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96 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1904


Watch-fire. They sit round about and wait. Wait for someone to sing. But they are so tired. The red light is heavy. It lies on the dusty boots. It crawls up to the knees, it peers into the folded hands. It has no wings. The faces are dark. Even so, the eyes of the little Frenchman glow for a while with a light of their own. He has kissed a little rose, and now it may wither upon his breast. Von Langenau has seen it, because he cannot sleep. He thinks: I have no rose, none.
Then he sings. It is an old sad song that at home the girls in the fields sing, in the fall, when the harvests are coming to an end.