He could not live
To lose them all." The tenderest of plants
Required the careful'st gardening, and so
He worked on valiantly; and if he marked
An extra gleam of health in Trudchen's cheeks,
A growing strength in little Casper's laugh,
He bowed his head, and felt his work was paid.
Even as now, while sitting 'neath the tree,
He watched the bright-hair'd image of his wife,
Who danced before him in the evening sun,
Holding her tiny brother by the hand.
The frolics pause: now Casper's laughing head
Rests wearily against his father's knee
In trusting lovingness; while Trudchen runs
To snatch a hasty kiss (the little man,
It may be, wonders if the tiny hand
With which he strives to reach his father's neck
Will ever grow as big and brown as that
He sees imbedded in his sister's curls).
When quick as lightning's flash up starts the smith,
Huddles the frightened children in his arms,
Thrusts them far back--extends his giant frame
And covers them as with Goliath's shield!
Now hark! a rushing, yelping, panting sound,
So terrible that all stood chilled with fear;
And in the midst of that late joyous throng
Leapt an infuriate hound, with flaming eyes,
Half-open mouth, and fiercely bristling hair,
Proving that madness tore the brute to death.
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