears. "Ah," said she, "I shall ever preserve this as a memento of God's goodness; it will ever awaken in my mind old memories deep and tender, and enkindle fresh love to Him who guides and governs all."

The captain then made known that at his request his father and mother had resolved to provide for George's mother. "We have resolved to assist George with a sum of money, to enable him to settle at home; in less than a month all will be arranged."

My sister was sent for, and the colonel handed her the three kreuzers.—"Divide them with your mother and brother," he said, "and God bless and prosper you all!"

May the colonel's prayer be heard. Oh how grateful should we be, dearest mother, to that God who has so mercifully interposed on our behalf, and made us so happy and united, and looking at the past with all its troubles and anxieties, looking at the present with all its comfortable security, looking at the future bright with promise, should we not take up the words of the pious psalmist, and say, "Bless the Lord, O our souls, and all that is within us bless his holy name; bless the Lord, O our souls, and forget not all his benefits."

In token of our filial love, dear mother, we both subscribe our names. Your very affectionate children,

GEORGE AND MARGARET.

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Table of Contents

- THE WOLF-SLAYER; [and] [MARGARET KAURNER.]

- INTRODUCTION.

- LETTER I.

- LETTER II.

- LETTER III.

- LETTER IV.

- LETTER V.

- LETTER VI.

- LETTER VII.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE