human
About two hundred years ago,—you see we can trace back a considerable pedigree,—the only pity is that we have no idea who the mother of our race was,—if you should ever be asked any questions concerning her by the Baroness Lessen, or others, you can answer with confidence that we suspect her to have been either Augusta von Blasewitz,—for the story dates from the thirty years’ war,—or a vivandiere: perhaps she was a good, honest woman, who clung to her husband through all the hardships of the war, although I cannot forgive her for forsaking her child,—well, then, about two hundred years ago, as the wife of the huntsman Ferber opened her door in the morning—the very door that now shuts upon my home—she saw a little child lying upon the threshold. She clapped the door to again in a great hurry, for the forest was then swarming with gypsies, and she thought it would prove to be one of their dirty brats. But her husband was more of a Christian, and took the child in. It was scarcely a day old. A paper was pinned upon its breast, stating that the child was born in holy wedlock, that he had been baptized by the name of Hans, and that whoever would take care of him should receive further revelations concerning him at some future day. Hidden in the child’s dress was found a purse containing some money. The huntsman’s wife was a good woman, and when she heard the child was born of Christian parents, and was probably the son of some honest soldier who had left it here that it might not be exposed to the dangers of the war, she took it to her heart and brought it up with her own little girl as if they had been brother and sister. It was well for him that she did so, for no one ever heard another word about his relatives. His foster-father afterwards adopted him, and, to make his happiness complete, he married his foster-sister. He, as well as his son and grandson, lived where I live now, as foresters to the Gnadewitzes, and they all died there. My grandfather was the first who left this place with his master for one of the estates in Silesia. As a boy, I was much disappointed that some countess mother did not turn up in the end who should recognize the foundling as her son, stolen from her by the malice of an enemy, and bear him home in triumph to her castle. Later in life I learned to endure the want of this romantic termination to the story with a good grace, as I considered that in such case my own appearance here would have been very dubious, and my honest name pleased me too much to wish it changed for any other; but imagine my sensations when I stood for the first time upon the threshold where the little foundling had passed the most helpless moment of his life, when, deserted by his natural parents, sympathy had not yet supplied their place. The worn stone is undoubtedly the same upon which the child lay, and as long as I live here or have anything to do with the place, it shall never be removed.
gpt
Do you see that white spot?