by Rudolph Baumbach

Translated by Helen B. Dole

Copyright 1888

TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE

Rudolph Baumbach is a poet. He was born in Thuringia, and now lives in Leipsic, where he is a favorite both as a writer and in society. Most of his works have been written in verse, which is spontaneous, full of melody, and as witty as Heine, but perfectly free from bitterness. He draws his inspiration largely from the Alps. His “Zlatorog,” an Alpine story, has reached the twenty-second edition, and the “Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen” and “Frau Holde” are each in the thirteenth edition.

The present collection of short stories has been taken from two little volumes in prose, entitled, “Sommer-M?rchen” and “ Erz?hlungen und M?rchen,” which have been very popular in Germany. More than eleven editions of the first volume have been sold, and six of the second. They have also been published with
handsome illustrations by Paul Mohn. The stories are remarkable for their grace and simplicity of style. They are full of originality and wit, with occasional touches of keen satire, showing knowledge of the world as well as a familiarity with every bird and flower and creature in forest, field, and mountain. The stories are more for young people than children, yet the “Easter Rabbit” will be enjoyed by the little ones, while the fun in the “Ass’s Spring” will appeal to children of a larger growth. They are not altogether fairy-tales, though all border on the marvellous, and sprites, elves, and other mysterious folk from Wonderland play a conspicuous part.
Helen B. Dole
Boston, April 18, 1888

CONTENTS

Prologue
Ranunculus, The Meadow Sprite
The Legend of the Daisy
The Clover Leaf
The Adder-Queen
The Blacksmith’s Bride
The Easter Rabbit
The Golden Tree
The Magic Bow
The Beech-Tree
The Water of Forgetfulness
Theodelina and the Water-Sprite
The Ass’s Spring
The Talkative House-Key
The Forgotten Bell
The Water of Youth
The Four Evangelists
The Disappointed Dwarf
The Egyptian Fire-Eater
The Witching-Stone
The Christmas Rose
The Match-Makers
A Happy Marriage

PROLOGUE

My gallant courser swift and good
Through story-land conveys me;
The mystic lady of the wood
With ruinic staff delays me;
The water-nisse sings her lays
Beside the fairy fountain;
The golden-antlered white stag plays
In sunlight on the mountain.

Deep down in caverns I behold
Brown kobolds evil scheming;
I see their hoards of hidden gold
Like coals of red fire gleaming.
The speech of birds and beasts I know,
The lore of trees and flowers;
I use all magic herbs that grow -
Their good and evil powers.

To join his midnight gallop wild
The Huntsman oft invites me;
Upon the moonlit meadows mild
The Elfin dance delights me;
The gray-haired witch upon her fire
A cheering draught can brew me;
The crested dragon calms his ire,
And fawning grovels to me.

My courser starts, and whinnies clear;
He spurns the Earth’s dominions;
Upon his shoulders broad appear
Two spreading snow-white pinions.
Swift as the storm, away we fly
Through measureless expanses -
Ah no! at home in bed I lie
And dream my pleasant fancies.

RANUNCULUS, THE MEADOW SPRITE

Once upon a time there was a young schoolmaster who, in spite of
his youth, was so wise and learned that when the seven wise men
of Greece, during a visit to the upper world, held a disputation
with him, they stood like dunces before him.

This same schoolmaster started out into the fields, one spring
morning, to hear the grass grow; for he knew all about that too.
And as he wandered through the bright green meadows, and saw the
variegated marvels of the air flying around the star-flowers, and
heard the crickets in the grass, the birds in the branches, and
the frogs in the meadow brook, singing their wedding songs, then
he thought of his native village, which he had left years before,
to go to college, and he thought, too, of the little black-eyed
lassie who had given him a gingerbread heart, as a farewell
present, and shed bitter tears over it; and a strange feeling
came over him.

On the following day the schoolmaster tied up his bundle, took
his knotted staff in his hand, and started forth, with joy and
happiness in his heart, out of the city, into the green world.

Three days after, he caught a glimpse, through the blossoming
fruit-trees, of the blue slate-covered roof of his own village
church tower, and the wind brought the mellow sound of bells to
his ears.

“I wonder if she will know me,” he said to himself. “Hardly; and
I, too, shall have difficulty to find, in the eighteen-year-old
girl, the little Greta of former days. But her eyes, her big
black eyes, they must betray her to me. And if I see her sitting
by her door, on the stone bench, I will step up to her side, and
- and the rest will come of itself.”

The schoolmaster threw his hat into the air, and shouted so loud
that he was frightened at his own voice. He looked shyly about
him to see if anybody had witnessed his unruliness; but, except a
field mouse, which made a hasty retreat into her hole, there was
no living creature in sight.

With loud-beating heart, the learned man took his way into the
village. The bells were no longer; but, instead, came the merry
sounds of fiddles and flutes. A wedding procession was passing
through the narrow village street.

The bridegroom, a splendid young peasant, looked happy and proud,
- as though he would ask the dear Lord, “How much would you take
for the world?” The bride, adorned with a glittering crown, cast
her eyes modestly on the ground. Once only she raised her lids;
and her eyes, her big black eyes, betrayed to the schoolmaster
who it was that was walking under the bridal wreath. And the poor
man turned him about and went back, unrecognized, by the way he
had come.

It was midday. Green-gold shone the fields; and wherever there
was running water, there the sun scattered thousands and
thousands of glistening sparkles. The creatures rejoiced in the
sunlight; but to-day it was painful to the schoolmaster, and he
shaded his eyes with his hand. Thus he strode along.

A traveller joined him, who must have already gone a long
distance; for he looked like a wandering cloud of dust.

“Good friend,” said the stranger to the schoolmaster, “the
sunlight blinds your eyes, does it not?”

The schoolmaster assented.

“See!” continues the other, “there is no better help for it than
a pair of gray spectacles such as I wear. Try them once!” And
with these words he took the spectacles off his nose, and handed
them to the schoolmaster.

The latter consented, and put on the dull-colored glasses. They
really did his hot eyes good. The sun lost its bright glare; the
meadow, with its red and yellow flowers, the trees and bushes,
and the roof of heaven, - everything was gray. And so it seemed
quite right to the schoolmaster.

“Are you willing to sell them?” he asked of the strange traveller.

“They are in good hands,” was the reply, “and I always carry
several pairs of such spectacles with me. Keep them to remember
me by, Herr Magister.”

“Ah, do you know me? And may I ask-”

“Who I am?” interrupted the stranger, finishing out the question.
“ My name is Grumbler. Farewell!”

With these words he struck into a bypath, and soon was out of
sight. The schoolmaster pressed the gray glassed firmly on his
nose, and went his way.

Years had fled since this took place; the schoolmaster had become
a crusty old bachelor, and had forgotten how to find pleasure in
the world. He still went out in the fields; but the green of the
trees no longer existed for him. He pulled up the plants by their
roots, carried them home, and pressed and dried them; then he
laid the flower-mummies on gray blotting-paper, wrote a Latin
name beneath: and this was his only pleasure, if pleasure it
could be called.

One day, during one of his expeditions, the schoolmaster came to
an out-of-the-way valley; through it flowed a brook, which turned
a mill; and as he was thirsty, he asked the old woman, who was
sunning herself before the door, if she would give him a drink.
The old woman said yes, invited the guest to sit down, and went
into the house. Soon after, a young girl brought some bread and
milk, and placed them on a stone table before the guest. Then the
schoolmaster wondered whether the maiden were ugly; but he could
not quite make out through his gray spectacles; and he could not
take off the spectacles, because he thought the sunlight would
hurt his eyes. In silence he ate what was set before him; and as
the miller’s daughter would take no pay, he pressed her hand and
went away. But she looked after the melancholy man till he
disappeared behind the bushes.

The meadow valley in which the mill stood must have fostered many
kinds of strange plants; for, three days after his first visit,
the learned schoolmaster came again and had a talk at the mill.
And he came more and more often, and was soon a welcome guest.

He brought sugar, coffee, snuff, and other judicious gifts, to
the old grandmother, and entertained the miller with edifying
conversation; but to his fair-haired daughter he said never a
word, but contented himself with looking at the beautiful girl,
from time to time, through his gray spectacles. Then the miller
would nudge the grandmother gently with his elbow, and the old
woman would nod her white head.

One day, when the schoolmaster had left the mill and was going
along the edge of the meadow, he noticed a mole, caught in a
snare, kicking and struggling to escape death on the gallows. The
good-hearted man stepped up to him, set the prisoner free, and
put him on the ground. Then mole and schoolmaster each went his way.

As the learned man was sitting in his study, on the evening of
the same day, it happened that a bat came flying in at the open
window. That was not at all strange; but that on the bat rode a
little man, no bigger than your finger, and that this little man
got down and made a low bow before the schoolmaster, - this,
indeed, appeared very extraordinary.

“What do you want here?” he asked the little creature, not very
graciously. “Go to some story-teller, and don’t disturb the work
of sensible people!”

But the little man did not allow himself to be confused. He came
nearer, sat down on the box of writing-sand, and said:-

“Do not send me away from you! I have kind intentions towards
you, for you helped me out of serious trouble to-day; I was the
mole that you released from the snare.”

“So! And who are you, in reality?” asked the scholar, inspecting
the little fellow through his glasses. He had a dainty, trim
figure; and if the spectacles had not been gray, the schoolmaster
could have seen that the little man wore a green coat and a
golden-yellow cap.

“I am the meadow sprite, Ranunculus,” said the dwarf. “My
servants care for the grass and the flowers; some wash them with
dew, others comb them with sunbeams, and still others carry food
to their roots. The last-named I wished to watch their work this
morning, and, that they might not recognize me, I took the form
of a mole. By this means I fell into the snare from which your
hand set me free. And now I am here to thank you, and to do you
some service in return.”

“What can you mean”? said the schoolmaster.

“You are a learned man,” continues Ranunculus. “You are familiar
with the flowers and plants in the meadow and on the mountains,
in the woods and fields; but there is one flower you do not know.”

“What is that?” asked the schoolmaster, excitedly.

“It is the flower called heart’s-joy.”

“No, I do not know it.”

“But I do,” said Ranunculus, “and I will tell you where to find
it. If you follow along the mill brook, - which you are familiar
with, - to its source, you will come to a rock. There you will
find a cave, which the people call the goblin’s cavern, and, in
front of the entrance, blooms the flower heart’s-joy, but only on
Trinity Sunday, at the hour of sunrise; and whoever is on the
spot then can pluck the blossom. Do you understand all that I
have said?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then good luck to you!” said the little man; and he mounted his
winged steed, and flew out at the open window.

The schoolmaster rubbed his forehead, in amazement, and shook his
head. Then he buried himself in the folio volume bound in pigskin.

A couple of days after this occurrence, at the hour of twilight,
the miller’s pretty daughter sat before the meadow mill, and the
grandmother by her side. The spinning-wheels hummed; and the old
woman was telling the story of Lady Perchta, who sends the
swiftest spinners knots of flax which afterwards change to yellow
gold, and about other marvels of the sort. She related, too,
about the sleeping man who sits in the goblin’s cave. Once in a
hundred years he becomes visible; and if a maiden kisses him
three times, he is released, and as a reward, the maiden will be
given a sweetheart. The old woman went on telling stories; and
the pretty maiden listened, and spun the fairy tales further,
like the threads of flax which she twisted in her white fingers.
The stars rose in the sky; and as it was the time of year when
the elder-tree was in bloom, sweet weariness came over the
maiden’s eyes. She sought her chamber, and went to rest.

In the night she dreamed that there came to her a little man
wearing a green coat and a golden-yellow cap. And the little
being looked very friendly, and said to the maiden:-

“Thou lucky child! For thee, and none other,the sweetheart in the
goblin’s cavern is destined. To-morrow is the day when the
sleeping man becomes visible. At sunrise he will sit, slumbering,
at the entrance of the cave; and if thou art not afraid, and wilt
kiss him heartily three times on the mouth, the spell will be
broken, and the sweetheart won. But take great care, while
working his release, not to speak a word, or even to utter a
sound; for, otherwise, the sleeping man will sink three thousand
fathoms deep into the earth, and will have to wait another
hundred years for his ransom.

Thus spoke the sprite, and vanished. But the maiden awoke and
rubbed her eyes. A sweet odor, as from new-mown hay, filled the
chamber, and the gray mourning light peeped in through the cracks
of the shutters. Then the damsel, full of courage, arose from her
couch, and dressed herself. Quietly she left the house, and,
tucking up her petticoats, hastened through the dewy grass to the
goblin’s cavern.

In the boughs the wood birds were already stirring, and, still
half-asleep, were beginning to tune up their songs. The white
mist sank to the earth, and spread out in streaks over the
meadow; and the tips of the fir-tree took on a golden tinge.
There stood the miller’s lovely daughter at the entrance of the
cavern; and truly, just as the little dwarf had predicted, there
sat the sleeping man on a moss-covered stone. The maiden almost
uttered a loud cry; for the sleeping man looked so exactly like
the schoolmaster, even to wearing a pair of gray glasses on his nose.

Fortunately the damsel bethought herself of the little man’s
warning; and silently, but with a loud-beating heart, she drew
near the sleeper to perform the benignant task of setting him
free - and it did not seem to her nearly as frightful as she had
imagined beforehand.

Gently she bent over the slumberer, and kissed him on the mouth;
the man stirred, as if he would awaken.

The maiden kissed him a second time; the man opened his weary
eyelids, and looked at the damsel dreamily through his gray spectacles.

But she remained resolute, and pressed the third kiss on his lips.

Then the man, fully awake, jumped up from his seat in such haste
that the glasses fell from his nose and broke into a thousand
pieces on the stony ground. And he saw again, for the first time
in many years, the verdure of spring gleaming in the sunlight,
the bright flowers, the blue sky, and, in the midst of all this
glory, a maiden as beautiful as a May rose and slender as a lily.
And he took her in his arms, and gave her the three kisses back
again, and countless others followed these.

But on a bright yellow marigold sat the meadow sprite Ranunculus,
kicking his little legs for joy. Then he jumped down, making the
flower shake violently, and went about his momentous affairs. He
had kept his word: the schoolmaster had found his heart’s-joy,
and the miller’s pretty daughter her sweetheart.

THE LEGEND OF THE DAISY

Good children, as you know, when they die, go to heaven and
become angels. But it you have the least idea that there they do
nothing the livelong day but fly about and play hide and seek
behind the clouds, you are very much mistaken.

Angel children, like the boys and girls upon earth, are obliged
to go to school, and on weekdays they have to sit three hours in
the morning and two in the afternoon in the angel school. There
they write with golden pencils on silver slates, and instead of
A-B-C-books they have books of fairy tales with colored pictures.
They do not study geography, for why should they in heaven learn
about the earth? and they know nothing about the multiplication
table in eternity. The teacher of the angel school is Dr. Faust.
He was a professor on earth; and on account of a certain story,
which cannot be repeated here, he has to keep school three
thousand years longer in heaven before the long vacation begins
for him. The little angels have Wednesday and Saturday afternoons
for a half-holiday; then Dr. Faust takes them to play on the
Milky Way. But Sundays they are allowed to play in the great
meadow in front of the Heavenly Gate, and they look forward to
this all through the week. The meadow is not green, but blue, and
there grow thousands and thousands of silver and golden flowers.
They shine in the night, and we people on earth call them stars.
When the angels gambol before the Heavenly Gate, Dr. Faust is not
with them, for he has so much trouble during the week that he
must rest on Sunday. Then the holy Peter, who guards the Gate of
Heaven, takes the oversight of them. He sees that they are very
orderly in their play, and that none of them runs or flies away;
but if it happen that one gets too far from the gate, then he
whistles with his golden key: that means “Come back!”

Once, it was so very hot in heaven that Saint Peter fell asleep.
As soon as the angels noticed it, they swarmed out hither and
thither and were scattered over the whole meadow. The most
enterprising started on a voyage of discovery, and finally came
to the place where the world is shut off by a high fence. At
first they sought for a crack somewhere to peep through; but when
they found there was not a chink, they climbed and flew up on the
fence and looked over.

Over there on the other side was Hades, and before the gate of
Hades was just another throng of little imps roving about. They
were black as coals, and had horns on their heads and long tails
behind. One of them by accident looked up and saw the angels, and
immediately besought them eagerly to let them into heaven for a
little while:- they would be very proper and well-behaved.

This touched the angels; and as the little black fellows pleased
them, they decided that they might grant the poor imps this
innocent pleasure. One of them knew where Jacob’s ladder was
kept. They dragged it out of the lumber-room (Saint Peter was
fortunately still asleep), lifted it over the fence, and let it
down into Hades. The long-tailed imps climbed up the rounds like
monkeys, the angels gave them their hands, and so the little
scapegoats came into the heavenly meadow.

At first they behaved themselves very well. They went about
properly, carrying their tails like trains in their arms, just as
Satan’s grandmother, who lays great stress upon good manners, had
taught them. But it did not last long; they became lawless,
turned summersaults and handsprings, and screamed like veritable
devil-urchins. They teased the beautiful moon, who was looking
peacefully out of one of the heavenly windows; they ran out their
tongues and made long noses at her, and finally they began to
pull up the flowers growing in the meadow and
to throw them down on the earth.

Now the angels were sorry and repented bitterly of having let
unclean guests into heaven. They besought and threatened; but the
imps would not stop, and grew wilder and wilder.

Then the angels, in their anxiety, wakened Saint Peter, and
confessed penitently what they had done. He threw his hands
together over his head, when he became aware of the mischief that
was going on. “March in!” he thundered; and the little ones stole
back with drooping wings through the gate into heaven. Then Saint
Peter called a couple of strong angels to him. They caught the
little imps up together and carried them back where they belonged.

The little angels did not escape punishment. For three Sundays,
one after another, they could not go to the Heavenly Gate; and
when they went out to walk, they had to take off their wings and
lay aside their halos, and it is a great disgrace for an angel to
have to go without wings and halo.

But some good came of the affair, after all. The flowers which
the imps tore up and threw down on the earth took root and
multiplied year after year. To be sure, the star-flowers lost
much of their heavenly beauty, but they are still lovely to see,
with their golden yellow disks and crown of silver-white rays.
And because they are of heavenly origin they possess a wonderful
virtue. If a maid with doubt in her heart pulls off the white
petals of the starry blossom one by one, and at the same time
repeats a certain saying, she will know very truly by the last
leaflet what she longs to find out.

THE CLOVER LEAF

The town was as silent as the grave, for all who were not
compelled by sickness or infirmity to stay at home had gone out
to the park, where the shooting-club were trying to shoot down,
piece by piece, from the pole the two-headed eagle, the emblem of
the holy Roman Empire. In the cottages, decked with wreaths of
evergreen and trimmed with bright-colored banners, sat the
townspeople drinking beer and foaming ale. Red-cheeked maidens
with white aprons and bare arms stood behind the sausage ovens,
fanning away the smoke rising from the coals. All kinds of
itinerant people dressed in gay-colored tatters were practising
their arts here, -knife-throwers, fire-eaters, and acrobats with
hoarse voices, vaunting their skill, and a bear was performing
his clumsy dance to the sound of a Polish bagpipe.

>From the club-house, out of whose gable windows fluttered the
banners which the Emperor Henry had presented to the club,
sounded the ceaseless cracking of the heavy arquebuses, and the
eagle on the pole had already lost his sceptre and imperial ball,
as well as a claw and a wing. The men who on week-days wielded
hammer and plane, axe and awl, managed the firearms as skillfully
as the tools of their handicraft, and looked very magnificent in
their shooting-jackets. But while shooting they did not forget to
drink, and the great bumper, which was decorated with wild beasts
in embossed work, circulated freely.

Among the women who were present at the club-house watching the
skill of the men, was a slender young maiden not less conspicuous
for her beauty than for her costume. She was dressed in the usual
style of the country people; but her dark gown was of fine
Brabaut cloth, the buttons on her waist were of solid silver, and
her black silk cap, from beneath which hung down her long yellow
braids, had a gold ornament, which would have been cheap at two
crowns. The city damsels noticed with displeasure how the young
fellows assiduously crowded about the table where the maiden sat,
and turned up their little noses at the country mouse and the
want of taste in the young men. However, it contributed somewhat
to their peace of mind that all the endeavors of the city young
men to get next the maiden were in vain. She was sitting between
the king’s forester, a man of sunburnt face and iron-gray beard,
and a wild-looking huntsman’s lad. The neighboring seats were
also occupied, and, indeed, with none but huntsmen, so the
beautiful girl might be considered well protected. The old man
next her was her father, but the young hunter on the other side
of her was her father’s assistant. He had made the best shots of
the day, and the city fellows envied him no less his good luck in
the match than his seat next the beautiful Margaret. But she did
not seem to be greatly edified by the nearness of the young
fellow; she answered his questions in mono-syllables only, and
when he attempted to sit nearer, she gathered the folds of her
dress together by the wild youth.

Now the voice of the herald sounded through the enclosure:
“ Forester Henner, make ready!” The maiden’s father rose from his
seat, to take his turn in shooting at the bird, and the young
hunter followed at the old man’s heels.

Already there was nothing left of the noble eagle but his tail.
But whoever should shoot this down from the pole would be king of
the tournament.

The forester took aim, and shot. The people saw how the tail
trembled and bent forward, but it did not fall to the ground. The
cry of joy which some had already raised, ceased suddenly, and
the forester planted his gunstock angrily on the ground.

Now came Witsch’s turn, for such was the young hunter’s name. He
raised his gun and moved his lips in a whisper. Then happened
something very extraordinary. The eagle’s tail, as though it
afterwards thought better of it, detached itself from the pole
and fell to the ground, like an over-ripe apple from a tree. The
hunter’s gun went off too late; the bullet whistled through empty air.

Malicious laughter arose, and everybody was pleased at the young
fellow’s bad luck, for the sunburned Witsch was one whom nobody
had confidence in nor wished well. But he did not seem to take
the accident much to heart; indeed, his voice was the first to
salute old Henner as king of the tournament. The forester’s face
beamed with joy, as the chain with the medal was hung around his
neck, and he was proclaimed king. He bowed his thanks on all
sides like a veritable king, and then they took him into their
midst and showed him to the crowd. The drummers and buglers
marched ahead, and then came the color-bearer, who, according to
an ancient custom, went dancing along with wonderful
agility.There were followed by the king of the festival,
accompanied by the heralds; behind him marched the prize-winners,
and foremost among them was Witsch; then the scorers, with the
pieces of the shattered bird; and last of all the other members
of the club. The procession moved in a circle around the park,
and then turned back into the club-house, where the king’s supper
was to end the festival.

As soon as they reached there, the king of the tournament went up
to his assistant, seized him by the hand, and said distinctly and
loud enough to be heard by everybody: “Witsch, I am both glad and
sorry for what has happened. This honor has escaped you, but you
are still the better marksman of us two. Yes, dear friends,” and
he turned to the others, “there is not one among you who can
outdo him.”

There was a murmur of dissatisfaction in the circle of the
marksmen. Then the brown country youth cast his eyes over the
assembled crowd and screwed up his mouth. He looked up where,
high in the air, the chimney swallows were darting hither and thither.

“Who among you,” he asked, “will venture to bring down two
swallows with one bullet?”

The huntsmen were silent.

But Witsch raised his gun, took aim for a moment, fired, and two
mangled swallows fell to the ground.

“Did you see that?” called out the old Henner. “No, nobody can
equal that.”

The men were silent, and many looked askance at the uncanny
huntsman, who stood there, as though the shot were an every-day
occurrence. But the forester took him by the arm, led him to the
table, and bade him sit by his daughter.

Those who had not the privilege to drink at the club table did so
in a cottage in the park; and at the little tables, highly
decorated with wet circles, the master-shot of the huntsman
Witsch was discussed on all sides.

“Did you hear what he whispered before he shot at the tail on the
pole?” asked the herald, who was resting from his work behind the tankard.

“‘Skill brings not
The lucky shot.’

That is how the saying ran. I stood near by. I heard it. That is
a benediction he didn’t learn in church. It would have been an
easy thing for him to shoot down the bird himself and become king
of the festival, but the sly fox lets the old man have the honor
and wins the daughter.”

“And what do you think of the shot at the swallows?” one of the
scorers asked the herald.

The old man shook his gray head. He had been a soldier, and knew
a thing or two about such matters. He began to tell about charmed
bullets, enchantments, and the fernseed which makes things
invisible. He also told dreadful stories of the Wild Huntsman,
who rides through the clouds at night, and all kinds of ghost
stories, so that his listeners became more and more excited.

A tempest was gathering over the head of the young hunter Witsch.
The sorcerer, the magic shooter, ought to be tried for his life,
thought a troubled master-tailor. But the others were more
inclined to the opinion of a boisterous journeyman-smith, who
proposed to brand Witsch on the back, so that he might remember
the tournament all the rest of his life.

Night was falling; the club-house became empty. But the old
Henner still sat drinking with his comrades, and paid no
attention to his daughter, who repeatedly pulled at his jacket to
remind him that it was time to go. One can more easily entice a
fox from his hole that a forester from his beer.

Hunting and shooting adventures were here, too, the subjects of
conversation, and the most incredible stories were served up in
the most classic huntsman’s slang. But not the least wonderful
was the little anecdote of the three marksmen and the clover
leaf. The story ran thus:-

Three wandering hunters once stopped at a forest tavern and
disposed themselves comfortably. As soon as they had partaken
abundantly of food and drink, they called the host to them and
asked him if he would like to see something, the like of which
nobody had ever seen before. This gratified the host, and he
offered them free drinks. Then one of them picked a clover leaf,
the second brought a ladder and fastened the clover leaf to the
gable of the house, while the third measured off a hundred paces
and called his companions to follow. Then the first one began and
shot off the first leaf, the second one hit the second, and the
third the third. The host was amazed, and gave each of the
fellows another drink and was glad when they went away.

“If that is true,” said old Henner, “the fellows shot with
charmed bullets.”

And so thought the others.

The sunburned Witsch, however, only laughed and said it was
child’s play; he would agree to do the same thing.

“But if somebody else should load the gun?” asked one of the men,
distrustfully.

“Whoever will may load the gun,” boldly replied Witsch; “but he
must be honest about it.”

“If you are successful,” exclaimed the old Henner, half
intoxicated, “then, young man, I will give you whatever you may
ask of me, as a prize.”

“Father!” admonished the maiden, in dismay.

“Whatever you may ask of me,” repeated the forester.

“Well, then,” said Witsch slowly, “I will shoot the little leaves
of a clover from the stem, a hundred paces off, with three
bullets and three shots, and you promise to give me as a prize
whatever I may ask of you. It is a bargain?”

“Don’t do it, father! don’t do it!” cried the maiden, in genuine terror.

“Thou little fool!” said the father, laughing; and the woodsmen
joined in the laughter. No one had the least doubt what the
hunter would demand as his reward, and they took poor Margaret’s
anguish for a maiden’s modesty.

“It is a bargain!” cried the forester, reaching out his hand, “my word-”

“Wait!” interrupted an old huntsman. “Supposing the little affair
is not successful, what shall the shooter pay as a forfeit?”

“Whatever you say,” answered Witsch.

Margaret had risen from her seat; she was as pale as death.

“Then he shall go,” she said, “as far as his feet can carry him,
and never come into my sight again.”

Witsch bit his lips.

“All right, miss,” said he, gritting his teeth; “so shall it be.
Your hand, forester! I give you my word of honor.”

The agreement was sealed.

While the old man was reprimanding his daughter in a trembling
voice, the sunburned Witsch took a hasty departure and went on
his way. Outside the club-house a crowd of sturdy, boisterous
fellows were hiding, but the one for whom they lay in wait
escaped them. He probably carried fernseed with him.

***

In a clearing of the wood at the foot of the Thorstein mountain
lay the keeper’s lodge, where old Henner dwelt. Sad at heart, he
sat before the door on the stone seat, and the spotted bloodhound
who was lying down not far away looked up from time to time at
his master. He would have gladly expressed his sympathy by a dumb
caress, but he thought it wiser not to come too near the
ill-humored man. The old man was displeased with himself, but
still he would not admit it. He would have given his little
finger if he could have taken back the agreement he had made with
his assistant, for it was clear to him now that his child had an
unconquerable aversion to Witsch, and although he tried to
console himself with the thought that dislike is often changed to
affection in the marriage state, still, in the bottom of his
heart he wished that Witsch might not succeed in the clover trial.

On Midsummer day, which, according to an old custom, is kept as a
holiday by the huntsmen, the forester’s assistant was to prove
his skill, and Midsummer day was not far distant. The poor little
Margaret went about pale as the wood-nymph who sometimes meets
the shepherds and charcoal-burners on moonlight nights, and the
father hardly had the heart to look into her eyes, red with weeping.

Now Margaret had a goat names Whitecoat, and in all the mountains
round there was no goat that could equal her in intelligence.
Whitecoat saw very clearly that her mistress was troubled in
heart, and when she was led to the meadow, she no longer leaped
gayly about Margaret as was her wont, but went sadly along behind
her with drooping ears.

Midsummer eve had come. The keeper’s lodge was trimmed with
wreaths of evergreen and garlands of leaves for the reception of
the guests; but the inmates went about as though there had been a
death in the house.

Margaret had milked her goat, and now was sitting on the
milking-stool, with her hands folded in her lap, and weeping bitterly.

“Oh, Whitecoat,” she said sorrowfully, “why should I be so wretched?”

It seemed as though the goat had only been waiting for her to
speak to her, for to the maiden’s astonishment she opened her
rosy mouth and said:-

“Thou speakest at a propitious hour. In the sacred Midsummer
night, when everything is set free and transformed, we animals
have the power of speech, and I may answer thee. Tell me what
troubles thee, and perhaps I can help thee: I am no ordinary goat.”

“What are you, then?” asked the damsel. “Are you perhaps an
enchanted princess?”

“No,” answered Whitecoat; “I am something better than that. I am
descended in a direct line from one of the goats who in ancient
times used to draw the carriage of the old man who sleeps yonder
in the Thorstein. But thou knowest nothing about that. However,
believe me, I am more than other, ordinary goats, and I am
willing to help thee, if it is in my power.”

“Oh, good Whitecoat, if you only could!”

And so Margaret related her trouble.

The goat listened attentively. When the maiden had finished, she said:-

“Thou must never belong to the sunburnt Witsch. He is in league
with the devil, and I know why. To-morrow it will be three years
since I watched him in the forest. It was about the hour of noon,
over on yonder meadow. There he stood and spread out a white
cloth before him, and just as the sun’s disk reached the zenith,
he shot at it and three drops of blood fell on the cloth. He took
it up and hid it in his bosom. Since that time he has never
missed a shot, and to-morrow he will hit the little clover
leaves, too, even if he stand a hundred miles away from the mark.”

“You see, it is impossible to help me,” said Margaret, with a groan.

“Perhaps not,” returned Whitecoat. “It would not be the first
time that sorcery has come to nought. Lead me to-morrow before
sunrise to the meadow, and perhaps I may find a way to help you.”

“Where is the girl hiding?” at this moment called out the
scolding voice of old Henner, putting his head through the window
of the stable. “Gone to sleep while milking! - Come out,
Margaret, and get my supper ready.”

The maiden jumped up from the milking-stool, where she had fallen
asleep, stroked good Whitecoat’s head, and went to her father.

The dream - for such it must have been - kept going round and
round in the maiden’s head.Before daybreak she led the goat to
the meadow, and when she brought her back later to the lodge,
Whitecoat sprang gayly along like a young kid, and Margaret
looked peaceful, or rather almost happy, so that her father shook
his gray head in surprise.

The invited guests came, and among them was the forester’s
assistant Witsch. He looked about insolently and seemed sure of
his success. Margaret welcomed him just the same as she did the
other guests, but she avoided him as much as possible.

When the guests were all present, old Henner stepped into their
circle and renewed the promise he had given to his assistant at
the tournament, and the latter announced that he was ready at a
moment’s notice to prove his skill.

The forester looked anxiously at his daughter and said:-

“Get a clover leaf at one, and fasten it with wax to the barn door.”

A clover leaf was already at hand, and Margaret fastened it to
the door with trembling fingers.

The young hunter measured his distance. A hundred paces had been
stipulated, but the arrogant fellow doubled the number of his own
free will. The clover leaf could hardly be seen from his great
distance. One of the huntsmen loaded the gun before the eyes of
the others and handed it to the marksman. He raised the gun and
fired, apparently without taking aim; he let the other two shots
follow just as quickly.

“Now go and see!” he cried, sure of his success, and looked with
wild joy towards the beautiful Margaret, who stood in the
distance, with quick-beating heart.

The witnesses hastened to the barn door, while Witsch went
towards the maiden.

Then they called out to him:-

“Witsch, you have lost; one little leaf still remains on the stem.”

