And yet, she was so “severe,” as Karsten would say, that she all but chased me out of her house with a broom when I went to beg her pardon.
I had to do that. Father said I must.
Ugh! But of course it was wrong to take her bedstead.
FOOTNOTES:
Now comes the maiden with dress of green.
Oh, heigh, dear! Oh, ho!
VII
IN PECKELL’S HAYLOFT
Every once in a while, a traveling photographer comes to our town. They take rather spotty pictures in one or another courtyard under the open sky, seldom pay for the room where they have lodged, and are suddenly gone. Such traveling photographers look almost alike, usually having black curly hair with pomade in it, and pale faces; they parade around in the street, walking quickly as if they were awfully busy.
But one summer a photographer came who was altogether different. In the first place, his name was Cavallius, and he was a little bit of a man; that is, his legs were very short. The upper part of his body was big enough, and his face was large, with a long golden, curly beard that reached down over his chest; and the whole time he was in town, he had big patches of court-plaster behind his ears. He never looked as if he were busy. He spoke slowly and never walked fast; and there was a kind of dignity about him, from the court-plaster patches to his long golden beard and even to his short legs, that was quite amazing.
That dignified appearance was a real achievement for little Cavallius; for truly it can’t be very easy to appear dignified with almost no legs and with plasters behind the ears.