“Na!” she answered.
“Hast du ein Brüder?” (Have you a brother?) I continued.
“Na!” she replied, in the dialect.
“Wie alt bist du?” (How old are you?) I said afterward.[43]
“Vaze es net.” (I don’t know.)
Conversation flagged.
I found the church a small log building that had been covered with boards. Many of the tombstones were in the Moravian fashion, such as I had seen at Litiz,—small square slabs, lying flat in the grass; and some were numbered at the top of the inscription. One of these is said to be one hundred and twenty years old. But the Herrnhüter (as my landlady said) are all gone, and another society now holds meetings in the lowly church.
Although my little guide of six years could not speak English, she was not wanting in good sense. As I was trying to secure the graveyard gate, holding it with one hand, and stooping to roll up the stone that served to keep it fast, the little one, too, put out her hand, unbidden, to hold the gate. I thought that there were some English children that would not have been so helpful, and reflected, as I walked along, upon unspoken language, if I may use the expression.
The landlady had a plentiful supper after we returned. I was the only guest, and, as is usual here, the maid sat down with us. We had fried beef, sweet potatoes, pie, very nice apple-butter, canned peaches, barley-coffee, brown sugar, etc. The charge for board was at the rate of one dollar per day.