“Impossible!” cried the huntsman, rushing towards the door. But
it was no illusion. The three bullets had pierce the wood one
after another, but on the stem of the clover still hung one
uninjured leaf.

The huntsman’s black eyes shot fire. Then he raised his fist
towards heaven and uttered such a horrible curse that it made the
cold shivers run down the men’s backs, and then without a word he
strode off into the wild forest.

But the beautiful Margaret had hastened to her goat, and laughing
and weeping embraced the neck of her rescuer.

The wise Whitecoat had led the maiden that morning to a place
where she found a four-leaved clover, and no magic could make a
marksman hit four leaflets with three shots.

The uncanny Witsch never let himself be seen again in the
neighborhood; it was as if the earth had swallowed him up.
Afterward, the forest people say they have seen him in the
company of the wild huntsman, but the matter remains quite uncertain.

The marks of the three bullets can still be seen in the barn
door, and a descendant of the wise goat Whitecoat was shown to me
when I heard the wonderful tale related on the spot, and so the
story must indeed be true.

THE ADDER-QUEEN

There was once a young shepherd who possessed two things besides
the homely clothes which he wore on his back, - his fife, and his
Mechthild, a plump, brown little maid with lips as red as
cherries. The fife he had carved out himself; the maid he had
found in the forest, where her father burned charcoal. They were
both agreed that some time they would become man and wife. The
old charcoal-burner had nothing against it either, and they might
have been married right away if they had had anything besides
their love; but love alone, be it ever so warm, will not cook the
supper nor heat the children’s broth. “So, let us wait,” thought
they, and hoped for better times. One day the beautiful Mechthild
was sitting not far from the charcoal kiln, where her father was
busy stirring the fire, and hear her stood her lover, while the
sheep were wandering about in the wood, guarded by the dog. Over
the maiden’s head an old mountain-ash spread its boughs, from
which hung bunches of scarlet berries. She had plucked a number
of them, and was now engaged in stringing the single berries on a
long thread. This made a splendid coral necklace. Wendelin, as
the young shepherd was called, watched the maid as she moved her
little fingers busily, and then he looked on her rosy cheeks, her
smooth brow and all her charms one after another, and thought to
himself, “How lovely she is!”

Now the string of jewels was finished. Mechthild twined it around
the tightly twisted braids of her dark-brown hair, and smiled at
her lover like a happy child. But he looked suddenly sorrowful.
“ Ah, Mechthild,” he sighed, “why am I so poor? Why can I not
place a gold ring on thy finger or put a garnet necklace around
thy neck?”

“It is no worse now than it has been,” said the maid,
consolingly. “But are the red berries not beautiful?”

The shepherd did not seem to have heard her words. He was looking
at the smoke which arose from the charcoal kiln and floated away
in blue clouds over the tops of the fir-trees. “Why will good
luck never visit me? said he sadly. “There are so many treasures
lying concealed and bewitched in the mountains; but fortune only
laughs at stupid people; and when they are about to seize the
gold exultingly, it sinks miles deep into the earth. I have been
into the forest at every hour of the night, but no blue flames
light up for me, no pale lady beckons to me, and no dwarf leads
me to the treasure in the hollow stone.”

“Wendelin,” said the maiden, earnestly, “don’t go about digging
and searching fro magic treasures! No good will come of it.” And
she continued playfully, “You can more easily win great riches
through the golden-horned stag, on which Lady Holle rides through
the forest. Every year the magic deer sheds his antlers. Seek for
them, my Wendelin! Those of this year must still be lying
somewhere in the wood.”

The charcoal-burner had come along and heard the last words.
“ Oho,” he said, “so you would like to find the golden antlers?
You ask for a great deal. Wouldn’t a handful of golden flax-seed
husks do as well? Or how would you like the little crown
belonging to the Adder-Queen, who lives under the red stone by
the water? If there is anything I wish for, it is the fernseed,
which makes one invisible. Oh, what fun I would have! What a face
the big landlord of the Bear would make up, if every evening I
could make his best beer-barrel lighter and fish the biggest
sausage out of the kettle without his seeing me!”

They went on talking in the same strain. Much was said about the
magic pervading the forest, and the shepherd became more and more
thoughtful. He usually played a tune on his fife to his
sweetheart before he left her; but today he never gave it a
thought when the time came for his departure. With head bent down
he went after the flock, which the dog kept together by his barking.

The sun had almost finished his course, and a ruddy glow lay on
the mountains when the shepherd came out of the woods with the
sheep. Before him lay a green field, through the midst of which
ran a broad, shallow brook, and on the further side of the water,
like a gigantic gravestone, stood a single rock of a reddish
color. Bramble-bushes and golden-yellow broom grew luxuriantly
about it, and to the crevices clung moss and wild thyme. Here,
then, was where the Adder-Princess was said to dwell.

After the sheep had satisfied their thirst, the shepherd drove
them through the brook, for the town where he and the flock
belonged lay on the other side of the mountain. He intended to
pass by the red stone as usual, but he stood chained to the spot,
for it seemed to him as if something stirred in the bushes.

“If it should be the Adder-Queen!” thought he; and as he had once
heard that snakes loved to hear violin and flute playing, he drew
his fife out of his shepherd’s pouch, and began to play a gentle melody.

But lo and behold! There, out of the broom, arose the head of a
great white snake, forking her tongue and wearing a shining crown.

The youth was so frightened that he stopped playing his fife, and
in a twinkling the Adder had vanished.

What the charcoal-burner had said was true then. The shepherd
timidly retreated, and drove the flock in a wide circuit around
the stone to the town.

The Adder-Queen, or, rather, her golden crown, lay on his mind
day and night. But how should he contrive to get possession of
the ornament? The old village blacksmith was a wise man, and knew
a great deal besides how to eat his bread; perhaps something
might be learned about it from him. So he betook himself one
evening to the blacksmith’s, after the master and his apprentices
had left off working; for a pretense, asked some advice in regard
to a sick sheep, and after beating about the bush for some time,
finally brought the conversation to the Adder-Queen. He had come
to the right person. The old blacksmith knew quite enough about
the ways to get possession of the little crown, and was not at
all loth to show his knowledge.

“Whoever would rob the Adder-Queen of her crown,” he explained,
“ has nothing more to do than to spread a white cloth on the
ground before the hole where she lives. Immediately the snake
will come out, lay the jewel on the cloth, and disappear again.
Now is the time to seize it quickly, and with all possible speed
to strive to reach water. For as soon as the Adder-Queen notices
that she has been robbed, she will start after the fugitive,
hissing frightfully; and if he cannot get across water, he is a
dead man. But if he is fortunate enough to reach the farther
shore, the serpent can do him no harm, and the crown is his.”

This was the blacksmith’s story, and the shepherd drank in every word.

Some days later the beautiful daughter of the charcoal-burner was
sitting in front of their cottage. All of a sudden her lover came
running with all his might, threw a little sparkling coronet into
her lap, and dropped lifeless on the ground.

Mechthild gave a scream. Her father came to her, and a glance at
the jewel told him what had happened. “He has stolen the little
crown from the Adder-Queen,” said he. Then he lifted the swooning
youth, bore him into the hut, and tried to bring him back to consciousness.

His efforts were successful, but the whole night long he lay
tossing in delirium on the couch of leaves: not till morning did
rest come to him.

In the course of the day he recovered entirely and was able to
talk. Anxiety and care retreated from the charcoal-burner’s
cottage, and joy entered in. There lay the hard-won serpent’s
jewel before the lovers, who sat together hand in hand, making
plans for the future. Of course they could not keep the little
crown; it must go to the goldsmith’s in the town: but in its
place the bridal wreath would soon adorn the beautiful
Mechthild’s head; and after the wedding festivities were over,
Wendelin would take his young wife to a pleasant little house,
and they would kindle a fire on their own hearth. Oh, blissful
time! Oh, blissful time!

On the following morning Wendelin returned to the village. He
wisely avoided the red stone.

The Adder-Queen’s crown had twelve points, each tipped with a
blood-red stone. As soon as her lover was gone, Mechthild took it
out of the chest, where she had hidden it away, and placed it on
her head. It was indeed a very different ornament from the red
berries of the mountain-ash. If she could see how becoming the
jewels were; but there was no looking-glass in the
charcoal-burner’s cottage. Whenever Mechthild wished to look at
her nut-brown face, she ran to the well-spring, which bubbled up
out of the mould of the forest, not far from the charcoal-kiln;
and hither she turned her footsteps now. She bent over the clear
water, and was charmed with her sparkling ornament. “You like me,
don’t you?” she said to a fat frog sitting on the edge of the
spring. And the frog said, “Gloog!” jumped into the water, and
dived under to tell the lady-frog at the bottom what a wonderful
sight he had beheld. A gray-green lizard rustled through the
leaves; she raised her head and looked curiously at the bejeweled
maid. Then she slipped away into her underground chamber, and
told her sisters about the beautiful damsel with the crown in her
hair. And the blue titmice came fluttering inquisitively by, and
the golden-crested wrens bristled their tufts with envy, when
they saw the glistening jewels on the maiden’s head. The squirrel
peeped out curiously from behind the trunk of a pine-tree, and a
weasel frisked about over the wood-plants to take a look at the
crowned maiden.

Tramp, tramp, now sounded in her ears; perhaps it was a red deer,
attracted by the glitter of her crown. But no; stags and does do
not tread the earth with hoofs that are shod: it is the sound of
horses. Bright dresses could be seen between the branches of the
trees, and the merry sound of people’s voices came through the
air. She sprang away from the brim of the well, and was about to
hasten to the house, but the riders had already drawn up in front
of the charcoal-burner’s cottage. There were gentlemen in rich
hunting-costume and ladies in long, flowing riding-dresses,
slender young falconers, and sunburned huntsmen with long beards.

The maiden dropped a low courtesy. The stately gentleman on the
roan horse was the count who owned the land, and the beautiful
lady by his side was his young wife.

Mechthild replied respectfully to the question concerning the
nearest way to the meadow, through which the water flowed. Then
the countess caught sight of the crown on the maiden’s head, and
cried out in the greatest surprise, “Tell me, my dear girl, how
you came by such jewelry as that.”

The maiden, in her embarrassment, made no reply; but the
charcoal-burner, who had come along in the meantime, answered
shrewdly, “It is an old heir-loom, most gracious lady; something
my great-grandfather brought home from the war in Italy. If it
pleases you, pray take it.”

The countess had the crown brought to her, and the maids of
honor, who accompanied her, looked curiously at the precious ornament.

“I must have the little crown,” said the lady, casting a tender
glance toward the count.

He smiled and unfastened a heavy purse from his belt. “Take that
for the crown,” said he to the charcoal-burner; “it is gold. You
foolish people have probably never known what a treasure your
cottage concealed.”

The maids of honor fastened the crown with two silver pins to
their lady’s velvet hood; then the riders spurred on their
horses, waved a farewell to the charcoal-burner and his daughter,
and galloped off through the woods.

The hunters had soon left the forest behind, and before them lay
the broad meadow valley and the red stone.

The lazily-flowing brook formed here and there pools and little
eddies, much frequented by ducks, herons, and other water-fowl.
The hawkers gave the falcons over to the ladies, and all eyes
were directed towards the reeds surrounding the water.

And now up flew a silver heron, noisily flapping his wings. The
countess quickly took the hood from the falcon’s head, and let
him loose. Screaming, the falcon flew aloft, till he hovered over
the heron. Then he swooped down, cleverly avoided the threatening
bill, and seized the bird with his talons. For some time there
was a fierce struggle in the air; then both circled round and
round, and the vanquished heron fell with flapping wings on the
meadow near the red stone.

The countess was the first to reach the spot where he fell. Her
cheeks glowing with excitement, she sprang out of the saddle to
release the heron from the falcon’s talons, and to place the
silver ring, which bore her name, on his foot. Then she gave a
sudden cry and fell on the ground.

Her terrified companions hastened to her side. The count took his
young wife in his arms, and anxiously inquired what had happened.
She cried out with pain and pointed to her foot. The count bent
down, and saw that her silk stocking was stained with a drop of blood.

“You have scratched yourself with a thorn,” he said, laughing;
“ that is nothing.” But the lady moaned slightly, her temples
began to beat violently, and her face grew as pale as death.

The terror-stricken count gave orders for two huntsmen to go for
doctors. He himself wrapped his wife in his mantle, took her in
front of him on his saddle, and, followed by the others, galloped
at full speed toward the nearest village. There he had a couch
prepared for the sufferer, and anxiously waited for the doctors
to come.

Her malady grew worse from hour to hour. The old smith, whose
advice was asked, looked at the wound and shook his head, and
said that it was no thorn-prick, but rather the bite of a
poisonous serpent. The same opinion was given later by the
doctors. They spoke Latin together, shrugged their shoulders, and
used salves and potions as their art prescribed. But they did no
good. The sufferer grew weaker and weaker, and when the evening
star hung over the forest, she lay unconscious on her bed of
pain. Death stood without before the door.

In the meantime Wendelin, the shepherd, was driving his flock
home to the village. Mechthild had told him how the countess had
purchased the serpent’s crown, and then they counted the pieces
of gold and took counsel about the spending of the money. Now the
shepherd was cheerfully wending his way along in front of his
flock and playing a little tune on his fife.

Then suddenly his breath failed him, and his hair stood on end.
Out of the bushes before him came the Adder-Queen, and raised her
crownless head, forking her tongue at him.

“Stand still, or you shall die!” hissed the snake. And the poor
youth stood still, and clung to his crook with trembling hands.

“Listen, young man, to what I tell you,” said the serpent. “The
lady who wore my crown is sick unto death; I stung her in the
foot. But I guard the plant whose juice will make her well.
Follow me, and I will show you the healing herb.”

The snake glided through the grass, and the shepherd followed her
with beating heart. The adder stopped near the red stone. She
broke off an herb and handed it to the shepherd. It was a
delicate little plant, and resembled the forked tongue of a serpent.

“Now hasten,” said the adder, “as fast as you can to the village
where the sick lady lies; and if you let one drop of the sap of
the plant fall on her wound, she will be cured. But as a reward
demand the crown, and bring it back to me. Swear that you will.”

The trembling shepherd swore as the Adder-Queen desired, then
hastened to the village, and asked to be taken to the sufferer.

The countess was still living, but her breathing was faint. On
her right sat the count, with his face buried in his hands; on
her left sat a priest murmuring prayers.

“Try your skill,” said the count to the shepherd. “If you succeed
in healing her, I will make you rich.”

Then the shepherd raised his eyes to Heaven in a hasty prayer and
let one drop of the sap of the herb fall on the wound. The
sufferer at once opened her eyes and took a long breath. Then she
lifted her beautiful head from the pillows and looked confidingly
at her husband. And from that hour the fever left her, and with
the dawn the countess’ cheeks again took on their rosy color, and
all her suffering had passed away.

She gave the crown gladly to the shepherd who had healed her, and
he, true to his oath, carried it without delay to the red stone
by the water, where the Adder-Queen received it.

The count kept his word too. He presented the shepherd with a
stately mansion, in which Mechthild soon made her entrance as bride.

Whether the Adder-Queen still dwells under the red stone by the
water, and whether she still wears her little crown, that I
cannot tell. But the manor which the count gave to the shepherd,
is still standing, and is called Schlangenhof, or the Serpent’s Court.

THE BLACKSMITH’S BRIDE

In the midst of the forest was a black-green lake surrounded by
very ancient giant fir-trees. The brooklets which came leaping
down from every height like wanton kids, grew more and more quiet
as they approached the pond, and finally flowed silently into the
dark water. And when they came into sight again at the outlet of
the lake, united in a stately stream, it was as if they had seen
something uncanny, for they ran swiftly over gravel and stones,
and only when they had left a good bit of the course behind them,
did the waters again begin to murmur and to babble, and the
white-breasted water-thrush, whose nest was on the bank,
overheard strange things.

Now there lived in one of the villages which lay scattered among
the forest mountains a young fisherman who earned his livelihood
with net and hook. The bright-colored trout in the brooks crowded
about the bait that he threw to them, and when he drew his net
through the waters of the forest lake, huge pike and big bream
with long whiskers floundered in the meshes, so that he had some
difficulty in bringing his haul to land.

One day he was sitting on the shore of the lake watching his
hook. It seemed to him that just beneath the smooth surface he
saw a woman’s face of rare beauty. He was frightened, and jumped
up from his seat. Just then there was a rustling in the bushes,
and when he turned around he looked into the mild eyes of a
maiden carrying a scythe over he shoulders.

“Are you busy, Heini?” asked the pretty maid; and the fisherman
told her what he was doing.

“Heini,” continued the maiden, “let me give you some advice; it
is kindly meant. Let the fish be in the lake. The people tell
dreadful stories about - about -”

“About the water-sprite,” interrupted the youth.

“Be still! for Heaven’s sake, be still!” said the maiden,
timidly. “Listen to me, Heini, and keep away from these quiet
waters. You will find fish enough somewhere else. It would be a
pity if you should some day find your cottage afloat on the water.”

“Gertrude,” said the fisherman, angrily, “why must you worry so
much about that?”

The maiden turned aside. “Yes, I should feel badly, very badly,
for I love you like a sister. You have known that for a long time.”

“Like a sister,” sighed the youth, and then they were silent.

A fish leaped up out of the water, and Heini seized his rod as if
in a dream.

“Good by,” said the maiden.

“Good by, Gertrude. Where are you going?”

“To the blacksmith’s. The scythe- You know it’s haying-time now.
The blacksmith has to mend the scythe.”

“Go, then!” said the fisherman, roughly, and turned his face
towards the lake.

Once more the maiden called out in a gentle voice, “Good by,
Heini; do as I have asked you.”

But the youth gave her no answer. The maiden turned away, and
went on into the woods.

Silent and sullen, the fisherman looked after his jerking rod,
and as he cut open the throat of a big pike he had caught, his
eyes shone with an uncanny light.

The young fellow sat a long time by the pond. The mountain-tops
took on a rosy hue, and the trees cast long shadows on the
mirror-like surface of the water. The magpie fluttered along,
laughed in her way, and said:-

“Black and white is the suit I wear;
Black the smith, but the maiden fair.
When the smith his love embraced,
Her lily-white brow with soot was defaced.”

With a loud laugh the magpie flew off into the dark forest, and
the fisherman hastily gathered up his belongings and left the
lake with a heavy heart.

***

Weeks and weeks had passed away. Heini was again sitting by the
pond in the forest, but he was not fishing. He was leaning his
head on his hands and gazing into the water. The poor fellow
looked utterly wretched; the color had faded from his cheeks, and
his eyes were dull and sad. And as he thus gazed down into the
depths of the water, he thought that he again saw the form of a
lovely woman, beckoning to him with her white hand.

“Yes, it would be much better for me if I were laid away down
below there,” he groaned. “Oh, if it were only all ended!” A low
chuckling startled him. He looked around; but this time it was no
rosy-cheeked maiden, but an old, toothless woman, who stood
behind him. On her arm hung a basket full of scarlet toad-stools.

“Oh, it is you, Mother Bridget?”

“Yes, my little son; it is. I heard your sighs away off in the
forest there. I know, too, why you groan like a tree cleft to the
heart. I’ve been in the church to-day and heard how the minister
has published the banns of your fair-haired sweetheart and Hans,
the forest blacksmith. I saw the maiden’s bridal linen, too, and
the gay bedstead, with its two flaming red hearts.”

“Hold your tongue, woman!” growled the fisherman.

“Oho! not so hasty, my son! Choke it down.

Slender maidens, young and sweet,
‘ Neath the moon you still may meet

If there isn’t one, there’s another.”

The youth covered his eyes with his hand and motioned the woman
away. But the old woman did not go.

“You are my sweetheart, my own little son,” she said
flatteringly. “You have brought me many a supper of fish, and I
have not forgotten the otter skin you gave me for a warm hood. I
will help you, my precious lad, I will help you.”

The youth suddenly jumped up. “Mother Bridget,” he said,
trembling, “people say-”

“That I am a witch. No, I am not able to anoint the tongs that
they will carry me out at the chimney and through the air; but I
know a thing or two, my son; I know a thing or two that few
people besides myself know about, and if you wish, I will serve
you with my art.”

“Can you brew a love-potion, Mother Bridget?” asked Heini, in a whisper.

“No, but I know another little trick. And if you do as I tell
you, she will never become his wife, for all their exchanging of
rings and getting blessed by the priest. Whenever he, glowing
with love, wishes to take his maiden to his heart, she shall turn
away from him; and whenever she eagerly longs to twine her arms
about his neck, he shall push her away. Then at last, if he
leaves her or she grows tired of him, she will still be yours.
That I can do, and I will teach you the spell.”

“Tell me how,” said Heini, in an undertone; and the old woman
began to whisper in his ear.

“Buy a steel padlock of the locksmith, and pay whatever price he
asks without haggling, saying, ‘In Gottes Namen.’

“Then on the day of the wedding go to the church, - pay close
attention, my son, - and when the priest unites the pair at the
altar, clap the lock together, saying in a low voice, ‘in Teufels
Namen.’ Then throw the padlock into the lake, and what I have
predicted will come true. Have you understood me?”

“I have understood,” answered the fisherman, and a cold shiver
ran down his back.

***

The bells were pealing from the tower, and happy people in gay
holiday attire were making their way through the arched doorway
of the church. The young blacksmith is to wed the beautiful
Gertrude. Indeed, she is beautiful, and her yellow hair shines in
the sunlight falling aslant through the window, even brighter
than her bridal wreath of tinsel and glass beads. Now the
choir-master takes his seat on the organ-bench; his wrinkled face
beams with joy as he thinks of the wedding millet-broth, which,
according to an old custom, must be so stiff that the spoon will
stand up in it; and of the leg of lamb, which comes after the
broth. He draws out all the stops, the mighty tones of the organ
peal through the church, and the wooden angels over the chancel
blowing trumpets puff out their cheeks even more than usual. Then
everything is still; the minister raises his voice and addresses
the couple, kneeling before the altar. He has never before been
so impressive as today. The women feel after their handkerchiefs,
and here and there is heard a muffled choking and sobbing.

Now the minister took the wedding-ring from the plate, which
stood on the altar. Then the bride raised her eyes, but quickly
dropped them again, for she saw the fisherman Heini leaning
against a pillar. He looked deathly pale; he held his right hand
in his jacket pocket, and his lips moved slightly. The bride no
longer heard what the minister said, neither did she hear the
congratulations of the relatives and friends who surrounded them
after the service was over. She passed out of the church by the
side of her spouse like one who walks in a dream.

The wedding procession started towards the bride’s house which
was decorated with garlands of leaves, and on the gable stood a
little fir-tree trimmed with floating ribbons. The musicians took
a good draught to strengthen themselves for their approaching
duties, and soon the merry sound of violins and flutes broke
through the Sunday stillness.

In the meantime there was one who was hastening with swift steps
towards the forest. In his heart he carried bitter pain; in his
pocket, a fastened lock. He turned his steps to the forest lake.
There he sat on the shore the whole day long, holding the lock
hesitantly in his hand. The little gray water-wagtails tripped
along on the sand at his feet, and looked up wonderingly at the
pale youth. The fished jumped up out of the water, and their
scaly coats shone like silver in the sunlight. The blue-green
dragon-flies danced over the waves and dipped into the water. But
he paid no attention to the little creatures. The sun was going
down behind the ridges of the blue mountains, the shadows were
growing longer, and still the fisherman sat brooding by the pond.

In the distance there sounded something like violins, and the
sound came nearer and nearer. The youth listened and gave a
groan. It is the smith leading home his bride, and the wedding
guests and the musicians are escorting them.

Heini shut his teeth together and drew out the padlock. An owl
flew past, and as he flew his voice rang out:-

“Do it, do it, do it!” the owl seemed to say, and the padlock
made a wide arch as it fell into the pond. Filled with terror,
Heini fled into the woods.

***

The magic spell which the old woman had taught the fisherman had
its effect. Instead of the expected joy, bitter discontent
entered the home of the forest blacksmith. The newly married
couple avoided each other timidly; yet if they were separated,
they were consumed with a longing for each other: their love was
blighted, and yet their love could not die. The beautiful
Gertrude wasted away to a shadow, and the sturdy young
blacksmith, too, began to look weak and sickly. “Somebody has
bewitched them,” whispered the women in the village; and many
fearful things were hinted at in the spinning-room.

The fisherman, too, seemed to be suffering from some strange
malady. He wandered idly through the woods and over the fields,
and avoided human beings. If the people from the village met him,
they looked after him compassionately and tapped their foreheads
significantly: they took the unfortunate fellow to be crazy. He
was not really crazy; but bitter remorse tormented him, as he
thought with a shudder of the mischief of which he had been the cause.

Finally he sought old Bridget’s hut, and begged her on his knees
to break the charm.

The old woman giggled. “You have a soft heart, my little son; but
I will help you; I will break the charm. Procure the padlock for
me. Give it a good blow with the hammer, saying, ‘In Gottes
Namen,’ and it will break the steel padlock, and so render the
charm worthless. Bring me the padlock, my treasure.”

The youth struck his forehead and rushed out of the hut; and the
old woman chuckled maliciously behind his back.

“Procure the padlock” kept sounding in his ears, as he again
wandered restlessly through the woods; “procure the padlock.” And
he turned his step towards the lake, which he had carefully
avoided since he had committed that dark deed.

The evening breeze blew across the dark-green pond, and the
moonlight quivered on the gently stirring waters. But the shore,
on a moss-covered stone, sat the form of a woman clad in white
garments. She had long, waving, yellow hair, and wore a crown of
rushes and water-lilies.

“Hast thou at last come once more to my lake, thou dear child of
man?” said the nixie to the fisherman; “long, long have I been
waiting for thee; but I knew that thou wouldst return to me
again. Come, descend to my pleasure garden, and in my arms forget
those who torment thee and have taken the color out of thy rosy
cheeks; forget the earth and the heavens and the sunlight.” She
bent towards the panting youth and twined her shining arms about
his neck. “See,” she continued, “I wear the pledge that thou
gavest me;” and with these words she lifted the steel padlock,
which hung from a coral necklace on her breast. “Thou art mine.”

The fisherman seized the padlock hastily. “Give it back, give it
back!” he cried; but the nixie, laughing, shook her head and
wound her arms more tightly about his neck. “Come!” she whispered
in his ear.

“Give me the padlock!” cried the fisherman, beseechingly; “give
me the padlock, and let me go away with it for but a little
while. I swear to you that I will come back to the lake this very
night, and I will stay with you always. Only give me that padlock!”

The water-sprite unfastened the padlock from her necklace,
saying: “Very well; I will give the pledge back to thee, but only
in exchange for another. Give me one of the brown ringlets that
play about thy brow.”

Heini took out his knife and cut off a lock of his hair, and
handed it to the water-sprite. She hid it in her dress, and gave
the padlock back to the fisherman. “Forget not what thou hast
promised me. I hold the curl, and hold thee by the curl. And
here, take my veil. When thou returnest from thy errand, gird the
veil about thy loins and step down fearlessly into the water.
Down below there I will tarry for thee, my sweet beloved; down
below there await thee more pleasures than there are needles in
the fir forest, or drops of water in the lake. Come back quickly.”

Thus spoke the water-nymph, kissed the youth on the mouth, and
stepped down into the dark water. But before she disappeared, she
turned her face once more towards her beloved, and said
warningly: “Forget not the veil, or thou wilt be lost, and even I
could not save thee from death; forget not the veil!”

With these words she disappeared beneath the water; but the
fisherman hurried away with the padlock.

***

By the forge in the smithy sadly sat the young blacksmith staring
at the glowing coals. The door creaked, and in walked Heini, the
fisherman. The smith greeted the belated guest with a hostile
look, and asked sharply what he wanted.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” said the fisherman; “let me take
your heaviest hammer for a moment.”

The other looked distrustfully at his rival. What can the crazy
fellow want with a hammer? Will he try to get possession of the
woman he loves by one fell blow? But he is enough of a man to
meet an attack; so he handed the hammer to the fisherman and
seized an iron bar to ward off the blow if it came.

The fisherman stepped up to the anvil, and the blacksmith saw
with astonishment that he laid a padlock on it.

“In Gottes Namen!” cried Heini, and lifted the hammer. It fell
with a crash, and the splinters of the steel padlock flew all
about the shop.

And then Heini took out of his jacket a delicate tissue and threw
it on the glowing coals in the forge. A flame leaped up and in a
twinkling died down again. Then he gave his hand to the
blacksmith, and said in a low voice, “Farewell, and be happy!”
With these words he rushed out of the door and disappeared in the
darkness of the night.

The smith shook his head as he watched the crazy youth, and he
stood still wrapt in thought, when two white arms were thrown
about his neck, and two warm lips were lifted up to his. Laughing
and weeping, his young wife clung about his neck and stammered
words of love; and he lifted her with his strong arms and bore
her into the house.

The red glow died away in the smithy, and a shivering man, who
had been crouching breathless beneath the low window, rose and
walked noiselessly away into the gloomy forest.

Good luck and happiness entered the blacksmith’s home, and a
troop of rosy-cheeked boys and girls came to bless it.

The fisherman Heini disappeared that night, and no earthly eye
ever saw him again. But the brook which flows out of the lake
knows a new and dreadful tale of a dead youth, who lies at the
bottom of the lake in a crystal coffin, and a beautiful
water-sprite sits at his head and weeps.

THE EASTER BUNNY

There was once a wealthy count who had a beautiful wife and a
little curly-haired, blue-eyed daughter, whose name was Trudchen.
Besides many other estates the count possessed an old
hunting-castle in the midst of the forest, and the forest
abounded in stags, does, and other game.

As soon as the oak-trees began to be green, the count came with
wife and child, servant and maid, to the forest castle and
indulged in the jocund chase till late in the autumn. Then came
numerous guests from the country round, and every day was full of
gayety and pleasure.

One day there was to be a great hunt. In the courtyard stood the
saddled horses, stamping their feet impatiently, the dogs coupled
together were tugging at the leash and could hardly be held, and
the falcons flapped their wings.

In the open doorway of the entrance-hall, which was decorated
with gigantic antlers and boars’ heads, stood Trudchen by the
side of her maid, delighting in the beautiful horses and the
spotted hounds.

Now the count with his huntsmen stepped out into the courtyard,
and Trudchen’s mother followed; she wore a long riding-dress of
green velvet, and waving ostrich plumes in her hat. She kissed
Trudchen and mounted her white horse. The count lifted up his
little daughter, caressed her, and said: “We are going to ride in
the forest, where the spotted fawns leap about, and if I see the
Easter rabbit I will give him my Trudchen’s love, and tell him
that next year he must lay a nest full of bright-colored eggs for
you.” And the child laughed, and kissed her father’s bearded face
with her little rosy mouth. Then he swung himself upon his
raven-black horse, and the train rode out at the castle gate.
“ Frau Ursula, take good care of the little one!” called the count
to the maid, as he rode away, and he waved his hand once more.
Then he passed out of sight.

In the afternoon of the same day, Trudchen was playing in the
garden. Frau Ursula had twice in succession told her the story of
the ancient Easter hare and her seven little ones, and now the
good woman was quietly sleeping on the stone bench under the
linden, where the bees were humming about.

The little girl had caught a lady-bug and began to count the dots
on her wings; but before she had finished, the lady-bug flew
away. Trudchen ran after her until she lost sight of her. Then
she saw a brown butterfly with great eyes in its wings resting on
a bluebell. Trudchen was just going to seize it cautiously, when
all of a sudden it was gone, and on the other side of the garden wall.

Of course Trudchen could not follow him over there; but what was
the gate in the wall for? The little girl stood on tip-toe and
pressed down the latch, and then she was in the oak forest.

“So here is where the Easter hare dwells with her seven little
ones,” thought Trudchen. She hunted all about, but the little
hares must live deeper in the woods. So the little girl ran on as
chance led her.

She had already gone quite a little distance, and was thinking
whether it would not be better to turn round, when a black and
white spotted magpie flew along and stood in her way.

“Where did you get that shining chain around your neck?” said the
magpie, and looked spitefully at Trudchen, with his head on one
side. “Give the chain to me, or I will peck you with my bill.”

The poor child was frightened, and with trembling hands she
unfastened the gold chain, took it off her neck, and threw it to
the magpie. He seized the ornament with his bill and flew away
with it.

Now the little girl was tired of the woods. “Oh dear, my little
necklace!” she sobbed; “how they will scold me at home if I go
back without my chain.” Trudchen turned round and ran, as she
thought, back the same way that she had come; but she only got
deeper into the forest.

“To-whoo! to-whoo!” sounded out of an old hollow tree; and when
Trudchen looked up in affright, she saw an owl glaring at her
with great, fiery eyes, and cracking his crooked bill. “To-whoo!”
said the owl, “where did you get that beautiful veil on your
head? Give the veil to me, or I will scratch you with my claws.”

