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I know for a fact that Otto Scheinberger practiced the white feather hex and passed the power on down to your father. From there it stopped. However, there must be some record of it in your family. You are in possession of the books of your grandfather, aren't you?" "I have several of his books. Some of them I have read." "Well," Mirestone waited. "Did you come across anything about the hex?"
"Peter Scheinberger, heh?" the man spoke in perfect German. "Peter Scheinberger, the last of your clan here in America." It was several seconds before Peter could muster up enough courage to answer him. Drawing back slowly he braced himself against the table, and in a thick, guttural German asked, "Who are you?" The stranger shut the door and drew the bolt.
I am in the process of writing a collective history of the Pennsylvania Dutch folk, their habits, beliefs, and " he broke off for an instant as he leaned forward across the table, staring into the frightened eyes of Peter " and their superstitions." Shifting his chair around in order to get benefit from the heat of the fireplace, Mirestone went on. "Now I want facts, Scheinberger, authentic facts.
It all started with a Dutchman, a Pennsylvania Dutchman named Peter Scheinberger, who tilled a weather beaten farm back in the hills. A strong, wiry man he was his arms were knotted sections of solid hickory forming themselves into gnarled hands and twisted stubs of fingers.
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