LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1735, 11 September 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A SKETCH IN A NARROW STREET.

It wa? so narrow, this little back street in the quaint, old-fashioned German town, that Hans Gottlieb could, if he had so wished, have shaken hands oat of his window with his opposite neighbor. The sun that shone so bravely elsewhere was seldom visib'e here ; only in the early morning a few golden gleams found their way in, and gave faint encouragement to the two or three flowers that blossomed in pots on the window-sill. On such occasions Hans would pause in his work, knowing full well what was coming how the casement opposite would be flung open, and a girl's voice singing a blithe little French song, would ring across the silent street to his listening ears : how a slim, pretty figure would for a moment stand framed in the blossoming scarlet runners, a pretty figure, with dark French eyes, and black hair, drawn up under a white oap, a beautiful contrast, so Hans thought, to his comely, yellow-haired countrywomen. As soon as this vision appeared, Hans would pause in his work and turn his eyes toward it j would wait till the watering of the flowers and the singing of the song were alike ended, and then would approach his window. 'Good morning,' his neighbor would call across in that pretty foreign German that was so enchanting to his ears—'Good morning, Monsieur Gottlieb,' and then with a nod and a smile the trim little figure would vanish into the dark shadows, and Hans return to his work.

Bat though life was tco busy with these two, and bread difficult enough to win, even when one worked hard for it, so that neither could afford to idle away the minutes in talk, yet Hans as he worked, dreaming of the days when stone-carving should not mean daily bread, but honor and glory to those he loved, was pleasantly conscious all the time of a dark head bent over a table drawn close up to the window opposite—a table covered with many bright-colored scraps of muslin and paper which in due course, under those deft, small bands, became summer flowem ; at this short distance seeming to the lookeron the spoils of a June garden. Thus they worked day after day, these two, so near together, yet so far apart,_abstaining from all conversation which might have made the days pass more quickly ; but then an hour's idleness might mean going snpperless to bed, so that evenEoseCordier, dearly as she loved the sound of her own voice, refrained from making use of it, except for an occasional song. But when the day was over, when the coolness in the little street, and the shadowy gray of the strip of sky overhead, gave notice that the long Summer day was drawing to an end, when the small room grew dark, then Rose would rise and open the door, to exchange greetings and gossip with the neighbors—with the women sitting on their doorsteps, knitting in the peaceful twilight, their children playing abcut them; with the fathers returning from their work; with the youcg men loitering about smoking, for Rose had always a bright word and look for eve>y man, woman, and child she knew. And they were all fond of her—of this little foreigner who had come among them four years ago with an old mother, since dead, and who earned her daily bread honestly among them. Then as it grew darker, Hans Gottlieb would become aware that the_ day_and_ its work were over, and would lay aside Ms chisel, and also seek what little fresh air there was at the door of his dwelling. He did not laugh or gossip with his neighbors, as did Rose Cordier ; it was not his way, and this fact was quite recognized by all the dwellers in William street. Beyond a " Good evening, neighbor," they did not Beek to disturb him in the enjoyment of his evening pipe, only occasionally Rose would step across and ask him what he was at work upon, or if he lad a good order, and then poor Hans, flushing all over his fair face, would proceed to describe his work, his prospects, until Rose, with a pretty shrug of her shoulders, would tell him in her foreign German she could not understand him ; he mu?t speak slower, much slower ; it was too late now, but to-morrow, yes to-morrow, he must try and explain it all again, for it was interesting, so interesting. But for now it mu-t be good night, " good night to every one," and the slight trim figure had disappeared, and the door was closed. The neighbors, watching Hans as ha strolled up and ;down the little street afterward, pipe in mouth, nodded and smiled to one another. "Ah, when there is enough for two over yonder, there will be a wedding!' such was the form the whispering Even the hardest workers took a holiday now and again, and the feast of St. John the Baptist is esteemed in Freidrichburg the legitimate Summer holiday of all its industrious inhabitants. The happy day is spent according to an old custom at a small village some three miles distant from the town, whore a time-honored fair iB held. Lion-tamere, fat women, dwarfs, giants, all the hundred and one shows that are the rightful property of a fair are to be found there, and later on there is dancing under the soft evening sky, and after that, home early, 10 as to be up and about on the morrow to work, if possible, harder than ever, to make up for the wasted day. To Rose Cordier, with her Quick French blood, her youth, her lightedness, this fete was one to which she looked for *ard_ for many weeks beforehand, and the little foreigner knew she was never likely to want a cavalier, and this was looked upon as almost a sine qua »*» of the entertainment. The neighbors smiled more than ever when they saw Rosa come out of her door the morning of the 24th June, looking as

fresh and bright as the red roses in her belt, and Hans appear immediately afterward, a companion, a rose in his button-hole. Tncy were all standing about in little groups preparing to start themselves to the scene of festivity; many of them with babies in their arms and little things clinging about their skirts, but they had time to give an admiring glance at this other couple first. 'Before we start,'said Hans suddenly, a little restraint apparent in his voice, ' wonld you come into my altelier, Mademoiselle ? I have been working at something I should like to show you.' « Yes, truly, I should like it. I have never been there yet. L?t us go.' They turned back as she spoke, and he pushed open the door. ' See,' ho said, 'it is not finished yet, but it is to be a wreath of roses.' He led her as he said these words to where on one side, out of the way of dust and dirt, it lay—the half-completed circlet of carved flowers.

'lt is pretty,'she said And then, 'ls it an order ? What will you get for it ? ' 'No, it is not an order,'he said, a little sadly, ' I have been doing it in the spare moments after my day's work.' ' It is pretty,' she repeated, touching with her small fingers the delicate curled leaves, which surely had the stamp of genius upon them ; ' but it wants something,' she added, alter a pause. ' What ? ' he inquired eagerly. * I have looked at it so often that I cannot find out whether it Is right or wrong.' 'I know,' she exclaimed triumphantly. ' Color. Ah, Monsieur, if you could but see the wreath of roses I made last week for the Grafinn von Adelaorf for a ball, you would know what I mean. 'Oh ' —with a little clasp of her hands—' It was perfect ! Perfect as Love !' Her thoughts had quite wandered away from the delicate flowers before her; indeed, she did not remember them until they stood once more in the street with the door closed behind them, when it came across her that she might have been rude. ' They are very pretty,' she said softly, but you see there are not finished yet. When they are, perhaps, who knows, you might sell them.' ' Perhaps,' ho said. ' Iconld try if you wish it ; but when I made them I thought ' the color swept into his face—' that you would like them.' ' Yes, so I should if yon were rich enough to give presents, or if—. Well, you will not mind my speaking the trnth to you ? You are rather a dreamer, are you not ? This is a bad thing,' shaking her pretty head 'lt does not make a fortune, and money, you know, one must have. So take my advice—leave off carving things no one cares to buy, and only do what you can sell. You are not angry.' ' Angry,' repeated Hans, ' when you are so kind as to take an interest in me and wish me well ! Why—' But hero they had reached the merry, laughing crowd, and the spot where the omnibus was awaiting them, and the rest of the sentence had perforce to await completion at some future time. (To be cctitiniicd.)