Trudchen trembled like an aspen leaf. She threw down the veil and
ran as fast as she could. But the owl took the veil and put it
over his face.

Again the child wandered aimlessly about the forest. Twisted
roots like brown snakes crossed her path, and the briers tore
Trudchen’s dress with their thorny claws. There was a rustling in
the top of a tree, and a red squirrel skipped down on the trunk.

“That will do me no harm,” thought the little one; but there she
was mistaken; the squirrel was not one whit better than the
magpie or the owl.

“Ah! what a beautiful little hood you have,” it said; “it would
make a soft, warm nest for my young ones. Give the hood to me, or
I will bite you with my sharp teeth.”

Then the little girl gave away her hood, and continued her
wandering, weeping bitterly. Her feet could hardly carry her
another step, but her distress impelled her on.

Now the woods grew light, and Trudchen came to a sunny meadow.
Bluebells and red pinks grew in the grass, and gay butterflies
danced in the air. But Trudchen never thought of catching the
butterflies, or gathering the flowers. She sat down on the grass,
and wept and sobbed enough to melt the heart of a stone.

Then there came out of the woods an old man with a long gray
beard. He wore on his head a broad-brimmed hat with a wide band,
and he carried a white staff in his hand. Behind him flew two ravens.

There was a rushing sound in the tops of the oaks, and trees,
bushes, and flowers all bowed down.

The man came straight to Trudchen. stood still in front of her,
and asked in a gentle voice, “Why are you weeping, my child?”

Trudchen felt confidence in the old man, and told him who she
was, and what the wicked creatures had done to her.

“Never mind, Trudchen,” said the old man, kindly. “I will send
you home.” He beckoned to the ravens. They flew on his shoulder,
and listened attentively to the words which the old man spoke to
them. Then they spread their wings and flew away as swift as arrows.

It was not long before they came back again; but they brought
something with them. It was a stork.

When the stork saw the old man with the broad hat, he bowed so
low that the end of his red bill touched the ground, and then he
stood meekly like a slave, awaiting his master’s command.

And the old man said: “Beloved and trusted Master Adebar, you see
here a lost child. Do you know where her home is?”

The stork looked closely at the child, then he clapped his bill
together with joy, and said: “Yes, to be sure, Herr Wode, I know
the child, for I brought her myself to the count’s castle four
years ago.”

“Very well,” said the man; “then carry her there once more.”

The stork moved his neck thoughtfully to and fro. “That would be
a hard piece of work,” he replied.

“It must be,” said the old man. “Have you not often carried twins
and even triplets in your bill? Quickly to work, or we are
friends no more.”

“Certainly; if it is your command, I must obey,” replied the
stork, submissively, and seized the child around the waist with
his bill.

“But my little chain, my veil, and my hood,” bewailed Trudchen.

“My ravens shall take them away from the wicked creatures and
bring them back to you,” said the old man, comfortingly. “Master
Stork, fulfill your task faithfully.”

The man nodded kindly to Trudchen, and in a moment she felt
herself lifted up, and the stork bore her through the air.

Oh, they went like the wind! Trudchen looked down and saw the
forest far below her like a bed of curly parsley. Then sight and
hearing left her.

When Trudchen came back to consciousness, and opened her eyes,
she was lying in the grass in the castle garden, and Frau Ursula
was standing before her, chiding her:-

“Child, child, lying here asleep in the damp grass! If you catch
cold, it will be again, ‘Old Ursula doesn’t take any care at all
of the child’ - and I haven’t taken my eyes off from you. And
there is your beautiful gold necklace lying in the middle of the
path, and there lies your hood, and your veil is hanging by a
thorn on the rose-bush. Get up and come into the house with me;
it is growing cold in the garden. Oh, dear Heaven, what anxiety
you put upon me!”

And Trudchen got up and let her scold on, without opening her mouth.

How fortunate that Frau Ursula did not know all that had taken
place! That would have made a fine commotion.

THE GOLDEN TREE

The room in which our story begins was very plain and bare.
Against the whitewashed walls, whose only adornment was a pair of
landscapes yellow with age, stood two small beds, a bookcase, and
a clothes-press, on the top of which rested a terrestrial globe.
A long table, covered with ink-stains, occupied the middle of the
room, and two boys about twelve years of age were sitting by it
on hard wooden stools.

The light-haired boy was puzzling over a difficult passage in
Cornelius Nepos, and he sighed as he turned the leaves of the
heavy lexicon; the boy with brown hair was trying to extract the
cubic root of a number with nine figures. The Latin student was
named Hans, the mathematician Heinz.

>From time to time the boys raised their heads and looked
longingly towards the open window, where the flies buzzed in and
out. In the garden, the golden sunshine lay on the trees and
bushes, and the branch of a blossoming elder-bush looked
scornfully into the two young fellows’ study. The poor youths had
still an hour to sit and bear the heat before they could go
out-doors, and the minutes crept along like the snails on the
gooseberry-bushes in the garden. Any escape from work before the
time was not to be thought of, for in the next room, at his desk,
sat Dr. Schlagen, who had charge of the boys’ education and
morals, and the door stood open, so that the Doctor could at any
time assure himself of the presence of his charges, and overlook
whatever they were doing.

“Hannibal could not have done anything more prudent than to cross
the Alps,” snarled Hans; and “nine times eighty-one are seven
hundred and twenty-nine,” muttered Heinz, in a dull voice. Then
both looked up from their work, looked at one another and yawned.

Suddenly they heard a loud buzzing. A rose-bug which must have
alighted on the elderberry-bush, had strayed into the room. Three
times it flew around the boys’ heads, in a circle, and then it
fell plump into the inkstand.

“It really served him right,” said Heinz; “why didn’t he stay
where he was well off? But to be drowned in ink - that is too
wretched a death! Wait a minute, my friend, I will save you.”

He was going to help the struggling bug with his penholder, but
Hans accomplished the rescue more quickly with his finger. And
then the boys dried the poor little rascal gently with the
blotting-paper, and watched him make his toilet with his forelegs.

“He has a red spot on his breast, and black horns,” said Hans, as
he wiped his ink-stained fingers on his hair. “It is the king of
the rose-bugs. He dwells in a castle built of jasmine flowers and
shingled with rose-leaves. Crickets and locusts are his
musicians, and the glowworms are his torch-bearers.”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Heinz.

“And whoever meets the king of the rose-bugs,” continued Hans,
“ is a lucky fellow. Take heed, Heinz, something is going to
happen - an adventure or something extraordinary, and besides,
to-day is May-day, so there is a special reason for expecting
wonders. See how he beckons to us with his feelers, and lifts his
wings. Now he is going to be changed before us into an elf
wearing a king’s mantle and a golden helmet on his head.”

“He is going to fly away,” said Heinz, laughing. “Buzz - there he goes.”

The boys went to the window and looked after the bug. The bright
little jewel made a wide circle as he flew through the air and
disappeared the other side of the garden wall. Just at this
moment a hemming was heard in the next room, and the two scholars
hurried back to their books.

“There is our wonder,” whispered Hans to his companion, and
pointed to the inkstand.

Out of the inkstand rose a green shoot that grew while they were
looking at it, and mounted to the ceiling.

“We are dreaming,” said Heinz, rubbing his eyes.

“No; it is a fairy tale,” said Hans, exultingly; “a living fairy
tale, and we are in it.”

And the shoot grew larger and put forth branches and twigs with
leaves and blossoms. The top of the room disappeared, the walls
vanished, and the astonished boys found themselves in the midst
of a dim wood.

“Come along!” cried Hans, pulling the reluctant Heinz away with
him. “Now comes the adventure.”

The blossoming shrubs separated of themselves and made a path for
the boys. The broken sunlight looked through the latticed roof of
the trees and painted a thousand golden spots on the moss, and
out of the moss grew star-flowers of glowing colors, and green
curling tendrils twined about their mossy stems. Above in the
branches fluttered singing birds with bright feathers, and stags,
roebucks, and other game leaped gayly about among the bushes.

Now the woods grew light, and something like firelight shone
between the trunks of the trees, and Hans whispered to his
companion, “Now it is coming!”

They came to a meadow in the wood, in the midst of which stood a
single tree. But it was no ordinary tree; it was the magic tree
of which Hans had so often heard, -the tree with golden leaves.
The boys stood still in amazement.

Out from behind the trunk stepped a dwarf no larger than a child
of three years, but not with the large head and flat feet dwarfs
usually have, but slender and graceful. He wore a green cloak and
a golden helmet, and the boys knew who he was.

The dwarf advanced two steps and made a low bow. “The enchanted
princess is waiting for her deliverer,” he said; “which of you
will undertake the hazardous task?”

“I,” said Hans, in a joyful voice. And the dwarf immediately led
out a little milk-white steed, champing a golden bit.

“Don’t do it, Hans!” cried Heinz, in distress; but Hans was
already seated in the saddle. The magic horse rose, neighing,
into the air, then he threw back his head and ran with flying
mane into the woods. A bright rose-bug flew along ahead as a
guide. Once only Hans turned his head and looked at his comrade
standing beneath the golden tree; then both tree and friend were
lost from sight.

That was a merry ride. Hans sat as safe and sure in the saddle as
though he had been on his accustomed wooden stool instead of the
horse’s back. When he thought how only an hour ago he had been
groaning over Cornelius Nepos and trembling before Doctor
Schlagen, he had to laugh. The little schoolboy in a short jacket
had become a stately huntsman with waistcoat and mantle, sword
and golden spear. So away he flew through the magic forest.

Now his little steed neighed gladly. The woods grew light. A leap
or two more, and horse and rider stopped before a shining castle.
Gay banners waved from the towers, horns and trumpets were
sounding, and on the balcony stood the princess waving a white
handkerchief. She looked exactly like the neighbor’s little
Helen, with whom Hans the Knight used to play when he was a
little boy, and still at school, only she was larger and a
thousand times more beautiful.

Hans sprang from the saddle, and with clinking spurs hastened up
the marble steps. In the open doorway stood a man, probably the
marshal of the princess’ household, who had a very familiar look
to our Hans.

And the house-marshal reached out his hand, seized Hans the
Knight by the ear, and cried: -

“The scoundrel has gone to sleep. Just wait till i-” That broke
the spell. Hans was sitting once more by the ink-stained table;
before him lay Cornelius Nepos and the Latin lexicon; opposite
him sat Heinz with a squeaking pen; and near him stood Doctor
Schlagen, looking sternly through his spectacles at the dreamer.

When the hour at last struck for their release, and the two boys
were eating their evening meal out in the garden under the
elder-tree, Hans told his friend what he had dreamed.

“That is strange,” said Heinze, when Hans had finished; “very
strange. For I had the same dream myself, only the ending was
different; no magic castle came into my dream-”

“Tell me about it!” urged Hans.

“As far as the golden tree, my dream was exactly like yours. You
mounted the white horse and rode away to release the princess.
But I -”

“Well?” said Hans, impatiently.

“I remained behind, shook the tree, and filled all my pockets
with the golden leaves. Then the stupid old doctor woke me up,
and then the splendid dream was over.”

“Heinz,” said Hans, solemnly, seizing his friend by the hand, “if
two people have the very same dream, then it will surely come
true. The dream was a prophecy. Remember what I say.”

Then the boys ate the rest of their supper and went to play ball.

Was the dream of the boys ever fulfilled? Yes. Hans became a
poet, and drove his steed through the green forest of fairyland.
But Heinz, who shook the golden tree in the dream, became his
publisher.

THE MAGIC BOW.

ONCE there was a little boy whose name was Frieder, and who had
neither father nor mother. He was as handsome as a picture, and
when he was playing in front of the house in the street, people
would stop and ask, “ Whose little one is that ? “ Then the surly
old woman who brought him up on thin broth and plentiful
scoldings would answer, “He is nobody’s child; and it would be
the best thing for him if the dear Lord would take him to himself
in his heavenly kingdom.” But Frieder had no longing for the
heavenly kingdom; it pleased him very well down below here, and
he grew up like the red-headed thistles behind his
foster-mother’s house. Playfellows he had none. When the other
boys in the village built mills and sailed their little canoes in
the brook, or romped in the hay, Frieder would sit on the
hillside and whistle the songs of the birds.

He was busying himself in this way one day, when old Klaus, who
was a bird-catcher by profession, met him. He took a fancy to the
pretty lad, and struck a friendship with him. From that time the
two were often seen sitting sociably together in front of the
bird-catcher’s cottage like two old soldiers. Klaus not only
could tell strange stories of the forest, but he knew how to play
the fiddle, and instructed Frieder in the art, after giving him
an old patched-up violin as a birthday present. The pupil did his
teacher credit, for before the end of the month he could play
several famous old melodies. The old birdcatcher was deeply
impressed by this, and said prophetically, “Frieder, believe me;
if God spares my life, I shall sometime see you the first
violinist in the church.”

When Frieder was fifteen years old, the neighbors came together
and took counsel about him. It was time, they said, that he
should learn something practical to help him through the world;
and when they asked him what he would like to become, he
answered, “A musician.” Then the people threw up their hands in
holy horror. But a stout man stepped out of the crowd, grasped
the lad’s hand, and said in a dignified manner, “I will see if I
can make something practical out of him.” And all those who stood
about in the circle thought Frieder very fortunate to have found
such a master.

He was a person of no little consequence. He cut the peasants’
hair and beards, cupped them, and pulled out their poor teeth,
and often their sound ones too. He was the barber of the place,
and the people called him nothing less than “Herr Doktor.”

On the same day Frieder went to the house of him who was now his
employer, and in the evening began to make himself useful by
bringing his master’s beer from the ale-house. By degrees he
learned to make the lather, to hone the razors, and to do
everything else belonging to the art. His master was pleased with
him; but the violin-playing in which Frieder had indulged so
eagerly when he had nothing else to do, was objectionable to him,
for, in the barber’s opinion, it belonged to the unprofitable arts.

Two long years passed by. Then came the day when Frieder was to
put his skill to the test. If he succeeded in satisfying his
master, then he could go out into the world as a travelling
journeyman and seek his fortune. He was to prove his skill by
shaving his master’s beard, and that was no joke.

The important day had come. The barber seated himself in his
chair, with the white towel around his neck, and leaned his head
back. Frieder soaped his double chin, stropped the razor, and
fell to work.

Suddenly the sounds of violins and flutes were heard in front of
the house: a bear-leader had come along. As soon as the young
barber heard the music his hand slipped, and on the master’s
cheek appeared a bloody cut, reaching from his ear to his nose.

Alas for poor Frieder! The chair in which the barber was sitting
fell backwards on the floor. The bleeding man jumped up in a rage
and gave his apprentice a rousing box on the ear. Then he tore
open the door, pointed into the blue air, and screamed, “Go to
the cuckoo!”

Then Frieder packed up his things, took his violin under his arm,
and went to the cuckoo. The cuckoo dwelt in the woods, in an
oak-tree, and happened to be at home when Frieder called on him.
He heard the fellow’s account patiently to the end, but then he
flapped his wings, and said:—

“Young friend, if I should help all who are sent to me, I should
have a great deal to do. The times are hard, and I must be glad
that I have provided for my own children tolerably well. The
oldest I have boarded out in a water-wagtail’s family; the second
one, neighbor red-tail has taken into his house; the third child,
a little maid, is nursed by an old beam-bird; and the two
smallest ones are taken care of by a wren. I have to bestir
myself from morning till night in order to get enough to live on
decently. For fourteen days I have lived on hairy caterpillars,
and such food would not suit your digestion. No; I cannot help
you, however sorry I may be for you.”

Then Frieder hung his head sorrowfully, said farewell to the
cuckoo, and went away. But he had not gone far when the cuckoo
called after him: “Wait, Frieder! I have a good idea. Perhaps I
can help you after all. Come with me.” He spoke these words,
stretched his wings, and flew along in front of Frieder to show
him the way.

Frieder had difficulty in following his guide, for the underbrush
was thick in the woods, and the briers were very abundant. At
last it grew light between the trees, and there was a glimpse of water.

“This is the place,” said the cuckoo, as he lighted on an alder.
Before the youth lay a dark-green pond, fed by a foaming
waterfall. Reeds and iris grew on the shore, and white
waterlilies with broad leaves floated on the surface.

“Now pay attention,” said the wise bird. “When the sun goes down
and makes the spray of the waterfall gleam in seven colors, then
Neck comes up from the bottom of the pond where he has a crystal
castle, and sits down on the shore. Then have no fear, but speak
to him. You will find out the rest.”

Then Frieder thanked the cuckoo, who flew away swiftly into the woods.

When the seven colors of the rainbow appeared in the waterfall,
sure enough Neck came up out of the water. He had on a little red
coat and a white collar. His hair was green, and hung down like a
tangled mane over his shoulders. He sat down on a stone, which
rose above the mirror-like pond, let his feet hang in the water,
and began to comb his hair with his ten fingers. This was a
difficult task, for the snarls were full of eel-grass, duckweed,
and little snailshells, and as Neck tried to smooth out his hair
he made up painful faces.

“This is the right time to speak to the water-sprite,” thought
Frieder. He took courage, stepped out from the alder-bushes,
which had kept him from sight, took off his hat, and said, “Good
evening, Herr Neck!”

At the sound of his voice, Neck plumped into the water like a
startled frog, and disappeared. But before long he thrust his
head out again, and said in an unfriendly voice, “What do you want?”

“With your permission, Herr Neck,” began Frieder, “I am an
experienced barber, and you would confer a great honor upon me if
you would allow me to comb your hair.”

“Indeed!” said Neck, delighted, and he rose out of the water.
“ You have come at just the right time. What a trouble and torment
my hair has been to me since the Loreley, my cousin, was mean
enough to leave me! What have I not done for that thankless
creature! And one morning she went away, and my golden comb is
gone, too, and now she sits, as I hear, on a rock in the Rhine,
and is having some trouble with a skipper in a little skiff. The
golden comb will soon be sung away.”

With these words, Neck sat down on a stone. Frieder took out his
shaving-case, tied a white apron around the water-sprite’s neck,
and combed and oiled his hair, till it was as smooth as silk;
then he parted his hair evenly from his brow to the nape of his
neck, took off the apron, and made a bow, as his master had
taught him. Neck stood up and looked at himself with satisfaction
in the mirror of the pond. “What do I owe you?” he asked.

Frieder had the customary answer, “Whatever you please,” on his
lips, but it occurred to him just in time that he must seize the
opportunity and strike while the iron was hot. So he cleared his
throat and told Neck his history.

“ So you would like to be a musician ? “ asked Neck, when Frieder
had finished speaking. “Just take your fiddle in your hand and
let me hear something of your skill.”

Then the youth took his violin, tuned the strings, and played his
best piece, “When the Grandfather married the Grandmother,” and
when he had ended with a graceful flourish, he looked expectantly
at Neck.

Neck grinned, and said, “Now hear me.” Then he put his hand down
into the reeds and brought out a violin and bow, straightened
himself up, and began to play.

Poor Frieder had never heard anything like it before. At first it
sounded like the evening breeze playing among the rushes, then it
sounded like the roar of a waterfall, and at last, like gently
flowing water. The birds in the trees were silent, the bees
stopped humming, and the fishes raised their heads out of the
pond to listen to the sweet sounds. But great tears shone in the
young fellow’s eyes.

“Herr Neck,” he said, stretching out his hands, as the
water-sprite laid down his bow, “Herr Neck, teach me how to play!”

“That would not do,” answered Neck. “It would not do on account
of my growing daughters, the pixies. Besides, it isn’t necessary.
If you will give me your comb, you shall have a violin that
hasn’t its equal.”

“I will give you my whole shaving-case, if you want it,” cried
Frieder, and handed it to the water-sprite.

Neck snatched the proffered case quickly, and disappeared beneath
the water.

“Hold on, hold on! “ the youth called after him, but his call was
in vain. He waited an hour; he waited two; but nothing more was
heard of Neck.

Poor Frieder sighed deeply, for it was plain to him that the
false water-sprite had deceived him, and with a heavy heart he
turned to go he knew not where. Then he saw lying at his feet, on
the edge of the pond, Neck’s fiddlestick. He bent down, and as he
took it in his hand, he felt a twitching from the tips of his
fingers to his shoulder-blade, and it urged him to try the bow.

He was going to play “What shall I, poor fellow, do?” but it
seemed as if an unseen power guided his hand; sweet, silvery
tones burst from his violin, such as Frieder had never heard in
his life but once, and that was just before, when Neck was
playing to him. The birds came flying along and sat listening in
the bushes, the fishes leaped up out of the water, and stags and
roebucks came out of the forest, and looked with wise eyes at the
player. Frieder could not tell how it happened. Whatever passed
through his soul and whatever he felt in his heart, found its way
to his hand, and through his hand to his playing, and was
expressed in sweet tones.

But Neck came up out of the pond and nodded approvingly. Then he
disappeared and was never seen again.

Frieder went out of the forest playing, and he visited all the
kingdoms of the earth and played before kings and emperors.
Yellow gold rained into his hat, and he would have become
exceeding rich, if he had not been a true musician. But true
musicians never become rich.

He left his shaving-case behind him. Therefore, he let his hair
grow like strong Samson of old. Other musicians have followed his
example, and from that time to the present day have worn long,
disorderly hair.

THE BEECH-TREE

THERE stood in the forest an ancient beechtree. The top of the
tree had been shattered by the lightning, her side was hollow,
and great mushrooms grew out of the bark. She was the oldest of
all beeches, and the mother of a numerous family; but she had
seen all her children, as soon as they had grown strong, fall
beneath the stroke of the axe, and she had only one daughter
left. She was a young beech, with smooth bark and a
heaven-aspiring crown, and she was just eighty years old. This is
considered the prime of life among the forest trees.

Every spring the old beech still put forth leaves and green
shoots, but she felt that life was on the decline with her, for
it was only with difficulty that she held herself upright. And
because she felt that she must die, her love for her beautiful
giant daughter was redoubled.

Spring was drawing near. The glistening white snow still lay on
the branches of the trees, but the warm sap began to spring up
from the roots, and the soft air blew and helped to melt the
snow. The crackling ice-cakes floated down the rivers and brooks,
the willows pushed their silver catkins out of their cases, and
the white bell-flowers broke through the vanishing carpet of snow
that covered the forest floor.

Then the old beech said to her child: “Tonight the warm south
wind will come with a rush. It will lay me on the bed of leaves
that I have been hoarding up all these years, and I shall return
to the mother earth, from whose bosom I came forth. But before I
go home, I will bequeath you a legacy that the gentle lord of the
forest bestowed upon me one day a long time ago, when he was
resting from his blessed labors in my shadow. You will be able to
understand the words and deeds of men and to sympathize in their
joys and sorrows. This is the highest good that can fall to our
lot. But be prepared to see more of pain than happiness.”

Thus spoke the old beech-tree, and gave her daughter her blessing.

In the night the south wind came rushing from the desert. It
buried the ships in the billows of the sea, rolled gigantic
snowballs down from the mountains, and destroyed men’s cottages
as it passed by. It went roaring through the forest and broke
down everything that was old and decayed, or whatever dared to
resist its power. It stretched the old beech on the ground, and
shook her sturdy daughter, but she wisely bent and bowed her
head, and the mighty wind passed over. For three days the
daughter wept tears of sparkling dew over her mother. Then the
sun came and dried her tears.

And now on every side began such a budding and sprouting that the
beech had no time to mourn. Her buds swelled and burst, and one
morning a hundred thousand little tender green leaves trembled in
the warm sunshine. What a delight it was!

Golden yellow primroses came up out of the ground. They did not
even take time to push aside the dry leaves, but pierced right
through them and lifted themselves up once more into the
sunlight. Purple peas joined the primroses, and the fragrant
woodruff unrolled its tender querl of leaves. What exuberance of life!

And in the midst of all this blooming life stood the young beech
like a queen. A finch had built his nest in her crest and the
woodpecker with his red cap came to visit her. Once the cuckoo
came too, and even the distinguished squirrel, with his bushy
tail over his head, found his way there now and then, although
the beech with her bright spring foliage could not serve him with
acorns. But she had not yet seen a human being this spring, and
they were the guests she most wished to see, because she
possessed the gift of understanding their sayings and doings.

Human beings were soon to come. One morning a slender young
maiden, with long brown braids of hair, came tripping along
through the forest and went straight up to the beech-tree. But
there was not the least probability that she had come on account
of the beech. She looked at the tree that lay mouldering on the
ground, and said, “This is the place.” Then she put down her
basket, which was filled with lilies-of-the-valley, and leaned
against the beech, without even glancing at the green splendor
above. The tree held her breath to listen to what the maiden
might say, but the beautiful girl kept an obstinate silence.

Then from the opposite direction came a stately youth. He wore a
little round hat with a curling feather, like a huntsman’s.
Cautiously he crept along, so cautiously that the dry leaves
never once rustled beneath his footsteps. But although he stepped
so gently, the maiden’s sharp ears perceived his coming. She
turned her head toward him, and the beech-tree thought to
herself, “Now she will run away.” But the maiden did not run
away; she rather sprang toward the youth and threw her arms
around his brown neck.

“My Hans!” - “My Eva!” they cried at the same time. Then they
kissed each other to their hearts’ content, called each other
again by name, and embraced each other anew, and the beech-tree
found it very tiresome. Afterwards they sat down under the tree
and talked of their love. It was the old, old story, but it was
new to the beech, and she listened as a child listens to a fairy
tale. But something still more strange happened to surprise her.

The youth rose from the ground, took out his knife; and began to
cut into the bark on the trunk. Indeed it caused her some pain,
but the tree held as still as a wall.

“What is it going to be?” asked the maiden.

“A heart, with your name and mine,” replied Hans, and went on cutting.

When the work was done, they both looked at it with satisfaction,
and the beech was as pleased as one whom the king has honored
with a golden chain. “Human beings are capital people!” she thought.

Then the youth began to sing. The beech had long known the songs
of the finches and blackbirds by heart; now she was going to hear
something quite different from the songs of the birds. The song
ran thus:—

Behind the forest cover
I strode,the wild path over,—
The air was cool and clear.
I left the young fawn browsing,
Nor stags nor red roses rousing,
I sought a different kind of deer.

My search was soon rewarded;
I’ the shade a beech accorded
I found my love alone.
She threw her arms around me
And with caresses crowned me —
My rival’s heart was turned to stone.

Upon the beech-tree hoary,
A symbol of our story,
A single heart I grave.
And there our hearts united
Shall tell of true love plighted
As long as forest trees shall wave.

“Listen, Hans!” said the maiden, when the youth had ended. “Your
song reminds me of something. I know — the people say that in the
autumn you go secretly after game in the forest. Let hunting
alone! The forester has a grudge against you anyway — you know
why. And if he should meet you as a poacher in the forest, then —
oh, my Hans, if they should bring you home shot through the heart —”

The young fellow bent down over the maiden, who leaned
caressingly against his shoulder, and kissed her mouth. “The
people tell many things. Don’t believe all that people say, my
dear heart’s love!” Then he threw his arm around her waist, and
went away singing with her into the woods.

When the pair had disappeared behind the trees, a man in
hunting-dress, with a rifle on his back and a huntsman’s knife at
his side, leaped out of the bushes. His face was pale and
distorted. He walked up to the beech and looked at the heart
which Hans had cut in the bark. He laughed wildly, and took out
his knife to erase the names; but he changed his mind, and thrust
the blade back into its sheath. He shook his fist threateningly
in the direction which the Iovers had taken, and grinding his
teeth, said: “If I meet you once more poaching in the forest,
then you will have heard the cuckoo’s call for the last time.”

With these words he went into the woods, and the tree shook her
head with displeasure.

* * *

In the course of the summer the beech saw many human beings,—
poor women, who gathered leaves or dry branches; children,
picking berries; forest-folk, and travellers. But the most
welcome guests to her shady roof were the youth and the maiden
with the brown braids. They came once a week, spoke of their
love, and embraced each other; and the beech grew more and more
fond of them every day.

One morning before sunrise, when the forest mountain still had on
its gray hood of mist, Hans came alone. He carried a rifle by a
leather strap, and walked carefully through the underbrush — as
carefully as though he wished to surprise his sweetheart. But
this time his coming was not to meet the beautiful Eva, but the
stag, which had his haunt here. At the foot of the beechtree the
youth stopped and stood as motionless as though he were a tree
himself. The cool morning breeze came and blew the mist down in
streaks. The birds awoke and flew away after water. There was a
stirring in the underbrush of the forest, and Hans lifted his gun.

There came a shot out of the thicket. Hans dropped his rifle,
leaped up, and then fell on the ground.

Out of the forest, with hasty bounds, came a man, carrying a
smoking gun in his left hand. The beech knew him well.

The forester bent over the fallen man. “It is all over with him,”
he said. Then he loaded his rifle and disappeared in the thicket.

The sun rose and shone on the pale face of a dead man. The tree
bent down her branches mournfully, and wept shining tears. The
robin redbreast flew along and put flowers on the dead youth’s
face, till his glassy eyes were entirely covered over.

In the afternoon the wood-cutters came along the path and found
the corpse.

“He was shot while poaching,” they said. Then they lifted him up
and carried him down into the valley.

An old man lingered by the tree. He took his knife and cut a
cross in the bark. He put it directly over the heart. Then he
took off his hat and said a prayer.

There was a rustling in the top of the beech; the tree also was
praying after her fashion.

For many summers in succession the murdered youth’s sweetheart
came on the day of his death to the beech-tree, knelt down, and
wept and prayed; and every time she looked paler and more
languid. Finally she came no more.

“She must be dead,” said the beech; and so she was.

* * *

Years had passed, and the beech had grown to a mighty tree. Her
bark was covered with brownish moss; vines of woodbine climbed up
the trunk, and both heart and cross were covered over with green.

One day there came a man, who added a third mark to the other
two; and the beech knew what it signified. The tree was marked to
be cut down.

Farewell, thou verdant, delectable forest!

It was not long before the wood-cutters came, and their axes cut
the beech-tree to the heart. A sullen-looking man in
hunting-dress, with gray beard and hair, directed the wood-cutters.

The beech knew the man right well, and the man seemed to
recognize the tree. He went up to her and tore the moss and
ivy-tresses away from her trunk, so that the cross and heart
became visible.

“Here it was,” he said in an undertone; and his limbs shook with horror.

“Back, forester, back! “ screamed the woodcutters. “The tree will fall.”

The forester staggered back, but it was too late. The beech fell
with a crash to the ground, and buried him under her boughs.

When they took him out, he was dead. The beech had shattered his head.

And the men stood around in a circle and prayed.

THE WATER OF FORGETFULNESS

In the round tower-room adorned with hunting equipments, antlers,
and stuffed wild birds, sat a youth on a wooden stool, twisting a
bow-string out of marten-sinews and singing a gay hunting song.
His dress indicated that he was a huntsman; his short hair that
he was a servant in the castle. His name was Heinz.

>From the ceiling above the young fellow’s head hung a swinging
hoop, and in the hoop sat a gray falcon, with his wings tied and
the hood over his eyes. From time to time the huntsman would stop
his work and set the hoop which was gradually coming to a halt in
quick motion again. This was to prevent the falcon from going to
sleep, for it was a young bird and was to be trained for hunting:
the breaking-in of a properly trained falcon begins with making
him submissive through hunger and sleeplessness.

Heinz had been the count’s falconer, and the old master had kept
the youth busy all the time. But now better days had come to him.
The count hunted no longer, for he had been Lying silent and
still, a whole year; in a stone coffin decorated with
coats-of-arms; and his widow, Frau Adelheid, sat the whole day
long with the chaplain and gave no thought to hunting affairs.

To-day the mistress of the castle must have been tired of
praying, for she came out of her apartments and wandered through
the rooms of the fortress. The young fellow’s song made a
pleasing contrast to the monotonous, nasal chanting of the
chaplain; she followed the voice, and entered the falconer’s room
in the tower.

Heinz looked amazed when he saw the proud lady in her mourning
veil and gray dress coming in. He rose and made a low, respectful
bow. Frau Adelheid’s brilliant eyes scanned the falconer’s
slender form, and she smiled graciously, and her smile seemed to
the youth like May sunshine. The lady asked many questions about
falconry and the chase; and when she took her departure, she gave
the huntsman such a strange look that the bold lad turned his
head on one side like a little fourteen-year-old girl.

A few days afterwards it chanced that Frau Adelheid rode into the
green forest on a milkwhite palfrey. She wore no gray clothes,
however, but a dress of green velvet, and instead of the widow’s
veil, a sable-skin hat with curling feathers. Behind her rode
Heinz, the young falconer, with the falcon on his wrist; and his
blue eyes shone with delight.

