city school, two at the industrial. Why, you have had eight years' schooling, and you know the different goods as well as a clerk. Why, you are an insatiable youth."
"Yes; but I must have a calling," replied Karl. "I must be a shoemaker, tailor, shopkeeper, or mechanic."
"Don't tease yourself about that," said his father; "I have provided for all that in your education. You are practical and honorable too."
"Yes; but can I make a pair of boots? can I cut out a coat?"
"You can," replied old Sturm; "try, and you'll succeed."
"Very well; to-morrow I'll buy you some leather, and make you a pair of boots: you shall feel how they'll pinch. But, once for all, I can't go on as I am, and I'll set some one at you who will tell you the same."
"Don't be covetous, Karl," said his father, "or spoil this day for me. Give me the can of beer, and be a good boy."
Karl placed the great can before his father, and soon took up his cap and went out. Old Sturm sat still a while, but his comfort was destroyed, and the house seemed dull without his son's cheerful face. At length he went into the next room, and drew out a heavy iron chest from under the bed. He opened it with a little key that he took out of his waistcoat pocket, lifted one bag after another, began a long mental calculation, then pushed the chest under the bed again, and returned to his can of beer with a calmer aspect.
Meanwhile Karl had hurried off to the town, and soon made his appearance in Anton's apartment. After the kindly greeting on both sides, he began:
"I am come, sir, to ask your advice as to what is to become of me? I can make nothing of my father. He won't hear of my being a porter; and if I speak of another calling, he comforts me with saying that he shall not live long. A pretty comfort that! Would you be so good as to speak to him about me? He has a high opinion of you, and knows that you are always kind to me."
"That I will, gladly," replied Anton; "but what do you think of becoming?"
"It's all one to me," said Karl, "so that it's something regular. Here I turn my hands to all sorts of things, but that's different to regular work."
The next Sunday Anton went to old Sturm's. The home of the head porter was a small house near the river, distinguished from those of his neighbors by its red-washed walls. Anton opened the low door, and wondered how the giant could possibly live in so small a space. It must have required constant patience and forbearance; for, had he ever drawn himself up to his full height, he would infallibly have carried off the roof.
"I am delighted to see you in my house, sir," said Sturm, taking Anton's hand in his immense grasp as gently as he could.
"It is rather small for you, Mr. Sturm," answered Anton, laughing. "I never thought you so large as I do now."
"My father was still taller," was the complacent reply; "taller and broader. He was the chief of the porters, and the strongest man in the place; and yet a small barrel, not half so high as you are, was the death of him. Be seated, sir," said he, lifting an oaken chair, so heavy that Anton could hardly move it. "My Karl has told me that he has been to see you, and that you were most kind. He is a good boy, but he is a falling off as to size. His mother was a little woman," added Sturm, mournfully, draining a quart of beer to the last drop. "It is draught beer," he said, apologetically; "may I offer you a glass? It is a custom among us to drink no other, but certainly we drink this the whole day through, for our work is heating."
"Your son wishes to become one of your number, I hear," said Anton.
"A porter!" rejoined the giant. "No, that he never shall." Then laying his hand confidentially on Anton's knee, "It would never do; my dear departed wife besought me against it on her death-bed. And why? Our calling is respectable, as you, sir, best know. There are not many who have the requisite strength, and still fewer who have the requisite—"
"Integrity," said Anton.
"You are right," nodded Sturm. "Always to have wares of every kind in immense quantities under our eyes, and never to touch one of them—this is not in every body's line. And our earnings are very fair too. My dear departed saved a good deal of money, gold as well as silver. But that is not my way. For why? If a man be practical, he need not plague himself about money, and Karl will be a practical man. But he must not be a porter. His mother would not hear of it, and she was right."
"Your work is very laborious," suggested Anton.
"Laborious!" laughed Sturm; "it may be laborious for the weak, but it is not that. It is this," and he filled his glass; "it is the draught beer."
Anton smiled. "I know that you and your colleagues drink a good deal of this thin stuff."
"A good deal," said Sturm, with self-complacency; "it is a custom of ours—it always has been so—porters must be strong men, true men, and beer-drinkers. Water would weaken us, so would brandy; there is nothing for it but draught beer and olive oil. Look here, sir," said he, mixing a small glassful of fine oil and beer, stirring plenty of sugar into it, and drinking off the nauseous compound; "this is a secret of ours, and makes an arm like this;" and he laid his on the table, and vainly endeavored to span it. "But there is a drawback. Have you ever seen an old porter? No; for there are none. Fifty is the greatest age they have ever reached. My father was fifty when he died, and the one we lately buried—Mr. Schröter was at the funeral—was forty-nine. I have still two years before me, however."
Anton looked at him anxiously. "But, Sturm, since you know this, why not be more moderate?"
"Moderate!" asked Sturm; "what is moderate? It never gets into our heads. Twenty quarts a day is not much if you know nothing of it. However, Mr. Wohlfart, it is on this account that my dear departed did not choose that Karl should be a porter. As for that, few men do live to be much more than fifty, and they have all sorts of ailments that we know nothing about. But such were my wife's wishes, and so it must be."
"And have you thought of any other calling? True, Karl is very useful in our house, and we should all miss him much."
"There it is," interrupted the porter; "you would miss him, and so should I. I am alone here; when I see my little lad's red cheeks, and hear his little hammer, I feel my heart glad within me. When he goes away, and I sit here by myself, I know not how I shall bear it." And his features worked with strong emotion.
"But must he leave you at present?" inquired Anton; "perhaps he may remain on for another year."
"Not he; I know him; if he once thinks of a thing at all, he thinks of nothing else. And, besides, I have been considering the matter these last days, and I see I have been wrong. The boy did not come into the world merely to amuse me; he must turn to something or other; so I try to think of what my dear departed would have liked. She had a brother, who is my brother-in-law, you know, and who lives in the country; I should like my boy to go to him. It is far away, but then there's kinship."
"A good thought, Sturm; but, since you are resolved, keep your son no longer in uncertainty."
"He shall know at once; he is only in the garden." And he went and called him in stentorian tones.
Karl hastened in, greeted Anton, and looked expectantly first at him and then at his father, who had seated himself, and now inquired, in his usual voice, "Little mannikin, will you be a farmer?"
"A farmer! that never occurred to me. Why, I should have to leave you, father."
