Part 2

"Softly! softly!" said Kummas, "or you will wake up my little rogue. Yes, I assure you, a whole night's playing on the violincello is a mere joke, compared with the watching all night by the bed of a sick child. I now see how much a mother has to do for her children, and how well founded are her claims to their gratitude."

"Therefore you are an old ass," said Schubert, quite angrily. "Shake yourself free of the child again."

"No!" answered Kummas firmly. "Some one must act the part of a mother to the poor thing, or it would perish, and that would be a sin. But after all, I must say, that my cares, my self-denial, and watchings are over-balanced by the pleasure I find in the child. When the little rascal smiles in my face, pinches my cheeks, or plays with my hair, all my trouble is forgotten. Nothing delights him so much as when I play a tune on the violin. Then is he all life; beats with his feet and claps his hands. He must be a musician, but a proper one. Not a miserable beer-fiddler, like you and me."

"I beg to decline the compliment," said the flute-player displeased. "You have become a fool about the child. I have only now to ask whether you are coming to play on Sunday along with us?"

"Since I know, from experience," replied Kummas, "how great is the trouble of bringing up a child, I cannot lend my aid by playing at dances, to destroy, perhaps, in one night the many years incessant labour of conscientious parents."

"What have we to do with that?" asked Schubert.

"Much, as I now perceive," replied the old man. "Yet I will not promise never to play again, were it only for the sake of Christlieb. But as long as I find some other kind of employment, and until the child is older, I will not."

"Do as you like, you old fool!" said Schubert in a passion, and went away.

Kummas comforted himself with the knowledge that he was doing right. "What! you young monkey; are you awake, and smiling? Oh! yes, I see you want your meat. So come away, and you shall have it directly."

*CHAPTER IV.*

*THE BIRD-CATCHER.*

"Take heed, boy, and pay great attention to my words!" said Kummas to his now ten-year-old Christlieb. "Look well at this thing which resembles a lady without legs or arms. See how its head is thrown back, with its round curls on each side, while its penetrating voice is even clearer than the voice of any dame. Now, what is the youngster laughing at? Eh! young sir?"

"It is only a violin, and not like a lady," said Christlieb laughing.

"Is the chick wiser than the hen? I tell you," said Kummas half scolding, "it is a lady; and violin, or violincello, is only its nickname. The throat of no lady, not even of a Catalina, can bring forth more beautiful and sustained notes than can the black throat of my violin. It is wonderful how the most insignificant of things may become, in the hands of a clever man, the source of inexhaustible treasures. Only think!--a few horse hairs rubbed against a few strings of cat-gut, placed across a piece of hollowed-out fir-wood, can be made to produce the most delicious tones! I tell you, boy, that a violin is a more productive mine than the famed one of Frieberg in the kingdom of Saxony. There a hundred miners do not dig out so much silver in a whole week as a single man, called Paganini, gets for one night's playing on the violin. But the lad looks at me as a cow does at a new gate! Well, well, you will understand this better by and by. Here, take hold of the violin with the left hand, and handle the bow so (showing the child how to use it). You must move the right hand regularly up and down, while the left hand, on the contrary, must spring nimbly like a squirrel from one place to another on the touch-board. If you wish to learn how to draw a good bow, place yourself in a corner, so that the wall may prevent your elbow from going out too far. The four strings are called G, D, A, E; but you will remember this rhyme perhaps better,---_Giess dir anis ein_!"

"Why not rather caraway-seed or peppermint?" asked a strange voice at the door. "Why must it be precisely anise, which, besides, is not good for the boy? Good-day, neighbour. I suppose you have never taken a glass of anything since you took home the foundling, and adopted him?"

Saying these words, the speaker came into the room. It was the aged Butter, the bird-catcher,--a good customer for the cages of Kummas.

"Good day, friend Butter," answered Kummas cheerfully. "What do we want more? We have now Butter in the house, and the bread must be forthcoming."

"The butter, I fear, will not taste well," replied the former; "it is too old. But tell me, is my bird-cage ready?"

