"Can you do that?"
I was all astonishment.
"Oh, that's nothing," he pooh-poohed. "I can make flutes, too, and jumping jacks."
I was so completely carried off my feet that I handed him the roll on the spot. He bit into it with gusto, and, not honouring me with another glance, he drove his feathered flock off before him.
I looked after him, envy in my heart. He was allowed to shepherd geese, but I had to go up to Mademoiselle and learn French. Yes, I thought, how unequal fortune's favours are.
That evening he brought me the switch he had promised to make. It was even more beautiful than I had dared to hope in my wildest dreams. There were the white spirals that had so fascinated me in the original, and more than that, the butt-end was topped with a knob, on which a human countenance--whether mine or his, I could not unriddle--was depicted by two dots and two dashes at right angles.
From that time on we were friends. I shared with him all the goodies that fell to me, the spoiled little darling, from every side. In return, he bestowed upon me the artistic products of his skilful fingers, reed pipes, little boxes, houses, toy utensils, and, best of all, his famous jumping jacks.
Our meetings took place every evening behind the goose coops, and there we exchanged gifts. I looked forward the whole day to these meetings, my thoughts constantly engaged by my young hero. I saw him on the sunny pasture lying in the grass, blowing his reed pipes, while I was torturing myself with horrid vowels. And the yearning grew ever stronger within me to partake of that bliss which is called minding geese.
When I told him of my feelings, he burst out laughing.
"Why don't you come along, then?" he said.