Read Heimatlos: Two stories for children, and for those who love children Page 2

  CHAPTER I

  THE QUIET HOME

  In the Upper Engadine Valley, on the road leading up to the MalojaPass, lies a lonely town called Sils. Taking a diagonal path from thestreet back to the mountains, one comes to a smaller village known asSils-Maria. Here, a little aside from the highway, in a field, twodwellings stood opposite each other. Both had old-fashioned doors andtiny windows set deep in the wall. One house had a garden, where herbsand vegetables and a few straggling flowers were growing. The other,which was much smaller, had only an old stable with a couple ofchickens wandering in and out of it.

  At the same hour every morning there came out of this forlorn littlehouse a man who was so tall that he had to stoop in order to passthrough the doorway. His hair and eyes were very dark, and the lowerpart of his face was hidden by a heavy black beard. Familiar as thisman's figure was to the people of Sils, they always spoke of him as"the Italian." His work took him regularly up the Maloja, where theroads were being improved, or down the Pass to St. Moritz Bath, wheresome new houses were going up.

  Each morning a boy followed the man to the door and stood lookingwistfully after him. It would have been hard to say just what thosegreat dark eyes were fixed upon, their gaze seemed so far reaching.

  Sunday afternoons, when the weather was favorable, the father and sonwould go for a walk together. So striking was the likeness betweenthem that no one could help noticing it, although in the bearded faceof the man the sadness was less apparent. They seldom spoke, butsometimes the man would hum or whistle a tune, and then the boy wouldlisten eagerly. It was easy to see that music was their chiefpleasure. When they were kept in the house by bad weather, the fatherwould play familiar airs on a mouth organ or on a whistle that he hadmade himself--perhaps on a comb or even on a leaf from a tree. Once hebrought home a violin, which delighted the boy beyond measure. Hewatched the father intently as he played, and later tried to bring outthe same notes himself. He must have succeeded fairly well, for theman laughed, and laying his own fingers over the little ones, playedseveral melodies from beginning to end.

  The next day, while the father was away, the boy practiced until hesucceeded in playing his favorite tune, but after that the violindisappeared and was never brought back again. Sometimes, however, thefather would sing in his deep voice,--softly, perhaps, at first, butlouder as he caught the spirit of the music. Then the boy would sing,too, and when the words failed him--for the songs were in Italian,which he did not understand--he could still hum the air. There was onetune that he knew better than all the rest, for it was one his fatherhad sung over and over again. It had many verses, and this was the wayit began:

  "Una sera In Peschiera--"

  Though the music was sad, this song was the boy's favorite. He wouldalways sing it with much feeling, his clear, bell-like voice blendingsmoothly with the father's rich bass. Often when they had finished allthe verses, the man would put his hand on his son's shoulder and say,"Good, Enrico! that went very well." Only his father called him"Enrico"; to all others he was simply "Rico."

  There was still another person who lived in the little cottage. Thiswas Rico's aunt, who kept house for the father and himself. In thewinter, when she sat spinning beside the stove and it was too stormyto be out of doors, Rico had to be very careful of his behavior.Everything he did seemed to annoy her. The faultfinding made theloneliness still harder to bear when, as often happened, the father'swork kept him away from home for days at a time.

  Sometimes when Rico tried to escape from the presence of his aunt, shewould say sharply: "Shut the door and sit down, Rico. You are foreverletting the cold air into the house."

  He was thankful that his bed upstairs offered a safe retreat aftersupper; and then he always had the pleasant anticipation that hisfather would probably soon come home again.