“Oh, they got along somehow!” said August indifferently, as if ashamed of his emotion. “People took them in, and after a while they built another house. One little boy had intermittent fever, but that wasn’t much. I shall see them again in a few days, probably; and one thing I’ve made up my mind to,—that woman’s corn is to ripen this year, if nobody’s else does.”
So saying, August arose, and shook himself, the fire-flies round his neck gleaming like a blazing string as he did so.
“I must be off!” he said. “Where are my moments?”
Max brought them. So absorbed had he and Thekla been in the peril of the tale, that neither of them noticed that August had produced no gift. He, however, was less forgetful.
“Here’s your present, you know,” he said with a malicious smile, just as he turned to go. “Take care! I have to open the bottle first. Crick, crack!—here it goes.” As he uttered these words, he pulled out a cork, and made a kind of toss. A buzzing sound was heard: something small and winged flew out, and filled the air. August gave a loud laugh, and vanished in the Forest.
Max and Thekla stood staring after him for a moment, stupefied with astonishment. Then they began to dance up and down, and slap themselves right and left with countenances as red as fire. Curious lumps were forming on their faces and hands. You see mosquitoes are unknown in the Black Forest, and August’s gift was a couple of dozen—very lively ones—from the Jersey Flats!
Max “moved his seat closer; and, pulling the flushed cheek down on his shoulder, began to cool it with gentle wavings of his palm-leaf fan.”