y any one was astir; a few good souls wending home
from vespers, a tired post-boy who blew a shrill blast from his
tasselled horn as he pulled up his sledge before a hostelry, and
little August hugging his jug of beer to his ragged sheepskin
coat, were all who were abroad, for the snow fell heavily and the
good folks of Hall go early to their beds. He could not run, or
he would have spilled the beer; he was half frozen and a little
frightened, but he kept up his courage by saying over and over
again to himself, "I shall soon be at home with dear Hirschvogel."

[Illustration: HE WENT ON THROUGH THE STREETS, PAST THE STONE
MAN-AT-ARMS OF THE GUARD-HOUSE]

He went on through the streets, past the stone man-at-arms of the
guard-house, and so into the place where the great church was,
and where near it stood his father, Karl Strehla's house, with a
sculptured Bethlehem over the door-way, and the Pilgrimage of the
Three Kings painted on its wall. He had been sent on a long
errand outside the gates in the afternoon, over the frozen
fields and the broad white snow, and had been belated, and had
thought he had heard the wolves behind him at every step, and had
reached the town in a great state of terror, thankful with all
his little panting heart to see the oil-lamp burning under the
first house-shrine. But he had not forgotten to call for the
beer, and he carried it carefully now, though his hands were so
numb that he was afraid they would let the jug down every moment.

The snow outlined with white every gable and cornice of the
beautiful old wooden houses; the moonlight shone on the gilded
signs, the lambs, the grapes, the eagles, and all the quaint
devices that hung before the doors; covered lamps burned before
the Nativities and Crucifixions painted on the walls or let into
the wood-work; here and there, where a shutter had not been
closed, a ruddy fire-light lit up a homely interior, with the
noisy band of children clustering round the house-mother and a
big brown loaf, or some gossips spinning and listening to the
cobbler's or the barber's story of a neighbor, while the
oil-wicks glimmered, and the hearth-logs blazed, and the
chestnuts sputtered in their iron roasting-pot. Little August saw
all these things, as he saw everything with his two big bright
eyes that had such curious lights and shadows in them; but he
went heedfully on his way for the sake of the beer which a single
slip of the foot would make him spill.