o see Herr Paul Schlieben occupied in that
manner. He, too, found it fun now to keep up a fire for roasting
potatoes under the pale, blue autumn sky, in which the white clouds
were scudding along and the twittering swallows flying. He had never
known such a thing--he had always lived in a town--but it was splendid,
really splendid.

The children brought twigs. Wolfgang took them and broke them across
his knee--crack!--the sticks broke like glass. What a knack the boy had
at it.

The flames flared up, the little fire emitted an agreeable warmth;
one could warm one's hands at it--ah, that was really very nice.

And then the man followed the smoke, which the wind raised from the
field like a light cloud, with his eyes. It seemed grey at first, but
the higher it flew the lighter it became, and the friendly sunshine
shone through it, transforming it. It floated upwards, ever upwards,
ever more immaterial, more intangible, until it flew away entirely--a
puff, a whiff.

Now it was about time to bury the potatoes; Wolfgang busied himself
with it. They had not poked the fire any more, the flame had sunk down,
but the ashes hid all the heat. The children stood round with wide-open
eyes, quite quiet, almost holding their breath and yet trembling with
expectation: when would the first potatoes be done? Oh, did
they not smell nice already? They distended their nostrils so as to
smell them. But Paul Schlieben brushed his trousers now and prepared to
go away--it would take too long before the potatoes were ready. He felt
something that resembled regret. But it really would not do for him to
stand about any longer; what would people think of him?

He was himself again now. "That's enough now," he said, and he went
away, carefully avoiding the impracticable parts of the field where the
puddles were. Then he heard steps close behind him. He turned round.
"Wolf? Well, what do you want?"

The boy looked at him sadly out of his dark eyes.

"Are you going home too?" There was astonishment in the man's
question--he had not said that the boy was to go with him.

The pines emitted a splendid smell, you could breathe the air so
freely, so easily, and that pale blue sky with the fleecy white clouds
had something wonderfully clear about it, something that filled the
eyes with light. White threads floated over the countryside, driven
from the clean east, and hung fast to the green branches of the pines,
shimmering there like a fairy web.