The corner stone which old Johann Winkler had laid himself with so much pride bore the date, “A.D. 1789.”
A good many generations of little Winklers had grown up in the shelter of the quaint old house; and a good many generations of little townspeople had stuffed their round stomachs with those incomparable spice-cakes and ginger-nuts, had loitered hungrily around the tempting show-window, and had scrawled caricatures on the walls and the worn stone steps.
The business had been inherited in a direct line from father to son; until the day when Uncle Franz Winkler had gone to sea, and left his domestic patrimony in the hands of his sister.
This sister was no other than the jolly Gertrude, once the prettiest, most blooming maiden in Frederickstown; who, in the course of time married one Peter Carl Lambert, a grave, practical-minded young man; and this grave, practical-minded young man (who, as the years went on became more and more grave, not to say, severe, and more and more practical) was no other than the father of all the young Lamberts, a portion of whose history is going to be the subject of this story.
Mr. Lambert was, himself, the owner of a moderately prosperous business, dealing in the whole-sale and retail distribution of hay and grain; but at the some time he had no inclination to allow his wife’s inheritance to decline, and while he managed his own affairs, Gertrude and Grandmother Winkler continued in charge of the bakery, which under his shrewd supervision became more flourishing than ever.
On one point and only one did husband and wife find cause for dissension. It had become a tradition in the family, as has already been said, that no one but a Winkler had ever possessed the magical recipes for those cakes and pies which had no rivals. Now, since the outrageous and even impious conduct of Uncle Franz, the question had risen, who should be regarded as the heir to the business and the name? For there were no more Winklers. Gertrude wanted her only son, Carl, to be her heir, although he was a Lambert. But Mr. Lambert had other ideas for the youth, and the hope that his son would, by becoming a professional man, take a step up in the world, was dear to his heart. Furthermore, Carl himself, a calm, phlegmatic and determined boy, shared his father’s views. He had announced his intention of becoming a lawyer.
So matters stood. There seemed to be no solution to the problem. But these family difficulties had no place in Jane’s mind as she took her time to wash and dress on that October morning. What engrossed her thoughts was the concocting of a feasible plan to avoid the distasteful prospect of going to school.
The sun had fully risen now, and already the frosty air had been softened by its genial warmth. She opened her window again, and leaned out, looking critically from east to west with the gaze of an old seaman, calculating the possibilities of the weather.
There was not a cloud in the sky. Never before, it seemed to her, had the heavens displayed such a vast expanse of deep, untroubled blue. A light, fresh wind rustled through the hazel-nut tree whose boughs touched her window; and sent a few of the ruddy, copper-colored leaves drifting lazily down to the uneven brick pavement below.
Across the square, she could see the broad, open door of Mr. Lambert’s warehouse, where already two men in blue shirts were at work tossing a fresh wagon-load of corn husks into the well-filled loft. Early to bed and early to rise was the motto of the industrious folk of Frederickstown, one and all. Wagons covered with white canvas hoods, and filled with tobacco, others, overflowing with pumpkins, celery, apples and cranberries—all the rich autumn produce of the fertile farming country beyond the town—were rumbling over the cobblestones in a picturesque procession, on their way to the market-place. And the well-known smell of the rimy vegetables was to the adventuresome Jane an almost irresistible call to the open.