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Page 9
"I am only patching up my shoes," said Pekka to father.
"Oh, indeed! Patching your shoes, eh? Then if you can't see to do
that by the same light that does for me, you may take yourself off
with your pare into the bath-house or behind it if you like."
And Pekka went.
He stuck his boots under his arm, took his stool in one hand and
his pare in the other, and off he went. He crept softly through
the door into the hall, and out of the hall into the yard. The
pare light flamed outside in the blast, and played a little while,
glaring red, over outhouses, stalls, and stables. We children saw
the light through the window and thought it looked very pretty.
But when Pekka bent down to get behind the bath-house door, it was
all dark again in the yard, and instead of the pare we saw only
the lamp mirroring itself in the dark window-panes.
Henceforth we never burned a pare in the dwelling-room again. The
lamp shone victoriously from the roof, and on Sunday evenings all
the townsfolk often used to come to look upon and admire it. It
was known all over the parish that our house was the first, after
the parsonage, where the lamp had been used. After we had set the
example, the magistrate bought a lamp like ours, but as he had
never learned to light it, he was glad to sell it to the
innkeeper, and the innkeeper has it still.
The poorer farmfolk, however, have not been able to get themselves
lamps, but even now they do their long evening's work by the glare
of a pare.
But when we had had the lamp a short time, father planed the walls
of the dwelling-room all smooth and white, and they never got
black again, especially after the old stove, which used to smoke,
had to make room for another, which discharged its smoke outside
and had a cowl.
Pekka made a new fireplace in the bath-house out of the stones of
the old stove, and the crickets flitted thither with the stones--
at least their chirping was never heard any more in the dwelling
room. Father didn't care a bit, but we children felt, now and
then, during the long winter evenings, a strange sort of yearning
after old times, so we very often found our way down to the bath-
house to listen to the crickets, and there was Pekka sitting out
the long evenings by the light of his pare.
THE FLYING MAIL
BY
M. GOLDSCHMIDT
From "The Flying Mail." Translated by Carl Larsen.
THE FLYING MAIL
BY
M. GOLDSCHMIDT
I.
Fritz Bagger had just been admitted to the bar. He had come home
and entered his room, seeking rest. All his mental faculties were
now relaxed after their recent exertion, and a long-restrained
power was awakened. He had reached a crisis in life: the future
lay before him,--the future, the future! What was it to be? He was
twenty-four years old, and could turn himself whichever way he
pleased, let fancy run to any line of the compass. Out upon the
horizon, he saw little rose-colored clouds, and nothing therein
but a certain undefined bliss. He put his hands over his eyes, and
sought to bring this uncertainty into clear vision; and after a
long time had elapsed, he said: "Yes, and so one marries."
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