Part VIII

Two years, one like the other slowly passed,
The boy did naught, — the beldame took good care, —
But beg for alms and suffer hunger's pangs.
To famish and to beg thafs all he knew
Of life. When he saw children at their play,
He'd stare at them and think: it must be good
To be allowed to play and joyous be.
From day to day his mind grew more mature
And he began to feel his misery.
Two years he had thus lived: a begger boy.
There was no longer need with artful trick
To wet his eyelids, his hot-burning tears

Flowed oft enough to suit the old hag's aims.

He had one friend, but one who had been kind,
Who seemed to love him, whom he really loved,
With whom he shared the food received at home,
Or which he found while wandering through town,
His sleeping-mate, the dog, was this one friend.

When in the morn the boy would go away

His heart was sore, all day he longed for him.
Returning in the eve he was all joy.
The woman soon -had truly jealous grown,
Yes, jealous of the love the dog had shown
To him, the boy, and was estranged from her.
She often whipped the dog and when with pain
It whined, the boy heartrendingly would cry.
At last she chased the animal away
And more than once she drove it from the house.
The faithful beast, though, always would come back,
And was the more attached to our poor boy.
Thus lived the boy. He was six years of age,
Woe of six centuries had been his share,
The moments' bliss were far and far between.
He stood once on the corner of a street,
Chilled through and through, it was late in the fall,
A nasty autumn eve, mire on the earth,
The air filled with a heavy, chilling fog.
And there he stood, — his head and feet were bare,
With tearful voice imploring passers-by
And stretching forth his bony, yellow hand.
His plaintive voice, when heard by human hearts
Oft seemed to have the mournful toll of bells
Which to the last rites in the churchyard called.
A hoary man with earnest, solemn face
Came up to him, stood still and looked at him
For quite a while with sharp and piercing eyes.
The boy took fright, made start to run away,
A rough command: "stop boy!" prevents his flight,
The boy stood still, he did not dare to breathe.
"Are your parents -alive?" he is then asked.
"My-My", — he was about to say his say
About his mother who is ill at home,
And hungry, too; the father who just died,
But to the solemn looking earnest man
He did not dare to lie; he thought the man
Knew anyhow the truth and he replied:
"Are my parents alive? I do not know,
I never knew, I was found in the street."
"Then come with me", the old man to him said.
Obedient, the boy followed his steps.
The old hag came forth from her hiding place
And yelled: "Come here, lying, deceitful boy,
My dear, good Sir, this boy here is my own."
"Dear, gracious Sir," — the boy began to plead,
"Dear gracious Sir, believe, I'm not her son.
Please in the name of God and all the Saints
O, save me, please, take me along with you.
I am so tired to do naught else than beg;
I always begged for her, I had to starve
That I might always look as I do now.
That those who look at me might pity me.
O God! how hungry I am even now!"

Thus spoke the boy, he looked up to the man
With pleading eyes which were suffused with tears.
"You God-forsaken wretch! You devil's imp!"
— Berated him the witch, — "You heartless cur,
You good-for-nothing, vile and worthless shrimp!
How dare you say you 'had to beg for me?
To beg for me? I feel shamed unto death
That he, the moment I lose him from sight
Runs off to beg, — the habit grew on him
Despite the spanking he from me received.
To bring such shame upon my hoary head!

I am but poor but I need not to beg,
With honest work I can support myself.
And then to say that I force him to starve!
I, who no greater happiness have known

Than yielding him the choicest, wholesome food,
Deny it to myself to give to him.
All this howe'er is naught! What does he do?
He dares 'his doting mother to deny!
Did not your heart break into twain, you wretch,
You miserable beast in human form,
Your mother to deny! What you said now
Came from your gall, your liver and your spleen,
Not from your heart! The earth has never known
A granny more loving than I have been.
The day of judgment can't be far away
When children dare their mothers to deny."
The ancient windmill ground this with one breath,
Until, at last, t-he man broke in her speech:
"Enough! I've heard enough! You foul old witch.
This comedy must stop, or with this cane
I'll have to put the fear of God in you!
Why, even now you are full beastly drunk.
When sober, bring his birth certificate
To me, — I live in yonder spacious house, —
And you can have the boy, but only if
You can produce the birth-certificate,
Not otherwise! and now, boy, follow me!"
The boy followed the man. From time to time
He furtively looked back, as if in fear
That she, the gruesome hag, would grab at him
And wring his neck or drag him to her home.
However she stood still and all she did
Was that she raised her fist and cursed aloud
And rolled fiery eyes which sparkled like
The irons of the smith to white-heat raised.