CHAPTER II

THE TWO FARMS

The house at Lindenhof had a big, comfortable living room, with a green Dutch-tiled stove in the middle and wooden benches all along the walls. Around the stove there was also a bench, where an old gray cat usually lay purring lazily. Wide steps, that were like many little benches set over one another, led upstairs to the sleeping rooms. In this way there was abundant opportunity for sitting down in any part of the room, and this gave the place an air of ease and comfort.

The farmer and his wife had two daughters, one twenty, the other nineteen years old; but they were no longer at home, both having married in the previous summer, one soon after the other. They had both married well, for the young farmers whom they had taken to husband had farms of their own and were comfortably established. Now the father and mother were by themselves again, as in the beginning. At first they kept only one hired man, for the husband said, "We'd better hire day laborers in the busy season, and then be alone the rest of the time, than to keep several men in the house."

And the wife said: "I think so, too. I do not like the tramp of heavy boots about the house."

So the household went on in its old quiet way, and still the work was properly done.

But when autumn came the farmer said: "We must have a herd boy. The hired man cannot sit out in the meadow all day when there is so much work still to be done, and yet we cannot leave the cows out in the pasture all alone."

And the wife said: "That would suit me very well; for a nimble little boy would often be handy for me in the work about the kitchen, the well, and the shed. He might look after the chickens, too; I cannot call the man for all these little services."

"Then I will go and get one," said the farmer, reaching for his coat and his heavy cane. The alms commissioner always knew of boys to hire; he would go to him.

Now it happened that on that very day the butcher had sent his delivery boy to the commissioner with a message that a new place should be found for the boy, as he himself had bought a cart and would have no more need of him.

This boy was Renti. He was quite alone in the world, having neither father nor mother nor any one else who belonged to him. Where he had come from no one knew.

Nine years before, on Laurentius Day, a tiny baby boy, wrapped in a coarse cloth, had been left on the doorstep of the church. The sexton, coming to ring the bell for evening prayers, had found a bundle at the door, and on discovering that it contained a living child he had taken it to the pastor. On the following Sunday the little boy was baptized, and received the name of Laurence in honor of the saint on whose day he had been found. Then he was intrusted to the care of the old washerwoman Katrina, who kept him clean and decent as long as she lived. But she died after a few years, and then Renti passed from one hand to another. Sometimes he was treated kindly, sometimes quite otherwise; up to the time of his tenth year he had never known how it felt to have a home, for he had never been kept more than a year in one place. In the last few years, since he had been able to do light work, he had gone to a new place almost every three months, wherever people happened to have need of him.

When the farmer of Lindenhof arrived at the commissioner's, the latter was at his door and Renti was standing before him delivering the message from the butcher.

The farmer did not notice the boy especially, but began at once to state his wants, whereupon the commissioner drew Renti forward and said: "You have come at an opportune time. Here is a boy ready to go right home with you. And he will do what is right, won't you, Renti?"

The boy nodded his head. There was something about him that the farmer liked.

"Then come along," said the farmer.

So Renti trotted along beside him. Barefooted, with no other clothes than the little jean trousers and coarse shirt he had on,--for his little jerkin had fallen into rags,--Renti entered upon his life at Lindenhof.

The farmer's wife looked out in surprise when she saw her husband returning so soon with a boy. She scrutinized the newcomer more carefully than her husband had, for she knew the boy would be with her a great deal of the time, and she was particular as to the people she had about her. Renti had big brown eyes that looked out upon the world and its people with open, frank gaze. Thick brown hair waved about his brow. The woman liked him.

"I'll manage somehow about his clothes," she said to herself, for she surmised that the garments he had on were his only ones.

On the following morning Renti was at once sent out to take the cows to pasture. There he met Gretchen, who had but a few days before been initiated into the duties of herding and who was very glad to find that she was to have a companion.

Into this new life for Renti there came a joy that he had never known before,--he had found a home. Out on the sunny meadow, under the alders with Gretchen, the boy was happy. Joy shone in his eyes from morning till night, and when he was not talking to Gretchen he had to express his happiness in singing or yodeling.

The farmer's wife was kind to him. She had a neat suit--trousers and jacket--made for him for Sundays, and a white shirt to go with it. Then she taught him to wash carefully at the well every morning, and he was pleased and willing about it all, for he himself liked to look neat. In his little room there was a real bed, such as he had never had before, and no one was ever cross to him now, as his former masters and mistresses had often been. So Renti was as happy as the birds in the air, and his whistling stopped only with their own songs, and probably would have continued all night if the housewife had continued her demands for wood and water that long. He always did the kitchen errands at night, for the housewife was systematic and wanted everything made ready for the next morning.

