Tales of a Traveller

father!” said Dirk, manfully—“I’ll take care of her!”
    Wolfert looked up in the face of the cheery, strapping youngster, and saw there was none better able to take care of a woman.
    “Enough,” said he, “she is yours!—and now fetch me a lawyer—let me make my will and die.”
    The lawyer was brought—a dapper, bustling, round-headed little man, Roorback (or Rollebuck, as it was pronounced) by name. At the sight of him the women broke into loud lamentations, for they looked upon the signing of a will as the signing of a death-warrant. Wolfert made a feeble motion for them to be silent. Poor Amy buried her face and her grief in the bed-curtain. Dame Webber resumed her knitting to hide her distress, which betrayed itself, however, in a pellucid tear, that trickled silently down and hung at the end of her peaked nose; while the cat, the only unconcerned member of the family, played with the good dame’s ball of worsted, as it rolled about the floor.
    Wolfert lay on his back, his nightcap drawn over his forehead; his eyes closed; his whole visage the picture of death. He begged the lawyer to be brief, for he felt his end approaching, and that he had no time to lose. The lawyer nibbed his pen, spread out his paper, and prepared to write.
    “I give and bequeath,” said Wolfert, faintly, “my small farm—”
    “What—all!” exclaimed the lawyer.
    Wolfert half opened his eyes and looked upon the lawyer.
    “Yes—all” said he.
    “What! all that great patch of land with cabbages and sunflowers, which the corporation is just going to run a main street through?”
    “The same,” said Wolfert, with a heavy sigh and sinking back upon his pillow.
    “I wish him joy that inherits it!” said the little lawyer, chuckling and rubbing his hands involuntarily.
    “What do you mean?” said Wolfert, again opening his eyes.
    “That he’ll be one of the richest men in the place!” cried little
Rollebuck.
    The expiring Wolfert seemed to step back from the threshold of existence: his eyes again lighted up; he raised himself in his bed, shoved back his red worsted nightcap, and stared broadly at the lawyer.
    “You don’t say so!” exclaimed he.
    “Faith, but I do!” rejoined the other. “Why, when that great field and that piece of meadow come to be laid out in streets, and cut up into snug building lots—why, whoever owns them need not pull off his hat to the patroon!”
    “Say you so?” cried Wolfert, half thrusting one leg out of bed, “why, then I think I’ll not make my will yet!”
    To the surprise of everybody the dying man actually recovered. The vital spark which had glimmered faintly in the socket, received fresh fuel from the oil of gladness, which the little lawyer poured into his soul. It once more burnt up into a flame.
    Give physic to the heart, ye who would revive the body of a spirit-broken man! In a few days Wolfert left his room; in a few days more his table was covered with deeds, plans of streets and building lots. Little Rollebuck was constantly with him, his right-hand man and adviser, and instead of making his will, assisted in the more agreeable task of making his fortune. In fact, Wolfert Webber was one of those worthy Dutch burghers of the Manhattoes whose fortunes have been made, in a manner, in spite of themselves; who have tenaciously held on to their hereditary acres, raising turnips and cabbages about the skirts of the city, hardly able to make both ends meet, until the corporation has cruelly driven streets through their abodes, and they have suddenly awakened out of a lethargy, and, to their astonishment, found themselves rich men.
    Before many months had elapsed a great bustling street passed through the very centre of the Webber garden, just where Wolfert had dreamed of finding a treasure. His golden dream was accomplished; he did indeed find an unlooked-for source of wealth; for, when his paternal lands were distributed into building lots, and rented out to safe tenants, instead of producing a paltry crop of cabbages, they returned him an abundant crop of rents; insomuch that on quarter day, it was a goodly sight to see his tenants rapping at his door, from morning to night, each with a little round-bellied bag of money, the golden produce of the soil.
    The ancient mansion of his forefathers was still kept up, but instead of being a little yellow-fronted Dutch house in a garden, it now stood boldly in the midst of a street, the grand house of the neighborhood;