Oh, how much might be seen in those woods on a summer day!—­birds and flowers, and such beautiful moss!  I have seen it myself, so soft and thick, better than the softest cushion to sit on, and then so lovely to look at, with its long, bright feathers of green.

Sometimes Louise has seen the quails going out for a walk; the mother with her seven babies all tripping primly along behind her, the wee, brown birds; and all running, helter-skelter, in a minute, if they hear a noise among the bushes, and hiding, each one, his head under a broad leaf, thinking, poor little foolish things, that no one can see them.

Christian whistles to the quails a long, low call; they will look this way and that and listen, and at last really run towards him without fear.

Before winter comes the log house is made more comfortable; beds and chairs are bought, and a great fire burns in the fireplace.  But do the best they can the rain will beat in between the logs, and after the first snowstorm one night, a white pointed drift is found on the breakfast-table.  They laugh at it, and call it ice-cream, but they almost feel more like crying, with cold blue fingers, and toes that even the warm knit stockings can’t keep comfortable.  Never mind, the swift snowshoes will make them skim over the snow-crust like birds flying, and the merry sled-rides that brother Christian will give them will make up for all the trouble.  They will soon love the winter in the snowy woods.

Their clothes, too, are all wearing out.  Fritz comes to his mother with great holes in his jacket-sleeves, and poor Christian’s knees are blue and frost-bitten through the torn trousers.  What shall be done?

Louise brings out two old coats of her father’s.  Christian is wrapped in one from head to foot, and Fritz looks like the oddest little man with his great coat muffled around him, crossed in front and buttoned around behind, while the long sleeves can be turned back almost to his shoulders.  Funny enough he looks, but it makes him quite warm; and in this biting wind who would think of the looks?  So our little friend is to drive poor old Major to town with a sled-load of wood every day, while his father and brother are cutting trees in the forest.

Should you laugh to see a boy so dressed coming up the street with a load of wood?  Perhaps you wouldn’t if you knew how cold he would be without this coat, and how much he hopes to get the half-dollar for his wood, and bring home bread and meat for supper.

How wise the children grow in this hard work and hard life!  Fritz feels himself a little man, and Louise, I am sure, is as useful as many a woman, for she is learning to cook and tend the fire, while even Gretchen has some garters to knit, and takes quite good care of the baby.

Little Hans will never remember the great house by the Rhine; he was too little when they came away; but by and by he will like to hear stories about it, which, you may be sure, Louise will often tell her little brother.