Often when the boy's whistle was heard at night in the stable, the shed, or the henhouse, the farmer, hearing it, would say: "Do send the boy to bed. His workday should be over by this time."

But the wife would answer: "Work never hurts any one; he gets sleep enough, and his whistling shows that he is not unhappy."

Then the farmer was satisfied, and his wife was glad that she could have her own way with the boy, and that he was cheerful and content. When winter came she proposed that they keep him, for she would have work for him when he was not in school, and when spring came and they had to take laborers she would have extra work in the kitchen and would find the boy very useful. The work of carrying meals to the field hands three times a day was alone worth keeping him for.

In his various duties the boy was often with Gretchen, for she had many of the same tasks as he had, and the two estates ran side by side. In the summer the children were sent to the fields to glean after the harvesters. They had discovered that it was much pleasanter to do this work together, first in one field, then in the other, than to do it alone. So it was with many of their tasks, and they were much together. But they were happiest when autumn came and they were sent to pasture with the herds. Renti had become so familiar with the life at Lindenhof that he knew every cow by looks and disposition; he had become so well acquainted with the hens that he could pick out any egg and tell just where and when it had been laid. It took close watching to keep track of the eggs, for the hens liked to lay in secret places. Every creature, large or small, that belonged to the farm was more familiar to Renti than to the farmer himself, or to any hired man that they had ever had on the place.

At The Alders life went on in the same quiet, orderly way as at Lindenhof. In fact, there had always been great similarity in the manner of running the two farms. In the stables there were always eight cows, and if either of the farmers had seen fit to have nine, then there would have been no sleep for the other until he, too, had nine cows in his stall; for it was an old custom to have everything alike on the two farms.

The farmers were the best of neighbors, however, and there never was a thought of unpleasant rivalry between them. Each was content to have everything remain just as it had always been in the fathers' and grandfathers' and great-grandfathers' time.

It had happened, strangely enough, that on both occasions when there was a christening party at Lindenhof there was one on the same Sunday at The Alders,--with this difference, however, that the babies christened at Lindenhof were both girls, while at The Alders they were boys. Hannes had come first, and then, a year later, Uli,--the boys being now in their twentieth and nineteenth years. But the most important difference between the two households was, that while the number of children at Lindenhof remained at two, a third child had come to the other family years afterward. A little girl had made a late but by no means unwelcome appearance, proving a great joy to the family as the years went on. She was a winsome, happy child and did credit to the careful training of her parents, for they were proper people, both of the opinion that their first care should be to educate their children to a decent, orderly life.

Regularly on Sundays the family might all be seen going to church together,--father and mother in advance, with little Gretchen between them, and Hannes and Uli behind, all in their Sunday clothes and all looking so neat and honest that it warmed the pastor's heart to see them filing into church.

As little Gretchen grew along in this well-ordered life she won the heart of every one; for she was pleasant and courteous at all times and sweet to look upon, with her bright, laughing eyes, blue as the cornflowers, and her long, blond braids like the golden grain above them.

When she had reached her ninth year her father said one day: "Gretchen is old enough, I believe, to herd the cows this year, and we might get along without a boy. It is hard to find one whom you can trust, and Gretchen is a sensible child and the cows are all gentle."

The mother thought that they might at least try it. Uli would, of course, go with her for the first day to see that she got along without any trouble, and was not afraid,--for she was a slight little thing, to be sure, to take care of the cows all alone.

Gretchen herself liked the idea of going, and Uli said: "She need not be timid. Our neighbors have a herd boy who seems gentler than most boys, and I will tell him to look after her."

So Gretchen started out a few days later, accompanied by Uli. In the neighboring pasture Renti was already at his post. Uli called him to the stone wall and made him understand that if anything should happen among the cows he must come to Gretchen's assistance. In return he should have plums and nuts when they came in season.

Now Renti needed only this to complete his happiness,--to have a companion in the meadow,--and by the end of the first day the children were such good friends that the boy would have gone through fire and water for Gretchen's sake. A more faithful protector could not have been found for her.

