worn dull from constant use. His prayers re-
flected what he was thinking about at the
time, and it was chiefly through them that
we got to know his feelings and his views
about things.

After we sat down to our waffles and saus-
age, Jake told us how pleased the Shimerdas
had been with their presents; even Ambrosch
was friendly and went to the creek with
him to cut the Christmas tree. It was a soft
gray day outside, with heavy clouds work-
ing across the sky, and occasional squalls of
snow. There were always odd jobs to be done
about the barn on holidays, and the men were
busy until afternoon. Then Jake and I played
dominoes, while Otto wrote a long letter home
to his mother. He always wrote to her on
Christmas Day, he said, no matter where he
was, and no matter how long it had been
since his last letter. All afternoon he sat in
the dining-room. He would write for a while,
then sit idle, his clenched fist lying on the
table, his eyes following the pattern of the oil-
cloth. He spoke and wrote his own language
so seldom that it came to him awkwardly.
His effort to remember entirely absorbed him.

At about four o'clock a visitor appeared:

[[97]]

p096 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p097w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p098

v?