Uncle Titus and His Visit to the Country by Johanna Spyri

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Mrs. Birkenfeld sighed; there was a long winter to come, and there seemed
to her to be but little chance of the visit being repeated.

The day fixed for the departure was Monday, and on the day before there
was to be a grand feast, a farewell festival; though to tell the truth,
none of them felt much like making a jubilee. Rolf alone was in the mood,
and he took charge of the preparations, as an important part of which, a
number of choice riddles were to be hung about the summer-house as
transparencies: in honor of his patron.

On Saturday Dora took her seat, as usual, with the family at dinner, but
no one had any appetite; the coming separation was too much in their
thoughts. As the mother was helping to soup, one after another exclaimed,
"Very little for me," "Please only a little," "I really don't care for any
to-day," "Scarcely any for me, thank you," "And less for me, to-day."

"I should like to ask--" said their father, amid this shower of "No, thank
yous;" "I can't help wondering whether this 'thank you, to-morrow,' style
of thing is caused by grief at parting, or by a general dislike for
onion-soup."

"Onion-soup! onion-soup! that is the answer to Hunne's riddle!" cried Rolf
with a cry of victory, for he had really taken it seriously to heart, that
Hunne's charade had been so long unguessed. The answer was right. Poor
Hunne was quite depressed at this unexpected blow, and in a moment he said
somewhat pitifully,

"Oh dear! papa, if you had not said that about 'thank you, to-morrow,' for
the soup, then no one would ever have found it out. Now I shall have no
more fun with it."

But Dora had a comforting word for him, even now, and whispered softly,
"Yes, Hunne dear, you shall have some more fun with it, for I will bring
over my album this afternoon, and I will guide your hand while you write
the charade in it, and then I will take it to Karlsruhe, and show it to
all the people I know there, and they will all try to guess it."

So Hunne was comforted, and was able to finish his dinner happily. But
under the apple-tree where they were assembled for the last time, the
family were in very low spirits. For the next day Dora must stay with her
aunt to help her, and could not join them until the evening, in time for
the good-bye feast. Paula sat with her eyes full of tears, and did not
speak one word. Lili had already given signs of her state of mind, by all
sorts of restless movements, and at last she exclaimed,

"Mamma, I wish I never need touch the piano again; it will be terribly
tiresome without Dora, and Miss Hanenwinkel will find fault again and say
I am 'not progressing,' and I don't want to 'progress' when Dora is not
here!"

"Oh dear!" sighed Jule, "what terrible days are before us, with danger to
life and limb, when the twins begin again to find their time hang heavy
on their hands. It is a very stupid arrangement anyway," he went on quite
excitedly; "it would be far better for Dora to pass the winter with us.
Her aunt and uncle could go on in their quiet way in Karlsruhe all the
same without her."

The mother sympathized entirely in the children's regret at the separation
and said she hoped to persuade Mr. Ehrenreich to bring his wife and Dora
back for another summer.

Hunne was the only one more interested in the present than in the future,
and he kept pulling Dora's dress and saying,

"Go get your book, Dora! get the book!"

So Dora went to get her album, and brought it over for each one of her
friends, in the good old fashion, to write a verse or a motto in it, by
way of remembrance. It was no new, elegant, gilded affair. It was an old
book, faded and worn, and much of the writing in it was pale with age.
Here and there had been pasted on, tiny bunches of flowers and leaves all
of which had lost their color, and many of which had fallen off. The album
had belonged to Dora's mother, and the verses were all written in
unformed, childish characters. There were also some drawings, and among
these one of a small house and a well, with a man standing near it,
particularly attracted Hunne's attention, and he took the book in his own
hands, and began turning the leaves.

"Hallo!" he exclaimed with a knowing look, as he took out a piece of paper
that lay folded between the leaves; "Mamma has one like this; it belongs
to Lili; the one I am going to America to find."

Julius laughed aloud. "What in the world are you chattering to Dora about
now, Hunne?" But his mother glanced, quickly at the little boy as she
caught his words, took the paper from his hand and read what was written
there.

Great tears fell from her eyes as she read; the memory of long past hours
of her happy childhood rose before her, clear and distinct, and almost
overpowered her, Her own mother's face, and all the sights and sounds of
childhood! It was the other half of her own poem that she held in her
hand, the half that had been kept by her dearly loved friend. She gave it
silently to her husband; she could not trust her voice to read it aloud.

The children watched her curiously as she took the other half from her
notebook, and laid the two bits of yellow faded paper side by side. They
made a sheet of the usual size of old-fashioned letter paper. The writing
was the same on both, and as the lines were joined, their meaning became
plain. Mr. Birkenfeld read the verses aloud:

"Lay your hand in mine dear,
Joined thus we need not fear,
Each the other clasping fast,
That our union should not last,
But behold, the fates decree
That our future severed be.
We will cut our verse in two,
Half for me and half for you.
But we still will hope forever
That the halves may come together,
And with no loss to deplore.
Our friendship be as 'twas before."

The mother had taken Dora's hand in hers. "Where did you get this paper,
Dora?" she asked, much moved.

"It has always been in my mother's album," replied the child with
surprise.

"Then you are my Lili's child!" cried Mrs. Birkenfeld, "and that is what
your eyes always said to me, when I looked into them;" and she folded Dora
softly to her heart.

The children were intensely excited, but seeing how much moved their
mother was, they restrained themselves, and sat very still, watching Dora
and their mother with eager looks. But little Hunne broke the spell.

"Then I sha'n't have to go to America, shall I, mamma?" he said gaily, for
since he had given his word to go to find the lost Lili, he had often
thought with alarm of the long journey that he must take alone.