So the children passed the autumn season in daily companionship. When winter came they went back and forth to school together twice a day. Sundays they invariably spent together, for Renti was treated as a neighbor because he belonged to the household at Lindenhof. So he went to The Alders every Sunday afternoon and stayed with Gretchen until supper-time,--that had become a matter of course. And every Sunday afternoon had slipped by so fast that when it was over they wished it were just beginning; they hadn't had time for half their plans and projects. Renti was skillful at carving wooden whistles and making lanterns out of pumpkins, and Gretchen had a supply of colored paper from which they manufactured whole cities, including the inhabitants, and boats with movable oars, and churches, and houses with swinging windows.

Then came the work of spring and summer, and the children met continually in the fields. When they were not together each knew exactly where the other was, what he or she was doing, and when they would meet again.

Now autumn had come and the children were enjoying happy days in the meadow. There had been but few rainy days to keep Gretchen at home, for the season had been unusually fair. In wet weather Renti had to wander about alone, with a feed sack wrapped about his shoulders to keep off the rain. On such days he took care of Uli's cows also, after the latter had brought them to pasture in the morning. In this way he kept his pockets full of nuts. When Gretchen came out on the next day there was always a great deal to talk over, about how the cows had behaved, about the little birds in the alders and how they had crept into their nests, and about the big crows that had suddenly swooped down on the pasture, croaking so hideously that Brindle, in sheer terror, had run right into their midst, whereupon the whole flock started up and flapped about, frightening Brindle still more, so that she went galloping wildly about, and Renti had to catch her and stroke her head until she became quiet.

All these incidents were the subject of earnest conversation when the children were together once more under the alders. So the days passed, and there were no happier children in all the country round than Renti and Gretchen.

October came, and the bright, sunny weather continued until past the middle of the month, so that the children still remained in the meadow all day without feeling cold,--only they went home rather early in the evening. On a Saturday afternoon of the third week black clouds began to pile up in the sky and the children started for home at four o'clock. A sudden darkness had come on, and a violent downpour of rain, or perhaps hail, seemed about to break forth. Gretchen was quite downcast, for she feared that snow and cold weather would now set in and put an end to the herding. But Renti was hopeful and thought that winter was still a long way off. Monday would be fair again, he said, and they would come out as usual.

They bade each other good night and hurried home with their herds, for the first drops had begun to fall and the sky was growing darker and darker. Renti, after reaching the barn and tying the cows in their stalls, scrambled about in all the corners, as he did every evening, to find the eggs. Presently he heard a furious storm beating down upon the barn. The rain and hail and wind were almost crushing the roof. He stood in the barn door holding the eggs in his cap, for he was afraid they would be broken by the hail if he started for the house.

While he stood there the farmer was looking out of the kitchen window at the storm. His wife was blowing the fire that had several times been put out by the wind and rain. The farmer watched the gusts sweep by and said: "I have been expecting this. I've seen it coming for some time. It is hard on the fruit trees. Well, this makes an end of autumn and we may look for cold weather. The farmer of Broadwood told me to-day that he wants a boy for the winter. He means to get along with one hired man and a boy, for he has his two sons to help him. So I told him he might have Renti."

"You did!" exclaimed the woman. She stopped blowing the fire and looked around at him. "Why did you tell him that? Shall I do my work alone all winter merely to let the farmer of Broadwood have a good boy?"

"No, no," said the farmer in conciliatory tones; "I had no such thought. On the contrary, you are to have better help than you have now,--a young fellow who is stronger than Renti and can be of more use to you. I have a great deal of wood to cut this winter and shall need an extra hand. A young fellow of seventeen or eighteen can do my work and can also help you in the kitchen. I have my eye on one."

"I was satisfied with Renti," said the wife; "but if you need an older hand we must give up the boy, for we do not need three servants." Then after a moments she added: "If Renti must leave us, I am glad that he is to have a good place. I shouldn't like to send him away without knowing what sort of people he goes to, but the household at Broadwood is well managed. But whom will you get in his place? I hope it will be some one fit to have in the kitchen."

"Yes, he will do very well," said the farmer. "He is young enough to do little errands about the house and kitchen, but at the same time strong and sturdy. For carrying wood and water he will be better than a little boy. To-morrow he is to come along this way, and if we wish him to, he will stay. They will expect Renti at Broadwood to-morrow evening."

The wife thought this was hurrying matters somewhat, but her husband explained that as the herding season was now ended the wood felling might as well begin at once.

So they decided to let Renti go on the morrow and to keep the young man when he came, for the wife remembered, after her husband had mentioned the youth's name and described him somewhat, that she had seen him once or twice, and that he came of a decent family in one of the neighboring parishes.

The storm had now abated and the farmer went out to see that everything was in order for the night. At the same time Renti came running into the kitchen with eager, happy face, holding out a cap full of eggs toward the housewife.

