There is the "Siegfried" bird-call running through my head again! Is it that which the fountain—my fountain, as I claim it now—sang to me as I passed to-day? Or did I myself unconsciously hum the melody and hear in the ripple of the falling water the soft rhythm of accompanying 'cellos and violins?
December 15.
Christmas is in the air, and every street-corner has bloomed into a miniature forest of trees. These are fastened in squares of wood, and stand up straight and proud. As a rule some strange, bent old woman presides over them, and out of curiosity to-day I stopped in Odeons-Platz and inquired the price of a particularly plump little tree.
"One mark fifty" (thirty-seven and a half cents), quavered the dame, "but they run up as high as fifteen marks."
The poor soul looked so disappointed as I, after thanking her, turned away, that I simply could not resist going back—least of all at Christmas time. There was nothing to buy but trees, so I picked out the plump little one which had first attracted my attention. She was delighted and beamed at me as I started off with it dragging behind me from under my arm, for my hands were full of music books. I had not the slightest idea what to do with my new possession. I had just made up my mind to leave it at some one's door, when who should come trudging along through the snow but the Hausmeister's little boy. He was on his way home from school, with his books strapped to his back in one of these curious black knapsacks which all the school children carry. I thrust the tree into his arms, with the assurance that it was for him, and left him, wholly bewildered, hugging it tightly to his breast.
When I reached the corner I turned to see him still standing there and gazing after me from between the branches with an expression of astonishment and delight. I waved my hand, and at last he moved and gave a sign with his red mitten. Then he turned and ran towards home as fast as his fat legs could carry him.
The shops, with one exception, are not nearly as finely decorated as ours at home. This exception is the sausage-store, which is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. To be frank, a sausage had never impressed me as a particularly artistic creation, nor had I been wont to regard it as a species of decoration until Germany unfolded to me its many possibilities. Could you but see one of these windows, hung with long ropes, the links of which are large Frankfurters joined together by a band of green, you would not fail, I am sure, to admire the intricacy of the designs and the striking originality with which the small sausages are interspersed with the larger ones so as to produce the most surprising effects! Who ever associated sausages with anything so idyllic as a waterfall? Yet here you have a wooden mill, high up on an improvised hill, and over the wheel flow down streamers of sausages to mass in a lake below. Who ever thought of connecting them with the legends of the Middle Ages? Yet Herr Schmidt, at the corner, has constructed the most marvellous tower out of sausages laid crisscross, with openings for little windows, with a turret on the very top, with a flag waving proudly on the highest peak, and most wonderful of all, with a drawbridge securely fastened over a moat of parsley.
Everybody gives every one else some little remembrance for Christmas, and we are racking our brains to think of things appropriate for those at the pension. The clerks in the shops help one out all they can. You have no idea how courteous they are. Always on entering they say "Good day" and the proprietor comes up with "How can I serve you, gnädiges Fräulein?" Then they will pull down all the goods in the store, bring out hidden boxes from under the counters, and even send outside for something they have not got, remaining perfectly satisfied if you only purchase something. If you buy nothing, however politely you may regret that the silk does not match, or the lace bear the required pattern, they plainly show their displeasure in their faces.
We are always politely escorted to the door by a clerk, who bids us good by. Often in the smaller stores it is amusing to hear the chorus of farewells which follow us. Last week Polly and I had coffee at one of these fascinating Conditorei, or little bake-shops which one finds here everywhere. For an absurdly small sum we had a table to ourselves, coffee enough for a dozen, and the most delicious cakes you ever ate! When we had finished, I started to leave some Trinkgeld for the waitress, who had served everything in the daintiest fashion.
"Fifty pfennigs!" said Polly, looking at the coin that I had laid on the table.