The winter set in before one tenth of the
scene of promise had been explored.
The ground became frozen hard, and the nights too cold for the
labors of the spade.
No sooner, however, did the returning warmth of spring loosen the
soil, and the small frogs begin to pipe in the meadows, but Wolfert
resumed his labors with renovated zeal. Still, however, the hours
of industry were reversed.
Instead of working cheerily all day, planting and setting out his
vegetables, he remained thoughtfully idle, until the shades of
night summoned him to his secret labors. In this way he continued
to dig from night to night, and week to week, and month to month,
but not a stiver[1] did he find. On the contrary, the more he
digged the poorer he grew. The rich soil of his garden was digged
away, and the sand and gravel from beneath was thrown to the
surface, until the whole field presented an aspect of sandy
barrenness.
[1] A Dutch coin, worth about two cents; hence, anything of little
worth.
In the meantime, the seasons gradually rolled on. The little frogs
which had piped in the meadows in early spring croaked as bullfrogs
during the summer heats, and then sank into silence.
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