One side of the paper was blank; in the left-hand corner of the
other side was written "beloved," and a little below it seemed as
if there had been a signature, but now there was nothing left
excepting the letters "geb."
"'Geb,' what does that mean?" asked Fritz Bagger, with dark humor.
"If it had been gek, I could have understood it, although it were
incorrectly written. Geb, Gebrer, Algebra, Gebruderbuh,--I am a
big fool."
"But it is no matter, she shall have an answer," he shouted after
a while, and seated himself to write a long, glowing love-letter.
When it was finished and read, he tore it in pieces.
"No," said he, "if destiny has intended the least thing by acting
to me as mail-carrier through the window, let me act reasonably."
He wrote on a little piece of paper:
"As the old Norwegians, when they went to Iceland, threw their
high-seat pillars into the sea with the resolution to settle where
they should go ashore, so I send this out. My faith follows after;
and it is my conviction that where this alights, I shall one day
come, and salute you as my chosen, as my--." "Yes, now what more
shall I add?" he asked himself. "Ay, as my--'geb'--!" he added,
with an outburst of merry humor, that just completed the whole
sentimental outburst. He went to the window and threw the paper
out; it alighted with a slow quivering. He was already afraid that
it would go directly down into the ditch; but then a breeze came
lifting it almost up to himself again, then a new current carried
it away, lifting it higher and higher, whirling it, till at last
it disappeared from his sight in continual ascension, so he
thought.
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