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The Goose Girl By: Harold MacGrath (1871-1932) |
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by HAROLD MACGRATH With Illustrations by André Castaigne Indianapolis The Bobbs Merrill Company Publishers 1909 [Illustration: They acclaimed her the queen.]
CONTENTS CHAPTER I SOME IN RAGS
II AN AMERICAN CONSULT
III FOR HER COUNTRY
IV THE YOUNG VINTNER
V A COMPATRIOT
VI AT THE BLACK EAGLE
VII AN ELDER BROTHER
VIII THE KING'S LETTER
IX GRETCHEN'S DAY
X AFFAIRS OF STATE
XI THE SOCIALISTS
XII LOVE'S DOUBTS
XIII A DAY DREAM
XIV FIND THE WOMAN
XV THE WRONG MAN
XVI HER FAN
XVII AFTER THE VINTAGE
XVIII A WHITE SCAR
XIX DISCLOSURES
XX THE KING
XXI TWIN LOCKETS
XXII A LITTLE FINGER
XXIII HAPPINESS
CHAPTER I SOME IN RAGS
An old man, clothed in picturesque patches and tatters, paused and
leaned on his stout oak staff. He was tired. He drew off his rusty felt
hat, swept a sleeve across his forehead, and sighed. He had walked many
miles that day, and even now the journey's end, near as it really was,
seemed far away. Ah, but he would sleep soundly that night, whether the
bed were of earth or of straw. His peasant garb rather enhanced his fine
head. His eyes were blue and clear and far seeing, the eyes of a hunter
or a woodsman, of a man who watches the shadows in the forest at night
or the dim, wavering lines on the horizon at daytime; things near or far
or roundabout. His brow was high, his nose large and bridged; a face of
more angles than contours, bristling with gray spikes, like one who has
gone unshaven several days. His hands, folded over the round, polished
knuckle of his staff, were tanned and soiled, but they were long and
slender, and the callouses were pink, a certain indication that they
were fresh. The afternoon glow of the September sun burned along the dusty white
highway. From where he stood the road trailed off miles behind and wound
up five hundred feet or more above him to the ancient city of Dreiberg.
It was not a steep road, but a long and weary one, a steady, enervating,
unbroken climb. To the left the mighty cliff reared its granite side to
the hanging city, broke in a wide plain, and then went on up several
thousand feet to the ledges of dragon green ice and snow. To the right
sparkled and flashed a wild mountain stream on its way to the broad,
fertile valley, which, mistily green and brown and yellow with vineyards
and hops and corn, spread out and on to the north, stopping abruptly at
the base of the more formidable chain of mountains. Across this lofty jumble of barren rock and glacial cleft, now purpling
and darkening as the sun mellowed in its decline, lay the kingdom of
Jugendheit; and toward this the wayfarer gazed meditatively, absorbing
little or nothing of the exquisite panorama. By and by his gaze wavered,
and that particular patch in the valley, brown from the beating of many
iron shod horses, caught and chained his interest for a space. It was
the military field, and it glittered and scintillated as squadron after
squadron of cavalry dashed from side to side or wheeled in bewildering
circles. "The philosophy of war is to prepare for it," mused the old man, with a
jerk of his shoulders. "France! So the mutter runs. There is a Napoleon
in France, but no Bonaparte. Clatter clatter! Bang bang!" He laughed
ironically and cautiously glanced at his watch, an article which must
have cost him many and many a potato patch. He pulled his hat over his
eyes, scratched the irritating stubble on his chin, and stepped forward. He had followed yonder goose girl ever since the incline began. Oft the
little wooden shoes had lagged, but here they were, still a hundred
yards or more ahead of him. He had never been close enough to
distinguish her features. The galloping of soldiers up and down the road
from time to time disturbed her flock, but she was evidently a patient
soul, and relied valiantly upon her stick of willow... Continue reading book >>
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