6 THE NURNBERG STOVE.
* Oh, dear HIrschvogel, I am so cold, so cold!*
said August, kissing Its gilded lion's claws. ' Is father
not in, Dorothea ?'
' No, dear. He is late.'
Dorothea was a girl of seventeen ; dark haired
and serious, and with a sweet sad face ; for she
had had many cares laid on her shoulders, even
whilst still a mere baby. She was the eldest of the
Strehla family; and there were ten of them in all.
Next to her there came Jan and Karl and Otho, big
lads, gaining a little for their own living ; and then
came August, who went up In the summer to the
high Alps with the farmers' cattle, but in winter
could do nothing to fill his own little platter and
pot; and then all the little ones, who could only open
their mouths to be fed like youn^birds—Albrecht and
Hilda, and Waldo and Christof, and last of all little
three-year-old Ermengilda, with eyes like forget-me-
nots, whose birth had cost them tlie life of their
They were of that mixed race, half Austrian,
half Italian, so common in the Tyrol; some of the
children were white and golden as lilies, others were
brown and brilliant as fresh fallen chestnuts ; the
father was a good man, but weak and weary with
so many to find food for, and so little to do it with.
He worked at the salt-furnaces, and by that gained a
few florins ; people said he would have worked better
and kept his family more easily if he had not loved