Although the haymakers were worn out and weary with a long day’s work of twelve hours, still Rosenkranz sounded in the chapel like the humming of bees in lime trees.  This pious custom duly impressed us, until on the very next day, as we walked up our village street on the evening of the festival, our solemn feelings received a great check.  We observed that the prayer-leaders, who knelt at the open windows of each separate house, followed our every movement with their eyes, whilst their mouths mechanically repeated sonorous Ave Marias and Paternosters.  Nay, there was our own pious Moidel watching us from the kitchen window, her Hail Marys mingling with her friendly greetings; but then Moidel was waiting upon us and our supper whilst her family were on their knees in the chapel.  Still, we soon learnt to perceive that Rosenkranz was considered quite as efficacious if merely uttered by the tongue, whilst the mind was far away.  This being a festival, and no one tired with work, the household trooped into the old pleasaunce after supper.  The elders sat together in a row, whilst the younger members congregated on a second long stone bench and struck up singing, Moidel and her elder brother beginning with a duet: 

  Green, green is the clover
    On the hills as I go,
  And my maiden as fresh is
    As spring water’s flow.

And the chorus joined in—­

    As spring water’s flow,

winding up with a jodel.

Nanni, the chief maid, next sang in a clear, flexible voice, which trembled no little when she perceived that the Herrschaft now formed part of the audience in the balcony—­

A WEEK’S SORROW.

  On Sunday I cried, for my heart was so sore,
  Like a poor little child outside the church door;
  On Monday I felt so afeard and alone,
  And thought, Were I a swallow, I’d quickly begone: 
  Woe’s me! were I but a swallow, were I but a swallow!

  On Tuesday, and nothing could please me all day,
  For him that I love best is far, far away;
  On Wednesday whatever I did, I did ill,
  For when the heart’s heavy the hand has no skill;
  On Thursday I was weary and sleepy all day;
  On Friday, and one of the cows went astray;
  On Saturday down poured my tears like the rain,
  As though I should never be happy again. 
  Woe’s me! never be happy again; woe’s me! never again.

In order to catch the meaning of the words, which were sung in strong dialect, Margaret and I had descended to the garden.  The Hofbauer looked sad when he saw us approach, and quietly brushed a tear away with his shirt-sleeve.  We consequently asked Moidel when we stood alone with her whether anything were troubling her father.

“It strikes me not,” she said.  “I fancy that it is but the music.  Father and uncle may both seem quiet and dull now, yet they have been celebrated singers; only when my mother died father left off singing, and so did uncle after Uncle Jakob’s death.”