Bertha lives in the Black Forest.  That name makes you think at once of a dark and gloomy place.  The woods on the hills are dark, to be sure, but the valleys nestling between are bright and cheerful when the sun shines down and pours its light upon them.  Bertha’s village is in just such a valley.  The church stands on the slope above the little homes.  It seems to say, “Look upward, my children, to the blue heavens, and do not fear, even when the mists fill the valley and the storm is raging over your heads.”

All the people in the village seem happy and contented.  They work hard, and their pay is small, but there are no beggars among them.

Toys are made in almost every house.  Every one in a family works on the same kind of toy, just as it is in Bertha’s home.

The people think:  “It would be foolish to spend one’s time in learning new things.  The longer a person works at making one kind of toy, the faster he can make them, and he can earn more money.”

One of Bertha’s neighbours makes nothing but Noah’s Arks.  Another makes toy tables, and still another dolls’ chairs.

Bertha often visits a little friend who helps her father make cuckoo-clocks.  Did you ever see one of these curious clocks?  As each hour comes around, a little bird comes outside the case.  Then it flaps its wings and sings “cuckoo” in a soft, sweet voice as many times as there are strokes to the hour.  It is great fun to watch for the little bird and hear its soft notes.

Perhaps you wonder what makes the bird come out at just the right time.  It is done by certain machinery inside the clock.  But, however it is, old people as well as children seem to enjoy the cuckoo-clocks of Germany.

“Some day, when you are older, you shall go to the fair at Easter time,” Bertha’s father has promised her.

“Is that at Leipsic, where our Santa Claus images go?” asked his little daughter.

“Yes, my dear, and toys from many other parts of our country.  There you will see music-boxes and dolls’ pianos and carts and trumpets and engines and ships.  These all come from the mining-towns.

“But I know what my little Bertha would care for most.  She would best like to see the beautiful wax dolls that come from Sonneberg.”

“Yes, indeed,” cried Bertha.  “The dear, lovely dollies with yellow hair like mine.  I would love every one of them.  I wish I could go to Sonneberg just to see the dolls.”

“I wonder what makes the wax stick on,” said Gretchen, who came into the room while her father and Bertha were talking.

“After the heads have been moulded into shape, they are dipped into pans of boiling wax,” her father told her.  “The cheap dolls are dipped only once, but the expensive ones have several baths before they are finished.  The more wax that is put on, the handsomer the dolls are.

“Then comes the painting.  One girl does nothing but paint the lips.  Another one does the cheeks.  Still another, the eyebrows.  Even then Miss Dolly looks like a bald-headed baby till her wig is fastened in its place.”