or the
Landsturm and the Landwehr, and we realized that even here the careful
organization of the military power had numbered and ticketed every
village. But what did it mean to us? War was a thing unthinkable in
those days. We bicycled everywhere, climbed, mountains, bathed in
waterfalls, chatted fluent and unorthodox German with everyone we met,
and played games with Ingo.

Dear little Ingo! At the age when so many small boys are pert, impudent,
self-conscious, he was the simplest, happiest, gravest little creature.
His hobby was astronomy, and often I would find him sitting quietly in a
corner with a book about the stars. On clear evenings we would walk
along the road together, in the mountain hush that was only broken by
the brook tumbling down the valley, and he would name the constellations
for me. His little round head was thrilled through and through by the
immense mysteries of space; sometimes at meal times he would fall into a
muse, forgetting his beef and gravy. Once I asked him at dinner what he
was thinking of. He looked up with his clear gray-blue eyes and flashing
smile: "_Von den Sternen_!" ("Of the stars.")

The time after supper was reserved for games, in which Wolfgang, Ingo's
smaller brother (aged seven), also took part. Our favourite pastimes
were "Irrgarten" and "Galgenspiel," in which we found enormous
amusement. Galgenspiel was Ingo's translation of "Hangman," a simple
pastime which had sometimes entertained my own small brother on rainy
days; apparently it was new in Germany. One player thinks of a word, and
sets down on paper a dash for each letter in this word. It is the task
of the other to guess the word, and he names the letters of the alphabet
one by one. Every time he mentions a letter that is contained in the
word you must set it down in its proper place in the word, but every
time he mentions a letter that is not in the word you draw a portion of
a person depending from a gallows; the object of course being for him to
guess the word before you finish drawing the effigy. We played the game
entirely in German, and I can still see Ingo's intent little face bent
over my preposterous drawings, cudgelling his quick and happy little
brain to spot the word before the hangman could finish his grim task.
"Quick, Ingo!" I would cry. "You will get yourself hung!" and he would
laugh in his own lovable way. There was never a jollier way of learning
a foreign language than by playing games with Ingo.