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"Bitte zum speisen!" called Marie gayly from her brick stove, and the men trooped out to the kitchen. The supper was spread on the table, with the pitcher of beer in the center. There were Swiss cheese and cold ham and rolls, and above all sausages and mustard.
Was einmal war, in allem Glanz und Schein, Es regt sich dort; denn es will ewig sein. Und ihr vertheilt es, allgewaltige Maechte, Zum Zelt des Tages, zum Gewoelb' der Naechte. so long as the religion of love, of unselfishness and devotion endures; and none can destroy the altars of this faith for us so long as we feel ourselves still capable of love.
His voice was rich and resonant, bespeaking refinement, and it was particularly in reading poetry that it told. I recall a discussion of German lyrics, the criticism interspersed with many readings from the poets noted, which was deeply impressive. At one time he quoted the "Shepherd's Song" from Faust, "Der Schäfer putzte sich zum Tanz."
Hieronymus Froben, Johannes's son, who after his father's death managed the business with two relatives, sheltered him in his house Zum Luft. In the hope of his return a room had been built expressly for him and fitted up as was convenient for him. Erasmus found that at Basle the ecclesiastical storms which had formerly driven him away had subsided. Quiet and order had returned.
'E was a reg'ler devil, 'e was; and they do zay as 'ow 'e be about 'ere even now, although 'e baint been 'eard of for zum taime. And more; they zay that zumwheres near this vury plaace 'o 'as buried tons of goold and silver, precious stones, and all kinds of vallybles; but 'ow far that be true I doen't knaw.
Dey're gowun sure do zum monkey-doodle pizeness. Me, I see Gritschun put der kertridges in his guhn. I tink dey gowun to gome MY blace first. Dey gowun to try put me off, tek my home, bei Gott." "All right, get down in here and keep quiet, Hooven. Don't fire unless " "Here they are." A half-dozen voices uttered the cry at once. There could be no mistake this time.
Dat's goot, ain't it? Zum bunaner." But it could not be eaten. Decayed, dirty, all but rotting, the stomach turned from the refuse, nauseated. "No, no," cried Hilda, "that's not good. I can't eat it. Oh, Mammy, please gif me those bread'n milk." By now the guests of Mrs. Gerard had come to the entrees Londonderry pheasants, escallops of duck, and rissolettes a la pompadour.
In fact, we could almost sympathise in our cold, matter-of-fact American way with the sentimental German inscription which we read on the wall: Von Nuvolau's hohen Wolkenstufen Lass mich, Natur, durch deine Himmel rufen An deiner Brust gesunde, wer da krank! So wird zum Volkerdank mein Sachsendank.
Juni 1864 heldenmüthig gefallenen zum ehrenden Gedächtniss. 'To the honoured memory of those who died heroically at the invasion and storming of Alsen. I knew the German passion for commemoration; I had seen similar memorials on Alsatian battlefields, and several on the Dybbol only that afternoon; but there was something in the scene, the hour, and the circumstances, which made this one seem singularly touching.
I knew him at once for one of those guides, half tout, half bully, that infest the railway termini of all great Continental cities. "Want a guide, sir?" the man said in German. I shook my head and hurried on. The man trotted beside me. "Want a good, cheap hotel, sir? Good, respectable house.... Want a ..." "Ach! gehen sie zum Teufel!" I cried angrily.
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