CHAPTER IV

WHAT GRETCHEN LEARNED AT SUNDAY SCHOOL

The early days of March had come. In the meadows the primulas and white anemones were blooming, and in the fields the farmers were rushing their spring work with all their might, for each one wanted to be first to get his potatoes into the ground. Plowing and sowing were everywhere waiting to be done. There was much need of help, and boys were in demand once more. So it happened that Renti found a new place on the very next day after he left the shoemaker. Early on Sunday morning he started out with his little bundle; but it was a very different bundle from the one that he had brought with him from Lindenhof. He had had nothing new since the day he left there, and his old clothes were in rags. The little Sunday jacket, once so neat and stout looking, was now thin and shabby, and the fresh face and bright eyes that had gone with the jacket when it was new wore quite a different look when Renti presented himself at Brook Farm, his new home. The place was so named because the farm extended along the margin of a large stream that flowed through the lower part of Buschweil. Renti reached the new place quite early, before the farmer had started for church.

Gretchen was happy once more that Sunday morning, for she had heard the alms commissioner telling her father, as they came from church, that Renti was to go to Brook Farm, and that it would be a good change for the boy, as there was very poor order in the shoemaker's household, and the boy had probably not had much to eat.

Afterward, when they were sitting at dinner, Gretchen's father began to speak of Renti. On Sundays he was always more talkative at the table than during the week, for that was the only day when they had plenty of time to eat and did not have to hurry back to work.

"Brook Farm," he said, "is an excellent place for the boy. They do not keep a hired man there and have few laborers; so he will be with the farmer a great deal and right in his sight. Perhaps he can thus be brought back to proper ways and made to forget his runaway habits."

"I doubt whether he will ever be cured of his vagabonding. What excuse had he for running away at Broadwood? He had a good place there," said Hannes impatiently; for it irritated him to think of the two fine horses standing over there in the barn, while in their own stalls there were none, and he had always longed for one.

"Why should he run away anyhow?" Uli went on. "Hannes and I never thought of such a thing, and we had many a job that we did not exactly like when we were going to school."

Hannes and Uli were both a little self-righteous. They had always lived an even, proper life, and did not reflect what it had been worth to them to have a good, comfortable home and loving care.

"We must not lay it up against him that he ran away sometimes," said the mother charitably, "if he does right now. He is young, and has been knocked about a great deal. If he falls into good hands now, he may turn out all right."

Gretchen was very glad to hear her mother say that. After dinner she ran out into the meadow to gather primulas and anemones, and she remembered with pleasure the times when Renti and she had gone out together on Sunday afternoons to pick the flowers. Perhaps he would come again, if he got back into a proper life now and found he could do right once more.

All that day Renti roamed about, no one knew where, for he took good care not to let any one see him. It was always the old places, however, that he haunted. On Sundays he often sat for hours behind the barn at Lindenhof, and there, hidden by the wood pile, he would dig worms and grubs for the hens and so coax them to him. They would eat the morsels from his hand with evident pleasure, cackling contentedly, just as they used to do when they still belonged to him. But sometimes, in the midst of his enjoyment, he would suddenly press his face against the wood and sob piteously.

On Monday morning work began. He was kept constantly under the farmer's eyes, as Gretchen's father had said, for there was no one besides the farmer and Renti to do the work in field and stable.

The wife had only two small children, and she herself carried in wood and water for the kitchen. So there was no twilight hour when Renti was sent out on these errands, and consequently there was no chance for running away.

After the field work and the evening chores in the barn were finished the farmer would say, "Now come in to supper and then go to bed."

The man rarely spoke to Renti, but the boy realized very well that he was keeping close watch of him. For a whole week there was no chance for the least attempt at running away. The boy was not sent to school, for the farmer said that the early spring work was very urgent. All this produced a strange effect on Renti: he felt possessed by a passion to tear in pieces everything that was put in his hands and trample it underfoot.

If the work that he was doing kept him behind the farmer's back, he would suddenly throw down his tools, clinch his fists, and stamp on the ground like a madman. When the farmer turned round he would snatch up his tools and fall to work; but these strange performances did not wholly escape the farmer's eye.

The boy was not nearly so apt in his work as he had formerly been. If the farmer explained to him how a thing was to be done, one step after another, he paid little attention and forgot all the instructions before he got half through the task. It was plain that his thoughts were not upon the work, for he would stand staring vacantly into space, and sometimes his eyes would roll about in a wild way as though he were engaged in some fierce struggle.

