The wanderings and fortunes of some German emigrantsGerstäcker, Friedrich
General
The wanderings and fortunes of some German emigrants
Gerstäcker, Friedrich
Germany -- Emigration and immigration -- Fiction; Immigrants -- Fiction
is almost as bad as making a new fence, for, to get at one of the lower
rails, the fence has to be taken down for many lengths on each side, and
never can be relaid so well. In the Canadas, and the Northwestern states
of the Union, the ground, during winter, is covered with snow, for a
distance of ten degrees and more south of corresponding latitudes in the
Old World, and this is the season when the timber is easily got out of
the bush, or of the swamps, into the clearings, either on low sleighs,
or by being snagged--that is, dragged out by oxen and a logging
chain.--TR.
[6] It is not customary for shoemakers in Germany to keep a large stock
of shoes; those in the text, of course, were not all made by the seller,
but probably in New England, where there are whole towns where nothing
else is done. The wooden pegs would surprise an English shoemaker as
much as they did the German.--TR.
[7] A brass bason is the German barber's sign--TR.
[8] Munich is celebrated throughout Germany for the goodness of its
beer.--TR.
CHAPTER IV.
THE SETTLEMENT.
He who awaits the coming morning in a warm, soft bed, in a well-built
house, cares little whether it rains and storms without, or whether the
sun darts his first rays in a clear blue sky. Perhaps he wraps himself
only the more comfortably in his covering, and turns once more for a
short morning nap, when the rain beats cold and loud against the
window-panes, and the wind whistles madly in chimneys and key-holes,
shakes down the soot in the rocking fire-places, turns the rusty old
weathercocks, scraping and creaking, backwards and forwards, and howls
up and down the streets in wild unfettered play.
But, on the other hand, how anxiously does the invalid on his sick bed,
or the poor wanderer, who has had to pitch his roofless, unprotected
encampment under the trees of the forest, amidst storm and tempest, look
forward to the lingering, lingering dawn of morning! how many times does
he turn his eyes on near objects, and gaze searchingly round, to see if
he cannot discover a somewhat lighter reflection, a more distinct
perception of the surrounding place, which may announce the breaking
morning, and promise him at least light, with which he may hope for some
alleviation of his torment, or some amendment of his unbearable
position!
How ardently, how eagerly, was this morning longed for by the settlers,
who, scarcely conscious where they were, many of them just awakened from
a deep sleep, had been turned out, in storm, and rain, and pitchy
darkness, into the wild, rustling forest, with scarcely a roof for
shelter, and who could not even reconnoitre the place where they were,
which, but sparingly lighted by the embers on the hearth at first, was
now shrouded in impenetrable darkness.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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