The herb-dame brought each year the same herbs and the same stories; but they always seemed new to the children, who looked for her coming with eager anticipation. As soon as the meadow saffron was seen in the fields, they said: "Now the herb-dame from the mountains will come;" and if her arrival was delayed, Grandmother would say: "What has happened to our Granny? I hope she has not been afflicted with illness, or that she is not dead!" Thus she was the constant theme of conversation till she again made her appearance in the yard, with the large basket upon her back. Sometimes Grandmother took the children out for long walks, either to the gamekeeper's or the miller's, or wandered about with them in the woods. There the birds sang sweetly, the ground was covered with leaves, making a soft bed, the air was fragrant from the lilies of the valley and the violets, and there they could gather primroses, wild pinks, thyme, and those beautiful Turk's cap-lilies. The last was the favorite flower of the pale Victorka, who brought it to the children whenever she saw them gathering flowers. Victorka was always pale, her eyes shone like two live coals, her hair hung over her shoulders in disorder, her clothes were soiled and ragged, and she never spoke to any one. There was a large oak on the borders of the forest, where Victorka used to stand for hours, her eyes fixed upon the mill-dam. At twilight she used to go to the edge of the dam, and seating herself upon an old stump gaze into the water, and sing long, long into the night.
One day, as the children heard her singing, they asked: "Grandma, why doesn't Victorka ever have any nice clothes, and why doesn't she speak to any one?"
"Because she is crazy."
"And what is it to be crazy?" again asked the children.
"For example, Victorka doesn't speak to anyone, goes about ragged, and lives in the woods both summer and winter."
"In the night, too?" asked Willie.
"Certainly. Don't you hear her as she sings every night by the dam? After that she goes to sleep in the cave."
"And isn't she afraid of Jack-o'-the-lantern, or of the waterman?" asked the children in great surprise.
"Why there is no waterman," said Barunka, "Papa said there isn't."
In the summer it was quite unusual for Victorka to come to the house to beg; but in the winter she came like the raven, rapped on the door or window, and stretched out her hand. As soon as she received a piece of bread or something else to eat, she hastened away without saying a word. The children, seeing the bloody tracks left on the ice by her bare feet, called to her: "Victorka, come here Mamma will give you some shoes, and you can stay with us." But she heeded them not, and in a few moments was again out of sight.
On summer evenings, when the sky was clear, Grandmother used to sit with the children upon the bench under the old linden. While Adelka was small, she sat in Grandma's lap, and the rest of the children stood at her knees. It could not be otherwise, for as soon as she began to speak, they looked right into her face so as not to lose a single word.
She told them about shining angels that dwell above and light the stars for the people, and about guardian angels, who protect children, rejoicing when they are good and weeping when they are bad. The children then turned their eyes to the thousands of bright lights that shone in the heavens, some small, some large and of various brilliant colors.
"I wonder which one of those stars is mine?" asked Johnny one evening.
"God alone knows," replied Grandmother; "but think, could it be possible to find it among those millions?"
"I wonder whose are those beautiful stars that shine so bright?" asked Barunka.
"Those," replied Grandmother, "belong to people whom God especially loves, His elect, who have accomplished many good works and have never displeased Him.
"But, Grandma," again asked Barunka, as the sad tones came to them from the dam, "Victorka has her star too, has she not?"
"Yes, but it is clouded. But come, let us go in; it is time to go to bed, for it is quite dark. Let us pray 'Angel of God, Guardian Mine.'" They entered the house, and Grandmother blessed them with holy water and tucked them up in their little nests. The little ones fell asleep at once, but Barunka often called her Grandma, saying that she could not sleep. She came, took her granddaughter's hands in her own, and began to pray with her, and they prayed until the girl's eyes were closed.
Grandmother's bedtime was ten o'clock. She knew the hour by her eyelids—they felt heavy then. Before she retired, she examined all the doors to see if they were locked. She called the cats and shut them up in the garret, lest they should come into the bed rooms and choke the children. She put out every spark of fire, and placed the tinder box upon the stove. Whenever a storm appeared to be brewing, she got out the blessed candle, and wrapping a loaf of bread in a white napkin placed it upon the table, while she admonished the servants: "Now, don't you forget, should a fire break out, the first thing to be saved is the bread; for then a person doesn't lose his presence of mind."
"But the lightning won't strike," objected the servants.
This answer she did not like at all. "Only God, who is omnipotent, knows that. What do you know about it? Besides one never loses anything by being careful."
When all was in order, she knelt before the crucifix and prayed. This done, she blessed herself and Barunka with holy water, placed the rosary under her pillow, and commending herself to God's care fell asleep.
1 ↑ In Bohemia the windows are double, and the space between them being quite large is filled, in winter, with moss and ferns.
Chapter 3
CHAPTER III.
SHOULD a traveler, accustomed to the busy hum of city life, wander into the vale where stands the isolated house of the Proshek family, he would think: "How can these people live here during the whole year? During the summer, when the roses are in bloom, it may be pleasant enough; but how dreary it must be in the winter!" Yet the family had many pleasures, both in summer and winter. Love and content dwelt under that humble roof, and the only sorrows that visited them were the frequent departures of the father, or the illness of some member of the family.
The house was not large but pretty and cosy. The front part was ornamented with a grape vine, and the garden was full of vegetables, roses, and mignonette. On the north-eastern side was an orchard, and beyond that a meadow stretching out clear to the mill. Close to the house stood a large pear tree, whose branches spread themselves over the shingled roof, beneath the eaves of which the swallows built their nests. In the middle of the large yard stood the linden, where