“Marta,” said Rolf, “you told me to come here if I got hurt. Well, I've come, and I've brought a boat-load of stuff in case I cannot do my share in the fields.”
“Press you, my poy you didn't oughter brung dot stuff; you know we loff you here, and effery time it is you coom I get gladsomer, and dot Annette she just cried ven you vent to de war.”
“Oh, mother, I did not; it was you and little Hendrick!” and Annette turned her scarlet cheeks away.
October, with its trees of flame and gold, was on the hills; purple and orange, the oaks and the birches; blue blocked with white was the sky above, and the blue, bright lake was limpid.
“Oh, God of my fathers,” Quonab used to pray, “when I reach the Happy Hunting, let it be ever the Leaf-falling Moon, for that is the only perfect time.” And in that unmarred month of sunny sky and woodlands purged of every plague, there is but one menace in the vales. For who can bring the glowing coal to the dry-leafed woods without these two begetting the dread red fury that devastates the hills?
Who can bring the fire in touch with tow and wonder at the blaze? Who, indeed? And would any but a dreamer expect young manhood in its growing strength, and girlhood just across the blush-line, to meet in daily meals and talk and still keep up the brother and sister play? It needs only a Virginia on the sea-girt island to turn the comrade into Paul.
“Marta, I tink dot Rolf an Annette don't quarrel bad, ain't it?”
“Hendrik, you vas von blind old bat-mole,” said Marta, “I fink dat farm next ours purty good, but Rolf he say 'No Lake George no good.' Better he like all his folk move over on dat Hudson.”