ear I wrote on a bit of paper, 'God bless you
all over there,' and my name under it, and tied it to one of their
necks. I thought, in my foolishness, they'd fly to Nordstetten with it
some day; but--lo and behold!--she came back again, and she had another
bit of paper, with [Greek: chaire] on it. Nobody can tell me what that
means: it looks just like kaibe;[10] and that would be a shame,
wouldn't it?"

"Do you know what it means, Ivo?" asked Maria.

"Yes, Chaire: it is Greek, and means 'Hail.'"

The women lifted up their hands in amazement at Ivo's learning.

"But where did the swallow winter?" asked Maria, again.

"Among the Firelanders, I suppose," answered Ivo; and after a pause he
read on:--

"I never knew till I got away from home how finely the larks sing. Only
think! there are no larks here at all, and no nightingales either: but
a great many other fine birds there are, and splendid pine and oak
trees, and the tallest sort of timber.

"Dear mother, I wrote all this a week ago, and when I look over it I
think I'm writing stuff and nonsense; but just now I feel as if I was
sitting with you before Jacob the blacksmith's house at the well, and
people passing by and saying, 'Ha' ye good counsel?' and my heart is so
full that I don't know what I ought to say first and what last. We are
all in very good health, thank God: we like what we eat and drink, and
it feeds us well. We've had to widen all the clothes we brought with us
from Germany. It's a good thing Mechtilde has learned to sew.

"Whenever I eat a good dinner I think how nice it would be if my poor
mother was here: I could just lay out the best bits for her, and say,
'There, mother: that's for you to help yourself; there's a choice
morsel;' and I know you would like living in our house.

"Our Bat is getting on finely: he never had any thing to ail him yet.
Oh, if that dear little Maria was living yet! She would have been a
year old next Michaelmas. She was a sweet little angel; she was only
three weeks old, but when you called her by name she would look at you
so cunning, and grab at your eyes. On All-Souls' day we are going to
put an iron cross on her grave. Oh, my! oh, my! the dear child is in
heaven now, and heaven is the real America, after all!

"I must write more about my household-matters. I oughtn't to think of
the child so much; it works me too hard. I say, as the parson said,
'The Lord hath given, the Lord hath taken away: the name of the L