"What a boy you are to find nests!" she said, as she bustled about the hearth. "To-morrow you are to go to Broadwood, Renti. There you will have plenty of eggs to hunt, for they keep a large flock of chickens, the finest in this whole region."

Renti stared at the woman and almost dropped the eggs from his hand, but he did not utter a word.

"Lay the eggs on the table," said the woman; "I haven't time to put them away now; and bring in a stick of wood. You needn't go for water while it rains so hard. Then come in to supper."

Renti laid down his cap and went out to the shed. He was paralyzed by the news he had just heard; he could scarcely lift the stick of wood, although he usually carried such a burden on a run.

The housewife looked at him questioningly. "I believe you are tired, Renti. Come, eat your supper and then go right to bed."

At the table Renti never once looked up, and for the first time since he came to Lindenhof he had no appetite.

"He is tired; I noticed it awhile ago," said the wife in answer to her husband's puzzled look,--for the boy's spoon was not traveling back and forth in its usual way, in and out of the big bowl of sour milk.

"Pshaw! that wouldn't take away his appetite," said the farmer.

But Renti could not swallow his supper.

"Perhaps the storm oppresses him. Let him go to bed," said the farmer.

"Yes, yes; you'd better go to bed," said the wife in friendly tones. "I will look after the shoes myself. Go and have one more good sleep in your comfortable bed."

Renti crept upstairs to his dear little room. He felt as though a heavy weight were upon him; he could hardly breathe. But after he was in bed and everything about him seemed just the same as it had always been, and always must be, he thought, he breathed more easily. Something would surely happen overnight to straighten the matter out. When things had gone on so long and so smoothly without change, they could not all be upset in one night. And with this thought Renti finally fell asleep.

Next morning, as the farmer and his wife returned from church, Renti came out of the barn to meet them as usual. On Sunday mornings, when he had plenty of time to scramble about all the corners of the barn, he always made new discoveries in the way of hidden nests.

"Now go and put on your Sunday clothes, Renti," said the wife. "After dinner you may run over to The Alders and tell them 'God keep you,' for you probably won't see them again for some time. It is a long way to Broadwood. Then you must come home for a timely start, so that you will reach your new quarters before nightfall. It would not look well for you to get there late."

Renti felt as though a thunderbolt had struck him. The morning having passed in its usual quiet way, just the same as all other Sunday mornings, he thought that the danger must be over and that things were to remain as of old. But now he was to be sent away, after all! He put on his Sunday clothes; dinner came and went, he knew not how; he was as if stunned. After dinner he went to the barn and sat down on the lowest round of the hay ladder. There he stayed for hours without stirring. He could not go to The Alders and tell them "God keep you." No, no, no! he could not go away! he could not!

The housewife, thinking he had done as she told him, packed his clothes into a bundle and then joined her husband in the sitting room, where they always sat together on Sunday afternoons. Here she waited for Renti to return.

When the clock struck half-past three and he had not yet appeared, she said: "He is late. He ought to be here by this time."

"He knows that it is Sunday, and that coffee will be on the table at four o'clock. He will be here," said her husband.

The wife went out to prepare the coffee. When she returned with the tray Renti had not come. She went to the door to look for him and called his name. He answered from the barn.

"If you were back, why didn't you come in?" she said. "Come and drink your coffee. It is high time that you were started."

Renti came in and gulped down his coffee, but he could not eat anything. The woman laid a piece of the fresh Sunday _Kuchen_ into his bundle and held it out toward him.

"There, Renti; God keep you! Be a good boy and do what is right. Come to see us some Sunday and tell us how you are getting on," she said, as she laid the bundle on his arm. He extended his hand to the woman, then to the man, without saying a word; then he turned and went out.

The wife went as far as the outer door with him.

Renti left the house without looking back. Once outside, he ran as fast as he could.

"It is better so, after all," said the woman, coming back to her husband's side. "He might have said a word of good-by; but it is better than if he had been sad at going, for then it would have been hard to send him away."

"You need not worry about him," said the farmer. "Youngsters always like a change. He is glad to get into something new."

Renti ran with all his might until he was beyond the house and land of Lindenhof. Then he threw himself down on the ground and wept and moaned as though his heart would break. Not a gleam of hope could he see before him,--not a ray of comfort.

The sky was covered with stars when he finally arose. Then he ran without stopping until he reached Broadwood. It took more than half an hour of fast running to cover the distance,--so far away from home was his new life to be.