The night of the twenty-third of June is a short night at best. When one robs its beginning of four or five hours, there is little darkness left. Bidding his son go to bed, John Conrad spent the night in vigil. In spite of his reminder that this was not a time for grief, he went again to the little church. From thence he climbed through the ruined vineyards to the pastures on the hill where his father and his grandfather had pastured their sheep and cattle. There he stood long and looked about him, his mind traveling back to the happiness of their peaceful lives, spent in sturdy labor and sweetened by the honor which they had had among their fellows. Here were the roots of his own life, deep in the soil—would God that he could stay where he had been born! He was no longer young, responsibility and adversity had made him old. Those rosy stories of the new land—might they not be as other travelers' tales, concealing a reality worse than this fearful present of hunger and fear? Five hundred miles of river, three thousand miles of sea, and then an unsettled country! The same shapes of fear which had fascinated and disturbed young Conrad seemed now to await his father behind every tree and bush.
Suddenly John Conrad heard a soft sound on the summer wind. George Reimer, as restless as himself, was somewhere about with his dear flute. John Conrad bent his ear to the direction from which the sound came. It was a German hymn, "A Mighty Stronghold is Our God." John Conrad lifted his head and with it his heart. George Reimer would be with them and George Reimer's flute. Returning to his house, John Conrad lay down for a little sleep before dawn.
But George Reimer did not go to the new country. Upon the indescribable confusion of the Weiser house the next morning, he came smiling.
Into sheets and coverlets the Weisers had tied all their movable possessions, the various articles making curious knobs and projections on the great bundles. The family spinning-wheel must go—surely no article was more necessary! This Conrad was to carry on his back. The few cooking-pots which remained—these must be taken, though all else were left behind. Wardrobes were small, sheets were few, pillows did not exist. The feather beds could not be carried—these were given to the neighbors.
About hovered all Gross Anspach. Each person had brought a little gift, a tiny trinket saved from the pillaging of the hamlet, a little bouquet of the few garden flowers which had survived the cruel winter, a loaf of bread or a package of dried beans for soup. Catrina, a baby on each arm, wept loudly. Each baby had to be embraced many times by its departing relatives and each departing relative had to be embraced by all the village. Under foot, six tiny kittens risked their lives. Old Redebach, tottering feebly about, quoted warning passages of Scripture:—
"As a bird that wandereth from her nest, so is a man that wandereth from his place."
On the doorstep sat Wolf, his solemn eyes watching the scene in amazement. Everywhere was confusion, everywhere was noise.
For a few moments George Reimer watched quietly.
"Neighbors!" cried he. "If you cannot help these friends, stand back! Here, Conrad, I will tie that bundle. Here, John Frederick, I am to be your horse as far as the river; see that you behave, or I will run away. Sabina, I will keep your kittens if I have to catch the mice for them myself."