The Lady Hedwig had borne her husband’s ill-temper without a murmur,

but his harsh treatment of his innocent child wounded her deeply. She

fretted and fretted, for whenever the boy committed some trifling

offence he was punished so severely that she was afraid for him, and

at length it preyed upon her mind so much that she fell ill and died.

She was mourned by the whole household and by everyone in the

neighbourhood, though most deeply by her son.

From this time the Count took no further notice of his son, but left

him entirely to the care of his nurse and the old chaplain. Shortly

afterwards he married again, a young and rich lady, and as she had

twin sons the Count consoled himself with them.

Cuno’s favourite walk was to visit the old woman who had once saved

his life. She told him all about his dead mother, and how much good

she had done in her lifetime. The maids and men-servants warned him

repeatedly not to go so often to see her, assuring him that she was

nothing more nor less than a witch. But the boy was not afraid, for

the chaplain had taught him that there were no such people as witches

and that the stories about them riding on broomsticks through the air

were all nonsense.

It is true he saw at the old woman’s hut all sorts of strange things

which he could not understand, and he still remembered the trick with

the copper coins which she had played on his father. Then she knew how

to mix all sorts of ointments and draughts with which to heal both man

and beast; but it was certainly not true, as some folks declared, that

she had a weather-glass, and when she hung it over the fire there was

a fearful thunderstorm. She taught the young Count a good deal that

was useful to him, for instance, all sorts of remedies for sick horses

and cattle, how to mix a bait to lure the fishes, and many other

useful things. The old woman was almost his sole companion, for his

nurse died and his stepmother never troubled about him at all.

By-and-by, as his brothers grew up, his life was even sadder than

before, for the twins were so fortunate as to keep their seats at

their first ride, and Stormy Weather Zollern thought them clever manly

fellows and loved them accordingly, and rode out with them every day

and taught them everything he knew himself. But they did not learn

much good; the Count could neither read nor write and he would not

allow his sons to waste time over such things.

By the time they were ten years old they were as wild and quarrelsome

as their father and led a cat-and-dog life between themselves.

It was only when they wanted to play some unkind trick on Cuno that

they were united.

Their mother did not interfere, she thought it manly for them to fight

one another. One day an old servant spoke to the Count about the way

the two boys fought and quarrelled, and although he only said:

“Rubbish!” he bore it in remembrance, and thought out a means to

prevent their killing one another as they grew older and fiercer, for

the witch’s warning still rang in his ears: “We shall see if your

inheritance will be worth a florin.”

One day when he was out hunting he noticed two hills which seemed to

him to have been specially formed as the site of two castles, and made

up his mind to build one on each. And so he did, and named the castles

one Schalksberg, and the other Hirschberg. Stormy Weather Zollern

intended leaving the castle of Hohenzollern to his eldest son and the

other two castles to the two younger ones, but his wife never rested

until she made him alter his mind.

“Stupid Cuno,” this was what she always called the poor boy, “stupid

Cuno is rich enough as it is with what he inherited from his mother,

and yet you would give him the beautiful castle of Hohenzollern, and

my sons are only to have a castle with nothing but woods attached.”

[Illustration: _The old woman taught the Count a good deal that

was useful to him._ (P. 189.)]

In vain the Count pointed out to her that Cuno could not be so easily

deprived of his birthright; she wept and scolded until even Stormy

Weather, who was generally so stubborn, gave in for the sake of peace,

and made a will leaving Schalksberg to Schalk, the younger of the

twins, and Hohenzollern to Wolf, the elder, whilst Hirschberg,

together with the little town of Balingen, were given to Cuno.

Soon afterwards he fell very ill. The doctor warned him of his

approaching end and so did the chaplain, the latter bidding him

prepare to face death, but he only growled out:--“Rubbish!” and so

died as he had lived, a wild, fierce-tempered man.

Scarcely had he been laid in his grave than the Countess brought the

will to Cuno and told him mockingly that, since he was so learned, he

might read it and see for himself that he had no longer any interest

in Hohenzollern, and she rejoiced with her two sons over the fact that

they had deprived Cuno of his inheritance.