"All except a few wires," said Kummas; "and I will send Christlieb with it immediately. Are you going to market already? Have you caught many birds to-day?"

"None worth speaking of; only a few larks and chaffinches. The larger birds come later;" and the old man drew out a lot of dead birds from under his cloak.

Christlieb quickly threw down the violin to look at the birds.

"Take care; they will bite you!" said Butter in a joke, shaking them in the face of the child.

"Poor things! how pretty they are with their beautiful feathers! But why are they all dead?" asked Christlieb in a tone of pity.

"Would you like to eat them alive?" said Butter.

"What!" exclaimed the boy in astonishment; "are they to be eaten?"

"Wherefore not, young friend?"

"The creatures are so very small, and when their feathers are off, they will be still less."

"That is quite true," replied Butter; "such a bird makes but two bites; and if one does not wish to leave the table as hungry as when he sat down, he must eat a dozen of them at least. Therefore rich people are rightly called bird-devourers."

"How much does one cost?" inquired Christlieb.

"For a halfpenny I will give you a lark or two finches."

"For a single halfpenny!" repeated the boy, much surprised. "Their feathers alone are worth more."

"I will make you a present of them," rejoined Butter, "if you will be at the trouble of plucking them off."

"Ah!" said Christlieb, "if they were alive, I would buy two chaffinches."

"I have a word to say to that," began Kummas; "where will you find meat for them?"

Christlieb made no answer; and Butter, changing the subject, said, "Neighbour, it is pretty cold in this room of yours; what will it be when the new year comes with its twenty degrees colder?"

"What!" exclaimed Kummas; "do you say it is cold here? It is an utter impossibility; for this morning I put into the stove sixteen dollars worth of wood!"

"Don't tell me such nonsense! who would believe that?"

"Well, then, look in and convince yourself," replied Kummas. "My violincello is burning there, and I can show you by writing that it cost me sixteen dollars."

"So, so, ah! I understand," continued Butter, laughing. "But what a dreadful spendthrift you are! No millionaire, no, not even a king, burns such precious wood."

"Therefore I can imagine myself somebody!" retorted Kummas, laughing heartily.

Christlieb, meanwhile, had been carefully examining the birds as they lay on the table. "I do not see," he said, turning round, "how they have been killed."

"That would not be easy to see," said Butter; "we are not on much ceremony with them, and just squeeze them to death in our hand. Look, I take my thumb and forefinger and press their little heart close to their wing. They open their beak, turn round their little eyes, and away they are."

At this description of how the poor things were put to death, the eyes of Christlieb filled with tears. With secret horror he looked at the unpitying, murderous fingers of the old man, whom his foster-father was accompanying to the door. He felt as if his cruel hand were pressing his own heart, and as if he could scarcely breathe. With a deep sigh, he said to his father when he came back, "And must the poor larks and chaffinches who sing so sweetly really be eaten?"

"Yes," answered Kummas; "and I do not think it altogether right. To eat singing birds is much the same as if I were to put violincellos and violins into the stove instead of common wood. The burning of the old piece of lumber, that was not worth any more mending, and in which you could no longer lie, was a mere exception. But truly, the greatest of all gluttons, the most voracious of all animals, is man. There is nothing safe from his palate. Earth, and air, and sea, the wilderness, and every corner of the world is ransacked for dainties to gratify it. However, I believe a simple meal is much better for health; one which willingly permits the feathered singers to pass their short lives unmolested."

When the bird-cage was finished, Christlieb was sent off with it to the cottage of the old man, which was situated a short way within a small wood. As the boy approached it, he found fresh cause for grief. He saw on many of the trees pieces of bent willow, to which were fastened loops of horse-hair; and here and there a poor little bird hanging in them, allured by the sight of the red berries close to where the nets were hung. He saw, at the same time, various other kinds of snares laid to entrap the unwary tenants of the grove.

