"Yes," I sobbed, "and it ran away from me, right down over the edge."
"Since you own up, laddie," said Cousin Jok, "I will arrange things so that nothing happens to you. I have told mother that a stone or something came rolling down and killed the kid. (Somehow, I thought in my own mind that Peterle was at the back of it!) That loaf of bread came straight out of the air, down over the high edge, passed me and hit the kid right on the head. The poor little thing staggered and fell and was dead as a mouse at once. However, don't be afraid, we'll keep to the stone idea. I'll make things all right with the Knierutscher woman too; and now be quiet, laddie, and don't pull such dismal faces. To-night we'll eat the poor beastie, and mother will cook us a horseradish-soup to go with it."
In such wise died the little white kid. My brother and sisters told me it had been killed by a naughty, cruel stone.
To please me, mother added my coals to the fire on the hearth, and before this fire the kid was roasted. It was to have been a gift for Cousin Jok; and now he was to have roast kid instead. But he invited all of us to join him and gave us the best bits. I did not relish mine at all.
The next morning, Jakoberle armed himself with a cudgel, followed Cousin Jok with it into the lower meadow and wanted to see the stone that killed the little kid.
"Child," said Cousin Jok, chewing hard at his pipe, "it rolled further on and the water's running over it now: it's down in the glen."
The dear, good old man! The stone that killed the little kid was lying on my heart.
Footnote:
[7] Jacob, Jacobus. The feast of St. James the Apostle is celebrated on the 25th of July.—Translator's Note.