Cuno did not attempt to dispute the will, but took leave of the castle

with tears in his eyes, for not only had he been born there, but his

dear mother lay buried there, and his good old friend the chaplain

lived there, whilst his only other friend lived close by. The Castle

of Hirschberg was a fine stately castle, but very lonesome and

desolate, and he suffered terribly from home-sickness and for longing

after his beautiful birthplace.

The Countess and the twin brothers, who were now eighteen years of

age, were sitting one evening, gazing down upon the road that led to

the castle of Hirschberg, when they saw a stately knight approaching

on horseback. He was followed by a litter, borne by two mules and

accompanied by many attendants. For a long time they could not think

who was coming to visit them, but at length Schalk cried: “It is only

our brother from Hirschberg.”

“What! Stupid Cuno?” asked the Countess in surprise. “He is evidently

going to honour us with an invitation to pay him a visit. The litter

he has no doubt brought for me, to carry me up to the Castle of

Hirschberg. Well, I would not have credited him with so much good

feeling. One act of politeness deserves another, so we will go down to

the castle gates and meet him. Now be sure you look pleasant and

receive him kindly; probably when we reach Hirschberg he will make us

a present each. He will give you a horse possibly, you a suit of

armour, and as for me I have long wanted his mother’s jewels.”

“I will accept nothing from Stupid Cuno,” said Wolf, “and I shall

certainly not make him welcome: as far as I am concerned, the sooner

he follows my father the better pleased I shall be; we shall then

inherit the Castle of Hirschberg, and Schalk and I will sell you the

jewels at a cheap rate.”

“Indeed, you rascal,” scolded his mother, “and so I am to buy the

jewels of you, eh? Is that your thanks to me for having procured the

Castle of Zollern for you? Schalk, my son, you would give me the

jewels without payment, would you not?”

“Death is the only thing to be had without payment,” joked her son,

laughing, “and if it is true the jewels are worth a king’s ransom we

should be foolish indeed to hang them round your neck for nothing. As

soon as Cuno dies we shall ride over to Hirschberg and divide his

property. The jewels we shall sell, and if you give a higher price

than anyone else you can have them.”

As they talked they had approached the castle gate, and the Countess

was forced to suppress her anger, for Cuno was now riding over the

drawbridge.

When he became aware of his stepmother and his brothers he reined in

his horse, dismounted, and greeted them politely, for although they

had done him so much harm he would not allow himself to forget that

they were his brothers and she his father’s widow.

“We are indeed pleased that you should visit us, my son,” said the

Countess in honied tones, and with a caressing smile. “And how is

everything at Hirschberg? Do you grow more accustomed to the place? I

see you have brought a litter. What a splendid one! An empress need

not blush to ride in it. I expect it will not be long before there is

a Mistress to ride about in it.”

“I have not yet thought of marriage, my gracious lady mother,” replied

Cuno, “and therefore I am here to fetch someone to keep me company at

home, and I have brought the litter on that account.”

“You are very thoughtful and kind,” the lady interrupted him.

“He cannot very well mount a horse now,” Cuno continued quietly. “It

is Father Joseph, the chaplain, that I have come for. I am going to

take him with me, for he was my tutor, and we settled it should be so

before I left Hohenzollern. Then I intend taking with me the old woman

who lives at the foot of the hill. She is very old now and it was she

who saved my life the first time I went out to ride with my father.

There are rooms to spare in Hirschberg, and there she shall spend her

last days.”

So saying, he passed through the courtyard and entered the castle to

fetch the old chaplain. Wolf bit his lips with anger, the Countess was

white with rage, but Schalk laughed out loud: “What will you give me

for the horse he was to present to me?” he cried. “Brother Wolf, shall

I exchange it for your suit of armour? Ha! ha! ha! so he is going to

take the old chaplain and the witch to keep him company. What a fine

pair to be sure! In the morning he can amuse himself by taking lessons

in Greek, and in the afternoon he can study witchcraft. Stupid Cuno is

without doubt a comical fellow.”