For the first time, Christlieb entered the dwelling of the bird-catcher. He found it filled with cages, from which sounded all manner of chirping, piping, and singing. There was no one in the room except a little girl about his own age, who was busy playing on a small pipe the first part of an old march to four bulfinches.

Glad at having an excuse for giving up for a time her wearisome task, Malchen got up to receive the visitor, and take the cage from him. When Christlieb had softly delivered it into her hands, his whole attention was absorbed by the pretty prisoners, whose beautiful plumage he admired exceedingly; while Malchen answered all his questions with the utmost simplicity and childish pleasure.

In one cage there were chaffinches, in another larks, in others blackbirds, crossbills, lapwings, thrushes, and Bohemian chatterers and starlings. Christlieb was especially attracted by the sight of two greenfinches, who, by a singular contrivance, pulled up and down by their feet two small pails, in which was their food, holding them by a string attached to the cage for that purpose, until they were satisfied. This sight was, however, by no means pleasing to Christlieb; it rather made him sad, when he saw how often the pail slipped away before the poor little bird could get either one grain of seed, or one drop of water.

"How are they taught to do this?" asked Christlieb, surprised at the seemingly rational act of the tiny creatures.

"By hunger and thirst," replied Malchen. "Before they can be brought to pull up their seed and water, they are almost dying of hunger."

"Do they likewise sing?" he again asked.

"Not much," answered the girl; "only a few notes. But do you know that birds and animals have a language of their own?" And she began to tell the wondering boy a great many things which she had heard her grandfather repeat.

"I should like to be able to know also what they say," answered Christlieb.

"You must just pay great attention," said the little Malchen, "and you can learn it yourself."

"Are all birds here to be killed?" asked Christlieb.

"No; not these ones," replied Malchen. "They are sold alive. Only we cannot keep them long, for then their meat costs more than they are worth."

"I should like very much to have a goldfinch," said Christlieb, "or a thrush."

"Oh, no!" cried the little girl; "a starling would be much nicer; it is such a droll bird, and can learn to speak like a man."

"Is that true?" asked Christlieb doubtingly.

"Quite true; only his tongue must be loosened," replied Malchen.

Christlieb determined to try and get as much money as would buy a speaking bird; and in this hope he took great pains to learn to play on the violin, in the expectation of learning something.

How joyfully he ran home one day, when a traveller had given him twopence for playing a tune, and accompanying it with his clear sweet voice. This was the beginning of a treasure, which every week he divided most faithfully with his dear foster-father.

*CHAPTER V.*

*THE SINGULAR MEETING.*

Two years had now passed away, and harvest, with its rejoicings and feasts, was at hand. The evening preceding one of the festivals, our Fundus, now twelve years of age, was standing before a rather roughly constructed music-stand, on which was placed a sheet of written notes for the violin. He was again rehearsing what, on the succeeding day, he had to perform, and played and sung his appointed parts alternately. Kummas, whose hair had now become white, sat listening in his arm-chair, congratulating himself on having made such a fine player of the child. He nodded time with his head, and his eyes sparkled with delight, as the youthful scholar succeeded in mastering a difficult passage far beyond the expectation of the old musician. The very starling, who had been long asleep in its accustomed place (the back of the old man's chair), awoke and became quite merry, screaming an accompaniment to its young master.

At length the rehearsal was ended, and Christlieb packed up his music, awaiting the judgment of his preceptor.

The old man, hiding his delight, said, "Well, I hope you will get on to-morrow, only be sure and keep the time. Remember there is a great difference playing before four eyes, and playing in the church before four hundred. However, don't let this remark make you afraid."

Kummas had not received much education; but he was of opinion that a child might be spoiled through too much praise, and therefore he was very sparing in his commendation. However, when Christlieb was fast asleep, he gave vent to his joy while, as usual, smoking his pipe before he went to bed. With a grateful heart he thanked God that in the foundling there was given to him a support and a pleasure for his old age. All his privations and cares were richly repaid by the admirable behaviour of the boy, with whom he would not part for any worldly consideration whatever.