"No, dear child, we will all stay here together," said his mother, turning
towards the children with Dora's hand fast in hers; "Dora is the Lili you
were to seek, and we have found her."

"Oh, mamma," cried Paula, "Dora and I will be what you and her mother
were; we will carry out the verses. We will say:

"'But we still will hope forever
Now the halves have come together
No farther losses to deplore,
Our friendship prove as yours before.'"

"Oh yes, and ours," "me too," "so will I," and all the children joined in
promising eternal friendship with Dora. But the mother had taken her
husband's hand and had drawn him away down the shady walk.

"All right, I agree to it all," said Mr. Birkenfeld over and over again,
as his wife talked eagerly, while they walked back and forth. Presently
Mrs. Birkenfeld left him and crossed over to the next house. She asked for
Mrs. Ehrenreich, and now as they sat together by the window, she told Aunt
Ninette in words that came from her heart, with what delight she had
discovered that Dora was the daughter of her earliest and dearest friend;
that friend from whom she had been so long separated, but whose memory was
still green in her heart. She wanted to learn all that could be told of
her friend's life and death, but Aunt Ninette had little to tell. She had
never known Dora's mother; her brother had spent several years in America
where he had married, and his wife had died in Hamburg shortly after
Dora's birth. That was all she knew. Then Mrs. Birkenfeld went directly to
the point. She explained to Mrs. Ehrenreich how much she had enjoyed and
profited by, her long visits at her friend's father's house, and how
deeply she felt that she owed these kind friends a debt of gratitude which
she now saw an opportunity partly to repay, by doing what she could for
Dora. In short, if Aunt Ninette and her husband would consent, her most
fervent wish would be to take Dora and bring her up as her own child.

She met with none of the opposition which she had feared. Aunt Ninette
said frankly that Dora had not a cent of property, and that she would be
entirely dependent on her own work as a seamstress; as neither her aunt
nor her uncle could afford to spend anything on her farther education. She
considered it a great blessing that the child should have found such a
friend, and she heartily rejoiced in her good fortune; and was sure that
her husband would fully agree with her. So there was nothing farther for
Mrs. Birkenfeld to do, but to embrace Mrs. Ehrenreich most cordially, and
then to hasten home to tell the children the happy news. She knew how they
would take it.

There they were all under the apple-tree, all looking towards their mother
and impatient for what she might have to tell them; hoping that it might
be some plan for prolonging Dora's stay. But when the mother told them
that from that day forward Dora was to belong to them, forever, as their
sister and a child of the family, then a shout of joy arose that made the
welkin ring again and awoke the echoes in the farthest corner of the
garden. It aroused Uncle Titus and brought him from his distant
summer-house with a gentle smile, saying half to himself and half aloud,

"It is a pity it will soon be over."

Aunt Ninette was standing at an open window, looking down into the garden,
and as she heard the shouts of joy that rose again and again from under
the apple-tree, she said to herself, smiling "How we shall miss all this
cheerful noise when we are far away."

The children were indeed jubilant, and they decided to organize a feast in
honor of Uncle Titus and Aunt Ninette, a feast more brilliant than any
that had ever before made the shades of the garden glow with splendor.

That night Dora went up to her little room for the last time, for the next
morning she was to move over to the other house. The happy family of
children whom she had secretly watched with longing heart, were now to be
her brothers and sisters; the lovely garden into which she had gazed with
hopeless eyes was henceforth to be her home; she was to have parents who
would surround her always with their protecting love. She was to learn
what the others learned; yes, to have regular studies with them, as well
as music-lessons. Dora's heart was flooded with the thoughts that welled
up within her. One thing she was sure of; that her father was looking down
at her, and rejoicing with her. She stood at the window and gazed up at
the sparkling stars, and recalled the sad hours of depression that she had
known, when these stars did not seem to bring her comfort, and when she
had almost lost faith in that kind heavenly Father, who nevertheless had
now brought all this happiness to her.

She fell on her knees and thanked God for his goodness, and prayed that
she might never again doubt Him, but that even in times of sorrow, she
might be able to say, with heart-felt trust in the words of her father's
verse:

"God holds us in his hand,
God knows the best to send."

Uncle Titus and Aunt Ninette engaged their rooms with Mrs. Kurd for the
following summer; Uncle Titus even went farther still, and begged Mrs.
Kurd, no matter what happened, never to promise them to any one else; for
he left her house now with keen regret, and hoped to return to it every
summer as long as he lived.

When Monday morning came, the whole family were on hand before the
cottage, to wish the departing guests good-speed. Rolf drew the uncle
aside, and asked if he might venture to send a charade to Karlsruhe, now
and then; to which Uncle Titus kindly replied that he should receive any
such with pleasure, and answer them with punctuality.

Sly little Hunne, when he overheard these remarks, declared at once, "I
will also send mine;" for he did not doubt that his would be equally
acceptable to Uncle Titus, if not more so. He thought also that the quiet
people of Karlsruhe would never be able to guess such charades as he would
make, and his heart was filled with pride. Dora and Paula wandered arm in
arm into the garden, singing gaily,

"No farther losses to deplore
In friendship live for evermore."

APPENDIX.

The Charades in this story, involving play upon the German words and
syllables, are of course nearly all untranslatable; the translator has
therefore substituted English ones; as follows:

PAGE

_Welcome_ for "Heimkehr" 80

_Music_ " "Katzenmusik" 104

_Milton_ " "Vogelweide" 105

_Palfrey_ " "Milch Strasse" 107

_Plato_ " "Aristotle" 227

_Caesar_ " "Heliogabal" 228

_Bonaparte_ " "Wallenstein" 230

_Matterhorn_ " "Finsteraarhorn" 230

_Gladstone_ " "Semiramis" 231

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