“He is a very low fellow,” said the Countess, “and you should be

ashamed to laugh at him. It is a disgrace to the family, and we shall

be shamed in the eyes of the whole neighbourhood when it becomes known

that the Count has taken the old witch to live with him, and carried

her off in a magnificent litter drawn by mules. He has inherited his

tastes from his mother, she was always mixing herself up with sick

folks and common people. What would his father say?”

“His father would just say ‘Rubbish,’” said Schalk, laughing.

“Here he comes,” said the Countess, “he is not ashamed to give the old

man his arm, just as though he were his equal. I will not meet him

again.”

So the mother and her two sons did not wait to bid Cuno good-bye, but

he just led his old friend gently across the bridge and placed him in

the litter. When he came to the foot of the hill he stopped in front

of the old woman’s hut, and found her quite ready to accompany him.

She had a large bundle of little glass pots, and little bottles with

medicine in them, and she stood leaning upon her staff waiting for

Cuno.

Things did not turn out as the Countess had supposed they would, for

instead of laughing at him everyone praised Cuno for his kindness in

caring for the last days of the poor old woman, and his pious

affection for the old priest, Father Joseph.

The only persons who found fault with him were the Countess and his

two brothers, and, as everyone knew how disagreeable and quarrelsome

they were, no one paid any heed to the unkind things they said.

They passed Cuno by as though he were a stranger, and this treatment

hurt the young man very much, for he thought it wrong that three

brothers should be at enmity with one another, and so he hit upon a

plan which he thought might help to make them all better friends.

Between the three estates of the three brothers there was a fish-pond,

plentifully stocked with fish. This pond belonged to the estate of

Hirschberg, and Cuno, knowing how fond his brothers were of fishing,

invited them to meet him there for a day’s sport.

It was a beautiful spring morning, and the three brothers arrived at

the pond almost at the same moment. “Now it is strange,” cried Schalk,

“that we should all arrive at the pond together. It was just striking

seven o’clock as I rode out from Schalksberg.”

[Illustration: _THE STORY OF THE FLORIN._

_“She stood leaning upon her staff waiting for Cuno.”_]

“I left Hohenzollern exactly at seven o’clock, also,” said Wolf.

“And I started at seven from Hirschberg,” said Cuno.

“Then,” said Schalk, “it is quite clear that the pond must be exactly

in the centre of the three estates. It is a fine piece of water, too.”

“Yes,” replied Cuno, “and that is the reason why I have invited you

here this morning. I know you are both fond of fishing, and although I

also like to cast a line now and again, there is fish enough in the

pond for all three of us, and room on the bank, too, even if we all

wished to fish here together. And so, my brothers, I propose to make

the pond common property and give both of you the same right to fish

here as myself.”

“Indeed, our brother is mighty condescending,” said Schalk, mockingly.

“And what shall we be expected to give in return, for, as everyone

knows--death is the only thing to be had without payment.”

“And yet I give you this without any wish for payment,” replied Cuno.

“All I want is to meet you here from time to time and have a little

speech with you. Are we not all sons of the same father?”

“Well,” said Schalk, ungraciously, “I think there is nothing so stupid

as to fish in company. One just drives the fish away from the other.

But let us take it in turns; you, Cuno, fish Monday and Thursday, Wolf

on Tuesday and Friday, and I on Wednesday and Saturday.”

“I will not agree to it,” said the gloomy Wolf. “I will accept

nothing, neither will I share with any one. It was only fair, Cuno, to

offer to divide the pond with us, for it really belongs to all three

equally; but let us cast the dice and see who shall possess it in the

future. If I am more fortunate than you, you can always ask leave of

me to fish here.”

“I never gamble with dice,” replied Cuno, saddened by his brother’s

ingratitude.

“Our brother is much too pious for that,” said Schalk, sneeringly.

