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President
David L. Valuska, Ph.D.
Vice President
Robert M. Kline, M.D.
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George F. Spotts
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William Donner, Ph.D.
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Simon J. Bronner, Ph.D.
Veronica I. Backenstoe
Wallace J. Bieber, Rev.
R. Troy Boyer
Daniel Breidegam
Luke J. Brinker,Emeritus
James A. Dibert
John B. Frantz, Ph.D.
Norman Hoffman
Allen G. Musser,
Emeritus
N. Daniel Schwalm
Lee Thierwechter
Carolyn C. Wenger
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David L. Valuska, Ph.D.
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Patricia Frandsen
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| PA
German Dialect
Wann der Wind mol iwwer
die Schtobble bloosst
September 30, 1999
Ihr liewe Leit:
Ya, ‘s waahr: der Harrebscht kann fer viel
Leit die schennscht Zeit vum Yaahr sei, graad wie
der Ralph Funk uns letscht Woch gsaat hot. Awwer
mit der Zeit kann der Harrebscht aa windich un kalt
warre, wie der J. Max Hark (1849-1930) in seim
Gedict "Wann der Wind mol iwwer die Schtobble
Bloosst" uns nau saagt:
Wann der Wind mol iwwer die Schtobble bloosst,
Noh weess mer gewiss iss der Summer verbei.
‘S iss en anneres Licht noh im Sunneschei---
Un en anneres Gfiehl ass im Hatz uffschtosst!
Wann die Schwalme owets um der Schannschtee rum
Duhn zaerkle un zwiddre, un die Grixel im Feld
Un die Kaedididds aa mit ihrem eefeldich Gschelt,
Mache en Zucht, --- noh secht mer als ebbes,"Nau
kumm,
‘S iss Zeit ass du dich faddich machscht, ‘s Schpot-
yaahr iss do;
‘S neegscht kummt der Winder, mit Schnee un
mit Eis,
Hoscht du Arwet zu duh, dann mach dich nau dro,
Eb die Aagelicht fehlt un die Haar sin gans
weiss."
Dei Blischt recht geduh iss der beschde Drooscht,
Wann der Wind mol iwwer die Schtobble bloosst.
Awwer der John Birmelin (1873-1950) hot mol
so vum Harrebscht Wind gschriwwe:
Der Harrebscht Wind rauscht zum Dank dem liewe Gott,
Fer golden Aehre un der Drauwe Blut,
Die Er im Yaahr so reichlich gsegnet hot,
Im Regge sanft, in heesser Sunneglut.
Dann schtreicht er ruhich iwwer’s braune Feld,
Mer heert en kaum, doch hot er net geruht;
Im schtille Daal wu’s kiehle Wasser gwellt,
Datt schwebt er zaertlich wie er ruhich lauscht;
Es glaagt so leis vun Winderfroscht un Kelt.
Dann ziegt er weider darrich’s Daal un rauscht
Bis an der Busch un in die hoche Beem;
Un wie er datt gewaldich dobt un braust!
Die grohe Wolke sehnt mer wie sie gehn ---
Er yaagt die rode Bledder unne Zaahl,
Un Summerveggel fliege eiulischt heem;
Er rauscht am Barrig un er braust im Daal,
So wie’n gewaldich diefer Arrigelklang,
En mechdich Lied, en grooser Weltchoraal,
Ass wie vun viele dausend Yaahrelang.
En heilich Lied, en frommes Dankgebet;
Der Harrebschwind singt vun Goddes Maye-
schteet!
Macht's gut,
Der Alt Professer
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Dear people:
Yes, it is true: autumn can be for many people
the nicest time of the year, just as Ralph Funk told
us last week. But with time, autumn can also
become windy and cold, just as J. Max Hark
(1849-1930) now tells us in his poem "When the
wind blows over the (grain or corn stalk)
stubble":
When the wind blows over the stubble
Then you know for certain that summer is gone,
There’s a different light in the sunshine ---
And a different feeling that wells up in the heart!
When the swallows evenings around the chimney
Circle and twitter, and the crickets in the field
And the katydids also with their simple scolding
Make a noise --- then they say something: "Now
come,
It is time that you get ready.
Fall is here.
Next will come winter, with show
and ice.
If you have work to do, then get started,
Before your eyes fail and your hair is all white."
Your duty done rightly is your best consolation,
When the wind blows over the stubble.
But John Birmelin (1873-1950) once wrote in
this fashion about the autumn wind:
The autumn wind rustles to thank dear God.
For golden awns and the blood of grapes,
Which during the year He so richly blessed,
In mild rain, in hot sunlight.
Then it quietly blows over the brown field,
You hardly hear it, but it has not rested;
In the quiet valley where the cool water swells,
There it hovers tenderly as it quietly listens;
It complains so softly of winter’s frost and cold.
Then it moves on through the valley and rustles
Up to the woods and in the high trees;
And how it mightily blusters and rages!
One sees the grey clouds as they go ---
It chases the red leaves without number,
And the summer birds fly hurridly home;
It rustles on the mountain and rages in the valley,
Like a powerful deep organ sound,
A mighty song, a great world chorale,
As from many thousand years ago,
A holy song, a pious prayer of thanks;
The fall wind sings of God’s majesty!
Take care,
The Old Professor |
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