The moral of this story, as Manske, wise after the event, pointed out when relating those parts of it that he knew on winter evenings to a dear friend, plainly is that all females—alle Weiber—are best married. "Their aspirations," he said, "may be high enough to do credit to the noblest male spirit; indeed, our gracious lady's aspirations were nobility itself. But the flesh of females is very weak. It cannot stand alone. It cannot realise the aspirations formed by its own spirit. It requires constant guidance. It is an excellent material, but it is only material in the raw."
"What?" cried his wife.
"Peace, woman. I say it is only material in the raw. And it is never of any practical use till the hand of the master has moulded it into shape."
"Sehr richtig," agreed the friend; with the more heartiness that he was conscious of a wife at home who had successfully withstood moulding during a married life of twenty years.
"That," said Manske, "is the most obvious moral. But there is yet another."
"The story is full of them," said the friend, who had had them all pointed out to him, different ones each time, during those evenings of howling tempests and indoor peace—the perfect peace of pipes, hot stoves, andGlühwein.
"The other," said Manske, "is, that it is very sinful for little girls to write love-poetry in the name of their aunts."
"To write love-poetry is at no time the function of little girls," said the friend.
"Such conduct cannot be too strongly censured," said Manske. "But to do it in the name of someone else is not only notmädchenhaft, it is sinful."
"These English little girls appear to know no shame," said his wife.
"Truly they might learn much from our own female youth," said the friend.
Letty's poems had undoubtedly been the indirect cause of the fire, of Axel's arrest, and of his marriage with Anna. But if they had brought about Anna's happiness, a happiness more complete and perfect than any of which she had dreamed, they had also brought about Klutz's ruin. For Klutz, shattered in nerves, weak of will, overcome by the state of his conscience and the possible terrors of the next world, with the blood of three generations of pastors in his veins, every drop of which cried out to him day and night to save his soul at least, whatever became of his body, Klutz had confessed. He was only twenty, he knew himself to be really harmless, he had never had any intentions worse than foolish, and here he was, ruined. The act had been an act of temporary madness; and influenced by Dellwig, he had saved his skin afterwards as best he could. Now there was the price to pay, the heavy price, so tremendous when compared to the smallness of the follies that had led him on step by step. His bad genius, Dellwig, went free; and later on lived sufficiently far away from Kleinwalde to be greatly respected to the end of his days. Manske's eyes filled with tears when he came to the action of Providence in this matter—the mysteriousness of it, the utter inscrutableness of it, letting the morally responsible go unpunished, and allowing the poor young vicar, handicapped from his very entrance into the world by his weakness of character, to be overtaken on the threshold of life by so terrific a fate. "Truly the ways of Providence are past finding out," said Manske, sorrowfully shaking his head.
"I never did believe in Klutz," said his wife, thinking of her apple jelly.
"Woman, kick not him who is down," said her husband, turning on her with reproachful sternness.
"Kick!" echoed his wife, tossing her head at this rebuke, administered in the presence of the friend; "I am not, I hope, so unwomanly as to kick."
"It is a figure of speech," mildly explained the friend.
"I like it not," said Frau Manske gloomily.
"Peace," said her husband.
"What a captivating book it is—how merry and gentle and sunny, how whimsically wise and tender! There is real humor in these pages, and for that reason, if for no other, it deserves to live. The new chapter, describing the author's pious pilgrimage to the garden of her childhood, is inimitable in its way, and should not be missed by any admirer of this most winning Elizabeth."—New York Tribune."Elizabeth is pure sunshine and without a shadow, the reflection, as it were, of a quiet existence, and never a commonplace one; for, without knowing it or suspecting it, she is an idealist. Elizabeth never tires, for has she not her husband, her little ones, and her books to talk about? These passages, as found in 'Elizabeth' in the quiet history of a woman's life, act as useful tonics or are the necessary sedatives in our somewhat fevered existence."—New York Times.
"What a captivating book it is—how merry and gentle and sunny, how whimsically wise and tender! There is real humor in these pages, and for that reason, if for no other, it deserves to live. The new chapter, describing the author's pious pilgrimage to the garden of her childhood, is inimitable in its way, and should not be missed by any admirer of this most winning Elizabeth."—New York Tribune.