"Keep your mind on your work and don't be so clumsy," the farmer often told him, but it did no good. Again he would warn him: "Be careful, my boy; if you don't do better, you will be sorry for it." But he did not improve. On the next Sunday the farmer said, "You must stay at home to-day. If you go wandering about the country, your head will be full of crazy notions all the week."

Renti could not get away, for the farmer remained at home all day within sight of the house and barn, keeping his eye on the boy until it was time to milk the cows and feed them, and in these duties Renti always had to help.

The following week was even worse than the last one. Renti seemed possessed by some evil spirit that gave him no rest. One day the farmer directed him to sit down before the barn door and cut some potatoes that were needed for planting, he himself being busy in the barn where he could keep an eye on the boy. Renti had done this work before and knew very well that the potatoes must be cut carefully so that each piece would have the proper eyes for sprouting. But he went at them regardless of eyes or sprouts, hacking right and left with such fierceness that it seemed as though he were taking vengeance on the potatoes for some great wrong that they had done him. The farmer came up softly behind the boy; the violence of the latter's movements had made him suspect that the work was not being done as carefully as it should be.

"What are you doing?" he said suddenly, right behind the boy's chair.

Renti sprang up in alarm, upsetting the basket with all the uncut potatoes, and these rolled down into a cistern that the farmer had just uncovered, all but a few disappearing in the hole.

Then Renti began to recover his senses, for he had been sitting as if in delirium. He had not meant to spoil the potatoes, but had simply not thought anything about what he was cutting them for, and it relieved his feelings to chop them with all his might.

"A pretty mess you've made!" said the farmer angrily, as he contemplated the few small potatoes that were left. "You are more expense to me than you are worth. This comes of having your thoughts always on vagabonding. But you're not going to stir a step from the house,--you may count on that. Struggle as you please, you will finally learn to be patient."

These words made Renti feel as though the farmer had fastened a chain to him and bound him down. After that he grew more restless and more erratic than ever. He was continually looking about for some way of escape, and whatever he did was so carelessly done that the farmer more than once took him by the ear and said, "Careful, careful! This can't go on much longer."

On Saturday evening, at milking time, the farmer went into the barn, with Renti following as usual.

"You haven't brought back the bucket since it was scrubbed at the well," he said impatiently; for he had already tied the cow's tail so that she would not switch it in his face while he was milking. "Run and fetch it, and be quick!"

Renti ran out. Once outside the door he flew like an arrow over the fields. A few moments afterward the farmer rose from his milking stool, where he had been sitting waiting, and went to the door. The well was just outside: there stood the bucket, upside down, as it had been left to dry, and Renti was nowhere in sight.

"Tricky little scamp! This is the last I'll have of you!" muttered the farmer in rage, as he went out to get the bucket.

Renti ran without stopping until he reached the path leading to Lindenhof. Then he paused; he happened to think that it was just the time when the men would be busy about the stables. So he turned about and ran toward The Alders.

"Renti, Renti! wait!" he heard a voice calling behind him. He turned about and saw Gretchen coming toward him with smiling face. She was very glad to see Renti once more and wanted to hear from him that he was getting on well in the new place and that everything was going to turn out happily,--for this was what she confidently expected to hear.

But when she came up with him and looked into his face she said in alarm, "Renti, what is the matter with you?"

"Nothing," was the answer.

"But you are so changed. Are you out on an errand? Were you coming to our house?"

"No."

"You haven't run away again, Renti, have you?"

Gretchen looked at him in distress.

"Yes, I have."

Gretchen grew pale.

"Oh, oh! now you are doing it again, and everything will go wrong! What will the farmer do to you when you go back?"

"I don't care what he does. I'd like to chop down all his trees!"

That seemed to Renti the most awful injury that one could do to an enemy. He had once heard of a servant who, in a fit of anger, had cut down his master's tree, and Renti remembered what a dreadful impression this had made on every one; for a fine old tree, that has stood from one generation to another, giving its yearly offering of fruit, is looked upon with special reverence by the farmers. Renti uttered this hideous wish with clinched fists and set teeth.

Gretchen was very sad. "I never saw you like this, Renti. You are surely getting bad again," she wailed, "and everybody will turn against you, and there won't be any possible help for you."

"No; no help at all," groaned Renti.

The church bell sounded for evening prayers.

"I must go home," said Gretchen hastily. "Our happy days are over. Good night, Renti."

"Yes; and all my life long I can have no more pleasure. Good night, Gretchen."

Renti ran across the fields toward Lindenhof, and Gretchen went her way with a sad heart.

On the following day, a bright Sunday in spring, when all the fields lay smiling and sparkling, Gretchen stood at the corner of the house and would not go in to dinner, for she feared that now they all knew that Renti had been running away again; and what would her father and brothers say? Her mother called a second time and she reluctantly went into the house.

