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392 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1853
“Would you like to have your feet greased?”
Having always regarded the man as a great curiosity, I felt honored by his familiar manner, and held out both my feet. He dipped his spoon into the hole and went to work, laying one slow stroke on each of my feet. The liquid spread beautifully on the skin, extraordinarily clear and golden brown, and sent up its pleasant resinous fragrance.
…he went to the holy water stoup that hung beneath the beautifully carved little crucifix, sprinkled himself with the water, and left the room.
By the light of my candle I saw him lie down on the wooden bench in the shallow niche in the spacious vestibule, and place the Bible under his head as a pillow.
“I was walking along the wide sidewalk, and I saw a raven sitting on the pavement. He wasn’t afraid, it seemed he couldn’t fly, and he walked along ahead of me when I followed him. I bent down, talked to him, reached for him, and he let me pick him up. Mother, I didn’t hurt him, I only petted him. Then a horribly big face looked out of the basement window of the Perron House and cried: ‘Stop, stop.’
“I looked over at the head, its eyes stared, it was very pale, and terribly big. I let the raven go, stood up, and ran home. Mother, I really didn’t hurt him, I only wanted to pet him.”
After a time they saw crags. They loomed up dark and indistinct from the white and opaque light. As the children approached, they nearly ran into them. The crags rose like a wall, completely perpendicular, so that barely a snowflake could cling to their sides.
The leaves were beaten down, the twigs were beaten down, the boughs were broken off, the grass was furrowed as though iron spikes had harrowed it. The hailstones were large enough to kill a grown person.
When all had made themselves comfortable, when the two youngest children had fallen asleep, and the two oldest had huddled together near their mother by the stove, and the spinning wheels were purring, they fell to telling tales again, but today with great zeal they told tales of the war, each in the hues lent by their separate passions.
And when the oats had vanished at last from the fields, when the hazel bushes lost their color, and the leaves wrinkled and rolled up, when the white patches of stubble on the hills turned brown, when nothing was left in the fields but potatoes cabbage and turnips, when not an apple or a pear was left in the branches of the trees, when even the leaves of those trees were falling, when the flowers that the father had in pots outside the house were taken back into the hothouses, when the blue juniper berries turned bluer and bluer on their bushes, and the green ones swelled and took on a dewy film, when the gossamer spun out again, and the grandmother grew sadder and sadder, and stroked all the children's curls more and more tenderly—they knew that it was time, that they must soon part, gloomy autumn and fog would cover the surroundings, snow and cold would come, and it would be a long time before they could be together. [212]