From the second-story window of the house only the soft crying of an infant could be heard. Chickens, geese, a few pigs ran free around the dwellings. A broken ticket booth lay in shambles, its GENERAL ADMISSION sign still hanging from the roof. Pieces of candy-striped tent hung over the barn’s windows. A huge old wooden circus wagon, its hitch buried deep, wheels dug into the mud from years before, showed chips of red and gold paint still visible on its frame. The rotting wood structure seemed to be part of the earth itself, and spoke bluntly of the many years of winter storms it had survived.Ĭircus paraphernalia lay everywhere. The barn’s rock supports had tumbled down at every corner, resembling small volcanoes with boulders spewed in all directions. It was from there both baby sounds emanated.Ī rutted dirt road snaked up the center of the farm, separating the pale yellow German-Swiss style two-story house from the large, old, rock and timber barn. It seemed to rest, but for a moment, at the foot of Olymstroem Mountain upon a rather small but quaint old German farm. The first sunlight of the morning bathed the chilly Hagendorf Valley with its burnt ochre sphere. They drifted over the countryside, beyond the river, across the corn rows and the desolate fields of last summer’s picking. Then, together, they joined-the wailing and trumpeting became one. It, too, was whisked away through the thermals, swirling and dashing about until it met its kin. Deeper, brassy, trumpety, but still a…baby sound.
ON A GRAY, FOGGY MORNING THEY CAME, rising on the cold north winds from the icy peaks, sweeping across the timber land into the gray, misty valleys of the Black Forest… baby sounds! Somewhere below the fog layer, the insistent wails of a baby could be heard, their temerity as if from Mother Earth herself.Īnd then another voice arose.
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