Northern Wisconsin advertiser. [volume] (Wabeno, Wis.) 1898-1925, 1900-08-09
THE PLATT-DEurscn SINGER.
Klaus Groth, Whom 1t is Proposed to
Memorabilia.

A purpose is entertained of convert
ing the house in Kiel, where Klaus
Groth died, into a museum like the
Goethe house in Weimar, to keep alive
the memory of one who was often
called the Burns of Though
he was no such poet, and no such man,
and only resembled him in preserving
the patois of his people, the Hol-
steiners, in graphic dialect verse. That
interesting Scottish newspaper, The
People, thus describes Groth, and gives
examples of his verse;
Groth's great ambition in composing
Qulckborn. the volume containing his
best and most popular poems, was to
rescue the Plattdutsch or Low German
dialect from oblivion. 1t bears exactly
the same relation to High, or ordinary
German as our homely Doric to Eng
lish. 1t was the crude but virile lang
uage OF simple, kindly, but unedu-
Gated people, characterized like our
selves by a deep passion for the little
corner of land in Holstein for whose
freedom they had struggled as bravely
as Scotchmen under Wallace or Bruce,
and for whose independence their
heroes and warriors had bled and
died. Thepoet was full of the old Hol-
stein legends and folklore, which were
taught him, along with the rudiments
of education, by his grandfather, a fine
kindly old man.
The father had little farm or croft
at Heide, where the poet was born on
the Gath of April, 1919. The family
lived very happily, if frugally, in that
quiet out-of-the-way district where
the traveller happens all unaware on
the queer little houses surrounded by
the great deep bitches, which, instead
of our familiar hedges, mark off the
farms from each other. Klaus helped
his father in his work, greatly against
his tastes, which were all in the di-
rection of literature. until he was 15,
when he became the clerk or secre-
tary of local dignltary Whilst in
this employment he studied most dill
gently in order to qualify himself, il
possible, for the university, but he had
to rest content with a normal school
training, on the completion of which
he was appointed schooimaster OF
Heide, and again took up his abode I'M
der the parental rooftree. He was an
early riser, and the story goes that he
retired to rest each night with one end
of rope attached to limb and the
other thrown out at his bedroom win
dow, so that the first villager who
CHANGED to be about, pulled the rope
until the diligent student appeared at
his easement to thank him for the
neighborly attention! Over-study broke
down his health, so he abandoned
teaching, retired to the dreary island
of Femarn, and gave himself up en-
tirely to the production of the book
which brought him fame and honor. 1t
took him 10 years to arrange the ma
terials he had been amassing from boy
hood, and to express in poetical Ian
guage the homely joys and sorrows and
ambitions of his own people.
The dialect in which they spoke had
never been utilized in this fashion be-
fore. No one had attempted to sing
the praises of the Ditmarch maidens, or
to extol the bravery of warrior an
cestors, and the young poet expert
enced the greatest difficulty in express
ing his sentiments and polishing his
gems of though in these rude, barbaric
accents. After studying several poets
he CHANGED on Burns Tam oShanter,"
and discovered there a model for
Quickborn, which means living foun-
tain" or better STILL The well that
ne'er runs dry" The influence of
Burns is readily detected in the follow
ing poem:-
My Annie's like the rose so red,
My own sweet flower is she;
AS swallows light, my Armies tread,
My Annie's cheeks with crimson shed,
Like apple on the tree
The Squire has fields of apples full
And beds of roses blown;
And let the Squire his apples pull,
And let the Squire his roses Gull,
My Annies still my own!
She is my own, she is my all,
And more than all to me;
And when at windy winters call
The roses fade and apples fall,
Nor fade nor fall will She
All, nofi! she'll never faded grow,
She'll still be bright and gay;
And while life through my heart shall
flow.
My Annie there its flowers shall blow,
Until my dying day.
One feels Klaus Groth was a good