i8 THE NURNBERG STOVE.
farmers, one is not altogether a child any more, ai
least in one's own estimation.
August did not heed his father's silence ; he was
used to it. Karl Strehla was a man of few words,
and being of weakly health was usually too tired at
the end of the day to do more than drink his beer
and sleep. August lay on the wolf-skin, dreaml¬
and comfortable, looking up through his dropping
eyelids at the golden coronets on the crest of the
great stove, and wondering for the millionth time
whom it had been made for, and what grand places
and scenes it had known.
Dorothea came down from putting the little ones
in their beds ; the cuckoo-clock in the corner struck
eight; she looked at her father and the untouched
pipe, then sat down to her spinning saying nothing.
She thought he had been drinking in some tavern;
it had been often so with him of late.
There was a long silence ; the cuckoo called the
quarter twice; August dropped asleep, his curls
falling over his face; Dorothea's wheel hummed like
Suddenly Karl Strehla struck his hand on the
table, sending the pipe on the ground.
'I have sold HIrschvogel,' he said; and his
voice was husky and ashamed In his throat. The
spinning-wheel stopped. August sprang erect out
of his sleep.
' Sold HIrschvogel!'—If their father had dashed