the branches below. They, too, are doubtless curious to know why the
children, with their school things, are following the wrong path and
going out of the village; one raven, indeed, flies out as a scout and
perches on a stunted willow by the pond. The children, however, go
quietly on their way till, by the alders beside the pond, they come upon
the high-road, which they cross to reach a humble house standing on the
farther side. The house is locked up, and the children stand at the door
and knock gently. The girl cries bravely: "Father! mother!"--and the boy
timidly repeats it after her: "Father! mother!" Then the girl takes hold
of the frost-covered latch and presses it, at first gently, and listens;
the boards of the door creak, but there is no other result. And now she
ventures to rattle the latch up and down vigorously, but the sounds die
away in the empty vestibule--no human voice answers. The boy then
presses his mouth to a crack in the door and cries: "Father! mother!" He
looks up inquiringly at his sister--his breath on the door has also
turned to hoar frost.

From the village, lying in a shroud of mist, come the measured sounds of
the thresher's flail, now in sudden volleys, now slowly and with a
dragging cadence, now in sharp, crackling bursts, and now again with a
dull and hollow beat. Sometimes there is the noise of one flail only,
but presently others have joined in on all sides. The children stand
still and seem lost. Finally they stop knocking and calling, and sit
down on some uprooted tree-stumps. The latter lie in a heap around the
trunk of a mountain-ash which stands beside the house, and which is now
radiant with its red berries. The children's eyes are again turned
toward the door-but it is still locked.

"Father got those out of the Mossbrook Wood," said the girl, pointing to
the stumps; and she added with a precocious look: "They give out lots
of heat, and are worth quite a little; for there is a good deal of resin
in them, and that burns like a torch. But chopping them brings in the
most money."

"If I were already grown up," replied the boy, "I'd take father's big
ax, and the beechwood mallet, and the two iron wedges, and the ash wedge
and break it all up as if it were glass. And then I'd make a fine,
pointed heap of it like the charcoal-burner, Mathew, makes in the woods;
and when father comes home, how pleased he'll be! But you must not tell
him who did it!" the boy concluded, raising a war