straw and hay which enveloped the stove. If it had been put
in a packing-case he would have been defeated at the onset. As it was,
he gnawed, and nibbled, and pulled, and pushed, just as a mouse would
have done, making his hole where he guessed that the opening of the
stove was--the opening through which he had so often thrust the big
oak logs to feed it. No one disturbed him; the heavy train went
lumbering on and on, and he saw nothing at all of the beautiful
mountains, and shining waters, and great forests through which he was
being carried. He was hard at work getting through the straw and hay
and twisted ropes; and get through them at last he did, and found the
door of the stove, which he knew so well, and which was quite large
enough for a child of his age to slip through, and it was this which
he had counted upon doing. Slip through he did, as he had often done
at home for fun, and curled himself up there to see if he could anyhow
remain during many hours. He found that he could; air came in through
the brass fretwork of the stove; and with admirable caution in such a
little fellow he leaned out, drew the hay and straw together,
rearranged the ropes, so that no one could ever have dreamed a little
mouse had been at them. Then he curled himself up again, this time
more like a dormouse than anything else; and, being safe inside his
dear Hirschvogel and intensely cold, he went fast asleep as if he were
in his own bed at home with Albrecht, and Christof on either side of
him. The train lumbered on, stopped often and long, as the habit of
goods-trains is, sweeping the snow away with its cow-switcher, and
rumbling through the deep heart of the mountains, with its lamps aglow
like the eyes of a dog in a night of frost.

The train rolled on in its heavy, slow fashion, and the child slept
soundly, for a long while. When he did awake, it was quite dark
outside in the land; he could not see, and of course he was in
absolute darkness; and for a while he was solely frightened, and
trembled terribly, and sobbed in a quiet heart-broken fashion,
thinking of them all at home. Poor Dorothea! how anxious she would be!
How she would run over the town and walk up to grandfather's at Dorf
Ampas, and perhaps even send over to Jenbach, thinking he had taken
refuge with Uncle Joachim! His conscience smote him for the sorrow he
must be even then causing to his gentle sister; but it never occurred
to him to try and go back. If he once were