Sometimes she would lie awake far into the night, staring with wide-open eyes at the blank darkness of her attic, hugging little Fritz in her arms, and thinking what if she had a fairy godmother, and what if she should come and bring the wish, until all the darkness was full of glorious visions, and poor little Berty, the German rag-picker, lying there upon her bed of straw, in Biddy Flanagan’s back attic, dreamed dreams as sweet as any which visit the soft, guarded pillows of you happy children who fall asleep with father’s good-night blessings in your ears, and mother’s good-night kisses on your lips. Yes, the dear Heavenly Father, who bends so lovingly from his Eternal Throne to listen to your evening prayer, heard Berty’s German Vaterunser also, and watched over her, perhaps, all the more tenderly because she had no one else.
CHAPTER II.
BERTHA’S WISH.
It was one night after they had been to visit the kind old German lady, their mother’s friend, that this wonderful wish came into Berty’s heart.
Madame Hansmann, as this old lady was called by the people of Biddy’s house, was not yet weaned from the dear Vaterland, as she called her native country, and liked nothing so well as talking of its kindly ways and pleasant customs to any one who would listen. She knew no English; but the homely German, which, I dare say, sounds harsh and unpleasant enough to you, was music in Bertha’s ears; for it was the language in which she had always heard her mother speak. Berty had, too, or fancied she had, a dim remembrance of some of the scenes which the good old lady described, especially of the Christmas trees, and birthday feasts, and the concerts in the Volksgarten, or public park, of the city where her parents had lived.
It was, as I said, one night after a visit to old Madame Hansmann that Berty’s wish came into her heart. She was sitting in her attic, striving patiently, by the light of a candle-end which Biddy had given her, to fashion a frock for little Fritz from an old one of her own. She was not a very skilful seamstress, and her materials were none of the best; so, as you may imagine, she was much too busy at first to pay much attention to the children’s chatter, as they frolicked and tumbled upon the old straw bed in the corner. Presently, however, having planned out her work to her mind, her attention was attracted by their talk.
“Wasn’t it nice,” said Lina, “what she told about the Christmas trees? And Berty’s seen one; but we never did.”
“Poh!” cried Gottlieb, turning a very contemptuous somerset; “poh! I have: but I never told though before. It was last Christmas,—that night, you know, I ran away from Bert. We went to the avenue, Martin Fischer and me, and we saw one. It was in that big stone house where the Dutchman lives—Herr Westermann. It was very cold, and we stood upon the sidewalk, and the wind blew so hard; but the blinds were open just a bit, and we saw it! O my!—but wasn’t it jolly! The great green tree most up to the top of the wall; and the lights blazing on every limb; and the gold and silver nuts shining; and the apples and oranges and candy!—and O, flowers, too! and hobby-horses! and dolls!—and all the children dancing round and laughing! I tell you, you never saw anything so fine,—never! never!”