She was not kept long in suspense. As soon as her father had laid down his soup spoon, he said: "Well, now it's over with Renti. I heard to-day at church that he had been sent away from Brook Farm. The farmer says he cannot keep him because he is good for nothing, and that it would be useless for any one else to try him."

"But where will he go, father?" asked Gretchen timidly.

"Perhaps they will take him to the poorhouse, as they did Yoggi, the idiot boy. There he will be mastered," Hannes informed her with a triumphant air. "They won't expect him to work, but if he doesn't stop running away they will tie him down until he grows tame."

"It's what he deserves," declared Uli, with self-righteous assurance.

"I am really disappointed in the boy," said the mother. "I was always fond of him and hoped he would turn out a good boy in time; but if he doesn't behave anywhere, it is a bad sign and shows there must be something wrong with him."

Gretchen could hardly keep back her tears. Everybody was against him now, even her mother, and she dared not say a word in his behalf. Then when she remembered how strangely he had behaved the evening before, she grew more and more troubled, and thought that perhaps he had really fallen into evil ways. And she could not help him, and no one else could help him. She could hardly choke down the last mouthful, and left the table before dinner was over, asking permission to go out.

"Yes, but do not stay out late," her mother said, as she always did.

Gretchen ran up to the pasture, where it was quiet, and where very few people ever came. When she reached the stone wall she sat down under the shade of the alders and thought over the whole matter about Renti,--how he seemed to be going from bad to worse and how hopeless everything seemed. The tears that she had held back so long began to flow down her cheeks, and while the birds in the alder tree were singing their merriest songs she sat underneath and wept as though her heart would break.

Presently she heard some one approaching; she dried her tears and kept very quiet. Looking down over the meadow, she saw the pastor coming toward her. On Sunday afternoons he often took this walk up the hill to enjoy the fine view one got from there over the surrounding country.

Seeing Gretchen sitting all alone on the stone wall, he stopped in surprise and spoke to her. She arose at once and gave him her hand. He looked at her in silence for a moment; then, patting her shoulder in a friendly way, he said: "Gretchen, Gretchen, what is the matter with your bright eyes? Don't you hear the birds singing and giving thanks for this beautiful Sunday?"

"Yes, Herr Pastor, I hear them."

"And can you not be happy with them?"

"No, I cannot," she said in a voice that was almost a sob.

"Are you in trouble, Gretchen? Come, tell me about it. Can't you?"

Gretchen for a moment made no reply; then she said in a low voice, "No."

"I think I understand," said the pastor sympathetically. "Sometimes things will happen that we don't care to talk about,--some little difference with brothers, or some misunderstanding at home. It frets and grieves us, because we see no way of ever straightening it out and being happy again; but, Gretchen, don't you remember the lines you recited in Sunday school a week ago?"

"Yes, Herr Pastor," answered the child without trepidation; for she was not one of those who learned her verses the last minute before Sunday school and then forgot them as soon as she was out of church. She studied them carefully and conscientiously, so that she would be sure of not breaking down in church.

"Won't you come here and say them for me now?"

The pastor seated himself on the wall and motioned Gretchen to a seat beside him. She willingly obeyed, and clasping her hands she said with reverent air:

"Sing, pray, walk in His way, Do your work as for the Lord; He will help you when the world Naught of comfort can afford. For if your faith be sure, And your courage endure, God will be your friend."

"That is very good; but have you ever thought what the poem means, Gretchen?" asked the pastor.

"I have repeated it ever so many times, so that I could say it without stumbling," said Gretchen.

"You have learned it very well indeed," said the pastor; "but I mean something more than that. Let us see what it says: 'Sing,'--that is, be happy like the birds, and do not lose courage or hang your head; 'pray,'--that you must do to keep happy. 'Do your work as for the Lord,' and you will feel that God is with you, and will help you when no one else in the world can. Now think about it, Gretchen. And good-by."

Smilingly the pastor held out his hand to the child, and then went on up the hill.

Gretchen had listened with deep attention to all that he had said, and now as she sat thinking of his words a great weight seemed to be lifting from her heart: she had found comfort. She would do just as the pastor had said; and she repeated the poem again, slowly and thoughtfully, trying to remember all that he had told her. When she reached the last lines she said them out loud joyously and confidently:

"For if your faith be sure, And your courage endure, God will be your friend."

Then she heard the birds singing in the alder trees, and she suddenly felt like joining in their song. The evening sun was spreading its golden light over the meadow, and Gretchen saw that it was time to go home. She jumped from the wall and walked down the hill toward home, singing a happy song as she went.