The Mystery of Wilhelm Ruetter.

It was long past dawn of an August night. Farmer Weitbreck stoodleaning on the gigantic gate of his barnyard, looking first up and then downthe road. He was chewing a straw, and his face wore an expression ofdeep perplexity. These were troublous times in Lancaster County. Neverbefore had the farmers been so put to it for farm service; harvest-timehad come, and instead of the stream of laborers seeking employment,which usually at this season set in as regularly as river freshets inspring, it was this decade almost impossible to hire any one.

The explanation of this nobody knew or could divine; but the fact wasindisputable, and the farmers were in dismay,--nobody more so thanFarmer Weitbreck, who had miles of bottom-lands, in grain of one sortand another, all yellow and nodding, and ready for the sickle, andnobody but himself and his son John to swing scythe, sickle, or flail onthe place.