They had already ridden some distance, and the castle-tower had
long before disappeared behind the widespreading branches of the
beeches. Then Frau Adelheid turned her head and said “Ride by my
side, Heinz.” And Heinz did as the lady commanded him. The path
was narrow, and the countess’ riding-dress brushed against the
falconer’s knee. Thus they rode along. The trees rustled softly,
the chaffinches sang, and occasionally little forest creatures
scampered across the path. Now and then there was a crackling of
breaking branches, as some deer hastened into the woods, or a
startled bird flew up with fluttering wings, and then deep
silence lay over the forest again. And the lady of the castle
turned her head a second time to the huntsman, and said, with a
smile on her lips:—

“ Now let me see, Heinz, whether you are a well-trained huntsman.

“ ‘Dear huntsman, tell me aright
What mounts higher than falcon and kite ? “‘

Without stopping to think, Heinz replied:—

“High mounts the hawk, and high mounts the kite,
But the eagle takes a loftier flight.”

And Frau Adelheid asked again:—

“Dear huntsman, tell me true,
What mounts higher than the eagle too?”

The falconer thought a moment or two, then he answered:—

“Still higher than all the birds that fly
Mounts the bright sun-ball in the sky.”

The countess nodded with satisfaction, and asked for the third time:—

“Declare it to me, beloved one,
What mounts still higher than the light of the sun?”

Now the falconer’s skill was at an end. He looked up to the tops
of the trees, as if help might come to him from there, and then
he looked down at the pommel of his saddle; but he had nothing to say.

Then Frau Adelheid reined in her palfrey, bent towards the
huntsman, and said in a low voice:—

“The sun mounts high in the heavens above;
But higher still mounts secret love.”

She spoke these words, and threw her white arms about the
lad’s neck, and kissed his dark cheeks.

Two nutcrackers, with blue wings, fluttered out of the hazel
bushes and flew screaming into the woods to tell what they had
seen; and the next morning the sparrows, which had their nests
under the castle roof, twittered one to another:—

“Tweet, tweet,
The lady’s love for the hunter’s sweet.”

Indeed, it was a fine time for falconer Heinz. He let his hair
grow till it hung in yellow ringlets down over his shoulders, and
he wore silver spurs and a heron’s feather in his hat, and he
built castles in the air, each one more glowing than the last.

To be sure he owned no castles, but he was invested with a
splendid forest lodge with antlers on the gable, and field and
meadow land, and there he lived now as forester, and when his
gracious lady came riding out to him, he would stand in the
doorway and wave his hat to greet her, then lift Frau Adelheid
down from the saddle, and entertain her with bread, milk, and honey.

Thus the summer passed away, and the autumn, and half the winter,
and it came to be Shrovetide. Then there was a great deal of
visiting in the neighborhood, and the count’s castle looked like
an inn. But forester Heinz sat lonely in the huntsman’s house,
and only occasionally did the report of the merry doings at the
castle come to his ears. Finally came news that was not
altogether pleasing to poor Heinz. Frau Adelheid was to be
married again, so the story went; and it fell on the young
fellow’s ear like a funeral bell.

Then Heinz closed the door of his house and went on the way to
the castle, muttering between his teeth all sorts of things that
sounded not like prayers.

When he came to the foot of the mountain, where the winding road
leads up to the castle, he heard the sound of hoofs, and a laugh
as clear as silver, that cut his heart like a two edged knife;
and down the path came the lady of the castle on her white
palfrey, and near her a handsome gentleman, richly dressed,
bestrode a sleek black horse, and gazed with sparkling eyes at
the beautiful woman by his side.

Then it seemed to the young forester as though his heart would
burst; but he controlled himself. He sat down on a stone, like a
beggar, and as the pair drew near to him, he sang:—

“The sun mounts high in the heavens above;
But higher still mounts secret love.”

The haughty knight reined in his steed, pointed with his whip at
the huntsman, and asked his companion, “What does that mean? Who
is the man?”

The color left the countess’ cheeks, but she quickly recovered
herself, and said:—

“A crazy huntsman. Come, let us hurry past him. It frightens me
to be near him.”

But the knight had opened his purse, and he threw a gold piece to
the man by the wayside. Then Heinz cried aloud, and threw himself
face downwards on the ground. But the riders spurred on their
horses and rode hastily away.

The sound of the hoofs had long died away before the unfortunate
youth rose from the ground. He wiped the dust and dirt from his
face, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and strode away into the
forest. He hurried on aimlessly till nightfall. Then he threw
himself down under a tree, wrapped his cloak about him, and sleep
came over the exhausted man.

Poor Heinz slept all night long without a dream, till the chill
of dawn awoke him. But immediately his whole sorrow stood again
before him and grinned at him like an evil spirit.

“Oh, if I could forget,” he cried; “if I could only forget! There
is a fountain, and if one drinks of its waters all the past
vanishes from his memory. Who will show me the way to that spring?”

“Here!” called a voice near at hand. “The water that causes
forgetfulness I am very familiar with, and I will gladly tell you
all that I know about it.”

Heinz looked up and saw before him a youth in dark, tattered
garments; his toes peeped inquisitively out of his shoes. He
represented himself to be a travelling scholar, and went on to say:—

“The water which makes one forget is called Lethe, and has its
source in Greece. You will have to take a journey there and
inquire the particulars on the spot. But if you wish to have it
more conveniently, come with me to the tavern of the Purple
Grape. It is not far from here.There the hostess will give you a
taste of the water of forgetfulness, provided that your purse is
longer than mine.”

These were the scholar’s words. Heinz arose and followed him to
the forest inn. There they drank together all one day and half
the night; and when, towards midnight, they lay peaceably on the
bench, Heinz had forgotten everything that troubled and oppressed
him. But with the morning light the tormenting recollection
returned,- and he had a headache besides. Then he paid his own
bill and his companion’s, took a hasty farewell of the travelling
scholar, and went on further.

“Oh, who could forget!” he said as he went along, and beat his
forehead with his fist. “I must find the fountain, or I shall be
really insane.”

By the wayside stood an old half-dead willow, and in the willow
sat a raven, who turned his head toward the lonely wanderer and
looked at him with curiosity.

“Thou wise bird,” said the forester to the raven, “thou knowest
everything that happens on the earth; tell me, where does the
water of forgetfulness flow?”

“I, too, should like to know that,” said the raven, “in order to
drink of it myself. I knew a nest with seven fat, nut-fed
dormice, and when I went yesterday to see what the dear little
creatures were doing, the marten had taken the nest away from me
and not a piece of it was left. And know, no matter where I go, I
can think of nothing but my loss. Indeed, who can tell about the
water of forgetfulness! But do you know something, dear fellow?
Just go to the old woman of the forest, who is wiser than other
people and perhaps knows the fountain of forgetfulness.”
Thereupon the raven told the huntsman the way to the old woman of
the forest. Heinz thanked him, and went on.

The old woman was at home. She sat in front of her cottage,
spinning, and nodding her white head. By her side a gray cat,
with grass-green eyes, sat licking her paws and purring.

Heinz stepped up to the old woman, greeted her respectfully, and
made known his errand.

“I know everything about the fountain of forgetfulness,” said the
old woman of the forest, “and will not withhold a drink of its
waters from you, poor boy. But no work, no pay: if you wish to
have a glass of the precious drink, you must first perform three
tasks for me. Will you do it?”

“If I can.”

“I do not expect impossibilities of you. To begin with, you shall
cut down the wood behind my house. That is the first labor.”

The young fellow consented. The old woman gave him an axe and led
him to the place. Heinz stretched himself and swung the axe, and
every time he struck a blow he imagined that he hit his rival,
and the trees fell crashing beneath his mighty strokes, and the
crashing did him good. Thus evening came on, and Heinz looked
about for food, for he was very hungry. He did not have long to
wait, for out of the house came a woman’s figure, who placed a
basket with food and drink beside the weary wood-cutter.

As Heinz raised his eyes, he saw before him a wonderfully lovely
face, framed in yellow hair, on which gleamed the last rays of
the setting sun. It was the old forest woman’s daughter. She
looked at the sad young fellow with gentle eyes, and remained
standing before him awhile. But as he said nothing, she went away
again. Heinz ate and drank. Then he gathered together fir boughs
and wood moss for a bed, laid himself down, and slept a dreamless
sleep. But when he awoke in the morning, his sorrow awoke again too.

Then he seized the axe and attacked the trees, so that the
forest, for a mile around, resounded with his mighty blows. And
when at evening the beautiful maiden came with his supper, Heinz
did not look as sad as the day before; and because he felt that
he must say something, he said, “Fine weather to-day.” Whereupon
the maiden answered, “Yes, very fine weather,” and then nodded
and went home.

Thus seven days passed away, each one like the other, and on the
seventh day the last tree was cut down The old forest woman came
out, praised Heinz for his industry, and said, “Now comes the
second task.”

Then Heinz had to dig up the roots of the trees, break up the
soil, plant corn, and sow seed. This took him seven weeks. But
every evening, after his day’s work was done, the old woman’s
daughter brought him his supper and sat near by on the trunk of a
tree, and listened to Heinz as he told her about the outside
world, and when he finished she gave him her white hand and said,
“ Good night, dear Heinz.” Then she went home, but Heinz looked
about for a resting place and immediately fell asleep.

When the seven weeks were gone, the old woman came and looked at
his work, praised the youth for his industry, and said: “Now
comes the third task. Now with the wood you have felled you must
build me a house with seven rooms, and when you have finished
that too, then you shall have a glass of the water of
forgetfulness, and can go wherever you please.”

Then Heinz became a carpenter, and with axe and saw he built a
splendid house. To be sure, the work went on slowly at first,
because Heinz worked without help; but that was not distasteful
to him, for he enjoyed the green forest, and would have liked to
live always near the old woman. lndeed, he sometimes thought
still of his former sorrow, but only as one who has had a bad
dream, and in the morning is glad that he has awakened from it.
Every evening the forest woman’s daughter came out to him, and
they sang together, sometimes gay hunting songs, sometimes songs
which told of parting, of unrequited love and joyful meetings.

Thus seven months passed by. Then the house was finished from
threshold to roof-tree. Heinz had placed a young fir-tree on the
gable, and the maiden had made wreaths of fir-twigs and red
berries from the mountain-ash, and trimmed the walls with them.
The old woman came on her crutch, with the cat on her shoulder,
to inspect the completed work. She looked very solemn, and in her
hand she carried a goblet carved out of wood, and filled with the
water of forgetfulness.

“You have performed the three tasks which I have imposed upon
you,” she said, “and now comes the reward. Take this goblet, and
when you have emptied it to the last drop, then the past will be
blotted out of your memory.”

The forester hesitated as he reached out his hand towards the goblet.

“Drink,” said the old woman, “and forget everything.”

“Everything ? “

“Yes, everything — your former sorrow, myself, and—”

“And me, too,” said the beautiful maiden, and she held her hand
before her eyes to keep back the rising tears.

Then the youth seized the goblet and with his strong hand flung
it to the ground, so that the sparkling drops of the water rained
down on the grass, and he cried, “Mother, I will stay with you!”

And before he knew what had happened to him, the maiden lay on
his breast and sobbed for joy.

And a rustling went through the trees, and the yellow corn all
around nodded in the wind, the birds sang in the branches, and
the odd woman’s gray cat went purring round and round the happy pair.

Now I could without much difficulty change the old woman into a
beautiful fairy, her daughter to a princess, and the newly built
house to a shining royal castle; but let us rather keep to the
truth, and let everything be as it was.

But something wonderful really did happen. Wherever a drop of the
water of forgetfulness fell on the ground, there sprang up a
little flower with eyes of heavenly blue. The flower has since
spread over the whole land, and for those who do not know its
name this story was not written.

THEODELINDA
AND THE WATER-SPRITE

ON the edge of the forest, where the flowers grow that do not
thrive in the deeper shade, where the brown field-mice dwell and
the green lizards, where the wren dodges through the bushes and
beetles in golden coats of mail tumble about the wild roses,
there stood, like sentinels, two primeval pine-trees, which
seemed to grow from the same root. At the foot of the twin trees
was a seat formed of stones and moss, and on the seat sat a lady
who only differed from the majority of her sisters in that her
form showed hollows, where one was usually accustomed to find
roundness. She wore a sky-blue dress and a broad-brimmed straw
hat, which shaded a yellowish face, framed by two bread-colored
culls. In her right hand she held a dainty pencil, in her left a
little red book, on the cover of which, in gold letters, was
inscribed these words: “The Blossoms of Theodelinda’s Mind.”

Theodelinda was a poetess, and the latest blossom of her mind ran thus:—

In cool moss by the wood
A lovely rose-bush stood.
There came a lad one day
And broke a rose away.

The rose, in sorrow, said,
“ He will my petals shed;
Yet sweet it is to die,
If on his breast I lie.”

The verses were written down, and the poetess’ watery blue eyes
looked longingly into the distance, but the lad of whom she was
thinking would not come; the lad was at that moment sitting with
two boisterous companions, drinking, in the forest tavern of the
White Stag, and never dreamed of breaking the little rose.

Theodelinda sighed, and picked a daisy which was growing in the
grass at her feet. “He loves me,” she murmured, as her sharp
fingers pulled off the white petals, — “he loves me with all his
heart—passionately—beyond measure—desperately—a little—not at
all.” Alas, poor Theodelinda!

“That is absurd child’s play,” she said, and threw the mutilated
flower contemptuously on the ground. Then she tucked up her dress
and walked away into the woods, probably to pluck one or two more
of the blossoms of her mind in its sacred dim shade.

If Theodelinda had not been a city girl, but a peasant child of
the mountains, she would have been much more careful when she
undertook to go through the woods; and, above all things, would
have put in her shoe a little branch of the shrub which renders
harmless all magic charms. Then what came to pass would hardly
have happened to her. But what could a poor city lass know about
the secrets of the forest ?

Where the mightiest fir-trees, with long gray beards of moss
stand, in the shade grows a plant called “err-wort.” Nobody
except the woodpecker, who knows all magic plants, has ever seen
it, but many a one who has stepped on it unawares, and not had
the counter-charm with him, must have felt its effect.

While the poetess was trying to add “love” and “ dove “ “ heart “
and “ part “ to the blossoms of her thought, she went gradually
deeper and deeper into the forest. The approaching twilight and a
longing in the region of the stomach, which ordinary mortals call
hunger, first warned the pleasure-seeker that it was time to
return home. She turned to go back by the way she had come, but
it seemed to her as though the forest were endless, for she went
around in a circle, and the err-wort, on which she had stepped
unawares, was to blame for it. Oh, misery! oh, misery! It grew
darker and darker all the time. The shadowy creatures of the
night glided across the path, and the hooting of the robber owls
was heard. Theodelinda was in despair.

Suddenly she found herself before a little house, out of whose
window shone a faint light. With thankful heart she knocked on
the door; it opened, and she went in.

In the hut were three trim little women, no larger than
half-grown girls, busy baking cakes on the hearth. They were
little forest folk. They are usually invisible, but whoever steps
on the err-wort is able to see the little forest folk, and many
other things besides.

They received the wanderer with kindness and attention, pushed a
stool up to the fire for her, and entertained her with bread and
milk. Theodelinda felt confidence in them, and was soon quite at
her ease in their company, for they promised when the morning
came to show her the right way.

“This is for once a real adventure, such as only a poet can meet
with,” thought Theodelinda; and she experienced the feeling of
gentle horror, mingled with satisfaction, of a child listening to
a ghost story. But it was going to be still better.

Suddenly there was a tapping on the window, and a man’s voice was
heard to say:—

“Open the door, ye sisters dear!
The moon shines on the waters clear.
It led one through the forest way.
Open the door, good sisters, pray!”

“There he is again,” said one of the little women; “the fiend,
the nuisance ! his mother, the old nixie, sends him here. She
wants him to marry, so that the thoughtless fellow may become
orderly and domestic, and so she thinks that one of us ought to
count it an honor to become her daughter-in-law. But I would
rather be a spinster than leave my green forest and become his wife.”

“ And so would I!” “And so would I!” said the other two little
women. But Theodelinda said not a word.

“We must let him in,” continued the first one; “that can do no
harm. He is a very dangerous fellow, and we dare not arouse his
anger.” And, with a sigh, she unbolted the door.

The water-sprite came in. He had a pretty face and a slender
form. To be sure, he had green hair, but Miss Theodelinda thought
it was very becoming to him.

The guest looked somewhat disturbed when he discovered what a
visitor the little folk had, but, like a well-bred person, he did
not allow his displeasure to be noticed, and made himself as
charming as only a water sprite knows how to be.

Theodelinda was very talkative; she told about balls and the
theatre, and the water-sprite listened patiently. Then he had to
tell something about himself, and he did it graciously.

Indeed, he was a fine man, and probably much better than his
reputation. And besides, he had a crystal castle in the lake,
which was not to be despised, and the old mother nixie was surely
a very fine woman. Thus thought Theodelinda; and in her mind she
was already rocking on the waves like Melusina, and floating
through the air in a feathery robe.

She longed to make an impression on the water-sprite. Therefore,
after a few preliminary remarks, she took the little red book out
of her bosom and began to read her poetry.

For some time the water-sprite listened and murmured words of
appreciation. But suddenly he jumped up and exclaimed: “Gracious
goodness! I had almost forgotten that I was invited by the wild
huntsman and Lady Holle to a card party. I beg you to excuse me.”
Having spoken these words, he rushed out of the house.

Theodelinda looked out, surprised, at the door through which he
had fled. But the little forest people clapped their hands and
cried joyfully: “You have done well; you have done well! You must
have a present as a reward.”

And one of the little women went to a chest, took a skein of blue
yarn out of it, and handed it to the poetess with these words:
“ Take good care of it; there is a blessing with it.”

Theodelinda did not know what to make of it all.

Vexed at the behavior of the water-sprite, and tired from the
day’s exertion, she begged her to show her to a sleeping-place.
The little women heaped up a bed of leaves for her. Then she lay
down and fell asleep.

When she awoke, she was lying on the edge of the wood, under the
twin pines. The cool morning wind was blowing through the tops of
the trees and playing with Theodelinda’s bread-colored locks.

“So I have been dreaming,” she said to her self, “and slept all
night in the woods.” She felt in the place where she was
accustomed to put away her red book, but the book was gone. She
jumped up in alarm, and then a great skein of blue yarn rolled
out of her lap on the ground. So it wasn’t a dream, after all.

She hunted for her red book, but it had disappeared forever.
Chilly, and out of sorts, she tried to reach home as soon as
possible, to recover from her adventure in the forest. It ended
in a hard cold.

While Theodelinda was shut up in her room on account of her
indisposition, she wrote her poetry from memory in a new book.
The little forest women had taken the old one away from her,
while she slept, in order to use the blossoms of Theodelinda’s
mind as effectual weapons against the water-sprite’s
obtrusiveness. Indeed, that put an end to his visits, and soon
after he married the daughter of a nixie of good family.

But the blue skein of yarn which the little forest folk had given
the poetess as a present, was no ordinary skein; unwind as much
of it as you pleased, you would never come to the end.

And Miss Theodelinda knit stocking after stocking, and made
verses at the same time; and when she went along the street, the
people said, “Here comes the blue-stocking.”

THE ASS’S SPRING

In a green valley, shut in by steep heights, a cool, abundant
spring, called the Ass’s Well, has its source. The spring is
inclosed, and covered over with a canopy, on the top of which
turns a tin ass as weather vane.

Every morning in summer there stand by the edge of the well, pale
young ladies from the city, who, under the care of anxious
mothers and protecting aunts, drink the cold water from handsome
mugs. City gentlemen, too, visit the spring, and indeed not only
the sickly ones, but also healthy youths with brown faces, and
bold-twisted mustaches. A warrior, gray with age, who for thirty
years had come and gone with the swallows; a poetical,
incomprehensible young ]lady, with long, straw-colored curls; a
mysterious widow in deep mourning; a prestigiator, who is
especially sought after in rainy weather, and who makes money
vanish and guesses drawn cards;— all these characters are to be
found at the ass’s well, and therefore there is no lack of what
belongs to a so-called “summer resort.” But wait! we had almost
forgotten the most important feature, the landlady of the Golden
Goose. She rules with unlimited power, cooks well, and treats
high and low with an honest brusqueness which to the city people
is as refreshing as May dew.

There is great difference of opinion about the origin of the name
the well bears. Some say that a thirsty ass disclosed the spring
by pawing with his hoofs. Others claim that the well is so called
because its waters, like ass’s milk, are beneficial to feeble
constitutions. But both opinions are at fault. This will become
clear as daylight to all who read this story to the end.

Many, many years ago, when the mightiest tree in the forest was
still a germ sleeping in a brown acorn, nothing was known of the
healing power of the future Ass’s Well. The visitors who came to
its brink were the beasts of the forest or grazing cattle, and
deer; wood-cutters, huntsmen and charcoal-burners; and men
praised the cool water, and the beasts did the same after their
own fashion.

One day two stood by the well,— one on this side, the other on
that. He was an ass, and she was a goose, both in the first bloom
of youth. They greeted each other silently, and quenched their
thirst. Then the ass drew near to the goose, and asked bashfully,
“ Young lady, may I accompany you?”

She nodded, and would gladly have blushed, but this she was
unable to do, and they went together through the meadow and
talked about the weather. They had gone quite a distance, when
the ass stood still and asked, “Young lady, whither does your way lead?”

The goose looked sadly at her companion askance, and said
quietly, “How do I know? Oh, I am the most unfortunate creature
under the sun!” And as the ass questioned her further, and urged
her to pour out her heart, she related the story of her life.

“I am called Alheid,” said the goose, “and am of good family. My
ancestor was one of the sacred geese that saved the capital. You
know the story, young gentleman?”

The ass said hesitatingly, ‘Ye-es.” He had really never heard of
the Story, but he did not wish to grieve the goose.

“Another of my maternal ancestors,” continued Alheid, “was on
friendly terms with Saint Martin. She is said, according to the
sad legend, to have given her life for him. But I will not dwell
on the history of my ancestors, but tell you about myself. I came
to the light of the world, together with eleven brothers and
sisters, and, indeed, on a farm, where my mother as a brooding
goose lived a life appropriate to her station. I was my mother’s
pet, for in our family the youngest child is always the most talented.”

“Just as it is in ours,” remarked the ass.

“I will pass over the years of my childhood,” continued the
goose, “the happy plays in the village pond and in the lake of
the castle garden, where, in the company of the young swans, I
acquired that elegance of motion for which I have been so often
admired. I had long before shed the yellow down of youth and had
blossomed into the prime of life. Then, one day there appeared on
the farm a man, who had a very hooked nose; his temples were
adorned on the right and on the left with two shiny black curls,
and over his shoulder hung a pack. The farmer’s wife and the
maids flocked around him, and looked with longing eyes at the
blight-colored ribbons and cloths which he took out of his bag.
To make a long story short, I was caught, and with my feet and
wings bound I was given over to the stranger, who took me in
exchange for a blue handkerchief decorated with red roses. Now
came melancholy days. I was shut up in a narrow coop, and given
balls of barley flour to fatten me. With horror I noticed that my
circumference increased from day to day, and even my grief over
my wretched plight was unable to arrest the evil.”

Here the ass cast a look at his companion’s figure, and swore
that he never had seen a more elegant goose. With a look of
thankfulness at the ass, Alheid continued:—

“Last night — I shudder to think of it — I heard woeful cries of
agony, which evidently came from the throat of one of my
fellow-prisoners. I saw two eyes shine in the moonlight, and
heard the death-rattle. A fox or a polecat must have broken into
the coop. Fear lent me strength. I forced myself through the bars
of my prison and escaped. I was saved. My wings bore me to this
valley; and now I shall try to prolong my life as a wild goose,
until winter comes, when I shall, perhaps, find a modest position
as snow goose.”

Alheid sighed deeply, and then was silent.

“My fate,” said the ass, “is similar to yours, Miss Alheid. Look
at the black cross which decorates my shoulder; that will tell
you all. I am of the race of the sacred ass of Jerusalem, and
Baldwin is my name. My pedigree goes back to Noah’s ark. Balaam’s
ass, and the ass with whose jawbone Samson slew two thousand
Philistines are my ancestors. The one of my ancestors who died
like a philosopher between two bundles of hay, I will only
mention incidently; nor will I dwell on the worthiest of my
high-aspiring forefathers, who founded the collateral branch of
mules. My parents were convent people, and bore pious monks on
their errands of charity. My older brothers and sisters became
lay brethren; but the fathers sold me to the convent miller, and
I, a sacred ass, saw myself compelled by rough men to carry
contemptible meal sacks. For a long time I suffered in silent
submission. But one night, when the cruelty of a rough miller’s
boy drove me to desperation, I burst my fetters, and came to this
peaceful forest valley, where I found you by the cool well, most
charming Alheid. Here I think I shall remain for the present, and
lead the contemplative life of a wild ass.”

So the ass and the goose both remained in the meadow valley. They
dwelt apart from each other, as it became them, but they saw each
other and talked together daily, and at last one could no longer
live without the other. They were happy and sad at the same time;
happy, because they loved and found love in return; sad, because
they saw that they could never belong to one another.

“Oh! why was I born a goose!” bewailed Alheid; and Baldwin, the
ass, sighed, “If I were a bird!” and he knew, too, what kind of a
bird he would be.

Thus weeks passed by. The ass grew perceptibly thin, although
there was no lack of nourishing food in the meadow valley; and
the goose lost the red color from her bill, and her eyes became dull.

Now, there lived in the forest, in a hollow stone, an owl, who
was the most clever female anywhere about, and the beasts often
went to her for advice. The ass told her his distress, and when
the owl had heard his story, she said: “ That I cannot help. But
wait till Midsummer. Then the wise Wish-Lady comes to the well in
the meadow valley to bathe. Confide to her your trouble. Perhaps
she will help you, and change your form; she is a powerful magician.’’

Then the ass went away half consoled. On Midsummer eve, when
Alheid, the goose, had sought her resting-place, he concealed
himself near the spring to wait for the Wish-Lady.

She did not keep him waiting long. She came flying along in her
dress of swan’s feathers, threw aside the downy garment, and
bathed her white limbs in the cool spring. The ass waited with an
ass’s patience until she came out of the water; and when she had
sat down on a stone and was combing her hair, then Baldwin
stepped up to her, beat his fore-hoof three times as a greeting,
and begged the Wish-Lady, piteously, to change him to a gander.

The enchantress shook her head. “That is a strange wish,” she
thought, “but I can fulfill it and I will.

And she whispered in the ear of the ass, who listened
attentively: “Early to-morrow morning, at sunrise, pick seven
goose-berry blossoms [1] and eat them silently, then plunge your
head in the well, and you will be changed to a fine gander. And
now go your way, and leave me alone.”

//[1] In the German ganse-blume (literally goose-flower), the
ox-eyed daisy.//

The ass thanked her heartily, and went away. He never closed his
eyes all night, and as soon as the mountain-tops began to grow
red, he was up on his feet and away to look for the seven
goose-berry blossoms. Then he hurried to the spring, and plunged
his head in, and when he drew it out again, to his delight, he
saw in the mirror of the water the picture of a handsome gander
with a beautifully curved neck.

As fast as he could go, he hurried to the thicket where the goose
had taken up her abode. “Alheid, my beloved Alheid!” he cried,
“ where art thou ?”

“Here, my dearest, sounded from the thicket, and a pretty little
she-ass came dancing out of the bushes.

The lovers looked at each other, dumb with amazement.

“Oh, what an ass I am!” sighed the gander.

“Oh, what a goose I am!” groaned the ass.

Then a hot torrent of tears poured from their eyes; and in the
midst of her weeping Alheid told how she had followed the advice
of the owl, and sought the Wish-Lady, who had granted her
request, and changed her to a jenny. Hereupon the gander, between
heavy sobs, gave his experience, and the Midsummer sun never
shone on two more wretched creatures than our two lovers.

Time heals all things. Calm endurance took the place of
uncontrollable anguish. One hope was left to the pair. Perhaps
the Wish-Lady, on her next visit to the spring, would restore one
of the lovers to the original form. But before that a whole year
must pass. Patience, then, patience! So Baldwin and Alheid again
lived together like brother and sister.

After much distress and danger, which the winter brought to the
two anchorites, spring appeared in the land; the sun mounted
higher and higher, and at last Midsummer eve had come.

With beating hearts the lovers this time went together to the
well, and stated their case to the Wish-Lady.

“This is a bad affair,” said the enchantress. “I cannot change
either of you back again, however willing I may be to grant you
the favor. But I will make you a proposition. How would it do if
you became human beings? Out of an ass and a goose it would not
be difficult to make a youth and a maiden: that I can do. Would
that please you ?”

“Yes,” cried Baldwin and Alheid with one voice.

The Wish-Lady murmured a charm, and told them both to plunge
their heads in the well. They obeyed, and when they took them out
again Baldwin had became a sturdy young man with an extremely
good-natured face, and opposite him stood a charming little woman
with a prettily arched, rosy mouth, and languishing eyes.

And they fell down at the Wish-Lady’s feet and gratefully kissed
her hands, and then they kissed each others’ lips and whispered
words of love in each others’ ears. But the Wish-Lady, noticing
that her presence was superfluous, wrapped herself in her dress
of feathers and flew away.

The two young people remained in the meadow valley. Baldwin built
a house, and in it they passed a happy life; and each year a
little child was given them, sometimes a boy and sometimes a girl.

In the neighboring villages nobody suspected that Baldwin had
been an ass, and Alheid a goose, for they were as sensible as
other human beings. They did not make a great noise about the
history of their transformation, as it would have prejudiced them
in the eyes of the people. But when they were about to die they
intrusted it as a secret to their eldest son, and it was he who
named the house “The Golden Goose,” and the spring “The Ass’s
Well,” as they are still called at the present day.

How the healing power of the waters was discovered, and how life
gradually came to the remote forest valley, are very fully
described in a book which the landlady sells to the guests who
use the waters.

The Wish-Lady has for a long time stayed away, probably because
it is too noisy for her in the valley. But even at the present
time it happens that almost every year some young pair is seen at
the spring, who seem as well adapted to each other as the heroes
of our story.

THE TALKATIVE HOUSE-KEY

THIS is what happens when one spends his whole summer spinning
yarns and meddles with kobolds, pixies, and beasts that talk.

A sedate man who restrains his fancy judiciously could never have
met with the adventure which I experienced the other day, and
will relate as follows:—

I had returned to the city from my summer vacation, and had
already spent two or three days wandering about the streets in
search of a dwelling-place suited to my needs. For urgent reasons
I did not make the most splendid quarter the province of my
research, but that part of the city in whose narrow alleys the
so-called poor people fight the battle of existence. Why the
street in which I at last found what I was looking for was called
Heaven’s Gate I have not been able to discover. Towards the east
it ran into Butcher Street, where bloody calves and pale pigs
hung from iron hooks, and towards the west the Gate led into the
so-called Jews’ Square, which was no paradise either.

My attention was drawn to a little pasteboard card fastened to an
arched door which was painted green. “Furnished room in the
fourth story, to let to a single gentleman,” it said. I looked at
the house. It had been freshly painted; and behind the windows
could be seen white curtains and red pinks. The door was
decorated with two brass lions’ heads, which looked as amiable as
two serene poodles; and above the door the metal number of the
house — 9 — the number of the muses, — greeted my eyes. I rang
the bell.

An elderly woman, neatly attired, opened the door, asked
courteously what I wished, and when I had told her my errand,
took me up four dark and rather steep flights of stairs to
inspect the room which was to let. Having reached the top, she
opened the door and let me step into the room. It was what I
needed,— a small room, clean and airy, and high above the
dampness and noise of the street, with an outlook on a maze of
roofs, over which wandered a variety of cats with their elegant
gait; above, the gleaming chimney swallows sailed through the
blue air, and in the distance was the reticulated spire of the cathedral.

The rent was soon agreed upon, and through our mutual
representations I learned that my present landlady herself was no
less than the owner of the house, and the wife of a shoemaker,
who worked on the first floor. I took my luggage from the hotel,
and an hour later I was on the point of settling myself
comfortably in my new quarters. My effects were soon unpacked and
disposed of. The one table which the room contained was
appropriated as a writing-desk and placed near the window. The
inkstand was freshly filled, and everything was in order.

“Now, Lady Muse, you may pay me a visit as soon as you wish!” I
cried out. Then the door opened; but it was not the muse who
entered, but the lady of the house.

“I had almost forgotten it,” she said, laughing, and held the
latch-key towards me. She wiped it carefully on her apron,
although it was of polished steel, looked at it almost tenderly,
and handed it to me. “If it could talk!” she added, and then I
was alone with the latch-key.

