"I always bring something for the birds," said he in a loud voice as he uncovered it.
For a moment both children and adults could only stare at him dumbly. He was real, he came from America, and America had begun to seem like the figment of a dream: his was a new face, and they had seen no new faces for months.
But when the children looked into his basket, they ran forward. Here were cherries for mouths which had forgotten the taste of fruit; here were strawberries for lips which had never touched strawberries. An old woman began to weep.
"Cherries like those in the gardens of Württemberg, God be thanked!"
John Conrad looked at the pilot a little uneasily.
The pilot popped a strawberry into the mouth of John Frederick.
"Tut, tut," said he, "you are in a land of plenty. To-morrow when I come to take you in I will bring more."
"To-morrow!" echoed a dozen voices. "Oh, sir, can we not go in to-day?"
"But the storm came before and drove us far away."
With sinking hearts the pilgrims saw the pilot descend again over the side of the ship and enter his boat and row away.
"I do not believe he will return," said one despairing soul.
But in a few minutes the speaker and every one else on board had begun to pack. Pots and dishes, pans and kettles, clothes, a few spinning-wheels, the few treasured books--all were boxed or wrapped or corded together. The Weisers, remembering gayly that they had once made nine bundles for eight persons, made careful division of their belongings.
"The spinning-wheel is not here and dear Wolf is not here, but we have everything else," said Margareta.
"Including a tame bear," ventured Conrad, knowing that there would be no boxing of ears to-day.
To the laughing astonishment of the travelers, the pilot was on the deck in the morning when they came up to greet the sun. He rallied them upon their laziness and passed out another gift of fruit, and then took command of the ship. To the keen disappointment of the boys the Indians did not come on board, but were towed in their rowboat.
Past the low shores of Long Island, nearer and nearer to the village of New York moved the Lyon, more and more excited grew the pilgrims.
Some one started a hymn and a single stanza was sung. Then voices failed.