y farmer with a
whip. Ivo would stand before the empty wagon, smack his whip at the
bare pole, and cry, "Whoa! Gee! Get up!" The moment he came home from
school, his slate and ruler were laid upon the footstool behind the
stove, his whip cracked, and the geese and chickens routed up and down
the road. While thus roystering about one day, he saw Emmerence sitting
under the walnut-tree with her knitting. Her little kitten lay near
her, purring and puffing in the sun. The plump little yellow-haired
girl was taking up her stitches with a zeal which kept her eyes riveted
to her work; her lips were pressed together with an air of
determination, as if she was bound to make a woollen jacket for old
Winter himself.

Ivo stood quietly looking at her for a while, and then asked, "Are you
knitting stockings for your puss?"

Emmerence took no time to answer, but went on knitting. The spirit of
mischief tickled Ivo, and he pulled the needle out of her fingers.

Emmerence got up to throw a stone after him as he ran away; but,
girl-like, she never lifted it over her shoulder, but let it fall
immediately at her own feet. Having gathered up her needles, she went
home crying.

In the afternoon Ivo soon obtained forgiveness for his cruelty by
presenting Emmerence with a piece of a broken blue-glass bottle. They
looked at the sun through it by turns, exclaiming, "Oh, my! how
pretty!" Ivo wrapped the gem in a piece of paper and left it with
Emmerence.

[Illustration: The "saint-man."]

From time to time the village was visited by a man who, like the bold
Ratcatcher sung by Goethe, always had the children at his heels. It was
the "saint-man," who would sell pictures of the saints to the children
for broken glass. Ivo always ransacked the house until the glittering
coin was found, and then brought Emmerence the prize.

Not in the sunshine alone, but also in the storm, we find the children
together.

Old Valentine looked out of the window with a pleased expression in his
face,--for it is easy to look pleased during a fine summer shower, even
when there is not much to think about: body and soul are played upon as
with a gentle dew, and the drops fall from the eaves of the opposite
houses like the ripples of a stream: all around us--even the flood of
the silent air itself--has acquired a voice and a meaning.

Ivo and Emmerence had taken refuge in the open barn: little Jake, the
squire's son, who was but three years old, was there also