The church festival, with music, singing, prayers, and sermon, was now over, and the churchyard filled with people returning to their various homes. In the midst of them were the pastor and the schoolmaster, with the happy Kummas at their side; while Christlieb, with his violin under his arm, followed at a respectful distance.

"That foster-son of yours is a fine youth," began the pastor.

"He is like a pearl in a dirty oyster-shell," responded the schoolmaster.

"Your simile is rather a lame one," said the priest; "for neither is our village nor the house of Kummas like a dirty oyster-shell, as the owner of the latter has now become an honest Christian; yet it is true that Christlieb is not in his proper place here. He should be sent where he can have more advantage than with us."

"He far excels all my pupils," continued the teacher; "and even in Latin he is well advanced. He ought to study."

"Aye, aye," said Kummas, smiling with pleasure; "but to study, I am told, costs a deal of money, and I have none. If I could do as I wished, I would like to make the boy a fine musician,--one who would bring my art to honour. I had an idea of sending him to some band-master in a town, in order that he might have more teaching; yet it will be very hard for me to part with him, as he now plays more than I do, and brings more bread into the house. To be sure that would be made up for were he to become a little Paganini."

"Certainly," said the pastor, laughing. "We shall see what time will do. Meanwhile, take care that Christlieb remains as modest and gentle as he is now; as that makes him well-pleasing in the sight of God, as well as of men."

When the pastor and the schoolmaster had left, Kummas went and spoke to Butter, whom he saw standing near him.

"Your Fundus played and sang to-day like a lark. My Malchen was all ear and eye. There they go like brother and sister. But tell me, what does the boy do with all the birds he buys from me? I thought by this time that your room would be quite full of them; but I only see the starling marching about at its ease. Besides, he has a shocking taste; for he buys almost only those which are good for nothing, except to twist off their heads, and lay them in the frying-pan."

"Indeed! I know nothing about the matter," answered Kummas, "and never ask him; for, as I am sure he does not waste the little money he gets, I let him do whatever he likes with his few halfpence."

"I suppose you think, at the same time, I have no cause to complain of his spending his money in this way?" Saying these words, the old men separated.

On the same Sunday, Christlieb, accompanied by Malchen, came out of the bird-catcher's house. "Stop a minute," said he to the young girl, taking out of her hand a finch, round whose right leg he fastened a small piece of red thread, but not very tightly.

"Why do you do that?" asked Malchen.

"Oh! it is a fancy of mine," said Christlieb, taking hold of the bird, and bidding the girl good-bye; who looked after him with curiosity before she again went into the house.

Christlieb went a considerable way into the wood. "Don't be afraid," he said softly to the little bird, whose heart he felt beating as he held the terrified creature in his hand; "from me you have nothing to fear. Perhaps your young ones are dying with hunger, for want of you, in their solitary nest; or your father and mother are seeking you everywhere, calling to you to come back to them. Now take care, little stupid thing, and don't let wicked boys catch you by mock whistles, mock pipes, or mock food; and there, now, fly away!" With these words he opened his hand, and the finch, not needing to be told twice, flew quickly away. Christlieb looked after it until it disappeared in the blue distance. He then took a piece of paper out of his pocket, on which he made a small mark with a pencil. "Twenty-six finches," he repeated to himself, "nineteen larks, five thrushes, nine lapwings, two goldfinches, three blackbirds,--four-and-sixty birds I have saved from death or imprisonment.--Hurrah! hurrah!"

The same evening, Christlieb was again playing; and in the same room of that inn in which his foster-father had played twelve years before,--at the door of which he had found him. Waltzes, country dances, galops, quadrilles, and all manner of tunes dropped from his hand like water. He played unweariedly, although sleep every now and then shut his eyes, and the player of the violincello had to give him a gentle push with the point of his bow at the end of the hundredth-time-played pieces. Meanwhile, Kummas enjoyed rest at home. The grateful foundling now supplied his place, which he felt it neither difficult nor unpleasant to do. Obedient to the command of his father, he steadfastly refused to taste either beer or brandy, and contented himself with pure water,--an abstinence not at all disagreeable to the other musicians, as by that means their portions were the larger. About three o'clock in the morning, the dance ended, and dancers and musicians left the inn; all except Christlieb, who laid himself down on a bench, near the stove in the lower room, and slept for three hours the pleasant sleep of youth and weariedness. When he awoke, the landlady gave him a cup of delicious coffee, and a piece of fine cake, after partaking which he prepared for his walk home.

