Deidrick Schwackenheimer was a lusty young goatherd. He stood six feet
two in his _sabots_, and there was not an ounce of superfluous bone or
brain in his composition. If he had a fault, it was a tendency to
sleep more than was strictly necessary. The nature of his calling
fostered this weakness: after being turned into some neighbour's
pasture, his animals would not require looking after until the owner
of the soil turned them out again. Their guardian naturally devoted
the interval to slumber. Nor was there danger of oversleeping: the
pitchfork of the irate husbandman always roused him at the proper
moment.
At nightfall Deidrick would marshal his flock and drive it homeward to
the milking-yard. Here he was met by the fair young Katrina
Buttersprecht, the daughter of his employer, who relieved the tense
udders of their daily secretion. One evening after the milking,
Deidrick, who had for years been nourishing a secret passion for
Katrina, was smitten with an idea. Why should she not be his wife? He
went and fetched a stool into the yard, led her tenderly to it, seated
her, and _asked_ her why. The girl thought a moment, and then was at
some pains to explain. She was too young. Her old father required all
her care. Her little brother would cry.
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