“Yes, Juffrouw—but the poem? And there must be something about God in it.”
“Certainly. It’s a long story. His wife was a niece of my husband’s—you see we are Catholics, and she acted according to her religion—put a stone on those cloths, Femke, or they’ll blow away—yes, bleaching is a job. You have no idea what a bother it is—yes, she acted according to her religion; and that was right. People that don’t do that are not much. But he—draw that shirt back a little, Femke. The sleeve is hanging in the ditch—but he didn’t believe in it, and said it was all nonsense. But when she died, and he saw all that was done for her—it was Father Jansen who was there. Of course you know him—he always walks with a black cane, but he never lets it touch the ground——”
The women looked at Walter questioningly. The poor boy sat on the basket, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. He had listened with open mouth, wondering how he was going to apply it all to his poem. Of Father Jansen and that cane which despised the ground he had never heard. This he had to confess.
“Yes, it was Father Jansen who was there, and when my husband’s nephew saw all that—don’t spill any, Femke, or the mud will splatter so bad—yes, when he saw that a human being doesn’t die like an animal, then he was more respectful, and after that he observed Easter like other people. And last year when he broke his leg—he’s a dyer, you know—he drew thirteen stivers for nine weeks. And so I wanted to tell you that there’s a widower in our family. And now you must get up, for I need the basket.”
Walter arose quickly, as if he feared he might seem to be trespassing; and the woman went away, after having warned Femke to watch the linen and call her if any bad boys should come along.
“Are you better now?” Femke asked kindly.
“Oh yes; but I don’t see how I’m to use all that in my poem. You must remember that it has to rhyme, and the verses must be of the same length, and that they must be masculine and feminine; for my brother said so, and he’s a school-teacher.”
Femke reflected, then all at once she cried, “Do you know Latin?” As if Latin would help Walter.
“No,” disconsolately.
“Well, it really makes no difference. It’s in Dutch, too. Just watch the linen a minute.”