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."
"Yes, one marries," he continued, after a pause; "but whom?"
His thoughts now took a more direct course; but the pictures in
his mind's eye had not become plainer.
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