“But I have another plan which even the most pious hermit could not

object to. Let us cast our lines and fish here until the clock strikes

twelve, and whoever has caught the most fish by that time shall have

the pond for his own.”

“Well,” said Cuno, “I am a foolish fellow to try for a prize that

really belongs to myself, but just to show you I was in earnest in

offering to share the pond I will accept the challenge.”

Cuno allowed his brothers to choose their own positions and the three

began to fish. Then it seemed as though the fish knew who was the

rightful owner, for they swarmed to take Cuno’s bait. No sooner did

the line touch the water than twenty or thirty fish swam up, pushing

each other out of the way in their anxiety to be caught. Before two

hours had passed the ground all around Cuno was strewn with beautiful

fish.

Then he ceased fishing and went to see what luck his brothers had had.

Schalk had but three little fish and Wolf five, and both of them were

looking very grim, for they could see from where they stood the

enormous quantity Cuno had caught.

As Cuno approached, Wolf broke up his rod in a rage and flung the

pieces into the pond--“It is absurd,” said he, “to suppose that you,

stupid Cuno, can have beaten us fairly. How is it possible for you to

catch more fish in a couple of hours than I could catch in a year? It

is only by means of witchcraft that you have succeeded.”

“You have hit the mark, brother,” said Schalk, “the old witch he keeps

at Hirschberg has taught him how to enchant the creatures. We were

foolish to fish with him. Before long he will turn wizard himself.”

“You wicked men,” answered Cuno angrily. “I have had an opportunity

this morning to judge of your greed, your shamelessness, and your

rude, rough manners. Go your ways and never come here again. It would

be better for you if you were only half so good and pious as the poor

old woman you have called a witch.”

“No, a real witch she is not,” said Schalk, mockingly, “for if she

were she would prophesy more correctly than she has done. Did she not

tell my father that a great part of his inheritance would be sold for

a florin? Now at his death he owned all the land within sight of

Hohenzollern, and it is not likely that it will ever dwindle away so

that it will be worth no more than a florin. She is a foolish old

woman and you are just stupid Cuno.”

Schalk made off as fast as he could when he had finished speaking,

for he was afraid of his brother’s strong arm, and Wolf followed him,

in a worse temper than his surly father had ever been.

Cuno took his brothers’ cruel behaviour so much to heart that he fell

ill, and had it not been for the ministrations of Father Joseph and

the healing drinks the old woman prepared he must have died.

When his brothers heard that he lay at the point of death they gave a

banquet, and when they were flushed with wine they made a compact that

whoever first heard of Cuno’s death should fire the cannons from his

castle to tell his brother the good news. And the one who fired first

was to have the best cask of wine in Cuno’s cellar.

From this time Wolf kept a servant constantly in the neighbourhood of

Hirschberg, and Schalk bribed one of Cuno’s servants to let him know

the moment his master was dead.

But this servant had more affection for his good, kind master than for

the wicked Schalk, and one day he asked the old woman if there were

indeed no chance of his master’s recovery, and on her telling him that

Cuno was very much better he expressed his joy and told her of the

plan the brothers had made.

The old woman was very angry, and told Cuno, who, however, would not

believe such unnatural conduct, and so the old woman urged him to make

a trial and pretend he was dead, and then if the cannons were fired

they would, of course, hear them.

So Count Cuno sent for the servant his brother had bribed, and bade

him ride in haste and tell Schalk that he, Cuno, was at the point of

death.

As the servant rode out of the gateway, Wolf’s spy stopped him and

enquired whither he rode in such hot haste.

“Alas!” said the man, “my poor master is at the point of death. It is

said he cannot live through the night.”

“Indeed!” cried the man and ran to saddle his horse and in a very

short space of time he was riding furiously towards Hohenzollern. Such

was his speed that, on reaching the gates, his horse fell and he had

only time to say--“Count Cuno is dying,” before he became unconscious.

[Illustration: _He told her of the plan the brothers had made._

(P. 200.)]

