panting heart to see the oil lamp burning under the first house
shrine. But he had not forgotten to call for the beer, and he
carried it carefully now, though his hands were so numb that he
was afraid they would let the jug down every moment.

The snow outlined with white every gable and cornice of the
beautiful old wooden houses; the moonlight shone on the gilded
signs, the lambs, the grapes, the eagles, and all the quaint
devices that hung before the doors; covered lamps burned before
the Nativities and Crucifixions painted on the walls or let into
the woodwork; here and there, where a shutter had not been closed,
a ruddy fire-light lit up a homely interior, with a noisy band of
children clustering round the house-mother and a big brown loaf,
or some gossips spinning and listening to the cobbler's or the
barber's story of a neighbor, while the oil wicks glimmered, and
the hearth logs blazed, and the chestnuts sputtered in their iron
roasting pot. Little August saw all these things, as he saw
everything with his two big bright eyes, that had such curious
lights and shadows in them; but he went needfully on his way for
the sake of the beer which a single slip of the foot would make
him spill. At his knock and call the solid oak door, four
centuries old if one, flew open, and the boy darted in with his
beer and shouted with all the force of mirthful lungs: "Oh, dear
Hirschvogel, but for the thought of you I should have died!"

It was a large barren room into which he rushed with so much
pleasure, and the bricks were bare and uneven. It had a walnut-
wood press, handsome and very old, a broad deal table, and several
wooden stools, for all its furniture; but at the top of the
chamber, sending out warmth and color together as the lamp shed