nine years old, and when one earns money in the summer from the
farmers, one is not altogether a child any more, at least in one's
own estimation.

August did not heed his father's silence; he was used to it. Karl
Strehla was a man of few words, and, being of weakly health, was
usually too tired at the end of the day to do more than drink his
beer and sleep. August lay on the wolfskin, dreamy and comfortable,
looking up through his drooping eyelids at the golden coronets on
the crest of the great stove, and wondering for the millionth time
whom it had been made for, and what grand places and scenes it had
known.

Dorothea came down from putting the little ones in their beds; the
cuckoo clock in the corner struck eight; she looked to her father
and the untouched pipe, then sat down to her spinning, saying
nothing. She thought he had been drinking in some tavern; it had
been often so with him of late.

There was a long silence; the cuckoo called the quarter twice;
August dropped to sleep, his curls falling over his face;
Dorothea's wheel hummed like a cat.

Suddenly Karl Strehla struck his hand on the table, sending the
pipe on the ground.

"I have sold Hirschvogel," he said; and his voice was husky and
ashamed in his throat. The spinning wheel stopped. August sprang
erect out of his sleep.