away," he says, when he realizes his situation—"take it away, and keep it carefully for the next person who falls ill. It is a pity to waste it on me, for I feel that my time has come, and nothing can do me any more good. Send for the preacher, that I may make my peace with God."
The last dispositions as to house and property have been made in the presence of the pastor or preacher. The house and yard are to belong to the youngest son, as is the general custom among the Saxons. The elder son and the daughter are to be otherwise provided for. The small back-room belongs to the widow, as jointure for the rest of her life; likewise a certain proportion of grain and fruit is assured to her. The exact spot of the grave is indicated, and two ducats are to be given to the Herr Vater if he will undertake to preach a handsome funeral oration.
When it becomes evident that the last death-struggle is approaching, the mattress is withdrawn from under the dying man, for, as every one knows, he will expire more gently if lying on straw.
Scarcely has the breath left his body than all the last clothes he has worn are taken off and given to a gypsy. The corpse is washed and shaved, and dressed in bridal attire—the self-same clothes which forty years previously he had donned on his wedding morning, and which ever since have been lying carefully folded by, and strewed with sprigs of lavender, in the large Truhe (bunker), waiting for the day when their turn must come round again.
A snowy sheet spread over a layer of wood-shavings is the resting-place of the body when it is laid in the coffin; for the head, a little pillow stuffed with dried flowers and aromatic herbs, which in most houses are kept ready prepared for this contingency.
An hour before the funeral, the bell begins to toll the Seelenpuls (soul's pulse), as it is called; but the sexton is careful to pause in the ringing when the clock is about to strike, for "if the hour should strike into the bell," another death will be the consequence.
Standing before the open grave, the mourners give vent to their grief, which, even when true and heart-felt, is often expressed with such quaint realism as to provoke a smile.
"My dearest husband," wails the disconsolate widow, "why hast thou gone away? I had need of thee to look after the farm, and there was plenty room for thee at our fireside. My God, is it right of thee thus to take my support away? On whom shall I now lean?"
The children near the dead mother: "Mother, mother, who will care for us now? Shall we live within strange doors?"
A mother bewailing her only son: "O God, thou hast had no pity. Even the emperor did not take my son to be a soldier. Thou art less merciful than the emperor!"
Another mother weeping over two dead children exclaims: "What
