brother; then Karl and August, and the baby Marta. Just enough for the
fingers of one hand. How many is that? But it is Karl that I am going
to tell you about. He was nine years old, a rosy little fellow, with
big bright eyes and a curly head as brown as a ripe nut. The dear
mother was dead, and the father was very poor, so that Karl and his
brothers and sisters sometimes knew what it was to be hungry; but they
were happy, for they loved each other very dearly, and ate their brown
bread and milk without wishing it were something nicer. One afternoon
Karl had been sent on a long journey. It was winter time, and he had
to run fast over the frozen fields of white snow. The night was coming
on, and he was hurrying home with a great jug of milk, feeling cold
and tired. The mountains looked high and white and still in the cold
moonlight, and the stars seemed to say, when they twinkled, "Hurry,
Karl! the children are hungry." At last he saw a little brown cottage,
with a snow-laden roof and a shining window, through which he could
see the bright firelight dancing merrily,--for Hilda never closed the
shutters till all the boys were safely inside the house. When he saw
the dear home-light he ran as fast as his feet could carry him, burst
in at the low front door, kissed Hilda, and shouted:--

"Oh! dear, dear Hirschvogel! I am so glad to get back to you again;
you are every bit as good as the summer time."

Now, Hirschvogel was not one of the family, as you might think, nor
even a splendid dog, nor a pony, but it was a large, beautiful
porcelain stove, so tall that it quite touched the ceiling. It stood
at the end of the room, shining with all the hues of a peacock's tail,
bright and warm and beautiful; its great golden feet were shaped like
the claws of a lion, and there was a golden crown on the very top of
all. You never have seen a stove like it, for it was white where our