So Thekla told the tale in her pretty, soft voice; and Grandfather nodded his head a great deal, and smiled, and was well pleased. How much he understood is doubtful;—Old Age was singing its sweet lullabys to the weary brain, and it was fast going to sleep, though now and then it flashed again into wakefulness for a few moments. Thus much he comprehended,—that a visitor was coming, and he must be ready. So Thekla smoothed his white hair, and made him neat; and when October appeared at the door, there sat Grandfather between the children, like a snow-covered bough supported by two ripe roses.
Max and Thekla flew to meet the guest, and to whisper their request, to which he listened with a kindly face, pinching each round cheek gently meanwhile till it glowed with a fresher pink. When they ended, he smiled, well-pleased.
“Yes, indeed,” he said: “the Grandfather shall stay. He is my old friend. I knew him when he was no bigger than you, and he knew me. But then the time came, as it will to you, when he saw without seeing, and I was to him but a name. To the very young and the very old only am I visible; for they are children alike. He will know me at once, be sure of that.”
So saying, he walked in, sat down close by the oaken chair, and laid his hand on Grandfather’s arm. The old man turned slowly, and a look of recognition crept into his dim eyes.
“Catch! Carl, catch!” he murmured. “Where’s the basket? There never were so many beech-nuts on the tree before.”
“That was the other boy,” explained October, in a whisper. “They always went about together. But it’s a long time since I saw him.”
The children stood silent, watching the strange smiles which chased each other over Grandfather’s lips. Now, too, they could look at October, and see what manner of person he was. He had the brown, bearded face of a man in his prime; but the hair was grizzled with gray. There was something fatherly in the eyes, which were blue and merry. His hunter’s dress—of scarlet, gold, russet, crimson, and orange—was so gay that it would have seemed fantastic except for the grace with which he wore it. A spray of purple leaves nodded in his cap; a horn swung at his side, and beneath it a great pouch of fur into which he now plunged his hand.
“Do you like chestnuts?” he said, throwing a double handful into Thekla’s lap. “Ah! I see you do. That’s right! I always carry them about with me for the children. And I always say, ‘Don’t crack nuts with your teeth;’ and they always do it, just the same as if I hadn’t spoken, as Max is doing now.”
“What is that in your bag?” asked Max, boldly, pointing to a great sack which October had thrown down on entering.
“Samples,” replied October, briskly. “You see, I belong to a firm of dyers,—a celebrated one,—‘Brown October & Co.’ These are our novelties for the season. Look!” And, seizing the bag by the bottom, he shook out upon the floor what seemed to be rainbows in confusion,—a vast heap of brilliant scraps, so vivid and so various that nobody could count the different tints.