"Elizabeth is pure sunshine and without a shadow, the reflection, as it were, of a quiet existence, and never a commonplace one; for, without knowing it or suspecting it, she is an idealist. Elizabeth never tires, for has she not her husband, her little ones, and her books to talk about? These passages, as found in 'Elizabeth' in the quiet history of a woman's life, act as useful tonics or are the necessary sedatives in our somewhat fevered existence."—New York Times.
"'The Solitary Summer' affords a generous harvest of beautiful and poetic thoughts, together with some keen observations of life, all of which are expressed in a graceful and supple prose.... It is a privilege to have stood for a time upon the veranda steps and to have caught a glimpse of that sane refuge."—Chicago Tribune."Full of sunshine and fresh breezes, riotous with the bloom and fragrance of flowers, spicy with the damp cool breath of pines.... The quaint, whimsical fancies of a cultivated, lovable woman create a golden atmosphere through which we see her life, and we dream with her on her bench in her garden, in the fields where the yellow lupins grow, and in the mossy deeps of the pine forest. We feel we have made another friend, one who sees life with gentle, smiling eyes and from a deliciously humorous point of view."—Recreation."A garden of absorbing interest to its owner, a library full of books to comfort rainy days, a hamlet of German peasants, three delightful babies, and a 'man of wrath' who by no means merits the title,—these are the simple elements from which a bright woman, too cosmopolitan to be thought wholly German, as she calls herself, has evolved a charming little book."—The Nation."She has a depth of feeling, a sense of humor, and an impetuous and ardent manner that make her chronicles thoroughly alive. Beside this lovable book other feminine essays on nature, literature, and life seem only tame and artificial performances."—New York Tribune.
"'The Solitary Summer' affords a generous harvest of beautiful and poetic thoughts, together with some keen observations of life, all of which are expressed in a graceful and supple prose.... It is a privilege to have stood for a time upon the veranda steps and to have caught a glimpse of that sane refuge."—Chicago Tribune.
"Full of sunshine and fresh breezes, riotous with the bloom and fragrance of flowers, spicy with the damp cool breath of pines.... The quaint, whimsical fancies of a cultivated, lovable woman create a golden atmosphere through which we see her life, and we dream with her on her bench in her garden, in the fields where the yellow lupins grow, and in the mossy deeps of the pine forest. We feel we have made another friend, one who sees life with gentle, smiling eyes and from a deliciously humorous point of view."—Recreation.
"A garden of absorbing interest to its owner, a library full of books to comfort rainy days, a hamlet of German peasants, three delightful babies, and a 'man of wrath' who by no means merits the title,—these are the simple elements from which a bright woman, too cosmopolitan to be thought wholly German, as she calls herself, has evolved a charming little book."—The Nation.
"She has a depth of feeling, a sense of humor, and an impetuous and ardent manner that make her chronicles thoroughly alive. Beside this lovable book other feminine essays on nature, literature, and life seem only tame and artificial performances."—New York Tribune.
A running commentary in the quaintly humorous style characteristic of the writer, describes the teaching of a dozen or more popular nursery songs to the author's three little maids, the April, May, and June Baby respectively. The music for each is given, and charming illustrations in color complete an unusually attractive holiday book.
Full of the sayings of three of the most delightfully amusing and original children in the book world—the June Baby who loudly sings "The King of Love My Shepherd is," swinging her kitten around by its tail to emphasize the rhythm,—the loving little May Baby who says, "Directly you comes home, the fun begins," sitting very close to her mother,—and the quaint April Baby, concerning whom there are fears that she may turn out a genius and thus disgrace her parents, Elizabeth and "The Man of Wrath."
Readers of the charming companion volumes whose authorship has been the subject of so much recent discussion will delight in this little sequel, which will make a most appropriate gift during the coming season to many a mother of little ones who has had at some time to meet the problem of how the babies can be saved from corners when there are no lessons, and storms have forbidden exercise for them and their nurses, too. Its pictures of a German nursery and the delicious discussions of these toddlers over the various songs are extremely bright and entertaining, and most aptly supplemented by Kate Greenaway's quaint and daintily colored illustrations, of which there are sixteen, besides decorative designs, chapter headings, etc.