It was a strong old fellow. But no! that is not the proper
expression; it had rather the appearance of a worthy patriarch;
its ward was carefully hollowed out, and the handle was so large
that one could put his whole hand through it. I allotted the key
its place on a nail, and sat down to write, to inform those
persons who took an interest in me of my present place of abode.

A week later I was, so to speak, in the traces; my day’s work was
laid out. The morning I spent at the city library, the larger
part of the rest of the day in my watch-tower at No. 9 Heaven’s
Gate. I should have liked to pass my evenings at the Green
Hedgehog, where, according to the report of several reliable
gentlemen, whose acquaintance I had made, an excellent native
wine was on draught; but the cruelly low state of my finances
confined me to my tea-urn, which my landlady filled with water
every evening, and kept very bright and clean.

The first of the next month brought me a modest income; and, as
soon as it grew dark, I took the house-key with me, and with a
look of disdain at the tea-urn left the house to seek the Green
Hedgehog. The wine was really not bad, and the conversation as
good as it can be only in a circle of young men who are trying to
forget in a strong drink the burden and care of the day, and the
rebuke of the night before.

I came home in high spirits, and rather late, and considering my
cheerful frame of mind, nobody would think it strange that while
I was undressing I sang the old student’s song:

“At my lodgings I’ve studied the whole forenoon.”

Then all of a sudden it seemed to me as if a deep bass voice
joined in my song, and when I looked around in alarm, I saw to my
greatest amazement that my house-key was swinging on its nail
like a pendulum, and I distinctly heard it humming, “I’ll not
stir an inch from this place till the watchman cries twelve in my
face.— Juvivallerala!”

I stood still in astonishment. Nothing like it had ever happened
to me before.

“House-key, old fellow,” I cried, “what is the matter with you?”

“I have no objection,” answered the housekey, “to your
familiarity, although you are only a lodger, and not the owner of
the house; but if you address me so, then you must allow me the
same privilege.”

“Willingly; but tell me first of all—”

“How I came to have the power of speech? That I will tell you by
and by, for I hope we shall be together a long time yet. So in
the mean time accept the feet as it is and do not rack your
brains unnecessarily about it. In the next place, accept my
thanks for having taken me with you to the tavern. You cannot
believe how much good it does an old house-key, who has not
crossed his own threshold for a whole year, to breathe once more
the air of an inn.”

Here the key began to swing like a pendulum again, and hummed at
the same time, “Straight from the tavern I am coming.”

I could not yet become accustomed to the miracle, and for the
sake of saying something, I said, “You seem to be well versed in
drinking songs.”

“So I think,” answered the key. “Shall I perhaps sing you a
‘ Gaudeamus igitur,’ or, ‘The professor gives no lecture to-day’?”

“Let it be till another time. Singing might wake up the neighbors.”

“Very well,” continued the talkative housekey, “then we will chat
together. You are not sleepy yet? Shall I tell you to whom I am
indebted for all my merry drinking-songs? Oh, those were fine times!”

The house-key paused as if he were rummaging in the bottom of his memory.

“I propose,” he then continued, “that you lie down and put out
the light. I can tell the story better in the dark.”

And I did as he wished.

“I have never seen a handsomer youth,” began the narrator, “than
the one I am now going to tell you about. Everybody liked him,
and so did I, although through him I have often been placed in a
very awkward position. At that time he was a boy of about ten
years, and looked roguishly out of a pair of large brown eyes. I
was in the service of his parents, but had not yet come in
contact with the merry Willie. So I was all the more delighted
when the little fellow took me down one day from the nail, put me
in his pocket and carried me out-doors. When we reached the city
park he took me out and showed me to some boys who were his
playfellows. The oldest one turned me over and over, looked into
my mouth, and pronounced me fit to be used. For what purpose I
learned soon enough. The boy took a file out of his pocket and
began to rasp me, so that sight and hearing left me. When he had
made a deep wound in me, he poured a black powder inside me and
placed a wad of paper on top.”

“Aha!” said I, interrupting the narrator, “so you became a key-pistol.”

“Yes, a key-pistol. I, the house-key of house No. 9 Heaven’s
Gate. But,—

His days indeed are wisely spent,
Who with his station is content;

and I determined to do honor to mine. Without trembling I awaited
the burning slow-match, and —crack!— flew the charge out of my
mouth, so that the sparrows in the park flew off, seized with
sudden fright.

“The crowd of boys too fled in alarm, but the cause of their
sudden fright was not myself, but a man, who wore a blue coat
with brass buttons, and on his white belt a sword. Unnoticed he
had emerged from behind the elder-bushes, and with the cry, ‘I’ve
got you, you rascals!’ he made a dash at the boys. To be sure, he
didn’t get near them, for they had already reached a place of
safety, but I, the innocent one, was seized and taken away.

“ ‘Farewell, No. 9 Heaven’s Gate,’ I sighed; and in my mind I
already saw myself amongst old iron, in the company of bent nails
and rusty stove doors. But it was to be otherwise. As soon as
Willie’s father missed me, he began to search for me everywhere,
and the one who alone could give information of my whereabouts
judiciously held his peace; so the anxious man, fearing that I
might have been taken for criminal purposes, immediately went to
the police, to report the case.

“The joy which I felt when the police officer, with a mild smile,
asked my master if I were the missing key, and the face Willie’s
father made when he learned how I had come into the hands of the
police, I am unable to describe in words. I was returned to my
rightful owner, and carried home in his coat pocket, after he had
paid a dollar as a fine for forbidden shooting within the city
limits. The unpleasant scene between father and son, which
concluded the adventure, I will pass over in silence. The wound
which the boys gave me, when they made a key-pistol out of me,
was healed by a locksmith. If you examine me carefully to-morrow,
you will detect, an inch above my handle, a reddish scar. I am
not ashamed of it.”

The house-key paused a moment, as if to get his breath, and then continued:—

“My friend Willie now seemed to avoid me studiously. At first,
after the occurrence I have just told you of, he looked at me
slyly, and then he ceased to look at me at all. Thus passed
several years. Willie had become a handsome, slender youth, and
his mother told him so every day. He already had a tobacco-pipe
with bright-colored tassels, and he filled it from his father’s
tobacco pouch when his father’s back was turned. Sometimes he
came home late in the evening with a heated brain, and then his
father would scold, and his mother had great difficulty in
defending her son.

“One evening Willie stayed out excessively late, and his father
stormed worse than ever. ‘I’ll let the young scapegrace see how
he gets into the house,’ said he, finally, in great anger, and he
locked the front door himself, laid me under his pillow, and went
to sleep. But his mother was awake. She cautiously drew me out
from beneath the bolster, and tied me up carefully in a
handkerchief. Then she placed herself by the window to wait, and
when about midnight Willie came creeping along, she dropped me
down on the street. Her son seized me, and after fumbling about
some time for the key-hole, opened the door, and when he had
given me back to his anxious mother, groped his way along to his
chamber. How his father was pacified the next morning I do not remember.

“Again some time passed by, and then came a festal day. The
father himself gave me over to his son,— who was now called a
student and wore a red cap,— and made a long speech, which he
ended by saying that Willie must always show himself worthy of
me. The son thanked him with emotion and received me with beaming
eyes. I once heard that the king bestows golden keys upon people
of high rank, and that this is a great honor; but I can hardly
believe that one of them ever experienced so great joy at this
distinction as my Willie felt when he put me in his pocket.

“The day when the key was given over was followed by the merriest
night which I ever spent, and it will live in my memory till I
have crumbled away to rust. He who was now my owner carried me to
the rooms of the club of which he was to become a member. Ah,
then there was a high old time! Gay carousers with bright-colored
caps and belts, waiting-maids with white aprons and black eyes,
full mugs and drinking-horns, shining rapiers, merry songs,
jollity and noise till morning light.”

“I know all about that, house-key. I know all about that.”

“The merriest of them all was my Willie. He was so delighted at
having possession of me that he gave his companions a keg of the
best beer; and the knowledge that, as owner of a housekey, he was
admitted to the circle of free and independent men, made him very
bold towards the brown-haired Toni. When Willie reached Heaven’s
Gate the sun was already up, and the door of house No. 9 had just
been unfastened. The first time that I was at Willie’s disposal
he had no need of me.

“Now began the merriest time of my life. Many similar evenings
followed this first one like the beads of a rosary. In the mean
time there were drives, torchlight processions, drinking-parties,
and many merry college tricks; and I was always present, for the
advice of the philosopher,

The crafty tippler his house-key takes
At early morn when he awakes,

was wisely followed by my master. Moreover, that as academical
house-key I did not let the time pass unemployed I have already
given you proof.

“ Under the circumstances, any share in the events of my master’s
life was a passive one. Oh, if I had never left the roll of a
spectator! That unfortunate moment when I became active in the
course of events was the cause of everlasting separation from my
Willie. I will be brief, for the pain of recollection forbids me
any flowers of speech. Besides, it is late in the night, and you
will want to go to sleep.

“My friend Willie had gone with his companions to a village, and
there the young men were having a good time over their glasses,
laughing, shouting, and singing. But not far from the table where
the students were drinking, a crowd of journeymen mechanics,
rough, but strong men, had sat down.

“I do not know whether it is how as it was then. At that time,
whenever students and mechanics, whom we collegians called
‘ snags,’ met, they began to banter each other. But this time it
soon grew into a quarrel, and it was my master who, by singing
the song, ‘God bless you, brother bristler,’ commenced
hostilities. At first, insulting words passed back and forth;
later on, beer mugs, and other things that happened to be at
hand; and when these missiles gave out, they seized sticks and
the legs of chairs. How the unlucky thought of using me as a
weapon came into my owner’s head, I do not know; I only know that
I did great mischief in the young fellow’s hand. But let us draw
the curtain over this unprofitable scene.

“After that day I found myself once more in the hands of justice,
and had a fine Latin name given to me, which has escaped my memory.”

“Probably it was corpus delicti, was it not?”

“Quite right!” cried the house-key with delight. “As corpus
delicti I was put with the reports, but my poor young friend sat
in a narrow room, whose doors were bolted outside and the windows
furnished with iron gratings. People call it a prison.”

“I know all about that, too, house-key.”

“So much the better, as it will save me from going into details.
But give me your attention a few minutes longer. I am almost at
the end. The affair in which we were concerned turned out very
badly. Willie was expelled; and when he had paid his fine, left
the city. To be sure, I went back to my home; but my merry life
was all over. Sad at heart, I spent my days on a nail in a dark
corner; and what I learned from time to time about my darling
from his parents’ conversation did not help to lessen my sadness.
Trouble gnawed at the hearts of the two old people and rust
gnawed at mine. It was a lucky day for me that a change soon took
place in my circumstances. Willie’s parents sold the house — it
was said, to pay their son’s debts — and I passed into other
hands, — hands which cleaned away the rust from me, and by
repeated oilings restored my lost virtues.

“I have never heard a word about Willie’s parents; but himself I
have seen once since then, and this meeting I will tell you about
to-morrow. For the present, good night.”

“Good night, house-key! “

On the following morning, when I awoke somewhat later than usual,
my house-key was hanging silently on its nail, and to my
fainthearted“good morning” gave no reply. “Probably,” I thought,
“ he speaks only at midnight; or, still more probably, it was all
a dream.” The last supposition seemed to me more and more likely,
in proportion as sleep left my limbs. “How can one dream such
foolish stuff!” I said to myself; “the home-made wine and the gay
conversation of last evening were to blame for it.” I dressed
myself and went to my daily work, which, like yesterday, I
crowned with a visit to the Green Hedgehog.

“Now we shall soon see whether I was dreaming or not,” I said, as
I returned to my room towards midnight. “How are you, old housekey?”

“Thank you for the kind inquiry; very well,” sounded the answer.
“ I am always feeling well when I have breathed the fragrance of wine.”

So it was a fact, and no dream. I opened the window and put my
head out. A falling star made a bright arch in the sky, and
across from the cathedral sounded the striking of bells. I pulled
my ear. No, I was not dreaming. I really possessed a talking house-key.

“May I talk with you again a little while?” he asked courteously.

“Nothing would please me better,” I replied, politely put out the
light, and stretched myself at full length on my bed.

“About two years after the event I last described,” began the
key, “I was in the service of a man who had this very room which
you now occupy, and who, like you, lived by writing. He was not
very old then, but his thin hair was already turning gray, and
gray was also the color of his wrinkled face. It seemed to be his
favorite color, for he usually wore gray clothes too, and even
gray spectacles; gray dust lay on his books, and gray ink flowed
from his pen on grayish paper.

“This man possessed the faculty of seeing the imperfections of
anything at the first glance. When he took me for the first time
in his hand he immediately spied the scar which I carry as a
remembrance of the time when I served as a key-pistol. ‘Patched!’
he said, with a spiteful laugh, and pushed me away from him. When
the morning sun looked in at the window to greet him, he spoke of
sun-spots; when the moon rose in the evening above the gabled
roof, he would say, ‘She has neither air nor water’; and if he
went out into the park in May-time, he did not see the young
leaves and the white blossoms, but only the caterpillars on them.

“There was a good reason for the gray man’s bitter manners. He
had made a compact with Gallus, the ink-devil, who all day long
sat in a great dust-covered inkstand and came out at night to
squat on the paper-weight and help his master write. But the
suggestions of a wicked ink-devil are not as sweet as honey. The
gray man was a so-called critic. Do you know what that is?”

“I know what it is; go on, house-key, go on!”

“My owner seldom made use of me. The crabbed man never went into
gay company, therefore he often visited the theatre, and then he
took me with him, so I am under some obligation to him for
enlarging my knowledge. To be sure, he seldom remained long, but
usually left the house soon after the first act, which in no way
prevented him from criticising the rest.

“One evening he took me - as it seemed to me, with an uncanny
laugh — from the nail, examined my mouth, put me in his pocket,
and went out of the house. By the direction which we took, and
the length of the way, I concluded that the gray man was going to
a theatre in the suburbs; and so he was. He went in and took a
seat. They were tuning the instruments in the orchestra; the
doors of the boxes slammed; a humming sound gave reason to
conclude that the house was filling up; the music began; the
curtain rose, and the play commenced. I could only follow it
intelligently with my ears, for my seat was in my master’s dark
coat pocket, and the opera glass, which repelled all my attempts
to get nearer with haughty silence, was often the object of my
envy. To-day the play was to be a play for me in the true sense
of the word, for my master took me out of my dark dungeon and
allowed me a look at the audience and the stage.

“Saint Florian! what did I see! On the front of the stage, near
the lights, stood a slender young man, in picturesque costume,
and with very red cheeks and coal-black, artificial curls. It was
Willie, my own never to-be-forgotten Willie. Now he ran both
hands through his hair, rolled his eyes like two fire-wheels, and
cried: ‘Wretches! wretches! false, hypocritical crocodiles! Your
eyes are water - your hearts brass! Kisses on your lips — swords
in your bosoms!’

“Then the gray man put me to his lower lip, and drew from me the
shrillest sound, which went to the bottom of my soul. And as if
the whistle which shrieked through the house had been a
preconcerted sign, there arose all at once such a fiendish uproar
as I never heard before. There was whistling, hissing, stamping
of feet, thumping of canes, laughing, and screaming, till the
walls and ceiling shook. I saw my old friend stagger and beat his
forehead with his doubled fist. Then the curtain fell. It was the
last time that I ever saw my poor Willie. And I have never been
able to learn what became of him. Good night.”

“Good night, old fellow.”

Man can accustom himself to anything, even to a talking key. On
the following evening it seemed quite natural to expect a little
gossip from the house-key before going to sleep, and my friend
did not keep me waiting long.

“Do you know,” he began, “that this afternoon, instead of
remaining at your work, you spent two hours looking out the window?”

“Was it really two hours, house-key? Well, you see, I was tired
of working; besides, the closeness of the room and the fresh air outside—”

“And the little seamstress in the attic room across the way,”
interrupted the house-key; “well, well, don’t be angry. I am not
going to preach you a sermon. You are old enough to know what to
do and what not to do. But the sight of the neat, flaxen-haired
person, plying her needle so industriously, brought to my mind an
old story, which I would like to tell you.”

“Let me hear it,” I implored, and the housekey began:—

“Years ago there lived in this house a seamstress, who was not
unlike your opposite neighbor. She was a very young thing, and as
pretty as a picture; besides, she was as busy as a bee, and merry
as a crested lark in May. And she sang like a lark while at her
work, and lovely songs, such as, for example, ‘Enjoy life while
the light is still burning,’ ‘Three knights came riding through
the gate,’ and ‘Early in the morn a little maid arose.’
Altogether, it was rather noisy in the house at that time, for,
besides little Lizzie, there were half a dozen other
seamstresses, fair-haired and dark, good and bad. They were
employed by a large woman with false curls and a well-oiled
tongue that went all day like a millclapper.

“The poor things had to work busily, for their employer kept a
sharp watch over their fingers. But she did not treat the young
people altogether badly, and what at first struck me as strange
was the strictness with which she watched over the young girls’
conduct. Indeed, evil tongues were of the opinion that this
happened more from jealousy than from motherly anxiety, and at
last I almost came to think so too.

“At that time, just as now, there was a shoemaker’s shop on the
ground floor; and I soon found out that the brown-haired foreman
had his eye on little Lizzie. In spite of all madam’s
watchfulness, it occasionally happened that the two young people
met on the steps. At such times the shoemaker usually said: ‘Fine
Weather to-day, little miss’; and Lizzie would reply, ‘Yes, very
fine weather’; and then she would slip quickly past him like a
shrew-mouse. My place was then on a nail out in the hall, and
thus it happened that I could overlook the doorsteps. One morning
— it was Lizzie’s birthday — I saw the shoemaker creep up the
stairs in the early dawn, before anybody was awake, and lay
something gently on the floor before the young girl’s door.
People in love are wont to leave flowers at such a time. But the
foreman’s gift was not of that kind, but a pair of dainty,
high-heeled shoes of polished leather, of which a princess might
have been proud. Fortunately, the little maiden discovered them
in safety before anybody else had seen them. How delighted she
was! The shoes fitted perfectly, and the shoemaker had never
taken her measure.’’

Here the house-key paused, and I concluded that he had reached a
change in affairs.

“A short time after,” the key went on to say, “the stout woman
who employed the seamstresses received a visit from a young man
of distinguished bearing, who ordered a large quantity of fine
linen. The visit was repeated a day or two later, and then
oftener, and I soon knew that the young count, for such he was,
came to the house on account of little Lizzie. Probably he had
made her acquaintance sometime when she was out for a walk, for I
noticed particularly that she already knew him, I discovered too,
to my disappointment, that she was not indifferent to him; and
what disturbed me most was the fact that the madam this time
seemed to be blind.

“But the shoemaker on the ground floor was not blind. Whenever
the count entered the house, the poor fellow would hammer away as
fiercely at his boot-sole as if he had his favored rival under
his hand.

“The last day of the year had come. On New Year’s eve the
seamstresses were regularly invited to take punch with their
employer; and so they were this time. In the course of the
afternoon the count had been there, and had spoken in a low voice
with little Lizzie in the hall, and I had heard their conversation.

“The evening came, and soon the company were sitting around the
big bowl of fragrant drink, and consuming great mountains of
cake. I, too, was there, and was a person of no small importance.
The maidens were going to pour lead, and one of them thought that
the melted metal ought to be dropped through a church key, to
make the charm effective. For want of a church key they had
selected me, and I think, myself, without boasting, that I am
about as good as a church key. What do you think?”

“You are the most dignified key I have ever met,” I replied.

“Thank you,” said the key, somewhat affected. “But let me go on.

“The lead was brought; it was lead from a church window. They
melted it in an iron spoon, and then one after another poured the
hot metal through my ring into a bowl filled with water. This
caused much fun and laughter. Little Lizzie, too, who had sat the
whole evening silent and absorbed, took the spoon and poured the
lead. ‘A shoemaker’s chair!’ cried one of the maidens, laughing.
‘ No, a count’s crown!’ said a second, making up a scornful face.

“Whereupon another play was begun, in which I was also used. They
fastened me to a thread and suspended me in an empty glass. Then
some one would ask a question, and if I struck against the glass
once, they understood the answer to be yes, and if more than
once, no.

“Thus the time passed till midnight. The bells were striking
twelve from the tower; the company wished one another a Happy New
Year, and then each of the young girls went to her room. In the
midst of breaking up no attention was paid to me, and nobody saw
that little Lizzie seized me, and hid me in her pocket.

“When she reached her room she took a ball of yarn from her
work-basket and tied the end of it, with trembling fingers, to my
handle. Her heart was beating loudly.

“‘Wait,’ she said softly to herself; ‘I will first ask Fate
whether I ought to do it or not.’ She placed a glass on the table
and suspended me in it by the thread. ‘Yes or no ?’ she asked
with quivering voice.

“If I had possessed the gift of human speech then, I should
surely have made use of it to give her some good advice; but I
had to see in silence what danger the poor child was in. ‘No,’
thought I, ‘she must be warned.’ I made myself as heavy as I
possibly could, and - crack - crack! - the thread had given way,
and the glass was broken to pieces.

“The maiden grew deathly pale, and shook from head to foot.
Trembling, she gathered up the fragments; then she knelt down and
prayed a long, long time.

“After that she was calm. She put out the light and went to bed.
After a while footsteps were heard in front of the house, and a
low whistle. Lizzie did not move, but buried her little head in
her pillow. But I saw, sitting at the sleeping maiden’s head the
whole night long, a little angel, who had two wings and carried a
lily in his hand.”

“That sounds improbable, house-key.”

“Improbable?” returned the house-key, grieved.

“Is it not far more improbable that a house-key should tell you a story?”

Nothing could be said against that, and I thought it advisable to
keep silent.

“It only remains now for me to tell you,” my friend continued,
“ that the old woman who lets this room to you is none other than
the little Lizzie of that time, and that her husband, the old,
white-haired shoemaker, is the same one who placed a pair of
high-heeled shoes in front of the little seamstress’ door.

“And to-morrow,” the key went on to say, “when we return from the
Green Hedgehog I will tell you how I came by the ability to
express myself in human speech. That is the most wonderful story
of all.”

“To-morrow, dear house-key,” I said, with a sigh, “we shall
hardly visit the Green Hedgehog; but I will listen with pleasure
to your gossip, over a cup of tea.”

“Over a cup of tea?” asked the house-key, drawling his words.
“ No, my friend, that would not do. Know that I only talk when I
have spent the evening at the tavern.”

“Then I must wait patiently till the first of next month,” I
replied, disheartened.

The house-key muttered something I could not understand, in his
beard. A happy thought came to me.

“Do you know what, old friend!” I said; “I will, of course with
your permission, put the stories you have told me on paper, and
send the manuscript to a man who prints such things. Perhaps,
next month, we can have one or two evenings more at the Green Hedgehog.”

“Do it,” said the house-key.

THE FORGOTTEN BELL

MANY, many years ago there was a pious hermit. He had turned his
back on the world, and had built a hermitage in a green meadow,
which lay in the midst of the forest; and the peasants of the
neighboring villages and farms had helped him diligently in the
building and furnishing of his hut. Next the hermit’s dwelling
stood a chapel with a doleful Madonna; and above it, under a
little roof, hung a small bell, which the solitary man was
accustomed to ring at certain hours, and this was his most
important work of the day; the rest of the time he spent in
prayer and pious reflection. His thirst he quenched at a cool
fountain, which sprang up out of the black-wood earth, not far
from the hermitage; but he satisfied his hunger with the fruit of
the forest and the food which the faithful peasant women brought
to him.

In this way the pious man lived for a long succession of years.
Then he laid himself down on his bed of straw, wrapped himself up
closely in his cowl, and died. Many tears were shed at his
burial, and the sobbing women said, “Such a hermit as he was we
shall never have again.” And in this respect they were quite right.

It happened that soon after the hermit’s decease another came,
who established himself in the deserted hermitage; and he pleased
the women quite well, for he was young in years and had a pair of
eyes as black as coals. But the new hermit was an eyesore to the
men; why, it was never exactly known. In short, the peasants
collected together one day, seized the recluse, and conducted him
to the highway. And the hermit turned his back to the thankless
fellows, and was seen no more in that region.

>From that time the hermitage stood desolate, and only
occasionally did a roving huntsman, or a maiden with her jug,
turn their footsteps towards the deserted house to draw
refreshment from the well near by. Brown wood-moss grew
luxuriantly on the thatched roof of the hermitage, and brambles
and clematis grew round the door and windows. In the deceased
hermit’s straw bed the field-mice were rearing their young, and
in the chapel the red-tail had built her nest. The forest, with
its creatures, was gradually taking possession again of the
ground which man had taken away from it.

Spring was about to make her appearance, and the earth was
getting ready for the Easter festival. With damp wings the
thawing wind came flying across the sea, shook the trees and
threw the fir-cones and dead branches on the ground. The springs
and brooks murmured louder, and ran more swiftly on their winding
way. The tips of the snowdrops and anemones peeped stealthily up
out of the ground in the woods, and the showy laurel put on its
red silk gown. Then came the hoopoo bird with his bright-colored
crest and announced the coming of the cuckoo. And the briers
shook off their last dry leaves and stood with their buds swollen
with sap, waiting patiently for the awakening call of Spring.

The little bell in the ruined forest chapel saw with sorrow how
everything was preparing for the feast of the Resurrection. In
former years, when the sound of the bells trembled through the
air at the happy Easter-tide, she, too, had lifted her voice and
sung in the chorus of the proud sisters in the church towers. But
that time was long ago. Since the old hermit was buried, no hand
had pulled the rope at Easter-tide; silent and forgotten hung the
bell beneath her little roof, and for a bell nothing is harder
than to be obliged to keep silent at the feast of the Resurrection.

Passion week had come. On Wednesday the hare came bounding out of
the forest. He stopped in front of the chapel, stood on his hind
legs, and called up to the bell, “If you have anything to be done
in the city, tell me, for I am on my way there. I have been
appointed Easter hare, and have my paws full, and so much
business to attend to that I don’t know which end my head is on.”
The sorrowful bell kept silent, and the hare ran on.

The next night there was a mighty roaring in the air. The roses
crouched down in the underbrush, for they thought it was the
night huntsman passing through the forest. But it was not the
forest fiend, but the bells, on their way to Rome to obtain the
blessing of the Pope.

The bell from the convent on the mountain came over to the forest
chapel, and stopped for a moment.

“How is it, sister,” she asked the forgotten bell, “that you are
not going, too?”

“Ah, I would gladly go,” lamented the little bell. “But I have
been idle the whole year long, therefore I dare not go with you.
Still, if you will do me a favor, say a good word to the holy
father in Rome for me. Perhaps he will send some one to ring me
on Easter Sunday. It is so melancholy to have to be silent when
all of you are singing. Will you do me the kindness?”

The convent bell mumbled something like “non possumus.” Then she
arose, like a great, clumsy bird, from the ground, and flew after
the others. And the forgotten bell remained sadly behind.

“Be thankful that human beings leave you in peace,” said the
forest owl to the bell. “The stupid beasts in the woods
understand nothing about your ringing, and it disturbs me in my
meditation. But you are not entirely forsaken, for I am going to
build my nest near you. And you will gain much by it, for I am a
man from whom you can learn a great deal.” Thus spoke the owl,
and puffed himself up. But the bell gave him no answer.

Easter morning dawned. Twilight still lingered over the village,
and the mist stretched over the mountain slope. A cool wind blew
through the branches of the trees, stirred the white May lilies,
and rustled through the dry reeds, so that it sounded like the
low tones of a harp. Then the mountain tops grew red, and the
firs creaked and shook their branches, as if they were just
awaking from sleep. The sun rose and scattered gold over the tips
of the fir-trees, and the wood birds flapped their wings, raised
their voices, and sang their Easter songs. But the forgotten bell
hung sad and silent under the roof in the chapel.

At the same hour a young man was walking along the highway which
led through the forest. He wore a huntsman’s leather jacket and a
gray hawk’s feather in his hat. By his left side hung a broad
hunting-knife, with a handle of a stag’s horn; but instead of
fire-arms, he carried a heavily packed knapsack of badger’s skin.
This and a cane of buckthorn with iron mountings, which he swung
in his right hand, led one to suppose that the huntsman was not
after game, but was making a journey; and so it was.

At the place where a path which led to a mill struck off from the
road, the young fellow stopped, and seemed undecided whether to
keep on the road or to take the meadow path. But he did not
linger long. He cast a gloomy look in the direction of the mill,
threw his head back haughtily, and gave a hunting-cry that made
the fir-woods resound. Then as he went along, he sang:—

“Farewell, green jocund forest home!
Thee must I leave behind me,
Throughout the weary world to roam
Till Fortune’s favors find me.
As hunter lad
My joy I’ve had
The noble stag in chasing;
But now my way
Leads to the fray
Where death I shall be facing.

“A gray hawk sat upon the height,
Enchained by evil magic;
In sadness pined he day and night,
His mood was grim and tragic.
He would exchange
For freedom’s range
The forests’ wide dominions;
On high, on high,
Thou wild bird, fly,
And spread thy noble pinions.”

But the last words stuck in the young man’s throat, and the
half-suppressed sigh at the end ill accorded with the huntsman’s
joyous manner.

Suddenly the youth left the broad road, and went diagonally
through the forest, straight to the deserted hermitage. By the
spring, which had its source near the house he stopped, bent
down, and filled a wooden cup with the cool water. He drank it
slowly, and sprinkled the last drops on the moss. “Well,” he
said, “now it is all over.”

The water was clear and cold, but it could not cool the hot blood
of the one who drank it. The young huntsman sat down on the
threshold of the hermitage and covered his face with both hands.

The summer before, after a long absence, he had returned to the
country, and entered the service of the old forester. He had seen
something of the world; in the emperor’s hunting-train, he had
chased the chamois and the steinboc in the high mountains; he had
followed his master to the merry hunting-boxes and to the
splendid residence in the capital; and everywhere he had carried
with him his love for the miller’s fairhaired daughter in his
native valley. He had come back with a generous sum of money and
many sweet hopes, but they had melted away to nothing, and now he
was on the point of leaving the country and enlisting as a soldier.

It was near the hermitage in the forest where he had found his
sweetheart for the first time after their separation. She had
come to draw water; and when the hunter recognized the beautiful,
slender form, as she bent over the well, his joy was so great
that he leaped from his hiding-place with a wild shout, and threw
his arms around the frightened maiden. But she had pushed him
roughly away from her, so that he fell backwards, and then she
turned her back and went away.

Later on, the huntsman had tried once more to approach the
miller’s daughter. It was at the time of the harvest festival,
when young and old march in bands to the dancing-ground. There
the huntsman had waylaid the beautiful girl, and had come to meet
her with a friendly greeting and a bouquet of clove pinks. But
when she saw the youth coming towards her, she had turned around
and gone back to the mill, and the hunter, in his anger, had
thrown the bunch of pinks into the mill brook. The coy maid had
fished the flowers out of the water near the dam, dried them, and
laid them away in her chest, but he knew nothing about that.

Then perversity came over the huntsman. “If you go to the left, I
will go to the right,” he thought; and lest she might imagine
that he took the matter to heart, he joined a company of gay
fellows, drank, sang, and carried on so madly that the wild youth
was in everybody’s mouth for seven miles around.

That went on through the whole winter. Then one evening a bright
light, which took the form of a sword, was seen in the sky, and
shortly after the news came that in the spring there would be war
in Italy. It was not long before the beating of drums was heard
in the land, and the roads swarmed with travelling people, who
were all going to join the imperial army. Then the huntsman gave
notice that he was going to leave the forester’s service, gave
his drinking-companions a generous parting cup, and followed the
rest, to forget on the field his sorrow and distress. And he had
already really come as far as the hermitage in the forest. He was
now sitting on the door-stone, sadly hanging his head.

A soft, distant rustling in the underbrush fell on the young
fellow’s sharp ear. The huntsman was awake in him, and his sharp
eye looked about for the cause of the sound. But it was no
shifting game that was coming through the bushes. Between the
trunks of the fir-trees gleamed something light, like a woman’s
garments, and the hunter slipped noiselessly, but with
loud-beating heart, behind the wall of the house, for through the
forest came walking her whom he would fain forget, but could not forget.

The maiden came slowly nearer. Now and then she bent down to add
a flower to the nosegay which she carried in her hand, and each
time her long flaxen braids would fall forward and touch the
ground. When she reached the well, she filled a little earthen
jug with the water and placed the nosegay in it. Then she went
into the chapel, placed the flowers before the image of the
Virgin, and knelt down on the moss-covered step.

In a low voice she repeated the angel’s greeting, and then began
to pour out her heart to the queen of heaven. It was a prayer
full of self-accusation and repentance. “I have driven him from
me,” she bemoaned, “driven him out into danger and death, and yet
I love him so! more dearly than the light of my eyes! Still there
is time to change everything by a word of reconciliation, if I
knew that he still loved me. Easter is the time of miracles. Give
me, oh, heaven, a sign, if he still thinks of me lovingly and
faithfully, and I will run after him to the end of the world, and
bring him back. Give me a sign!”

