Instantly now, when Hermann had ceased, the talkative neighbor
Took up the word, and cried:  “Oh happy, in days like the present,
Days of flight and confusion, who lives by himself in his dwelling,
Having no wife nor child to be clinging about him in terror! 
Happy I feel myself now, and would not for much be called father;
Would not have wife and children to-day, for whom to be anxious. 
Oft have I thought of this flight before; and have packed up together
All my best things already, the chains and old pieces of money
That were my sainted mother’s, of which not one has been sold yet. 
Much would be left behind, it is true, not easily gotten. 
Even the roots and the herbs, that were with such industry gathered,
I should be sorry to lose, though the worth of the goods is but trifling. 
If my purveyor remained, I could go from my dwelling contented. 
When my cash I have brought away safe, and have rescued my person,
All is safe:  none find it so easy to fly as the single.”

“Neighbor,” unto his words young Hermann with emphasis answered: 
“I can in no wise agree with thee here, and censure thy language. 
Is he indeed a man to be prized, who, in good and in evil,
Takes no thought but for self, and gladness and sorrow with others
Knows not how to divide, nor feels his heart so impel him? 
Rather than ever to-day would I make up my mind to be married: 
Many a worthy maiden is needing a husband’s protection,
And the man needs an inspiriting wife when ill is impending.”

Thereupon smiling the father replied:  “Thus love I to hear thee! 
That is a sensible word such as rarely I’ve known thee to utter.” 
Straightway, however, the mother broke in with quickness, exclaiming: 
“Son, to be sure, thou art right! we parents have set the example;
Seeing that not in our season of joy did we choose one another;
Rather the saddest of hours it was that bound us together. 
Monday morning—­I mind it well; for the day that preceded
Came that terrible fire by which our city was ravaged—­
Twenty years will have gone.  The day was a Sunday as this is;
Hot and dry was the season; the water was almost exhausted. 
All the people were strolling abroad in their holiday dresses,
’Mong the villages partly, and part in the mills and the taverns. 
And at the end of the city the flames began, and went coursing
Quickly along the streets, creating a draught in their passage. 
Burned were the barns where the copious harvest already was garnered;
Burned were the streets as far as the market; the house of my father,
Neighbor to this, was destroyed, and this one also fell with it. 
Little we managed to save.  I sat, that sorrowful night through,
Outside the town on the common, to guard the beds and the boxes. 
Sleep overtook me at last, and when I again was awakened,
Feeling the chill of the morning that always descends