THE MOTHER AND HER CHILDREN.
Wittenberg, in the 16th Century, was a wretched town. The houses, built of wood, were thatched with straw. The narrow, crooked streets were paved roughly, or not at all; and in rainy weather, or during the spring thaws, became almost impassable. A few prominent buildings,—the fine churches, the Elector's palace, the University, the Franciscan and Augustinian convents, and the dwellings of some wealthy citizens, alone raised it to the dignity of a town.
The surrounding country had been meagerly dealt with by nature. Luther was wont to say: "Land,—thou art nothing but sand!" In every direction stretched wastes of sand. In the immediate neighborhood of the town, however, especially toward the South, where rolled the yellow waters of the Elbe, occasional clumps of trees, and even vineyards were to be seen. Here many citizens of Wittenberg had planted charming gardens, whither they went to refresh themselves during the heat of summer.
One garden especially, which lay near the Elster-gate, gave evidence of artistic skill and careful culture. The shrubs and flower beds were tastefully arranged. A little pond, fed by a spring, lay hidden among rustling reeds; and in the midst of a large gravelled space rose a white summer house.
One bright day in the Summer of 1534, a merry little company was gathered here. A strong, active boy of nine, was the leader in their games, and their occasional excursions to the strawberry-beds. It was his birthday, and by reason of this circumstance, and of his seniority, he ruled over the younger ones,—a gentle little maiden of six, and two boys, of two and four.
Within the Summer-house sat the mother, holding a baby in her arms, and watching the play of her children,—now and then calling out a word of warning, when the merriment grew too boisterous, or when the eldest insisted too vigorously upon his rights.
It was Katharine, who after her day's work had come with her children to this favorite spot,—here, under the open sky, and among the flowers, she wished to celebrate the day on which, nine years ago, God's grace had given her her first-born son.
Luther might well say, with the Psalmist: "My wife is as a fruitful vine by the side of my house; my children like olive plants round about my table,"—five healthy, happy children they were; and the mother still fresh and blooming, as though sorrow could not touch her.
Suddenly a shout arose: "Aunt Lena! Aunt Lena is coming!" and the children sprang towards the old woman, as though she were a fortress, to be carried by assault.
They were very fond of the good aunt, who always had time and patience to answer their endless questions, who told them such lovely tales in the twilight; who dressed Lena's dolls, and made soldiers of pasteboard for the boys, and never betrayed their childish wrong-doings to father or mother. But to-day their enthusiastic greeting was largely mingled with self-interest. They wanted her to take charge of the little Gretchen, that their mother might play with them;—this being a great favor, and a rare one, for the mother's hands were always busy. Aunt Lena, being a person of much penetration, guessed their wishes, and did her part most willingly.