Give me your hand, old fellow; we ought to remain near each other.
Fifty-two years since you took me prisoner, but now I take you
prisoner in turn, and you must remain with me; you shall live at
ease, and at times in the evening you must tell me of Mecklenburg,
and how it looks there, and of Rostock, and--well, and when you are
in good spirits, you must sing to me a Low-German song!"
"Mercy!" exclaimed the old man, in dismay; "I cannot sing, general.
I am eighty years old, and old age has dried up the fountain of my
song."
"Sure enough, you are eighty years old," said Blucher, puffing his
pipe, "and at that age few persons are able to sing. But I should
really like to hear again a merry native song. I have not heard one
for fifty years, for here, you see, Hennemann, people are so stupid
and ignorant as not even to understand Low-German."
"I believe that," said the old man, gravely, "and it is not so easy
to understand--one must he a native of Mecklenburg to understand
it."
"It is a pity that you cannot sing," said Blucher, sighing.
"But, perhaps Christian can," said old Hennemann. "Tell me,
Christian, can you sing?"
"Yes, vatting," replied Christian, clearing his throat.
"'Vatting!'" exclaimed Blucher. "What does that mean?"
"Well, it means that he loves his father, and therefore calls him,
in good Mecklenburg style, 'vatting.
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