firs—that wintry scent which is full of promise,
and which makes a German child's heart
leap within it.

English boys and girls are much more happy
than we are in poor despotic Germany. They
are kindly treated, and their parents do not
believe that children, with their quick
sensibilities and appetites, ought to practise all
those virtues of self-denial which are most
difficult even to grown men and women.
English parents have hopes in their children;
they admire them—often too much—and they
make much of them. They quote their sayings,
and take a delight in the development of their
minds. English children are a privileged
class of society; the friends of the family
treat them as friends, and show them attention.
Whatever sunshine there is in the house, it is
sure to fall on the morning of their lives.

As I look upon these fir-trees, strange and
un-German though they be, I feel a breath of
home passing over me, and I tremble. Alas!
to tremble is the first lesson our parents
teach us Germans! We tremble when alone
with them, lest some of our childish
peccadilloes should have reached their ears through
the means of some officious neighbour; or,
lest trespasses, long since atoned and suffered
for, should be remembered and made the
subject of another lecture—perhaps of another
punishment. We tremble when a stranger
speaks to us, lest our answer should displease
him, and his displeasure be communicated to
our parents. We tremble in school, at table,
in company, and even at church; for we are
taught, and lectured, and punished from year's
end to year's end.

Even our joys are full of trepidation. As
autumn merges into winter, we have a great
and a sad festival—the feast of All Souls. On
a raw, chill November evening, the children
of the house are marshalled in the hall, each
bearing a candle; they are led out to the
churchyard to pray on the graves of their
departed relatives; and the candles, flickering
in the cold wind, are stuck on the graves
by our little, frost-bitten, trembling hands.
And stories are told us, and legends of the
departed, and of their return to the earth;
or of the awful future which awaits all those
who do what they ought not to do, and leave
undone the things which they ought to have
done. Grown-up people, hardened in the
world, have no idea of the effect which these
conversations have on the tender minds of
children. And, as we leave the churchyard,
with its hundreds of small blue flames flickering
in the blast—"like so many souls in trouble"—
the parents' heart rejoices at the convulsive
shaking of the small blue hands, and the stifled
tones of the voices which pray for Heaven's
mercy, and promise to be "good children."

Next comes St. Nicolas Eve. Der Heilige
Klas is a great corrector of naughtiness in
German children. He is a tall, strong man,
irascible and violent; who, dressed in rough
furs and other uncouth garments, walks
through Germany on winter nights with
many large bags and big rods, watching the
children in their homesteads and noting
their behaviour. Sometimes, when greatly
exasperated, he will pounce in upon a child,
put it into a bag, and carry it off to his cave
in some very wretched place, where the young
delinquent's body will be torn with rods, until
even the stubborn soul of that old Klas is
convinced of the sincerity of its repentance. But
his great day is St. Nicolas Eve, when he
comes without fail to sit in terrible judgment
over the whole of the infant population. On
that evening the children sit scared and
trembling in the nursery. By judicious
repetitions of the old story, and some further
dark hints as to what Klas might possibly
do, their feelings have been worked to the
highest pitch of terror. As the time draws
near, the grown persons leave the room, taking
the lights with them, if possible. Next comes
a loud knocking at the street door, a heavy
step makes the stairs creak, and a terrible
voice asks for "the children." A dialogue
ensues. The parents wish to screen them.
The children are out! No such thing, Klas
knows better. They are in the back-room
behind the kitchen—and he forthwith, but with
very heavy step, and very slowly, proceeds to
that identical door, and kicks it open. He
stands in the doorway, scowling at the
children, huddled up in a corner, as though
there were protection in numbers. Growling
at them from underneath his terrible fur-cap,
and with his rod raised in the air, he approaches
the trembling group. Close behind him
follows his servant Ruprecht—that old,
mischievous, cruel Knecht Ruprecht, bending
under a load of rods and bags, ready to whip
and carry off any number of naughty children.
And now comes the awful question:

"Have the children been good?"

The father is silent. But the mother
steps in with a ready answer.

"Yes, of course, they have been good! The
best children in the world. Franz——"

"Silence! He knows it all! Franz has ever
so often misbehaved himself at dinner. Fritz
broke a pane of glass in the kitchen. Malchen
—ay, Malchen is the worst! She bought
sweet-meats for the sixpence her aunt had given her.
Forward, Knecht Ruprecht: open the bags,
and prepare the rods!"

This is the climax. Knecht Ruprecht
rushes forward. The children, either wildly
howling or dumb with terror, cling to their
parents, who for once protect them. A parley
begins, while Knecht Ruprecht every now
and then makes. a rush at the trembling little
forms. And at length, after much entreaty,
and many threats, and after various promises
of future good behaviour, Der Heilige Klas
relents, and strews the floor of the room with
apples, nuts, and gingerbread, which he lias
brought from heaven, as is plainly shown by
the gold tinsel which still clings to them. He
walks away; Knecht Ruprecht grumbling, and