With his violin under his arm, and twelve groschens in his pocket, Christlieb descended the steps which led from the inn door to the road. His eye fell upon the manger, which always stood ready for horses passing with travellers. He looked at it much affected, as he thought, Who knows but that may be the very one in which I was found twelve years since! What would have become of me had not Kummas taken me with him? Feelings of gratitude to his foster-father filled his heart. Ah! why had his parents deserted him? How had the poor infant offended them, thus to be driven from them? How often have I watched the care which geese, hens, dogs, cats, little birds, and all animals take care of their young ones,--defending them at the risk of their own lives! Even the defenceless insect, the ant, when a ruthless hand destroys its nest, first tries to save its eggs,--and yet, has a heartless mother forsaken me? Or may I not have been taken from her by force, or stealth?---in which case she will be more unhappy than I am. But the sadness of youth resembles a soap-bubble, which, when broken, leaves no trace behind; and with the rising of the golden sun, Christlieb's sorrow vanished. Although it was November, the weather was fine, and there still were some vestiges of verdure to be seen. With a merry heart, and a quiet conscience, Christlieb pursued his journey homewards, while he gave outward expression to his gladness by playing a beautiful church melody on his violin.

An echo in the neighbouring wood gave back the clear notes, accompanied by those of all the birds who had not fled with summer. This singing allured him to his favourite spot, where the rustling of the leaves of the trees greeted him like the voices of old acquaintances. He slung his instrument over his shoulder, and, like a squirrel, sprung up a tall pine tree, where, among its green branches, he comfortably seated himself. From this leafy height there was soon heard the cheerful note of the cuckoo, the melancholy song of the yellow thrush, the melting call of the nightingale, the monotonous cry of the crow; in short, all the feathered tribe seemed to have met in this one spot, in order to let each other hear their different music. And Christlieb, the sole artist and imitator of the various notes, rejoiced beyond measure, when the whole flock of the still remaining birds, allured by the sounds, came and flew around him. Still more zealously did he copy on his obedient violin the language of the feathered tribe, when the whole concert was destroyed and quickly ended, by the rattling of carriage wheels. In a moment, Christlieb was down the tree, and, led by curiosity to take a peep at the supposed travellers, he speedily made up to the carriage. It was a handsome equipage, whose driver no sooner saw Christlieb, than he called out, seemingly very ill pleased, "What are you about, young sir? Does the young gentleman think I have nothing else to do but keep my mouth open, shouting after him, instead of swallowing the good soup of the postmaster? Come, make haste and get in!" Saying these words, the man leapt from the driving box, and opened the door of the carriage. "And now," continued he, muttering to himself in a bad humour, "we have to wait for the tutor, who, full of anxiety, is seeking up and down for his idle pupil."

When the driver, after letting down the steps, looked round for the object of his wrath, the astonished Christlieb was no longer to be seen, which gave rise to a fresh burst of angry words and oaths. The puzzled violin player had run away as fast as he could, and was now again within the wood, when his flying steps were arrested by another person, who came up to him, looking very exhausted and tired, and likewise very angry. "Balduin! Balduin!" he exclaimed, in a tone of vexation and displeasure, "will this thoughtlessness never end, which annoys and torments every one connected with you? Where have you been? Since you left the carriage under a pretext of only remaining away a few minutes, you have remained almost an hour! But how is this?" he continued in surprise. "Where have you exchanged your dress? and how did you get this instrument?"

The stranger stretched out his hand to take hold of the violin, whose possessor, however, firmly retained it, and took to his heels, flying through the wood as if winged.