Then above her softly sounded the bell. It was only a single
tone, but it rang through the heart of the grieved maiden like a
joyful song of jubilee. She lifted her eyes and looked up
questioningly at the Madonna. Then the bell sounded for the
second time, and louder and more joyful, and when the maiden
turned, there stood in the entrance of the chapel the young
huntsman, stretching out his arms to his beloved. And this time
she did not run away. She threw her arms about the wild hunter’s
sun-burned neck, and stammered words of love.

The titmice, and the golden-crested wrens which lived in the
branches of the fir-trees, fluttered along, and the wood-mouse
put his head out at the door of his house, and everything looked
curiously at the pair in the chapel.

The two remained in each others’ embrace for a long time. Then
the huntsman grasped the rope of the bell and called up to it:
“ Bell, you have brought us together; now tell our joy to the
forest!” And the little bell under the chapel roof began to gleam
with joy in the warm sunshine, and swing tirelessly to and fro
and let her clear voice sound through the forest.

>From the towers in the surrounding villages came the sounds of
famous church bells. They had returned the night before from
their visit to Rome, and had seen many wonderful sights. But not
one of them sang her Easter song so joyfully as the little
forgotten bell in the forest.

THE WATER OF YOUTH.

IT was Midsummer day and the heat of noon lay on the cornfields.
Occasionally a fresh breeze blew down from the forest mountain;
then the stalks would bend low, and the poppies on the border of
the field would scatter their delicate petals. Crickets and
grasshoppers made music in the grain, and from the hawthorn
bushes on the boundary line came now and then the low call of the
yellow-hammer.

Through the cornfield, which stretched from the valley to the
mountain, along a narrow path a young peasant woman of slender,
vigorous form, was walking. She wore the full gown customary in
the country, and a red kerchief on her head to protect her from
the sun’s rays; a basket hung on her left arm, and in her right
hand she carried a stone jug.

As soon as the gold-hammer in the hawthorn bush saw her he flew
to the topmost bough and greeted her with the cry, “Little girl,
little girl, how are you!” But the bird was mistaken; the
fair-haired Greta was no maiden, but a young wife, and she was
now on her way to her husband, who was cutting wood over in the forest.

When the beautiful woman reached the edge of the woods she
stopped to listen, and soon she heard the blows of an axe,
towards which she was to turn her steps. It was not long before
she caught sight of her husband, who was felling a fir-tree with
mighty strokes, and she called to him in a joyful voice.

“Stand still, where you are!” he shouted back; “the tree is going
to fall.” And the fir-tree gave a deep groan, bent forward, and
fell to the ground with a crash.

Then Greta came along, and the sun-burned wood-cutter took his
young wife in his arms and kissed her fondly. Then they sat down
on the trunk of a tree and took out the lunch that she had
brought in the basket. Then Hans laid down his bread, seized his
axe, saying, “I have forgotten something,” and went to the stump
of the tree he had just felled, and cut three crosses in the wood.

“Why do you do that, Hans?” asked his wife.

“That is for the sake of the little old women of the forest,” the
husband explained. “The poor little creatures have a wicked
enemy, the wild huntsman. He lies in wait for them day and night,
and hunts them with his dogs. But if the persecuted little women
can escape to such a tree trunk, then the wild huntsman can do
them no harm, on account of the three crosses.”

The young wife opened her eyes wide. “Have you ever seen one of
these little forest folk?” she asked, with curiosity.

“No; they seldom let themselves be seen. But this is Midsummer
day, and then they are visible.” And suddenly he called out in a
clear voice into the forest, “Little forest woman, come forth!”

He had only done it to tease his wife. But on holy Midsummer day
one should not make sport of such things in the forest.

Suddenly there stood before the young people a little woman about
an ell high, of dainty form and beautiful face. She wore a long
white dress, and a bunch of mistletoe in her yellow hair.

Hans and Greta were very much startled. They rose quickly from
their seat, and Greta made a courtesy as well as she knew how.

“You called me at just the right time,” said the little creature,
and pointed with her forefinger at the sun, which stood exactly
over her head; “and one good turn”— here she pointed to the stump
with the three marks — “deserves another. Gold and silver have I
none to give you, but I know something better. Come with me; no
harm will happen to you; and take your jug with you; you will be
able to use it.”

Having spoken these words, she went on. Hans shouldered his axe,
Greta took up her stone jug, and both followed the little woman.
But she walked exactly like a duck, and Greta pulled her
husband’s arm, pointed to the little waddling woman, and was
going to whisper something in his ear, but Hans laid his finger
on his mouth. Nothing hurts the little creatures more than to
have their gait made fun of. They have feet like a goose, and
that is why they wear long, flowing skirts.

After a short time, the three came to an open place in the woods.
Primeval trees stood in a circle around a meadow, in the grass
grew lilies and bluebells, and great butterflies sat on them,
opening and shutting their wings. And Hans, who thought he knew
the whole forest, could not remember that he had ever been in
this place before. On the border of the meadow stood a little
house. The walls were covered with bark, and the roof was
shingled with scales of fir cones, and each scale was fastened
down with a rose-thorn. Here was the little woman’s home.

She led her guests behind the house, and pointed to a well whose
waters flowed noiselessly out of the black earth. Juicy
colt’s-foot and fleur-de-lis grew on its brink, and over the
surface danced golden-green dragon-flies.

“That is the well of youth,” said the little woman. “A bath in
its waters makes an old man a boy and an old woman a young girl
again. But if one drinks the water, it prevents him from growing
old, and grants him the freshness of youth till death. Fill your
jug and carry it home. But use the precious water sparingly: one
drop every Sunday is sufficient to keep you young. And one thing
more: if ever you, Hans, cast your eye on any other woman, or
you, Greta, on any other man, the water will lose its power.
Remember that. Now fill your jug, and farewell!”

The little creature spoke these words, prevented the lucky pair
from thanking her, and went into her house. But Greta filled the
jug with the water of youth, and then hurried away, as fast as
she could go, to her own cottage.

When they reached home, Hans put the water in a bottle, and
sealed it with fir-resin. “For the present,” he said, “we have no
use for the water of youth, and we can save it; the time will
come soon enough when we shall need it.” And then they put the
bottle in the cupboard, where they kept their treasures,— a pair
of old coins, a string of garnet beads from which hung a golden
penny, and two silver spoons. “But, Greta, now be sure and take
care that the water does not lose its strength!”

And what care they took! If the young forester passed by the
garden, and exchanged a greeting with Greta, as he was accustomed
to do, then Greta did not look up from her vegetable bed. And
when Hans sat in the White Stag in the evening, and the pretty
Lizzie brought him the wine, he made up a face like a cat when it
thunders; and at last he gave up going to the inn, and stayed at
home with his wife. So the water must surely keep its magic power.

Thus passed a year of love and happiness to the young pair; for
instead of two there were three of them. In the cradle a little
round boy was kicking and screaming, till the father’s heart
leaped for joy. “Now,” he thought, “the time has come for opening
the bottle. What do you think, Greta? A drop of the water of
youth will do you good.”

His wife agreed with him, and Hans went to the room where the
magic drink was kept. With his hands trembling for joy, he broke
the seal, and — oh dear! oh dear! the bottle slipped from his
grasp, and the drink of youth flowed over the floor. A little
more and Hans would have fallen on the floor, too, for he was so
frightened at the misfortune. What should he do? On no account
should his wife know what had happened; she might die from
fright. Perhaps he would tell her later what he had done;
perhaps, too, he might find the well of youth again, — which, to
be sure, he had sought for hitherto in vain, — and repair the
loss. He hastily filled a new bottle, which was exactly like the
first, with well-water; and well-water it was too that he gave to
his wife.

“Ah, how that revives and strengthens me!” said Greta. “Take a
drop too, dear Hans.” And Hans obeyed, and praised the virtue of
the wonderful drink; and from that time on they each took a drop
when the bells were ringing for church. And Greta bloomed like a
rose; as for Hans, every vein in his body swelled with health and
strength. But he put off the confession of his deed from day to
day; for he secretly hoped to find the well of youth again at
last. But roam through the woods as much as he would, the meadow
where the little old woman lived he could not find.

Thus two years more passed by. A little girl had come to join the
little boy, and Greta’s round chin had grown double. She did not
notice it herself, for looking-glasses were not known in those
days. Hans saw it, to be sure, but he took care not to speak of
it, and his love for his portly wife redoubled.

Then came a misfortune; at least, Dame Greta considered it so.
One day, when she was cleaning house, little Peter, her eldest,
got into the cupboard, where the bottle of the supposed water of
youth stood, clumsily upset it, so that it broke and spilled the contents.

“Oh, merciful heavens!” bewailed the mother. “It is lucky,
though, that Hans is not at home!” With trembling hands she
gathered up the pieces from the floor, and replaced the bottle
with another, which she filled with ordinary water. —”The
deception will surely be found out, for now it is all over with
the eternal youth. Oh dear, oh dear!”— But she determined, above
all, not to let her husband notice anything unusual.

Again some time passed by, and the two people lived together the
same as on the day that the priest joined their hands together.
Each carefully avoided letting the other notice that youth was
past, and every Sunday they conscientiously took the magic drop.

One morning, when the husband was combing his hair, it happened
that he came across a gray hair. And he thought, “Now the time
has come for me to tell my wife the truth.” With a heavy heart he
began: “Greta, it seems to me that our water of youth has lost
its power. See! I have found a gray hair. I am growing old.”

Greta was startled; but she recovered herself, and, with a forced
laugh, cried: “A gray hair! I was no more than ten years old when
I had a gray lock in my hair. Such a thing often happens. You
have just been cleaning a badger; perhaps you got some of the fat
in your hair; badger’s fat is known to turn the hair gray. No,
dear Hans, the water still has its old power, or,”— here she gave
him an anxious look —”or do you think that I am growing old too?”

Then Hans laughed outright. “You — old ? You are as blooming as a
peony!” And then he threw his arms around her big waist and gave
her a kiss. But when he was by himself he said with secret
delight, “Thank the Lord! She doesn’t notice that we are growing
old. So I must have done right.”

And his wife thought the same thing.

On the evening of the same day the young people of the village
danced to the fiddle of a travelling musician, and no merrier
couple turned about the linden-tree than Hans and Greta. The
peasant women, to be sure, made sarcastic remarks about them, but
the two happy people heard none of their ridicule.

In the following autumn it happened, as Hans was eating a
Martinmas goose with his family, Dame Greta broke out one of her
teeth. Then there was a great lament, for she had been proud of
her white teeth. And when the husband and wife were alone
together, Greta said in an unsteady voice, “Such a misfortune
would not have happened if the water—”

Then Hans began to scold. “You expect the water to help
everything? Doesn’t it often happen that a child, in cracking a
nut, breaks out a tooth? What have you against the delicious
water? Are you not as fresh and healthy as a young head of
lettuce? Or have you cast your eyes on another, that you mistrust
the water’s virtue?”

Then his wife laughed, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and
kissed her old man till he nearly lost his breath. In the
afternoon they sat together on the stone seat in front of the
house, and sang duets about true love, and the passersby said,
“ The silly old people!” but the happy pair did not hear them.

Thus passed many years. The house had become too small for the
children; they had married and gone away, and had children of
their own. The two old people were alone again, and were as much
in love with each other as on the day of their wedding; and every
Sunday, when the bells were ringing for church, they each took
one drop out of the bottle.

Midsummer day was drawing near again. The evening before, Hans
and Greta were sitting in front of the house, looking up towards
the hill where the Midsummer bonfire was blazing; and from the
distance sounded the merry shouts of the young men and maidens,
as they poked the fire and jumped through the flames in couples.
Then the wife said, “Dear Hans, I should like to go into the
forest once more. If you are willing, we will start early
to-morrow morning. But you must waken me, for, at the time when
the elderberries bloom, young women are apt to sleep long after daylight.”

Hans was agreed. The next morning he woke his wife and they went
together to the woods. They walked along arm in arm, like two
lovers, and each carefully guarded the steps of the other.

When Hans stepped cautiously over the root of a tree, his wife
would say, “Oh, Hans, you jump like a young kid!” And when Greta
timidly crossed a little hole, her husband would laugh, and cry,
“ Hold up your skirts, Greta! hop!” Then they found an old
fir-tree, and in its shadow feasted on what Greta had brought
with her.

“Here it was,” said Hans, “that the little old woman once
appeared to us, and over yonder must lie the meadow with the well
of youth. But I have never been able to find meadow or well again.”

“And, thank the Lord, that has not been necessary,” hastily
interrupted Greta, “for our bottle is still far from empty.”

“To be sure, to be sure,” assented Hans. “But I should be very
much pleased if we could see the good little woman once again and
thank her for our good fortune. Come, let us go and look. Perhaps
I may be as lucky to-day as before.”

Then they rose and went into the deep forest, and behold! after a
quarter of an hour, before their eyes shone the sunny forest
meadow! Lilies and harebells bloomed in the grass, bright
butterflies flew hither and thither, and on the edge of the woods
still stood the little house just as years before. With beating
hearts they went round the house, and sure enough, there was the
well of youth too, with the golden-green dragonflies hovering
over it.

Hans and Greta stepped up to the brink of the well. Taking each
other by the hand, they bent over the water — and out of the
clear mirror of the spring, two gray heads, with kindly, wrinkled
faces, looked back at them.

Then hot tears rushed to their eyes, and stammering and sobbing
they confessed their guilt, and it was some time before it became
clear to them that each had deceived the other, and for long
years had cheated one another for love’s sake.

“Then you knew that we were both growing old?” cried Hans, with delight.

“To be sure, to be sure,” said his wife, laughing in the midst of
her tears.

“And so did I,” exulted the old Hans; and he tried to leap for
joy. Then he took Greta’s head in his hands and kissed her just
as he had done when she promised to be his wife.

And, as if she had grown up out of the ground, the little forest
woman stood before the two old people.

“Be welcome!” she said. “You have not been to see me for a long
time. But, but,” continued the little woman, shaking her finger
at them, “you have not taken good care of the water of youth.
Wrinkles and gray hairs, indeed! Now,” she continued,
consolingly, “those are easily remedied, and you have come at a
propitious hour. Quick! Jump into the well — it is not deep — and
plunge your gray heads under, then you will see a miracle. The
bath will give you the strength of youth and beauty again. But be
quick, before the sun goes down!”

Hans and Greta looked at each other inquiringly. “Will you?”
asked the husband in an unsteady voice.

“Never!” quickly answered Greta. “Oh, if you only knew how happy
I am, that at last I may dare to be old. And then it would not
do, on account of our children and grandchildren. No, dear little
woman; a thousand thanks for your kindness, but we will remain as
we are. Is it not so, Hans?”

“Yes,” replied Hans; “we will remain old. Hurrah! If you knew,
Greta, how becoming your gray hair is!”

“As you like,” said the little creature, a bit hurt. “Nothing is
compulsory here.” Thus she spoke, and went into her house and
closed the door behind her.

But the two old people kissed each other again. Then they went
arm in arm on their homeward way through the forest, and the
midsummer sun poured a golden gleam about their gray heads.

THE FOUR EVANGELISTS

HIS name was Gustavus Adolphus, and he was the son of the
clock-maker Lacknail, who led a modest life in a little town.
Gustavus Adolphus wished to become a clergyman, and had begun
very early to devote his services to the church: he rang the
bells on Sunday; at first the little ones, and then afterwards,
when he became strong enough, the large ones; and when the
congregation found edification in singing, he blew the organ with
holy zeal, till the perspiration rolled down over his forehead.
Then, too, he buried the dead bodies of pet birds and rabbits
under the cabbage-heads in his parents’ vegetable garden, and
preached such touching discourses over them that tears came into
the eyes of the listening washerwomen, who were working by the
brook which flowed past.

At school, he was frankly none of the best. He was thick-headed,
and learned but slowly how to read, write, and reckon; but the
catechism he had at his tongue’s end, and he knew a little trick,
too; that is, he could repeat “Our Father,” as rapidly backwards
as forwards, and none of his schoolmates could emulate him in
that. Besides, Gustavus Adolphus was no devotee, nor hypocrite,
but he was a good-natured, honest fellow, whom everybody could endure.

Whenever the boy spoke in the presence of his parents of wishing
to become a clergyman, his father would knit his brows, not
because he was opposed to the calling as such, but because in
consideration of his modest income he feared the expense of such
an education. But his mother smiled with delight at the thought
of seeing her son one day in the pulpit, and when the principal
of the town school once told her plainly that Gustavus Adolphus
was of too limited capacity to be able to study, she went away
indignant, and would not believe it.

But the matter had one difficulty. Gustavus Adolphus had what is
called a stammering tongue, and could not pronounce certain
letters well; for example, R and S gave him great trouble. One
day he read in his reading-book of the celebrated orator
Demosthenes, who had to contend with a similar impediment, and he
at once determined to imitate him. Like him, he no longer cut his
hair, but went every day to the roaring mill-dam and declaimed in
a loud voice, “John the silly soap-suds stirrer.”

Indeed, his indefatigable perseverance would have surely made him
a pulpit orator, if Providence had not frustrated his plans. His
mother, who till now had taken his part, laid her down and died.
His father spoke the word of command, and Gustavus Adolphus
entered his father’s workshop as a clock-maker’s apprentice.
There the poor young fellow had to sit, with shaded eyes, and was
obliged to clean and oil the clocks of his fellow-townsmen; and,
in his opinion, there was no more unfortunate creature to be
found on God’s earth than Gustavus Adolphus Lacknail.

Time heals all things. He learned to become resigned; and when
the winding of the clock in the church tower was intrusted to
him, he was half reconciled to his fate.

The years passed away one after another. Gustavus Adolphus had
served his time and went out as a journeyman. But he did not go
beyond the next town, and returned home as soon as the required
term had expired. For a year or two he worked on as his father’s
assistant; then his father departed this life, and he was master
in the business, and the business prospered.

Soon after, the place of sexton in the town church was vacated.
To the astonishment of all the inhabitants Gustavus Adolphus
sought the position, and obtained it, too. Evil tongues said that
a contemptible love of gain lead the wealthy man to this step;
but when it became known that the new church sexton had made over
his salary to the poor-house, then the slanderers were silent,
and Gustavus Adolphus’ reputation grew like the crescent moon.
The pastor brought it about that Mr. Lacknail received the title
of “assistant.” This sounded better than “sexton.”

Henceforth Gustavus Adolphus was never seen in public except in a
long black coat, which he wore buttoned up to the neck; above the
collar, however, appeared a modest white cravat, and above this a
round, smoothly shaven face, about whose mouth constantly played
a kindly smile.

Gustavus Adolphus was reconciled to his fate. The dreams of his
boyhood years were not fulfilled, to be sure; he was not the
first person in the church, but unquestionably the second; for
the organist, to whom this rank properly belonged, took his drams
secretly, and on this account did not stand well in the community.

That the new assistant, soon after entering his office, should
wed a Christian maiden seemed sensible to the people; but when,
after a year and a day, he stood beaming with joy by the
baptismal font, over which was held a little screaming Lacknail,
then they all shook their heads, and the pastor as well, for the
happy father, disregarding all the customary baptismal names, had
chosen the name of Matthew for his first-born. Gustavus paid no
heed to the people’s talk, and took great delight in the little
Matthew’s growth.

Again joy entered the house of Mr. Lacknail; a second son was
born to him; and when the pastor asked by what name the child
should be baptized, the father said, proudly smiling, “Mark.”
Then it was evident what Mr. Lacknail was striving after; and he
did not deny it; he had no other intention than to surround
himself with the four evangelists.

Really, Heaven seemed to favor the honest man’s intention, for
after a year and a half a struggling Luke joined Matthew and
Mark; and, moreover, a year later Mr. Lacknail dared to hope that
he should shortly reach the goal of his desires. But who would
have thought the expected child capable of such wickedness! It
came, came in good time; but it came into the world a maiden.

Then was Gustavus Adolphus very much grieved. At first he was
angry with Providence, and would not even look at the child,— it
bore the name of Elizabeth,— but then he scolded himself severely
for his ingratitude, behaved henceforth towards the little one as
it became a father and a servant of the church, and placed his
hopes on the next child. But this was still worse than the last —
that is, it stayed away entirely. One year passed after another;
Matthew, Mark, and Luke grew to sturdy lads, and the coming of
the fourth evangelist, John, was still looked forward to.

Then a consuming malady came to the little town, and among others
Mrs. Lacknail fell a victim to it. When the year of mourning was
over, the widower thought seriously of marrying again, that he
might possibly yet possess a John; but the children dissuaded him
from his intention, and Gustavus Adolphus remained a widower.

The young Lacknails prospered. Matthew was already studying, and
what else but theology; Mark went to the seminary; Luke worked in
his father’s workshop; and Elizabeth kept the house. She was a
beautiful, slender maiden, with a fresh, round face, and thick,
blonde braids; and when Lacknail, now advancing in life, looked
at her, he smiled, and laughed to himself. He had a design for
his daughter, but he did not say what it was.

At that time the handsomest young man in the town and country
round was head-waiter in the inn of the Wild Man. His name was
“ Jean,” but they pronounced it “Zhang.” To the affability which
graces the brotherhood of waiters he united the polite manners of
a diplomatist; he wore his blonde beard like the captain of a
ship, and his curly hair was parted evenly from his forehead to
the nape of his neck. Besides, he always wore snow-white linen,
very conspicuous cuffs, and shirt-studs of aluminum as large as a
dollar. Indeed, he was a splendid young man. Then, too, it was
rumored about in the town that he rejoiced in a pretty little
property, and that he intended sometime to purchase the Wild Man.
So it really was not to be wondered at that the hearts of the
townspeople’s daughters beat more loudly when the handsome Jean
greeted them as he passed by.

Just as skilful as the young man was in going about with plates
and glasses, just so unskillful he had been for some time in
handling his watch. Hardly a week passed that his chronometer did
not need the help of Mr. Lacknail; sometimes the crystal was
cracked, sometimes the spring was broken. Then Jean always took
care to give the patient with his own hands to the physician, and
when discharged well, to take it promptly away again; and in
coming and going it seldom failed to happen that the kitchen door
opened a little, and in the crack appeared a pretty maiden’s
head, which nodded sweetly, and then disappeared.

On fine Sundays, when the afternoon service was over, Mr.
Lacknail was wont to take a walk with his daughter to the
so-called huntsman’s house, where the people of the town amused
themselves by playing ninepins. Mr. Lacknail never played, for he
did not think it consistent with his position; but he was not
averse to a good drink of beer, especially if it was seasoned
with sensible conversation, and this seasoning for some weeks had
been supplied by Jean, the head-waiter. What a cultivated young
man he was, and what a knowledge he had of the world! And
moreover, he was a proper, steady man, and went regularly to
church on Sundays, and carried a gilt-edged singing-book in his hand.

The fair-haired Elizabeth grew happier each day, and sang at her
work like a sky-lark. But her father became more and more silent
and thoughtful.

And it happened one Sunday about noon, that the handsome Jean
turned his steps towards Mr. Lacknail’s house. He was dressed in
black and had a red pink in his buttonhole, which looked from a
distance like a badge. On his curly head he wore a hat that shone
like a mirror, on his hands straw-colored gloves, and over his
left arm hung a dove-colored overcoat lined with brown silk. And
the people who saw him passing, put their heads together and
said: “Now he is going to propose to Elizabeth. What a lucky girl
she is!”

The people were not mistaken. Jean found the father, who had
already laid aside his official robe, and was smoking his pipe in
a comfortable dressing-gown, alone in the sitting-room. The young
man expressed his desire in appropriate language. He spoke of his
love for Elizabeth, and then dexterously turned the conversation
to the state of his finances. He had already taken a little
package of papers from his breast pocket, when Mr. Lacknail said
in a serious, almost melancholy voice: “Sit down, young man; I
have something to tell you.” And Jean sat down in confusion on
the edge of a chair.

Mr. Lacknail began talking. He expatiated on the dreams of his
youth, and his disappointed hopes, —things which are sufficiently
well known. to us. Then he went on to say:—

“You know, dear Mr. Zhang, that it was my dearest wish to call a
fourth son mine; I should have had him baptized John. Heaven was
not willing; it gave me a daughter instead of the longed-for son.
She is a dear, good child, the joy of my old age, and to see her
happy is my daily prayer. But I made an oath, an oath which now,
since I have made your acquaintance, dear Zhang, I almost regret,
for it separates you and my Elizabeth forever. I have sworn this,
that my daughter shall only marry a man who is named John, and
therefore she can never become the wife of a Zhang.” Having
spoken thus, Mr. Lacknail hung his head sorrowfully.

But Jean jumped up from his seat like a shuttlecock. “And is the
name the only hindrance?” he asked.

“The only one; I swear it to you.”

Jean stood as though he were transfigured. Then he took a paper
out of his breast pocket, unfolded it, and laid it before the old
man. “Read, Mr. Lacknail,” he said, triumphantly.

The latter took the paper in surprise and read, “Sponsor for John
Obermuller—”

He read no further. The paper fell from his hands, and his voice
failed him. “And this John Obermuller?” he asked, finally, in a
trembling voice.

“I am he!” said the happy waiter, exultingly. “Jean and John are
exactly the same.”

“O thou benignant Heaven!” Cried Mr. Lacknail, folding his hands.
“ You have at last sent me a John. But, dear John, what
unchristian tongue has so distorted the beautiful name of the evangelist?”

“That is French,” explained the suitor; “but I promise you
solemnly that in future I will always be called John instead, if
I attain the object of my desires.”

“Give me your hand on it, John,” said Mr. Lacknail. Then he
opened the door and called, “Elizabeth, come in here!” And a few
moments later the two were in each other’s embrace, and the third
was wiping his eyes.

The happiness of the betrothed, the joy of the father when he
went to church with his four evangelists to attend the wedding,
and what followed — all that the reader must picture to himself;
my pen’s not equal to it.

At the present time Mr. John Obermuller is the proprietor of the
inn of the Wild Man, and the plump wife Elizabeth stands
faithfully by his side. They already have two big boys; the
larger one is called Peter, the little one James, and it is said
in the town that the couple have resolved to present the
grandfather by degrees with the twelve apostles.

THE DISAPPOINTED DWARF

WHERE the mountains, even in summer, wear caps of snow, where the
hare in winter puts on a white coat, and the crows have yellow
bills, there grows a beautiful tree called the Siberian pine, and
out of its wood the people on the mountains carve animals, both
wild and domestic, and sell them to the city people for hard cash.

Such a tree, and assuredly a primeval one, stood, and probably
still stands to-day, on a lonely slope, where, in summer,
thousands and thousands of Alpine roses bloom. From its branches
hung long, gray beards of moss, and its mighty roots grasped
weather beaten boulders, between which the narrow entrance to a
cave could be seen. The cave was inhabited, too, but it was
neither a badger nor a bear that dwelt there, but a gnome, a
timid dwarf.

He had seen better days. In the good old times, which even
mountain spirits look back to with regret, he wore a golden
crown, and the name of Laurin, the king of the dwarfs, was known
in Germany and in Italy. The whole range of mountains, with their
underground marvels, was his, and in the upper world he had laid
out a pleasure garden for his enjoyment, where the most glorious
roses shed their perfume, and from the roses hung little golden
bells, which rang sweetly in the wind. But his underground
treasures and his beautiful garden did not satisfy the dwarf. He
yearned for a woman’s love, and, violent as he was, he stole away
the beautiful Similde von Steier, to make her queen of the
dwarfs; and that was his ruin.

Mourning and weeping sat the stolen beauty in the magic castle of
the mountain, and all the jewels which the dwarf laid at her feet
could not turn her thoughts. But it grew still worse. One day
when King Laurin visited his pleasure garden, there arose from
the crushed roses the huge forms of giants in armor, and
Dietleib, poor Similde’s betrothed, and his master, the mighty
Dietrich of Berne, fell upon him with their swords till he lost
sight and hearing. They set free the stolen Similde and took the
dwarf away with them prisoner, and compelled him to serve as
jester at the court of Lombardy for the amusement of his captors.
All this happened many hundred years ago, and stands written in
detail in an ancient book. Later, when everything was topsy-turvy
in Italy, Laurin was released, and ever after he dwelt in the
wilderness, a solitary, embittered, mountain dwarf.

Usually, whenever he slipped out of his cavern, and sat sunning
himself under the Siberian pinetree, he wore his magic cap which
made him invisible, but sometimes he took it off, and thus it
happened that the people on the mountain knew him very well.
Shepherds, root-diggers, huntsmen, and other honest people had
often seen him, as he sat on the mountain-side, and gazed
listlessly into the blue distance. He appeared there like a
little man about an ell high, with wrinkled face and long, gray
beard, and because he generally stayed under the pine-tree, the
people, who knew nothing of his splendid past, called him “Zirbel.”

People tell of kindly gnomes who make presents to poor people of
fir cones or the branches of trees, which afterwards change to
gold. The sullen Zirbel did nothing of that sort, but, on the
other hand, he never played tricks on anybody, but let the people
who passed to and fro in his wilderness go their way unmolested.
And thus many years passed by.

One day Zirbel was lying, as he often did, under his tree,
sunning himself in the morning sunlight, and gazing up at the
circle of white, snow-covered mountains, and the gold cloud-boats
gliding along slowly in the sky.

Two mortals came climbing up the mountain, and the dwarf quickly
put on his magic cap. It was an old peasant with a young,
rosy-cheeked maiden,— father and daughter. Both were heavily
laden, but they walked easily up the mountain under their burdens.

Above the old pine-tree, where there is a hollow place in the
mountain, the old man stopped and said, “Lisi, we will stay
here”; and then he began to fashion a house. He piled up stones,
and out of branches and large pieces of bark, which he broke off
from the fallen, decaying trunks, he built a hut, large enough to
shelter a man from wind and rain. In the mean while the maiden
was not idle, but filled a basket with flowers; these she thought
of selling in the Blue Steinboc down below.

The Blue Steinboc — this was the name of an Alpine inn, which
stood about three miles distant from the pine-tree — was full of
summer visitors, who were enjoying the mountain air and water,
caught trout, and feasted on venison which was really only
mutton. They wore jaunty feathers in their hats, and gave many
bright silver pieces for edelweiss and little twigs of the
sweet-scented rue. The flowers they put in their red
pocket-books, and afterwards, at home, told of the dangers they
experienced in gathering them.

The dwarf regarded the beautiful maiden with satisfaction, and
for the first time in many years a friendly grin passed over his face.

When the sun reached the zenith the old man had finished his
work. He called the maiden, and they two ate the dinner she had
brought with her. Then the beautiful girl departed and went with
her basket down into the valley, while her father stayed behind
and went about his work. He was a pitch-burner by trade, and had
built his hut on the mountain in order to gather the pitch oozing
from the evergreen trees.

The next day the fair-haired Lisi came back again to bring food
to her father and to gather flowers. But Zirbel had stirred the
earth-fires during the night; thousands and thousands of flowers
had sprung up, and now stars and bells fresh with dew adorned the
green pasture in such abundance that the maiden was able to reap
a rich harvest. The dwarf followed closely on her footsteps,
unseen, and took delight in her diligence, often coming so near
her that he might have brushed her flaxen hair with his hand; but
this he did not do lest he should frighten the charming child.
When Lisi went away again, he stood on a rock a long time,
looking after her; then he crept contented into his crevice and
waited with delight for the next morning.

The morning came and the lovely Lisi came too; but with her came
another, a dark lad in hunting-dress; and when Zirbel saw him, he
made up a face as though he had bitten a green crabapple.

The young huntsman had his arm around the lovely girl’s waist,
and in this way they came up to the old man, who was sitting
before his hut, and the old man seemed to approve of their
familiarity, for when they kissed each other he laughed; but
everything turned green and yellow before the dwarf’s eyes. Then
the young people sat down on the trunk of a tree and sang songs
of true love, and the father hummed softly with them, and then
they began to bill and coo again like two pigeons.

These were terrible hours for poor Zirbel, and he would have
liked to come between the pair with thunder and lightning, but he
restrained himself. At last the lovers took their departure and
went away together, while the father stood on the mountain-side
and gazed after them.

Then suddenly there stood before him, as though sprung up out of
the ground, Zirbel, the dwarf. The old man was indeed frightened,
but he collected himself, and took off his hat with a bow and a scrape.

“Do you know me?” asked the dwarf.

“You are none other than Herr Zirbel,” replied the pitch-burner.
“ Pardon me if I do not call you by your right name.”

“Zirbel; yes; that is what they call me. And what is your name?”

“Peter.”

