The pear tree in the yard was beloved by the children and cats. It was old and large, and many of its boughs were already dry and dead, but the others still furnished blossoms and greenery every spring and fruit every autumn.
Heggbom’s boys were sitting up in the tree, throwing down pears after having first stuffed their pockets full, while below the other children fought for every pear that fell from the tree. In the midst of the troop stood Mrs. Lundgren, broad of build and loud of voice, trying to enforce a fair distribution, but no one paid any attention to her. A little way off stood little Ida Dupont, with great eyes, her hands behind her back, not venturing into the turmoil. Mrs. Lundgren did not get any pears for her because she was ill-disposed toward Mr. Dupont, who was a violinist in the royal orchestra.
Martin became eager; he threw on his clothes in a hurry and came down by the steps.
Lotta screamed after him, “Aren’t you going to wash and comb your hair before—”
But Martin was in the yard by this time. Mrs. Lundgren at once took him under her protection.
“Throw down a pear to Martin, John. Hold up your cap, little boy, and you shall have a pear.”
A pear fell into the cap. But now Martin couldn’t find his penknife to peel the pear.
“Give me the pear; I’ll peel it for you,” said Mrs. Lundgren.
With that she took the pear, bit into it with her big yellow teeth, and tore off a piece of the skin. Martin opened his eyes very wide and grew red in the face. Now he didn’t want to have any pear at all.
Mr. Dupont lay at his window in his shirt sleeves, smoking a pipe, with a red skullcap on his head. He now leaned out and laughed. Mrs. Lundgren got angry.
“That’s a spoiled child,” she said.
John now triumphantly held up the last pear, and the children hurrahed and shouted, but he stuffed it into his trousers pocket. But then Willie found still another, and this was the very last. He caught sight of Ida Dupont standing with tears in her eyes over by the wall, and at that he gallantly tossed his pear into her apron. Then there was another hurrah; the pear tree was stripped.
Now Mrs. Heggbom came out:
“Lord in heaven what a clatter, and Heggbom lying at his death! Down out of the tree with you, you little ragamuffins!”
Heggbom had been sick in bed awhile ago, and his wife’s imagination often turned back to that comparatively happy time.
The boys had come down from the tree. Their mother took John by the hair and Willie by the ear to lead them in. But Mrs. Lundgren felt somewhat huffed; she had to a certain extent presided over the tumult. Furthermore, she enjoyed scolding and therefore did not miss the opportunity of showing Mrs. Heggbom with some sharpness the unsuitability of making such a disturbance. The latter let go her boys so as to set her arms akimbo, and there was a big set-to. Listeners streamed up, and all the kitchen windows were opened wide.
At last a voice broke through the quarreling: “Sh! The Secretary!”
Everything became quiet; Secretary Oldhusen had the largest floor and was the finest tenant of the house. He was dressed in a long tight-fitting frock coat and carried under his arm a worn leather portfolio. When he had come down the steps he stood still and took a pinch of snuff. Thereupon he walked slowly out through the gate with the preoccupied and troubled mien of a statesman.
Martin and Ida slipped out into the street hand in hand. They ventured on for a few steps beyond the gate, then they stood in the street and blinked at the sun.
The street was lined with wooden houses and tile roofs and green trees. The house where Martin lived was the only large stone house on the street. Long Row, diagonally across from it, lay in shadow; a low, dirt-gray range of houses. Only really poor people lived there, Martin’s mother said. Only scum, said Mrs. Lundgren. At the dye-house a little farther down the street there was no hurrying; the dyer stood at his gate in slippers and white linen jacket and chatted with his wife in the warehouse. Even outside the corner tavern things were quiet. A brewery wagon had stopped in front of it, and the horse stood with his forefeet tied, eating oats out of a nosebag that hung on his muzzle.
The clock in the nearby church struck ten.
Ida pointed down the street. “There comes the old goat woman.”
The goat woman came with her two goats; one she led with a cord, the other was free. The Secretary’s little granddaughter had whooping-cough and drank goat’s milk.
“Yes, and there comes the ragman.”
The ragman sidled in through the gate with his pack on his back and his greasy stick. People said he had seen better days.
Two drunken men came out of the tavern and reeled along the street arm in arm. A policeman in white linen trousers walked up and down, a copy of the Fatherland sticking out of his hip pocket. A flock of chickens trailed out from the yard of Long Row, the cock at their head. The policeman stopped, took half a roll out of his pocket, and began to feed them.
“What shall we do?” asked Ida.
“I don’t know,” replied Martin.
He looked very much at a loss.
“Would you like to have my pear?”
Ida took the pear out of her pocket and held it under Martin’s nose. It looked very tempting.
“We can share,” proposed Martin.
“Yes, that’s so, we can share.”
“But I have no knife to cut it with.”
“That doesn’t matter. You bite first and then I will.”
Martin bit, and Ida bit. Martin forgot he had wanted the pear peeled.
Now somebody called for Martin, and the next moment grandmother came out and took him by
