SUMMER LEGENDS

by Rudolph Baumbach
Translated by Helen B. Dole

Copyright 1888

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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-Märchen” and
“Erzählungen und Märchen,” 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 perf