“Well, Master Peter, you have a beautiful daughter—”

“Have you seen her?” interrupted the father with delight.
“ Beautiful she is, and good she is, too; but,” he continued with
a sigh, “poor,— poorer than a church mouse;. and her lover, the
huntsman, has nothing but his strong limbs. — O Herr Zirbel!
Don’t you know some buried treasure or a gold mine or something
else? That would be very convenient for the dowry.”

The dwarf nodded his head emphatically. “Come with me, Master
Peter, if you are not afraid; I will show you something that will
make your mouth water.”

Peter did not have to be asked a second time. He threw his bag
over his shoulder, and with joyful expectation followed Zirbel,
who went on ahead.

At the foot of the old tree the dwarf stopped. “The way is in
through there,” he said, pointing to the entrance of the cavern.
“ Come after me, Master Peter!” Having said this he slipped like a
marmot into the den, and the pitch-burner crept in behind him. At
first the entrance was very narrow, and Peter gave his head a
hard bump twice; but soon the hole grew wider, and after a short
time they reached a high, roomy cave, and it was light here, too,
for blue flames flickered on every side.

“Now just look about you!” commanded the dwarf; and the old man
did as he was told, but it was some time before his eyes became
accustomed to the glittering splendor. A network of threads of
gold covered the walls, and from the ceiling hung points of
silver, wonderfully formed, like stalactites. On the floor of the
cave stood a large copper kettle, filled to the brim with heavy
pieces of silver. Oh, how Peter opened his eyes at this!

But the dwarf began to speak, saying, “All the treasures that you
see hoarded here shall be your daughter’s wedding portion — on
one condition.”

“Let me hear it, Herr Zirbel!” cried the father, wild with delight.

“Your daughter,” said the dwarf impressively, “must give up the
huntsman and—”

“Herr Zirbel, that cannot be.”

“It must be. I will give the huntsman as much silver as he can
carry to compensate him, — such a young fellow will easily
console himself with another pretty girl,— and I will provide
another husband for your daughter. To be plain, Master Peter, I
myself will be your son-in-law. Have you any objection to that?”

The pitch-burner was greatly frightened, but he composed himself;
with rich men and gnomes it is not well to quarrel. “Herr
Zirbel,” he said, “I, for my part, have nothing against you; you
are a man in the prime of life, and are able to take care of a
wife; but — maidens see with different eyes from old graybeards.
Do you understand me?”

But Zirbel went on talking to the old man, and at the same time
scooped up silver pieces out of the kettle, letting them fall
back again like rain, till poor Peter’s head was all in a whirl.
Suddenly a bright thought came to him. He appeared as if he were
going to give his consent, and said artfully:

“Well, Herr Zirbel, I will take you to my daughter. You shall see
her at home, at her work and then, if you still wish to make her
your wife, I will, as her father, say ‘yes and amen,’ and bring
the maiden to you whenever you please. For the huntsman you must
give me as much silver as I can carry away on my back. But if
you, of your own free will, back out of the undertaking, then the
money shall be mine. Here is my bag — if you are agreed allow me
to fill it immediately with your silver.’

Zirbel was highly delighted with this proposition. He shoved the
silver pieces into the bag with his own hands, and on the top he
laid, sparkling bracelet as a bridal gift. Then they crept out
into the daylight again, and Peter shouldered the precious
burden. The dwarf took his future father-in-law by the arm and
walked along beside him.

After they had been gone a good half hour, they came into the
vicinity of the summer resort, the Blue Steinboc. They passed
guide-posts and rustic seats bearing such names as Elsa’s Rest,
Olga’s Seat, Adele’s Hill, and other inscriptions, and suddenly
they saw the bright garments of a woman gleaming through the trees.

“I will make myself invisible,” said Zirbel, putting on his magic
cap. Then both stepped nearer.

The woman’s back was turned towards the wanderers. She was
sitting on a camp-stool, and had a frame before her, such as
Zirbel had never seen before. With curiosity he approached the
lady with his companion, and looked at what she was doing. On a
frame stood a tablet, which she had painted over, green on the
lower part, and blue on the upper part; in the background was
something like a white nightcap; in the foreground a rose-colored
beast with horns and a bell at the neck.

“What is she doing?” asked Zirbel.

“She is painting,” replied Peter. “She paints the mountains, the
trees, animals, and people. Just look at it closely, Herr Zirbel.
That white thing is the mountain yonder with its snow, and the
red beast is a cow.”

Zirbel examined the painting, and shook his big head
thoughtfully; then he said:—

“Master Peter, tell me, pray,
Does Lisi too paint pictures gay?”

And Peter replied:—

“Pictures all the day paints she,
Greener far than celery.”

Then the dwarf muttered something in his beard that Peter did not
understand, and drew his companion away with him.

It was not long before they met a second lady; she was sitting on
a moss-covered rock, and gazing with glassy eyes up at the blue
sky. In her left hand she had a book, on which was written in
golden letters, “Poetry,” and in her right hand she held a
pencil, with which she occasionally wrote something in the book.
After a while she arose and read in a loud voice:—

“Ah, if I were a birdling free,
Ah, if I soared on tiny wing,
Beloved, in my bill I’d bring
A sweet forget-me-not to thee.”

“What is the poor thing trying to do?” asked the dwarf compassionately.

“She is making poetry,” explained Peter. “She is a poetess; that
is, she makes rhymes, writes them in her book, and reads them aloud.”

Then Zirbel whispered anxiously:—

“Master Peter, truly tell,
Does lovely Lisi rhyme as well?”

And Peter replied:—

“When she is tired of painting, ‘tis true
She scribbles rhymes and reads them too.”

“Oh dear!” said Zirbel, with a deep sigh. “Come, let us go
along.” And they went on.

The sun went down to the edge of the mountains, the birds stopped
singing, and through the forest sounded the bells of the
home-returning cattle. Through the fir-trees appeared the
shingled roof of the Blue Steinboc, and from all sides the hungry
guests were hurrying towards the hospitable abode. All of a
sudden, as Peter and his invisible companion came within a few
steps of the house, there sounded through the evening stillness
such a clangorous jangling and drumming that Zirbel started in affright.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the old man, assuringly. “If you get up
on the stone seat and look in at the window, you will see where
the noise comes from.”

The dwarf got up on the bench, and looked into the lighted hall.
“ I see two women,” he said softly, “who are pounding around with
their hands on a chest. Oh, it is horrible to see, and still more
horrible to hear! Tell me, Peter, what it means.”

“What does it mean?” replied the pitchburner. “They are playing
the piano-forte, as it is called.”

Then said Zirbel, in a trembling voice:—

“Master Peter, tell me in short,
Does Lisi play the piano-forte?”

And Peter answered:

“If she can’t paint or rhyme, she’ll play
On her piano the livelong day.”

The dwarf groaned like a falling tree, and became silent.

“Herr Zirbel,” suggested Peter after a while, in a suppressed
voice, “Herr Zirbel, we ought to be going.”

No answer.

The old man felt about in the place where the voice of the
invisible dwarf had last come from, but his hand only grasped the air.

He called louder, “Herr Zirbel, where are you? It will soon be
night, and we have still far to go.”

Then there came a gust of wind from the mountain, and these words
fell on Peter’s ear:—

“Master Peter, the bag is thine,
But you may keep your daughter fine.”

The crafty Peter would have leaped for joy, if the heavy bag of
silver had not prevented him. He waved his hat gratefully in the
direction from which the words had sounded, then he started
along, and hurried as fast as he could towards the valley.

The story is ended, for you can easily imagine what happened
further. The beautiful Lisi kept her huntsman, and if they are
not dead—

But the dwarf Zirbel was unmarried, and remained so to his dying day.

THE EGYPTIAN FIRE-EATER

“NEXT Easter he must go to N—- to school. —Fact.—It is high time;
he is eleven years old, and here he is running wild with the
street-boys.— That’s what I say.”

He, that is, I, hung my head, and I felt more like crying than
laughing. I had passed eleven sumly boyhood years in the little
country town, I stood in high esteem among my playmates, and
would rather be the first in the ranks of my birthplace than
second in the metropolis.

Through the gray mist, which surrounded my near future like a
thick fog, gleamed only one light, but a bright, attractive
light; that was the theatre, the splendor of which I had already
learned to know. The white priests in the “Magic Flute,”
Sarastro’s lions, the fire-spitting serpents, and the gay, merry
Papageno,— such things could not be seen at home; and when my
parents promised me occasional visits to the theatre, as a reward
for diligence in study and exemplary conduct, I left the Eden of
my childhood, half consoled.

Young trees, transplanted at the proper time, soon take root.
After a tearful farewell to my friends and a slight attack of
home-sickness, I was quite content. I was received into the
second class at the gymnasium, and drank eagerly of the fountain
of knowledge; a certain Frau Eberlein, with whom I found board
and lodging, cared for my bodily welfare.

She was a widow, and kept a little store, in which, with the
assistance of a shop-girl, she served customers, who called from
morning to night. She dealt principally in groceries and
vegetables, but besides these, every conceivable thing was found
piled up in her shop: knitting-yarn, sheets of pictures,
slate-pencils, cheese, pen-knives, balls of twine, herring, soap,
buttons, writing-paper, glue, hairpins, cigar-holders, oranges,
fly-poison, brushes, varnish, gingerbread, tin soldiers, corks,
tallow candles, tobacco-pouches, thimbles, gum-balls, and
torpedoes. Besides, she prepared by means of essences, peach
brandy, maraschino, ros solis, and other liqueurs, as well as an
excellent ink, in the manufacture of which I used to help her.
She rejoiced in considerable prosperity, lived well, and did not
let me want for anything.

My passion for the theatre was a source of great anxiety to good
Frau Eberlein. She did not have a very good opinion of the art in
general, but the comedy she despised from the bottom of her
heart. Therefore she made my visiting the theatre as difficult as
possible, and it was only after long discussions, and after the
shop-girl had added her voice, that she would hand over the
necessary amount for purchasing a ticket. The shop-girl was an
oldish person, as thin as a giraffe which had fasted for a long
time, and was very well read. She subscribed regularly to a
popular periodical with the motto, “Culture is freedom,” and Frau
Eberlein was influenced somewhat by her judgment. This
kind-hearted woman was friendly towards me, and as often as her
employer asked, “Is the play a proper one for young people?” she
would answer, “Yes,” and Frau Eberlein would have to let me go.

Those were glorious evenings. Long before it was time for the
play to begin, I was in my seat in the gallery, looking down from
my dizzy height, into the house, still unlighted. Now a servant
comes and lights the lamps in the orchestra. The parquet and the
upper seats fill, but the reserved seats and the boxes are still
empty. Now it suddenly grows light; the chandelier comes down
from an opening in the ceiling. The musicians appear and tune
their instruments. It makes a horrible discord, but still it is
beautiful. The doors slam; handsomely dressed ladies, in white
cloaks gay officers, and civilians in stiff black and white
evening dress take their seats in the boxes. The conductor mounts
his elevated seat and now it begins. The overture is terribly
long, but it comes to an end. Ting-aling-aling, — the curtain
rises. Ah ! —

I soon decided in my own mind that it should be my destiny,
sometime, to delight the audience from the stage, but I was still
undecided whether I would devote myself to the drama or the
opera, for it seemed to me an equally desirable lot to shoot
charmed bullets in “Der Freischutz” or, hidden behind elderberry
bushes, to shoot at tyrannical Geslers in “William Tell.” In the
mean time I learned Tell’s monologue, “Along this narrow path the
man must come,” by heart, and practiced the aria, “Through the
forest, through the meadows.”

Providence seemed to favor my plan, for it led me into all
acquaintance with a certain Lipp, who, on account of his
connections, was in a position to pave my way to the stage.

Lipp was a tall, slender youth, about sixteen years old, with
terribly large feet and hands. He usually wore a very faded,
light-blue coat, the sleeves of which hardly came below his
elbows, and a red vest. He had a rather stooping gait, and a
beaming smile continually played about his mouth. Besides, the
poor fellow was always hungry, and it was this peculiarity which
brought about our acquaintance.

On afternoons when there was no school, and I went out on the
green to play ball with my companions or fly my kite, Frau
Eberlein used to put something to eat in my pocket. Lipp soon
spied it out, and he knew how to get a part, or even the whole of
my luncheon for himself. He would pick up a pebble off the
ground, slip it from one hand to the other several times, then
place one fist above the other, saying:—

“This hand, or that?
Burned is the tail of the cat.
Which do you choose?
Upper or under will lose!”

If I said “upper,” the stone was always in the lower hand, and
vice versa. And Lipp would take my apple from me with a smile,
and devour it as if he were half famished.

Why did I allow it ? In the first place, because Lipp was beyond
me in years and in strength, and in the second place, because he
was the son of a very important personage. His father was nothing
less than the door-keeper of the theatre; a splendid man with a
shining red nose and coal-black beard reaching to his waist. The
wise reader now knows how young Lipp came by a light blue coat
and red vest.

My new friend from his earliest years had been constantly on the
stage. He played the gamin in folk-scenes and the monster in
burlesques. Besides, he was an adept at thunder and lightning; by
means of cracking a whip and the close imitation of the neighing
of horses, he announced the approaching stage-coach; he lighted
the moon in “ Der Freischutz”; and with a kettle and pair of
tongs gave forewarning of the witches’ hour. When I opened my
heart to Lipp and confided to him that I wanted to go on the
stage, he reached out his broad hand to me with emotion and said,
“ And so do I.” Hereupon we swore eternal friendship, and Lipp
promised as soon as possible to procure me an opportunity for
putting my dramatic qualifications to the test. From that hour
his manner changed towards me. Before, he had treated me with
some condescension, but now his behavior towards me was more like
that of a colleague. Moreover, the game of chance for my lunch
came to an end, for from that time forth I shared it with him
like a brother.

The fine fellow kept his promise to make a way for me to go on
the stage. A few evenings later (“Der Freischutz” was being
played) I stood with a beating heart behind the scenes, and
friend Lipp stood by my side. In my hand I held a string, with
which I set the wings of the owl in the wolf’s glen in rhythmic
motion. My companion performed the wild chase. By turns he
whistled through his fingers, cracked a whip, and imitated the
yelping of the hounds. It was awfully fine.

“You did your part splendidly,” said Lipp to me at the end of the
scene; “next time you must go out on the stage.”

I swam in a sea of delight. A short time after, “Preciosa” was
given, and Lipp told me that I could play the gypsy boy. They put
a white frock on me and wound red bands crosswise about my legs.
Then a chorister took me by the hand and led me up and down the
back of the stage two or three times. That was my first appearance.

It was also my last. The affair became known. In school
I received a severe reprimand, and in addition, as a
consequence of the airy gypsy costume, a cold with a
cough, which kept me in bed for a day or two.

“It serves you right,” said Frau Eberlein. “He who will not hear
must feel. This comes from playing in the theatre. If your
blessed grandmother knew that you had been with play-actors she
would turn in her grave.”

Crushed and humiliated, I swallowed the various teas which my
nurse steeped for me one after another. But with each cup I had
to listen to an instructive story about the depravity of actors.
In order to lead me back from the way of the transgressors to the
path of virtue, Frau Eberlein painted with glowing colors; one
story in particular, in which occurred three bottles of
punch-essence never paid for, made a deep impression on me. But
Frau Eberlein’s anecdotes failed to make me change my resolves.

Soon after, something very serious happened. Lipp’s father, the
door-keeper of the theatre, after drinking heavily, fell down
lifeless by the card table in the White Horse; and my friend, in
consequence of this misfortune, came under the control of a
cold-hearted guardian, who had as little comprehension of the
dramatic art as Frau Eberlein. Lipp was given over to a
house-painter; who, invested with extended authority, took the
unfortunate fellow as an apprentice.

Lipp was inconsolable at the change in his lot. The smile
disappeared from his face, and I too felt melancholy when I saw
him going along the street in his paint-bespattered clothes, the
picture of despair.

One day I met the poor fellow outside the city gate, where the
last houses stand, painting a garden fence with an arsenic-green
color. “My good friend,” he said, with a melancholy smile, “I
cannot give you my hand, for there is paint on it; but we are
just the same as ever.” Then he spoke of his disappointed hopes.
“ But,” he continued, “because they are deferred, they are not put
off forever, and these clouds” (by this he referred to his
present apprenticeship as painter) “will pass away. The time will
come — I say no more about it; but the time will come.”
Here Lipp stopped speaking and dipped his brush in the paint pot,
for his master was coming around the corner of the house.

One day Lipp disappeared. The authorities did everything in their
power to find him, but in vain; and since, at that time, the
river, on which the city stood, had overflowed its banks, it was
decided that Lipp had perished. The on]y person who did not share
in this opinion was myself. I had a firm conviction that he had
gone out into the wide world to seek his fortune, and that some
day he would turn up again as a celebrated artist and a
successful man. But year after year passed by and nothing was
heard of Lipp.

I had entered upon my fifteenth year, was reading Virgil and
Xenophon, and could enumerate the causes which brought the Roman
empire to ruin. But in the midst of my classical studies, I did
not lose sight of the real aim of my life, the dramatic art; and
as the stage had been closed to me since my first appearance, I
studied in my own room the roles in which I hoped to shine later.
Then I had already tried my skill as a dramatic author, and in my
writing-desk lay concealed a finished tragedy. It was entitled
“ Pharaoh.” In it occurred the seven plagues of Egypt and the
miracles of Moses; but Pharaoh’s destruction in the Red Sea
formed the finale from which I promised myself the most brilliant success.

Therefore I went about dressed as a regular artist. My
schoolmates imitated the University students,— wore gay-colored
caps, dark goldenred bands, and carried canes adorned with
tassels; but I wore over my wild hair a pointed Calabrian hat,
around my neck a loose silk handkerchief fastened together in an
artistic knot, and in unpleasant weather a cloak, the red-lined
corner of which I threw picturesquely over my left shoulder.

In this attire I went about in my native town, where I was
accustomed to spend my summer vacations. The boys on the street
made sport of me by their words and actions, but I thought, “What
does the moon care when the dog bays at her!” and holding my head
high, I walked past the scoffers.

Every year, in the month of August, a fair was held in the little
town. On the common, tents and arbors were put up, where beer and
sausages were furnished. Further entertainment was provided in
the way of rope-dancers, jugglers, a Punch-and-Judy show,
fortune-tellers, monstrosities, wax figures, and tragedies.

As a spoiled city youth, I considered it decidedly beneath my
dignity to take part in the people’s merrymaking; but I couldn’t
get out of it, and so I went with my parents and brothers and
sisters to the opening of the festival out in the park, and
walked more proudly than ever under my Calabrian hat.

The sights were inspected one after another, and in the evening
we all sat together in the front row of a booth, the proprietor
of which promised to exhibit the most extraordinary thing that
had ever been seen.

The spectacle was divided into three parts. In the first a little
horse with a large head was brought out, which answered any
questions asked him by nodding, shaking, and beating his hoofs.
In the second part two trained hares performed their tricks. With
their forelegs they beat the drum, fired off pistols, and in the
“ Battle with the Hounds,” they put to flight a whining terrier.

The proprietor had kept the best of all,— that is, the Egyptian
fire-eater, called “Phosphorus,” — for the last part. The curtain
went up for the third time, and on the stage, in fantastic
scarlet dress, with a burning torch in his left hand, there stood
a tall —ah! a form only too well known to me. It was Lipp, who
had been looked upon as dead.

I saw how the unfortunate fellow with a smile put a lump of
burning pitch in his mouth, and then everything began to swim
around me, I pulled my hat down over my eyes, made my way through
the crowd howling their applause, and staggered home exhausted.

During the rest of the festival I kept myself in strict
seclusion. I announced that I was not well, and this was really
no untruth, for I was very miserable. “That is because he is
growing,” said my anxious mother; and I assented, and swallowed
submissively the family remedies which she brought to me.

At last the fair was over, and the Egyptian fire-eater had left
the town. But the poor fellow did not go far. In the city where
he exhibited his skill he was recognized and arrested, because he
had avoided service in the army. To be sure, he was set free
again after a few weeks as unqualified; but in the mean time his
employer with the performing hares had gone nobody knew where,
and Lipp was left solely dependent on his art, which he practiced
for some time in the neighboring towns and villages.

The end of his artistic career is sad and melancholy. He fell a
victim to his calling. As an ambitious man he enlarged his
artistic capabilities; he ate not only pitch but also pieces of
broken glass, and an indigestible lamp-chimney was the cause of
his destruction.

When I returned to the city I burned my tragedy of “Pharaoh,” and
sold my cloak and Calabrian hat to an old-clothes dealer. I was
thoroughly disgusted with the career of an artist, and whenever
afterwards I was inclined to relapse, Frau Eberlein would call
out to me, “Do you, too, want to die from a lamp-chimney ?” Then
I would bend my head and bury my nose in my Greek grammar.

THE WITCHING-STONE

GAY banners were waving from the tower of the count’s castle, and
from the surrounding villages re-echoed the sound of merry bells.
Joy had come to be a guest within the castle walls, and both bond
and free in that domain rejoiced in its coming.

The young countess had given birth to an heir. The little lord
was healthy and finely formed, made the walls resound with his
strong voice, and vigorously kicked his feet, till his father’s
eyes shone with delight.

The day after his birth, when the child was taken to be baptized,
the count dipped deeply into his treasure chest; all the servants
received holiday clothes, and the poor in the land loudly praised
their master’s generosity. Then it became quiet in the castle.
The boy lay peacefully in his nurse’s arms, and his mother, Frau
Gotelind, looked from her couch with a proud, blissful smile at
the thriving child. She was a delicate lady, and her strength
came back slowly; but it came, thanks to careful nursing and the
appetizing broths made for her by old Crescenz.

She was a wise-woman, and well skilled in caring for the sick.
Therefore the count had called her to the castle and intrusted to
her the nursing of his wife. But the servants shook their heads
thoughtfully when the old woman came in, for what people said of
her was not good. Huntsmen and messengers had often met her in
the moonlit wood, looking for herbs, and it was rumored that she
could conjure up storms and dry the cows’ milk. Therefore the
menservants and maids timidly avoided her, but scrupulously
followed the orders which she gave.

Frau Crescenz was sitting in the kitchen, paring vegetables. Near
her stood her daughter Ortrun, whom she had brought with her to
the castle, that she might help her in her work. The daughter was
a tall, well-developed woman, with raven-black hair, but her
forehead was low, and her nose as flat as a negro’s. She had
killed and plucked a chicken to make some strengthening broth for
the countess, and was just cleaning it.

“Look, mother,” she cried suddenly; “see what is in the chicken’s
crop; he had swallowed a stone.”

“Let me see,” said old Crescenz, with curiosity, and Ortrun
handed what she had found to her mother. It was a white,
sparkling stone, shaped like a bean.

“Oh, you lucky child!” cried the mother; “that is a jewel more
precious than a carbuncle or a diamond.” Then she looked
anxiously about her, fearing lest a third person might have been
watching them, but, besides the two women, there was nobody in
the kitchen.

“Dearest daughter,” continued the old woman, — and her eyes shone
like cats’ eyes, — “the stone will bring you good luck. Keep your
mouth shut and tell no human being anything about the chicken’s
stone. Conceal it well in your waist and guard it as the apple of
your eye. The magic which the jewel contains will soon appear.
And go to your room and put on your holiday gown; to-day you
shall carry to the count his morning drink.”

* * *

Where the deadly nightshade grows, there flowers of noble birth
must fade away.

The countess had long since recovered, but she went about sadly,
with downcast eyes. Her husband’s love had gone out in a night
like a candle burnt to the end, and she knew, too, who had caused
the sudden change. The dark Ortrun, who, by her husband’s
command, had been made her stewardess, had captivated the count.
She carried her head high, and gave commands boldly in the house,
as though she were the mistress. Frau Gotelind sat silent and
grieving in her chamber by the side of her little son’s cradle,
and at night her pillow was wet with tears. But when the nurse
gently reproved her, saying, “My lady, you will harm the child if
you look at him with sorrowful eyes,” then the unhappy woman
would compel herself to smile, and would sing in a low voice to
the little one the old cradle song of the white and the black
sheep. Thus passed a year of sorrow to the countess. But the boy
thrived, and became a beautiful, sturdy child.

One day his nurse was sitting with the little one in the castle
garden, the boy was playing in the grass with a small wooden
horse, and his mother was standing on the balcony and delighting
in the sight of him. Suddenly the child rose and stood for the
first time on his feet, and made an unaided attempt to step
forward. Just then the stewardess Ortrun came along, and the boy
bent toward her, and seeking a support, grasped a fold of her
dress with his little hand. The maid gave the child a push with
her foot, so that he fell on his back with a scream, and went on
her way scolding.

When the mother saw how the bold woman maltreated her child, her
heart was convulsed with bitter anguish; but she was silent. She
hastened down into the garden to her son, and soothed him with
caresses. Then she sent the nurse under a pretext into the house,
took the little one up, and, unnoticed, left the garden and the castle.

The countess and child were not missed till just as darkness was
coming on. The count was much alarmed and sent out servants with
torches to look for them in every direction. He himself mounted a
horse and rode at random about the country. But master and
servants returned without having found the lost ones.

The search was kept up for two or three days longer; then the
count put on mourning, and hung a black flag from the tower.

It was supposed that the countess and her child had become the
prey of some wild beast in the forest. The maid Ortrun and her
wicked mother carried their heads higher than ever, and the old
woman said to the young one: “It is a good thing that she has
gone off with her brat of her own free will; otherwise—” But she
said no more.

A short time after Ortrun took possession of the state-chamber of
the vanished countess, and it was as good as decided that at the
end of the year of mourning the count would make the stewardess
his wife. But when the year was over, and the count wished to be
married, the priest refused to unite the pair, because it was not
proved that the countess was dead. So the count had the name of
her who had disappeared posted up on the doors of three churches.
Then after another year, if no news came about her, she might be
considered as dead, according to the laws of the country, and the
widower might take another wife. The second year too was drawing
to an end, and nobody had heard anything from the lost wife.

* * *

But the countess was not dead, and her little son too was still
alive. When, overcome by excessive grief, she had secretly left
the castle, she had wandered off into the wild forest, not
knowing where she was going. She walked the whole night long,
carrying the sleeping child in her arms. Occasionally the eyes of
a wolf shone out of the darkness of the firs, but it did the poor
mother no harm. Towards morning, when the chilly wind blew
through the trees, her tender feet, unused to travelling, would
carry her no farther. She sank down on the wood moss and wept
bitterly; now for the first time she realized that she had doomed
herself and her child to destruction.

Then there suddenly stood before the desperate mother a very old
man, whose snow-white beard from his face fell down like a
waterfall. In his right hand he carried a staff; in his left a
bundle of herbs.

The old man was a pious hermit, who had turned his back on the
turmoil of the world and dwelt in the wilderness. He gave mother
and child some food, and led them to his hermitage. The countess
felt confidence in the hermit and told him who she was and why
she had taken flight. And the old man comforted her and said,
“ Stay with me, and share with me my poverty.”

So the countess and her child remained with the hermit. By means
of a wall of wicker-work he divided his hut into two rooms, and
prepared a couch of wood moss and soft fur for his guests. For
food he gave them goat’s milk and whatever the woods afforded of
berries, roots, and wild fruits. The life in the green forest
agreed with the boy; he grew, and his limbs became strong and
supple. The countess’ delicate frame, too, became stronger; but
her heart was still filled with a secret grief, for she could not
forget her husband, and thought of him day and night. Thus passed
nearly two years.

* * *

One morning the little one was jumping about in the forest and
playing with a hazel switch, when the hoarse cry of a raven fell
on his ear; and when he went toward the sound, he saw on the
ground a flock of the black birds, who were attacking one of the
number with their bills. When the boy ran toward them, the ravens
flew away; but the one whom they had treated so badly could not
lift himself into the air, but hopped painfully about on the
ground, so that it was easy for the child to catch the bird. As
he held his prisoner in his hand, he saw an arrow sticking in one
of his wings. He removed it and carried the raven home. The
hermit, who was skilled in the art of healing, put a salve on the
wound, and the little one cared for the sick bird very
faithfully; and child and raven became great friends.

After some days the bird was well again, and when he felt that
his power to fly had been restored, he flapped his wings with a
croak, flew out at the door, and alighted on a bough not far from
the hut. The boy did not wish to lose the raven, and ran after
him to catch him; but just as he thought he was going to seize
the fugitive, he escaped from him, and the play continued till it
grew dark, and the raven disappeared in the shadow of the trees.
Now the child wanted to turn back home, but he had long since
lost the hermit’s hut from sight, and did not know which way to
turn. And he sat down under a tree and cried and called his
mother, and he was hungry too.

Suddenly the raven appeared again. He carried a piece of bread in
his bill, and dropped it in front of the child. Then the little
one was half comforted, ate, and fell asleep.

The next morning he was awakened by the croaking of his
companion; he arose and followed the bird who flew before him,
for he hoped he would lead him back to the hermitage. But the
wise raven had a very different design. After some hours of
wearisome wandering, the forest began to grow light, and before
the boy lay a shining castle, from the tower of which waved a gay
banner. It was the castle in which he had been born, but he did
not know it.

The raven had disappeared, but the tired little fellow went up to
the castle and sat down under a linden-tree near the gateway. The
keeper with spear and helmet stepped up to him, and asked who he
was, where he had come from, and what he wanted; but he could get
no information. The servants gathered about the child, but they
could learn nothing from him except that he came out of the
forest, was hungry, and wished that he was with his mother again.
Then out of compassion they gave him food and drink, and went
about their work. The servants had plenty to do, for on the next
day the count was to be married to the swarthy Ortrun.

The little one sat under the linden-tree and ate the food which
had been brought to him. Then he heard the sound of wings. He
looked up and saw the raven hovering above his head; he carried
something that glistened in his bill, and now he let it fall into
his lap. It was a fine gold chain from which hung a white,
sparkling stone shaped like a bean. The boy examined the shining
ornament with curiosity, and finally hid it in his dress. When
the raven saw this he croaked with delight, and flew up to the
pinnacle of the tower.

* * *

In the women’s apartments there was a great commotion. The
count’s bride was behaving as though she had lost her mind, and
at the same time old Crescenz was scolding at the top of her
voice. Ortrun had been taking a bath, and when she went to dress
herself again, the magical chicken-stone had disappeared.

“Help me, mother!” cried Ortrun, in the greatest distress; “help
me, so that at the last moment everything will not go to pieces.”

“Help me!” said the old woman mockingly. “Did I not tell you to
guard the stone as the apple of your eye? I decoyed the bird to
the lime-pole for you; keeping him was your affair, you silly,
heedless girl!”

The daughter stamped her foot. “You shall help me!” she snarled.
“ Make use of your arts and brew me a love-potion! What is the
good of your being a witch?”

The mother’s eyes shone green. She gave a leap, fastened her
fingers in her daughter’s black hair, and threw her on the floor.
“ A witch, am I, you wicked vixen? That is the thanks I get for
giving you a love-charm!”

She stopped abruptly, for in the open doorway stood the count. He
looked as pale as death.

“Woman, what do you say about love-charms?” he cried.

The women both trembled like aspen-leaves. The count, moreover,
threatened them with his sword, and swore he would strike them to
the ground unless they confessed. Then they threw themselves on
the floor before him, begging for mercy, and acknowledged what
they had done.

And the count looked with loathing and horror at the woman who
had ensnared him with magic art, and the charming form of the
wife whom he had betrayed arose before him. He groaned aloud like
a wounded stag, turned, and went out.

The two women collected together as many of the jewels and
splendid garments as they could carry, wrapt themselves in their
cloaks, and fled from the castle like two gray spectres.

At the very moment when the charm over the count was broken,
bitter repentance and a yearning for what he had lost filled his
heart. In order to banish his tormenting thoughts, he ordered his
horse saddled, and took his hunting-gear to hunt in the forest.
As he rode out at the gate, his eyes fell on the lost boy sitting
under the linden-tree, and he felt a stab in his heart, for he
thought of his little son who would be about the same age as the
strange child if the wolves had not torn him to pieces. He drew
up his horse, and looked at the child, and an irresistible power
compelled him to jump from his saddle and caress the boy. And the
boy threw his arms about the count’s neck and besought him in a
tender, childish voice:—

“Take me back to my mother!”

“Where is your mother?” asked the count.

“There!” said the boy, pointing with his finger toward the fir forest.

Then the raven came, and croaking, circled round the father and
his son. And the boy cried:—

“There is the bird that led me here; he knows the way to my
mother.” And the raven screamed “Krah!” and flew toward the
forest; then sat down and turned his wise head towards those he
had left behind him.

Then the count said: “We will try to find your mother,” lifted
the child on his horse, and rode into the fir woods. And the
raven flew ahead of them.

