A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES
oven. A pine splinter was burning on the ⟨table⟩ flickering up and dying down mournfully. In ⟨the⟩ very middle of the hut hung a cradle, ⟨suspended⟩ from the end of a long horizontal pole. The ⟨little⟩ girl put out the lantern, sat down on a tiny stool, and with her right hand began swinging the cradle, while with her left she attended to the smouldering pine splinter. I looked round—my heart sank within me: it's not cheering to go into a peasant's hut at night. The baby in the cradle breathed hard and fast.
'Are you all alone here?' I asked the little girl.
'Yes,' she uttered, hardly audibly.
'You're the forester's daughter?'
'Yes,' she whispered.
The door creaked, and the forester, bending his head, stepped across the threshold. He lifted the lantern from the floor, went up to the table, and lighted a candle.
'I dare say you're not used to the splinter light?' said he, and he shook back his curls.
I looked at him. Rarely has it been my fortune to behold such a comely creature. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and in marvellous proportion. His powerful muscles stood out in strong relief under his wet homespun shirt. A curly, black beard hid half of his stern and manly face; small brown eyes looked out boldly from under broad eyebrows which met in the middle. He stood before me, his arms held lightly akimbo.
I thanked him, and asked his name.
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