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WALDA
PUBLISHERS’ NOTE
For obvious reasons, the real name of the communitydescribed herein is withheld; but the scenes are picturedwith almost photographic fidelity, and the lifeportrayed is the life actually led to-day by a religiousco-operative community in a Western State.
WALDA
“So that is Zanah there at the foot of the hill?It is a pretty village, Hans Peter. Step morequickly with my bag. You are slow, my boy. Rememberthere is a quarter of a dollar for you in mypocket.”
The tall, broad-shouldered man who spoke tooka few strides along the plank walk that led from therailway station to the village of Zanah, half a mileaway. Then he stopped to light a cigar while hewaited for the fat, short-legged figure that was bendingunder the weight of a large valise to overtakehim. The man was in the early prime of life. Whenhe took off the soft felt travelling-hat he wore, astrongly modelled head was silhouetted against thesky. He looked across the field of purple cabbagesto the village that lay in the hush of the summerevening. The gabled roofs of the houses were half2hidden by trees, but on a rise of ground the porchand belfry of a little church were plainly visible.
Hans Peter dropped his burden and, imitating thestranger, removed from a shock of straw-colored haira cap mended with red yarn. The boy wore baggytrousers of blue denim buttoned to a blouse of thesame material. The man smiled as he looked at theodd figure.
“Do you hear me, Hans Peter? There is a quarterin my pocket for you. I will find two quarters ifyou walk faster. Do you know what I say to you?”
The boy replaced his cap, nodded his head, andanswered, with a German accent:
“Thou art talking to the simple one, the villagefool, sir. But Hans Peter knows thou wouldst givehim silver.”
It was the first time th