They are not just sawdust and wood and cloth and
paint to you--they are real--"
"Yes."
"My father is like that. They are real to him. There's an old wax
doll that was my mother's. He loves her and talks to her--. Because
she was made in that Germany which is dead--"
The fierceness in his voice, the flash of his eye; the thrust of his
hand as if it held a rapier!
"Dead?"
"The Germany he knew died when Prussia throttled her. Her poetry died,
her music--there is no echo now from the Rhine but that of--guns."
"You feel--that way--?"
"Yes."
"Then sit down and tell me--tell me--" She was eager.
"Tell you what?"
"About your father, about the toys, about the Germany that is--dead."
He was glad to tell her. It poured forth, with now and then an
offending phrase, "Gott in Himmel, do they think we have forgotten? My
father came to America because he loved freedom--he fought in the Civil
War for freedom--he loves freedom still; and over there they are
fighting for slavery. The slavery of the little nations, the slavery
of those who love democracy. They want Prussia, and more Prussia, and
more Prussia--" He struck his hand on the counter so that all the
dolls danced.
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