"Braesig,"
said Hawermann, "I don't know what other people may think of it, but
life and work always seem to me to be one and the same thing." "Oh, ho!
Charles, I have you now! You learnt that from pastor Behrens. But,
Charles, that is a wrong way of looking at it, it goes clean against
Scripture. The Bible tells us of the lilies of the field, how they toil
not, neither do they spin, and yet our Heavenly Father feeds them. And
if God feeds them, they are alive, and yet they do not work. And when I
have that confounded gout, and can do nothing--absolutely nothing,
except flap the beastly flies away from my face--can I be said to work?
And yet I am alive, and suffer horrible torture into the bargain."
Gradually this torture grew so unbearable that uncle Braesig had to
submit to treatment at a watering place.]
Spring was gone, and summer had come, when one Sunday morning Hawermann
received a letter from Braesig dated from Warnitz, in which his friend
requested him to remain at home that day, for he had returned and
intended to call on him that afternoon. When Braesig arrived, he sprang
from his saddle with so much force that one might have thought he wanted
to go through the road with both legs. "Oho!" cried Hawermann, "how
brisk you are! You're all right now, ar'n't you?" "As right as a
trivet, Charles. I've renewed my youth." "Well, how have you been
getting on, old boy?" asked Hawermann, when they were seated on the
sofa and their pipes were lighted.
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