* * *

In the hermit’s hut there was great distress. AIl one night and
all one day Frau Gotelind and the hermit had searched in the
forest for the lost child, and at evening they both returned from
different directions without him. The poor mother wrung her hands
in despair, and the old hermit tried in vain to speak some
comforting words.

Then they heard the croaking of a raven and the sound of hoofs,
and Frau Gotelind hastened out of the hut in anxious expectation.
A stately knight came leaping along, holding on the saddle in
front of him the lost child.

“Mother!” cried the boy, still at a distance, stretching out his
little arms. Frau Gotelind was about to hurry towards him, but
she trembled so that she was obliged to hold on to the door-post,
for the rider was well known to her.

The count reined in his snorting steed, sprang down, and set the
child on the ground. Then he turned his eyes towards the
trembling lady, and with a loud cry threw himself down at her
feet. She flung her arms about her husband’s neck, and clung to
him laughing and crying.

The sun had gone to rest, and the bright moon was wandering
through the fir forest. By the hearth-fire in the hermitage sat
the count and his wife, as happy as a bride and groom who have
just been united.

Then the boy, who had been a long time with the raven, came
running to his mother, and laid the little chain, from which hung
the white stone, in her lap.

“Where did you get this ornament?” asked the mother.

“The raven gave it to me when I was sitting in front of the
castle, under the tree.”

The hermit looked at the stone, took it in his hand, examined it
closely, and said:—

“It is the Alectorius stone, of whose power old wise people tell
wonderful things. It grows in a cock’s crop, and fastens the man
with magic power to the woman who wears the jewel concealed about
her person. Believe me, my daughter, this stone has been the
cause of your sorrow.”

Then the count seized the chain, threw it on the floor, and
raised his foot in order to crush the Alectorius stone. But the
raven was too quick for him, snatched the chain with his bill,
and flew out of the window with it. Whether he carried the
ornament to his nest to enjoy its brilliancy, or whether he tried
the stone’s magic power on some coy raven damsel, the one who
relates this tale has never been able to find out.

THE CHRISTMAS ROSE

SCHNEEWITCHEN, wrapped in white sheets, was asleep in her glassy
coffin, and the cold, wicked step-mother ruled in the land. She
is terrible in her fury, but when she has her good days, and lets
her diamond crown shine benignantly in the sun, then mortals may
venture to approach her ice-palace unmolested. She has
innumerable castles, but the most beautiful one stands on the
Hochgebirg, and there she prefers to hold her court. The primeval
mountains stand like venerable court-marshalls, with stiff necks
and powdered wigs, around the throne, on which the queen sits,
and the nixies of the mountain lakes, like trembling
waiting-maids, hold the crystal mirror before their exacting
mistress. She looks at her snow-white face and says: “I am the
most beautiful in all the land,” and not one among the people of
the court dares to dissent.

Others think and speak otherwise. The blue titmice, and the
golden pheasants who, hungry and cold, hop through the
snow-covered branches of the fir-trees, chirping low, tell about
the king’s son, who will waken the sleeping Schneewitchell with a
kiss; the rude raven croaks disrespectfully about the wicked
queen, and the gypsy tribe of sparrows give vent to their
discontent in loud abuse. The little brown wren who creeps
through the dry bushes like a mouse, sings a mocking song about
the severe mistress. He has made a discovery in the forest path.
On yonder slope, where the mid-day sun eats up the snow, there is
already a sign of life. Last night the Christmas rose broke
through the sparkling covering, and with bended head greets the
rising sun.

Do you know the Christmas rose? In flat countries it never grows,
but among the mountains it is known to every child. In some
places it is the snow-rose, in others hellebore, and it is called
the Christmas rose because it blooms about Yule-tide. Its open
calyx, which is about as large as the hundred-leafed rose, is
snow-white, sometimes overspread with a delicate red, like a
mountain snow-field at sunset; and one unacquainted with the
blossom’s native soil would take it for the child of some far-off
zone, so wonderfully beautiful it is. But the snow-rose has
beside a virtue of its own, and whoever would know its origin
must pay attention.

In a fruitful AIpine valley, through which a river fed with the
milk of the glaciers rolled its foaming waters, there stood on a
hill in ancient times a castle with a tower and encircling walls.
Farther down on the river pious monks had built a cloister, and
between the castle and the monastery lay a farm. To-day the
castle lies in ruins, the monastery still stands, and the farm
has grown in the course of time to a market town.

It was near Christmas-time, many, many years ago, and it was even
more lonely and silent in the valley than usual, for all who
could carry sword and lance had gone with the count, to whom the
castle and land belonged, across the mountains to Italy.

The farmer too, as one of the count’s people, had been obliged to
leave his home; and although he was always ready for battle, yet
this time his going away was very hard, for he had to leave
behind him a blooming young wife and a little three-year-old girl.

The Christmas festival was at hand. In the hall of the farmhouse
the hearth-fire was crackling, and busy maids in linen aprons
were mixing and kneading the dough for the holiday sweetcakes.
Frau Walpurga, the mistress of the household, was not present.
She was sitting with her heart heavy with anxiety by the bed of
her child who was restlessly tossing about her little head
burning with fever. On the opposite side of the sick-bed stood a
monk with a shining bald crown and gray beard. It was Father
Celestin from the monastery, a pious man, experienced in the art
of healing. He scrutinized the sick child, shook his head, and
began to mix a drink from the medicines he had brought with him.

Heavy footsteps were heard outside in the hall, and an old man,
wearing a mantle of coarse material, entered the sick-room; in
his left hand he held a broad-brimmed hat, and in his right, a
lamb carved out of wood. The man was the shepherd of the farm. He
looked darkly at the monk, then stepped up to the little bed, and
held the lamb before the child. He had made two coal-black eyes
for it with pine soot, and with the juice of berries, a red
mouth; but the child did not notice the plaything. The mother
sighed, and the shepherd left the room as quietly as he could.
The monk gave the healing drink to the child, spoke some words of
comfort, and went out. Mother and child were alone.

The physician’s remedy seemed to do good to the feverish little
girl. She fell into a deep sleep, and slept all day. But as the
sun was going down, the child grew restless again; her forehead
burned like fire, and she spoke incoherent words. All of a sudden
the little one lifted herself from her pillow and said: “See,
mother, see the beautiful lady and all the little children, and
the lady gives me roses, white roses!” Then she fell back again,
and closed her eyes. But Frau Walpurga knelt down, sobbing
softly. — “The child has seen the angels of heaven; she must die.”

The mother did not long give way to her distress. She hastened to
the door, and called the servants to send a messenger for Father
Celestin. But both men-servants and maids had all gone to the
monastery church to hear the Christmas service. Only one old lame
woman had been left behind to tend the hearth-fire. Frau Walpurga
commanded her to put out the fire, and stay by the child. She
wrapped her cloak about her, left the house, and went in all
haste to the monastery.

The sun had already set: only the mountain tops still gleamed a
ruddy gold; in the valley the twilight had spread her gray
garment of mist over the snow-fields. No living creature was to
be seen, except two rooks flying towards the forest, slowly
flapping their wings. In the far distance a light flickered
through the mist; it came from the lighted windows of the
monastery church; and the mother, with her heart full of anguish,
hastened over the creaking snow in the direction of the light.

Suddenly her feet stopped, and her breath failed her. Out of the
forest came a long procession of misty forms, led by a beautiful,
tall, serious lady, in a broad, full cloak, and behind her
tripped a crowd of little children with pale faces, clad in white.

The trembling mother concealed herself behind the trunk of a
tree, and let the procession pass by. At the very end came a
child who could hardly follow the others, for she was constantly
stepping on her dress, which dragged on the ground. Then Frau
Walpurga forgot her distress, and overcame her dread. She stepped
toward the child, and tucked up her little frock so that she
could keep pace with the other children.

And the beautiful pale lady turned her face toward the helper,
smiled at her, and pointed with her forefinger to the ground at
her feet.

At this moment the sound of monastery bells trembled through the
air, the procession disappeared like mist scattered by the wind,
and Frau Walpurga stood in the twilight alone on the snow-covered plain.

With timid steps she approached the spot to which the woman had
pointed, and her heart leaped for joy. Out of the ice-covered
earth was growing a bush, bearing green leaves and white roses.

“Those are the roses my child saw in her dream!” exclaimed Frau
Walpurga; then she plucked three of the blossoms, and hurried as
fast as she could go back to the farmhouse.

Besides the maid she found the old shepherd by the sick-bed. He
had little regard for the skill of the monks, and therefore he
himself had made a drink out of goat’s gall and juniper berries,
and had given it to the little sick girl.

Frau Walpurga stepped up to the bed, laid the three roses on the
spread, and watched the child with anxious expectation. She
seized the flowers with her little, trembling hands, held them to
her face, and sneezed loud and strong.

“God bless her!” cried mother, shepherd, and maid. Then the child
asked for a drink, turned her head on one side, and fell asleep.

“Now the fever is broken,” said the shepherd. “My drink and the
sneeze have saved the child. But where did you get those roses, Frau?”

Frau Walpurga quietly told the old man what had happened to her.

“That was none other than Frau Berchta with the cricket folk,”
explained the shepherd. “She wanders about every evening from
Christmas till Twelfth Night, and my father has seen them too.
Formerly she dwelt up in the Frauenstein, but when the monks
built their house of stone she departed, and only shows herself
during the twelve nights after Christmas, and blesses the land.
It was lucky for you, Frau Walpurga, that you helped the cricket.
Frau Berchta is a gentle lady, and rewards every service that has
been rendered her.” And then the old shepherd told what he knew
about Frau Berchta, and he would have talked on till the cocks
crowed, if Frau Walpurga had not brought him out of the sick-room
with friendly words.

Once more she was sitting alone by her child’s bed. The little
one held the three roses in her closed hand, and she breathed
peacefully and easily. Only once she murmured in her sleep, when
the sound of the organ and the monks’ song of praise, Gloria in
Excelsis, were heard from the monastery. And the mother knelt
down and was long at prayer.

When Father Celestin came the next day to see the sick child she
was sitting up in bed, playing with the lamb which the shepherd
had carved for her.

“Frau Walpurga,” said the delighted physician, “the fever has
disappeared. But it was a costly drink that I prepared for the
child. I hope you will show your gratitude to the monastery.”

But Frau Walpurga drew the monk aside and told him confidentially
what had befallen her on Christmas Eve.

The Father knit his brow. “You were dreaming,” he said, “or else
the snow blinded your eyes. Take good care that none of your idle
talk comes to the ears of our abbot; it might cost you a heavy
penance.” But when Frau Walpurga showed him the marvellous roses,
the like of which the botanical doctor had never seen before, he
grew thoughtful, and he finally said:—

“Woman, you have been highly favored. You have with your bodily
eyes beheld the Queen of Heaven and the blessed angels in her
company. Our Dear Lady it was who gave you the three roses, the
mother of our Lord, and not the dreadful sorceress, whose name no
Christian may bring to his lips. Be assured of that, woman. And
now Iisten to me further. The Madonna above the side-altar in our
church is in need of a new robe as well as a crown. Show your
gratitude to the mother of God, and provide her with new apparel.
Will you promise me that?”

And Frau Walpurga, frightened by the monk’s warning, said, “Yes,
it shall be as you wish.”

Thereupon she had a side of bacon, two fat geese, a pot of lard,
and a bottle of red wine placed in a basket, and ordered a maid
to take it and follow after Father Celestin to the monastery. And
Father Celestin, with a smirk, blessed mother and child, servants
and house, and went away, followed by the panting maid. But the
old shepherd muttered to himself, “There again, one carries away
the thanks which belong to another”; and by “another” he meant himself.

Frau Walpurga thought the same, but she said nothing. She gave
the shepherd a handsome present; and the Madonna in the monastery
received a silver crown and a new robe, on which lace and
spangles were not used sparingly.

But the flower which grew up in the footprints of the heavenly
queen — or was it, after all, Frau Berchta? — bore seeds and
multiplied in the land, and according to trustworthy witnesses
has in later times worked many a miracle.

THE MATCH-MAKERS

THE sun, after a short course, was about to go to rest. It tried
to gild the spires and the snow-covered gable roofs, and as it
was not remarkably successful in this to-day, it sank hastily
behind a gray cloud. Stars here and there peeped out at their
windows, but the mist, rolling up from the mountains, spoiled
their view, so they closed their windows again and went to sleep.
Besides, their glimmer this evening was superfluous, for in an
hour thousands and thousands of lights, kindled by happy mortals,
would shine through the December night. Christmas, the merry
time, had come, and a multitude of visible angels, bringing joy,
were crowding the streets and alleys of the old city.

Beings of flesh and bone, and cheeks rosy with the frost, were
also hurrying through the streets. Most of them carried some
carefully wrapped object, which later, when it lay beneath the
brightly lighted fir-tree, would be greeted with a cry of joy.
Everything was in haste to-night. No groups of gossiping servants
hindered the stream of passers-by, and if two people happened to
recognize one another, they hurried past with a hasty greeting.
Little by little it became more quiet on the street, the shop
doors were closed, and the windows in the dwelling-houses grew
bright. Here and there the muffled shouts of the children came
forth from the houses, and the watchmen with echoing footsteps
paced the pavements.

Through the door of an old patrician house entered a tall man,
wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a long cloak. A white poodle
followed him. Having reached the second story, the man opened a
door, the plate of which bore the name of a celebrated artist,
and after a few moments he entered a comfortable room,
illuminated by soft lamp-light. A huge gray cat rose from her
cushion, which lay near the stove, and with a low purr greeted
her master as he entered. Then she showed the same politeness to
the poodle, and laid herself down again. Poodle and pussy had
known each other for many years, and lived together, not like
“ cats and dogs,” but like two excellent chums who have been
together at school.

The man took off his hat and cloak, and went to the window. In
the opposite house flickered the lights of a Christmas tree, and
the shadows of the children and grown-people stood out on the
lowered shades. The man looked at the lighted window for a long
time, then turned away, brushed his hand across his eyes, and
said softly to himself, “I am alone.”

The poodle, as if he would have liked to contradict this,
approached him, and rubbed his cold nose against his hand; but
his master paid no attention to the caress. “I am alone, “he
repeated. Then he sat down in his easy-chair, and fixed his eyes
on the floor.

No bright pictures were they which passed before the lonely man’s
mind:— a melancholy childhood, a youth full of cruel privations,
wearisome struggling and disenchantments of every sort. Honor and
wealth had at last fallen to his share, but in the time of need
he had forgotten how to enjoy himself. Youth was past; in his
dark hair the frost of early autumn already shimmered, — and he
was alone.

Then, as he sat thus brooding over the past, he suddenly heard
close to him the words: “Old friend, shall we chat together? The
master is asleep.”

“I am willing,” came the answer. “ You begin.”

“That is my poodle and my cat,” said the man to himself, “and I
am dreaming. To be sure, on Christmas eve, animals have the power
of speech; I used often to hear that when I was young. If only I
do not wake up before I learn what the two have to say to one another!”

“Friend Pussy,” the poodle began, “do you know that for some time
the master has not quite pleased me? He has neglected me. I will
forgive him for not having me sheared in the summer, but it hurts
me deeply that he almost never claims my services.”

“Yes,” replied the cat, “he is no longer as he used to be. Just
think, yesterday he even forgot to give me my breakfast. At last
I shall have to return to my former life of catching mice. That
would be hard.”

“Do you know, my dear,” said the poodle, what would be the best
thing for us and for him? If we had a woman in the house who
would look after our rights and keep things in order.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the cat, “that is a doubtful suggestion. The wife
would probably look on the friends of her husband’s youth with
disapproval. We have both seen our best days. Suppose the young
woman should show us the door, what then, brother?”

“But I know one who would not do that,” replied the poodle, “and
you know her too.”

The cat pointed with her fore-paw to a little picture on the
wall. It was a woman’s head with large, dark, childlike eyes. “Do
you mean that one there?”

“Yes,” said the poodle. “She would be the woman for us. She is
friendly toward me, that I know; and she doesn’t dislike you, for
I have seen with my own eyes how lately, when you creep around
her window, looking for sparrows, she sets out a cup of milk for
you. And our master —”

“She likes him too,” said the cat, filling out the sentence.
“ That I know; for when she is sitting by the window, sewing, and
the master passes along on the street, she turns her pretty white
neck after him, and blushes. And when people blush — “

“I know what that means,” interrupted the poodle. “We are both
agreed, and that is the main point. She must be our mistress.”

“But the master?” asked the cat, doubtfully.

“That will be all right,” said the poodle, confidently. “But
hush! He is moving; he is waking up.”

The sleeper leaped from his chair, and looked suspiciously at his
companions. But they lay, to all appearance lost in sweet dreams,
curled up like snail-shells on their cushions, and never stirred.
And with his hands behind his back, the man strode up and down
the room, like one who is striving to settle some weighty question.

Let us leave the solitary man, with his poodle and cat, and mount
the stairs as far as they go, — and they reach to the roof, under
which, in narrow chambers, poor, worried people rest from their
day’s labor. In one of these little rooms, — the cleanest and
neatest of all, — sat two women, one old, the other young. Before
them on a table stood two smoking cups and a cake cut in pieces.
The maiden had a delicate, pale face, and two large dark eyes,
which looked out into the world sometimes merry and sometimes
sad. The young girl was a seamstress; the old woman a laundress
by trade, and the younger one’s aunt. She had come from her damp
home in the suburbs to receive the presents which her niece
intended for her: two or three pounds of sugar and coffee and a
knitted hood of soft gray wool, which the old woman stroked from
time to time caressingly with her wrinkled hand. The cake on the
table grew perceptibly smaller, for the aunt ate as though she
had fasted for three days; and when she could take no more, she,
after some resistance, allowed the seamstress to wrap the rest in
paper to take away with her.

“Child,” said the old woman, as she was getting ready to go home,
“ you would be wise to go to sleep early this evening, for in the
holy Christmas night all sorts of strange things happen, — and
you are so entirely alone! Don’t you feel at all afraid?”

The maiden shook her head with a laugh. “What sort of strange
things, auntie?”

“Did you ever pass by a church at twelve o’clock on Christmas
eve?” asked the laundress. “No? Oh, if I should tell you! But I
will not make you timid. A maiden can learn, too, on Christmas
eve, who will be her husband; but that is a dangerous story.”

The little one pricked up her ears. “What must one do to find out
that?” she asked.

“Child,” said the old woman, warningly, “you will not try it?”

“No, I am not so inquisitive; but I should like to know how one
must go to work to find it out.”

The aunt sat down again and began to display her wisdom. “If a
maiden sits all sole alone in her room on Christmas eve, and lays
the table for two, her future husband will appear to her. But he
has no flesh and blood; it is an apparition, and vanishes when
the cock crows. Therefore the maid would do well to have a cock
near her in a bag. And if the uncanny guest should cause her to
be afraid, she would only have to pinch the cock; then he would
cry out, and the ghost would disappear. Many say it is the Evil
One who assumes the form of the lover. I do not really believe
that, but it is a dangerous game, at any rate. I went through
terrible suffering when I tried the trick.”

“Really?” asked the maiden, with curiosity. “Did you try the
magic yourself? And did somebody come to you?”

“No,” said the old woman; “nobody came, and so I knew that I
should be an old maid; and that I really am. But it troubles me
sorely to think I have told you all this. Truly, you will not try
it? Well now, my child, thank you very much for the Christmas
gifts, and hold the light for me, for it’s as dark as pitch
outside, and the stairs are so steep.”

The seamstress accompanied the old woman with the lamp, and then
went back to her silent room. The hot drink had made her little
face glow, and as she busied herself in a matronly way, putting
the plates and dishes in their places, she would have been a
charming sight for anybody’s eyes; but there was no one who could
refresh himself with a look at the young blossom.

What her aunt had been telling her went round and round in her
head. At first she laughed at the Christmas magic, then she grew
thoughtful, and finally — it was surely only a harmless joke —
she brought out a white cloth, spread it on the table, and laid
it for two. There, now he can come. To be sure, she had no cock,
but she wore a little cross around her neck, and every sort of
ghost must vanish before the cross. She sat down, folded her
little hands in her lap, and called up to mind the men whom she
knew, — the curly-haired shopkeeper in the grocery shop, who
always weighed out the sugar and coffee for her so generously;
the sergeant, who occasionally met her and greeted her so
respectfully; and the writer in the house opposite, who played on
his flute every evening “If I were a bird,” —but none of these
was the right one. At last she came to one more, but he was a
serious, fine gentleman, who could hardly remember the poor
seamstress in the garret.

Two years before, when her mother was still living, he met her
for the first time on the stairs, had stopped and looked at her
with the most gentle eyes. On the following day he had spoken to
her, and asked her to sit for him as a model for a picture. At
first she had objected, for she had heard horrible stories about
painters and models; but the gentleman had spoken so courteously
to her! And so she went, accompanied by her mother, to his
studio. Afterward she had seen the finished picture too. It
represented an old man with a harp, and by his side sat a young
girl, and the young girl was the little seamstress — her very
self. When the picture had gone out into the world, the painter
had placed a large banknote in her work-basket. She had really
not wished to take it, but as her mother then lay on her
death-bed she did not dare to return the gift, and the money went
just far enough to bury her mother and to get a little cast-iron
cross for her grave. She had never spoken to the painter since
that time, but she saw the serious man every day, and she had
formed a friendship with his two companions, — a poodle and a
pussy-cat, — and was kind to the animals whenever she had an opportunity.

The lamp blazed up and started her out of her dreams. She saw the
two plates before her, and she smiled, and then gave a sigh. “You
are a thoroughly silly creature,” she said softly, and rose to
put away the dishes again.

Then there came a knock at the door. Heaven help us, if the
Christmas magic is really no fairy tale! And the door opened, and
the apparition which appeared in the doorway was like the painter
to a dot. The poor little girl sank trembling into her chair, and
hid her face in her hands.

“Good evening,” said the ghost in a deep voice; and then he came
nearer, sat down by the seamstress, and took her hand. Ghosts
usually have ice-cold hands, but the one which grasped the
trembling maiden’s was full of warm life.

And then the ghost began to speak. He spoke of the lonely,
joyless existence he led, and then many other things about love
and fidelity, and the maiden listened with a beating heart. If he
were no ghost after all! With trembling hands she felt for the
little cross she wore in her waist. Before the cross all magic is
destroyed. She drew it forth and held it before the ghost.

But he smiled, seized the cross, and said: “Poor child, you do
not believe my words. I swear to you on the cross which I hold in
my hands that I am true and honest in my intentions toward you.
Will you be my wife?”

Then the little one’s soul rejoiced like a lark. No, it was no
apparition to vanish into mist at the crowing of a cock; it was
one of Adam’s sons, with flesh and bone. His mouth, which her
lips sought, was warm, and his heart beat violently against her breast.

O blessed, merry Christmas!

Then there was a scratching at the door, and when it was opened
the poodle came in with a bound, and behind him was seen the cat.
They came to bring their congratulations. The poodle jumped up,
now on his master and then on the maiden, whining for joy. The
cat arched her back, and purred like a spinning-wheel. That the
two people had found each other was the work of the wise
creatures. They were proud of it, but said nothing about it, for
true merit is rewarded in silence.

A HAPPY MARRIAGE

A CONVENTION of magicians was to be held in Africa, and guests
came to the festival
from all quarters of the globe in aerial conveyances. Among
others, an aged fairy had left her castle, and undertaken the
journey. Her dragon-coach in the course of years had become
somewhat decayed, and as it was coming down a steep
cloud-mountain the axle-tree broke. The coach immediately began
to fall, and whirled,together with the struggling dragons, down
to the solid earth. A fairy can endure more than mortals, but
still she was very much alarmed at the accident, and the fact
that she landed directly in the midst of a populous town
considerably increased her anxiety.

The city was none other than Simpel, and the people who
surrounded the shattered coach were Simpletons. How they opened
their eyes! Emperors and kings had often been entertained within
their walls, but a fairy who journeyed through the air with a
team of dragons they had never yet beheld. However, they
conducted themselves like brave Christian people. The coach they
dragged to the blacksmith’s shop, they put the dragons in the
stable, and filled the crib with pitch wreaths and brimstone
matches. But the burgomaster invited the fairy in appropriate
language to come to his humble dwelling and take a lunch to
recover herself from the fright she had undergone.

The fairy accepted the gallant man’s invitation, refreshed
herself with food and drink, and later the burgomaster took her
to see the sights of the city. Then, indeed, she saw many things
that she had to shake her head over, and what she learned about
the customs and doings of the people made her very thoughtful.
When she returned to her host’s house again, she took her magic
book in her hand, and soon knew all that she wanted to know. “The
worthy people must be helped,” she said to herself, and asked the
burgomaster to grant her an interview.

At first she praised the city, and then began cautiously to draw
his attention to the existing poverty and crime; and when the
consul, shrugging his shoulders, admitted that things were really
not altogether as they ought to be, the fairy said: “Gracious,
burgomaster! A fiend has established himself in your city, and
for hundreds of years has darkened the minds of the citizens, and
— pardon me — yours as well. But I know how to exorcise spirits,
and will free your city from the plague if you will accompany me
to the court-house.”

So they went together to the windowless court-house, which was
lighted with miserable oil lamps. There the fairy opened her book
and began the exorcism. She had been whispering her magic words
for a good while, when all of a sudden the door of the large
oaken cupboard, in which the city seal, the chronicle, and the
most important documents were kept, opened with a great creaking,
and bluish smoke began to pour out from the inside. The
burgomaster fortified himself behind a chair, and awaited the
appearance of the spirit with fear and trembling. But the fairy
continued her exorcism, the cloud became condensed, and finally
the spirit assumed bodily form. It did not excite fear and dread,
but rather pity, for it appeared like a young woman with low brow
and delicate features. And the maiden, or whatever it was,
immediately began to weep and sob, as if her heart would break.

“There is your city ghost,” said the fairy. “Now try your best to
get rid of her. But do the little creature no harm. You must
promise me that.”

The burgomaster had found his courage again. He looked at the
pitiful form, and then asked her sternly, “Who are you?”

But the maid could give no answer, for she was sobbing so. Then
the fairy bent towards the burgomaster and whispered a word in
his ear, and the honorable gentleman fell back alarmed into a
chair. “Horrible!” he groaned, and buried his face in his hands.
Thus he sat for a long time.

“Make an end of it, good burgomaster,” said the fairy after a
while, “and send her away.”

“Yes, she must go,” said the disquieted official. “She shall go
unharmed from here, but she must swear that she will never come
back again.”

She did so. Then the burgomaster gave the exile a pass, and
furnished it with a seal and an illegible signature, and when the
vesper bell sounded the evil spirit had already left the city far
behind her.

* * *

Sadly went the banished spirit along the country road. She
journeyed all night long, and when the awakening birds became
noisy, and the mountaintops began to grow rosy, she came to a
village. She dimly remembered having once lived among the
peasants, and that she did not have a bad time then. Therefore
she made up her mind to try her luck in the village.

By a gurgling well stood a handsome peasant woman with red arms,
pouring water into the milk that she was going to carry to the
city. The woman was Country Simplicity. The pilgrim timidly
approached her, and asked in a shy voice “Possibly you are in
want of a maid?”

“A maid I certainly am in need of,” replied the peasant woman,
and looked the stranger critically in the eye. “Oho, it’s you, is
it?” she exclaimed, and burst into a loud laugh. “I know you; I
have often seen you in the city. No, my good girl, there is no
room for you in the village. Go on further!” And Country
Simplicity turned her back on the poor creature, and went on with
her work.

The maid continued her way. She went from house to house, but she
was welcome nowhere; they turned her rudely or scornfully from
the door, and the dogs barked after her. The same thing happened
to her in the next town, and she had begun to look about for a
corner where she could stay at night, when she happened on an old
gloomy house, whose door stood carelessly open. She went in, and
found in an arched room on the ground floor an old woman busily
writing by the light of a lamp. Dusty books and gilded parchments
lay about everywhere, and spiders had spun their webs in every
corner. The woman who was writing was Knowledge.

“Do you need a maid?” asked the outlaw in a low voice.

Knowledge pushed her horn spectacles upon her forehead, and
inspected the stranger; nodded her gray head with satisfaction,
and said: “There is something about you that pleases me. You can
remain.” And the stranger remained.

It was not a difficult position to be in the service of
Knowledge, and the mistress grew daily more fond of the
industrious, quiet maid. Occasionally, when she was in a
particularly good humor, she would read a passage from her
manuscript to the servant, and ask, “What do you think of that?”
Then the maid would answer and give her opinion as well as she
could, and the dame would nod an assent, and write down the
maid’s words on the edge as a gloss. It was a fortunate union.

But one day a man came to the house who had orders from the king
to write down the names of all the people in the city, — men,
women, and children, — for the king wished to know how many
subjects he had. So the maid was brought out to the official.

“Have you a certificate or anything in writing to show where you
belong?” he asked; and the maid produced her passport that the
burgomaster of Simpel had given her. The man looked at it with
astonishment, then handed the paper to the mistress of the house,
and asked with a laugh, “Do you know whom you have taken into
your house?”

Knowledge took the passport, read it, and let the paper fall from
her hands. “Oh my goodness!” she groaned in an undertone. Then
she implored the officer not to say anything about it, paid the
trembling maid the wages due her, gave her some cast-off garments
besides, and bolted the door behind the departing bird of misfortune.

* * *

With hanging head the poor thing crept out of the city; and when,
after a hard journey, she reached a wood, she decided to live in
it and become a hermit.

She had spent several days in the wilderness, when one morning,
while gathering berries, she came to a garden fence. Strange
trees and flowers grew in it, and birds of shining plumage sang
in the branches. An old woman was taking a walk along the path
strewn with golden sand. She was none other than the fairy who
had driven the unfortunate creature into banishment; and as soon
as the maid recognized her enemy, she fell on the ground with a
loud scream.

The fairy came to the fainting girl, lifted her up, and gave her
some strengthening balsam. Then she led her, trembling, into her
castle, and quieted her with friendly words. “You may stay here,”
she said, “for a few days, and rest yourself. In the mean time, I
hope that just the right thing will be found for you. I am to
blame for your misfortune, and it is right that I should help you
out of it.”

Hereupon the fairy shut herself up in her study, and called up
the spirits that served her, to hold counsel with them.

On the third day the fairy sent for the little stranger. She
looked very friendly, and said: “My child, I have something good
in store for you. In a short time your sadness will be changed to
joy.” She rang for her waiting-maids, and ordered them to dress
her charge in costly garments. The waiting-maids did their best,
and when, after an hour, the stranger in her adornment appeared
again before her patron, the fairy nodded her head in approval.
“ Come, and follow me!” she said, and conducted the little one
into the courtyard. There stood a dainty, milk-white ass,
provided with wings, and a woman’s saddle. “Mount!” commanded the
fairy, and helped the maiden into the saddle. Then she whispered
something in the ass’s ear, and the ass gave a joyful bray,
lifted his wings, and rose like a falcon into the air. “Hold on
fast!” cried the fairy, and waved her handkerchief. The winged
ass had soon mounted so high with his burden that he looked no
bigger than a lark above the cornfields. But the fairy, smiling,
rubbed her hands with satisfaction.

The magic ass understood flying. He shot straight ahead like a
dove striving to reach her own dove-cote, and when he saw his
goal lying beneath him, he sank very slowly down, that his rider
might come gently to the ground

The ass stopped before a magnificent castle; the coat of arms
above the door showed a golden turkey on a red field. Gaily clad
servants rushed forward to assist the extraordinary rider from
the saddle. At the foot of the broad marble steps stood a
dignified man, gorgeously dressed, who was the lord of the castle.

Graciously he took off his hat adorned with ostrich feathers
before the stranger, and led her into the interior of the palace.
Oh, what magnificence!

When they reached the drawing-room the lord dropped politely on
one knee before the lady, and said: “Be welcome, charming fairy
child! Know that I am immortal, and only an immortal can become
my wife. Therefore fate has led you to me. I am Pride.” He rose
and stood in all his magnificence before the stupefied girl. “And
who art thou, my adorable angel?” asked Pride. “What is thy name?”

The stranger lifted her face, and tears were shining in her
watery blue eyes. “Ah,” she sighed, “I dare not deceive you.
Immortal I am indeed; but if you should hear my name you would
drive me from you. I am —”

“Why do you hesitate, heavenly fairy? Speak! Who are you?”

“I am Stupidity,” stammered the lady, and held her hand before
her eyes.

The lord of the castle laughed till the arches rang. “And do you
think I believe that?” he cried. “Never! But you shall be called
whatever you please. I will nevermore let you leave my side, and
the wedding shall be this very day. Are you willing?”

Then Stupidity with a beaming face fell on Pride’s decorated
breast, and whispered, blissfully smiling, “ Yes.”

Above them the ceiling of the drawing-room opened, and in a rosy
cloud appeared the good fairy and blessed the union of the happy pair.