The Nuts | Page 7

with all my powers, but
with small success. I can tell you all that you wish to know, my Master,
for, during forty-five years, I devoted my humble services to the sick
poor there. When Hannele died in our Poor-house--it happened before
my time--the misery was even greater than at present. The weavers
were ground down by the large manufacturers, until an energetic man
built a factory in our village, and paid them better wages. As the
population then increased, and consequently the number of patients,
space was wanting in which to house them, for the dilapidated
Poor-house--whither they were carried--was no longer large enough to
accommodate them all. Therefore the parish, aided by the owner of the
factory, built a hospital for the whole district, and the site of the old
Poor-house was chosen for it. The beautiful nut-trees which Hannele
had planted had to be destroyed. I was sorry to be obliged to give the
order, but we needed the ground where they stood. As we had to be
economical in everything, big and little, we had planks sawn out of the
trees for our use.'
"At this point another spirit interrupted the physician. 'I have lain in one
of the beds made from the wood. At home I slept on a bundle of straw,
and very uncomfortable it was when I was shaken by the fever. In the
hospital all was different, and when I lay in my comfortable bed, I felt
as if I were already in Heaven.'
"'And I,' cried another broad-winged angel, 'for ten years I walked with

the crutches that were made for me from the nut-tree by the Fresh
Spring, and old Conrad, below on the earth, is still using them.'
"'And mine also,' another continued, 'were of the same wood. I had lain
for a long time on my back; but after I got them, I learned to walk with
them and they enabled me to stand before the loom, and to earn bread
once more for my family. That man yonder from Hochdorf has had the
same experience, and the wooden leg of William, the toll-gate keeper,
who entered here shortly before me, was made of wood from the
nut-tree.'
"'I owe it a debt of gratitude, too, but for an entirely different service,'
said a beautiful angel, as it bowed its crowned head reverently before
the Son of God. 'My lot below was a very hard one. I was early left a
widow, and I supported my children entirely by the work of my hands.
By dint of great effort I brought them up well, and my three sons grew
to be brave men, who took care of themselves, and helped their mother.
But all three, my Master, were lost to me, taken away by the
unfathomable wisdom of the Father. Two fell in war, the third was
killed by the machinery while at his work. That broke my strength, and
when they brought me to the hospital I was on the verge of despair, and
life seemed a greater burden than I could bear. Your image, my Saviour,
had just been finished by a sculptor, who had carved it from the wood
of the nut-tree by the Fresh Spring. They put it up opposite to my bed.
It represented you, my Lord, on the cross, and your head bowed in
agony, with its crown of thorns, was a very sorrowful sight. Yet I paid
but small heed to it. One morning, however--it was the anniversary of
the death of my two dear sons, who had lost their lives, fighting bravely
side by side for their Fatherland--on that morning the sun fell upon
your sad face, and bleeding hands pierced by the nails, and then I
reflected how bitterly you had suffered, though innocent, that you
might redeem us, and how your mother must have felt to lose such a
child. Then a voice asked me if I had any right to complain, when the
Son of God himself had willingly endured such torments for our sake,
and I felt compelled to answer no, and determined then to bear patiently
whatever might be laid upon me, a poor, sinful woman. Thenceforth,
my Lord, was your image my consolation and, since the wood of which
it was made came from the tree planted by Hannele near the Fresh
Spring, I owe beyond doubt the better years that followed, and the joy

of being with you in Paradise, my Saviour, to the nuts which that
condemned woman gave to the child.'
"Humbly she bowed her head again. The Son of God turned to St. Peter,
saying: 'Well, Peter?'
"The latter called to the guardians of Hell: 'Let her go free, the gates of
Heaven are open to her. How rich and manifold, O