Poor Fritzerl awoke with a heart almost weighed down with affliction, but still he went forth with his goats to the pasture, and tended and watched after them as carefully as ever. The next day, and the day after that again, he went about his accustomed duties; but on the third day, as he sat beside Grettl’a under the old linden-tree before the door, he whispered to her,—
“I can bear it no longer, Grettl’a! I must away!—away!” And he pointed to the distance, which, vague and undefined as his own resolves, stretched out its broad expanse before them.
Grettl’a did her best to persuade him against his rash determination: she reasoned as well as she could reason; she begged, she even cried to him; and at last, all else failing, she forgot her pledge, and actually ran and told her father.
The Bauer, sorry to lose so faithful a servant as Fritz, added his influence to the little maiden’s tears; and even the Bauer’s wife tried to argue him out of his resolve, mingling with her wise suggestions about a “wide world and a cold one” some caustic hints about ingratitude to his friends and protectors.
Fritz was deaf to all: if he could not yield to Grettl’s prayers and weeping eyes, he was strong against the old wife’s sarcasms.
He cried all night through, and, arising before the dawn, he kissed Grettl’a as she lay sleeping, and, cautiously opening the latch, slipped out unheard. A heavy dew was on the grass, and the large, massive clouds rested on the mountains and filled the plain. It was cold, and gloomy, and cheerless—-just such as the world is to the wanderer who, friendless, alone, and poor, would tempt his fortunes in it!
Fritz wandered on over the plain—he had no choice of paths—he had nothing to guide, no clue to lead him. He took this, because he had often gone it with “Star” when he was happy and contented. As he went along, the sun rose, and soon the whole scene changed from its leaden grey to the bright tint of morning. The hoar-frost glittered like thousands of spangles scattered over the grass; the earth sent up a delicious odour; the leaves, as they opened, murmured softly in the air; and the little brooks rustled among the stones, and rippled on with a sound like fairy laughter. There was gladness and joy every where, save in that heart which was now bereft of all.
“What could he mean?” said he, again and again to himself: “‘A good word brings luck!’ When had I ever misfortune till now?”
Oh, Fritzerl! take care lest you are not making the common mistake, and expecting the moral before the end of the story.
Were it my object to dwell on this part of my tale, I might tell you of Fritz’s long conflict with himself—his doubts, his hesitation, and his reasonings, before he could decide on what course to take, or whither to bend his steps. The world was a very wide one to hunt after a Starling through it: that, he knew, though not very deeply skilled in geography.