A Story of Nuremberg [pp. 523-536]

1884.] A STORY OF NUREMBERo. 523
"And I'm going to his church always," said Barnes. "So
am I," said Shippen. "I'd rather be a Catholic than anything
else."
"Well, Bob," continued Dick, "you and I should be most
thankful to God that we are alive to-day." "Ay, so we should,"
said Shippen. "And I'll never laugh at you again when you say
that there are mysteries going on about us which science cannot
explain; (?ur engine was-" "Possessed by an evil spirit," interrupted Barnes; "and she tried her level best to blow you up.
But you were too quick for her, Bob-too quick."
"Well, they haven't found the smallest piece of her," said the
engineer-" not the smallest piece."
But~ albeit such was the tragic end of wicked No. 7, all is well
that ends well.
A STORY OF NUREMBERG.
IT was a Christmas eve in the beginning of the sixteenth
century, and through the streets of Nuremberg came drifting a
feathery snow that heaped itself in fantastic patterns on the projecting windows and fretted stone balconies of the quaint and
crowded houses. It was not~an hon~st and single-minded snowstorm, such as would ~eek to shroud the whole city in its delicate
white mantle, but rather a tricksy and capricious sprite, that
neglected one spot to hurl itself with wanton violence on another. Borne on the breath of a keen and shifting wind, it came
tossing gleefully full in the face of a solitary artisan who, wrap
ped in a heavy cloak, was making the best of his way homeward.
Truly it was not a pleasant night to be abroad, with the snowdrifts dancing in your eyes like a million of tiny arrow-points,
and the sharp wind cutting like a knife; and the wayfarer was
consoling himself for his present discomfort by picturing the
warm fireside and the hot supper that awaited him at home,
when his cheerful dreams were broken by a sharp cry that
seemed to come from under his very feet.
Startled, and not a little alarmed, he checked his rapid walk
and listened. There was no mistaking the sound: it was neither
imp nor fairy, but a real child, from whose little lungs came
forth that wail at once pitiful and querulous. As he heard it
Peter Burkgmaier's kindly heart flew with one rapid bound to
the cradle at home where slumbered his own infant daughter,