Immediately afterwards the cannons of Hohenzollern thundered forth and

Wolf and his mother made merry, and congratulated one another on the

big cask of wine they would win from Cuno’s cellar. They reckoned on

the inheritance of the fine castle, the fish pond, and the beautiful

jewels. And all the time the cannons sounded, each shot being followed

by a wonderful echo, or what at first they took to be one, for they

speedily discovered it was the sound of shot being fired from

Schalksberg.

“Schalk must have had a spy at Hirschberg too,” Wolf said to his

mother with a laugh. “Well, well, we shall have to share the wine as

well as the rest of the inheritance.”

With that he mounted his horse, for he guessed that Schalk would try

to be before him and pocket some of Cuno’s valuables before he

arrived. But when he reached the fish-pond the two brothers met, and

each blushed with shame, for each knew he had tried to be before his

brother, and cheat him of part of the inheritance.

They rode along together and never mentioned Cuno, but discussed how

they should settle affairs in the future, and how they should decide

which of them should own Hirschberg.

But when they had crossed the drawbridge and entered the courtyard

they saw their brother looking out of the window, quite hale and

hearty. But his eyes flashed with wrath as he glanced at his two

brothers.

They were very much afraid at first, for they thought it must be

Cuno’s ghost; but as soon as they discovered he was alive and well,

Wolf said sheepishly, “Why, I thought you were dead, brother!”

Schalk said very little, but if looks could have killed, Cuno would

have had but a short time to live.

Then Cuno cried in a voice of thunder: “From this time I renounce all

relationship between us. I heard the firing of cannons from your two

castles and understood very well how you were making merry over my

death. I have five field-pieces here at Hirschberg and I have had them

loaded, and unless you make haste to get beyond range of the bullets

you shall judge what sort of marksmen we have here at Hirschberg.”

They did not need a second warning, for they saw he meant what he

said, and so they set spurs to their horses and raced down the hill.

Cuno fired a cannon ball over their heads, not meaning to harm them,

but merely to give them a good fright.

On their way down they began to quarrel as to who was to blame, both

declaring he had fired his cannon solely because he had heard his

brother firing. So bitter were they that when at length they parted

company each vowed he hated and detested his brother worse even than

Cuno.

Soon afterwards Cuno made his will, but he told no one what was in it.

The old woman plagued her favourite sorely to tell her if he had left

anything to his brothers, but he would not, and in the end she never

knew, for she died the following year. All her pills and potions could

not help her then, for she was ninety-eight years old, and the disease

she died of was “old age,” which the cleverest doctor in the world

cannot cure.

Count Cuno laid her to rest with every mark of respect and sorrow. It

was not long before the old chaplain also left him, and then he became

a very lonely man. But his loneliness was not for long, for Cuno, the

good, died in his twenty-eighth year. Some said he was poisoned by his

brothers, but whether it were so or no, no one ever really knew.

Again the country resounded with the roar of cannons, twenty-five

rounds being fired from the castles of Zollern and Schalksberg.

“Well, there is no mistake this time,” said Schalk, as he met his

brother Wolf on the road.

“No, indeed,” answered Wolf, “and if he were to rise and glare at us

from the window as he did before, I have a pistol with me, ready

charged, that will soon teach him to hold his peace.”

As they rode up the castle hill a rider and his retinue joined them.

Neither of the brothers knew him, but supposed he must be a friend of

Cuno’s who had come to his funeral, so they began to praise the dead

man, lamented his early death, and Schalk even shed a few crocodile

tears. But the knight answered never a word, only rode silently up the

hill-side.

When the brothers dismounted, Wolf called for wine--“and of the best,

Master Cellarman,” he added--“for now we are going to enjoy

ourselves.”

He went up the stairs and entered the great hall, followed closely by

the silent knight, who, when the twins had seated themselves at the

table, drew a silver coin from his vest pocket, and, flinging it on

the table between them, cried: “There is your inheritance, you will

find it correct, the exact amount being a florin.”

The brothers looked surprised, laughed uneasily, and asked him what he

meant.

The knight drew forth a parchment, with numerous seals attached, and

began to read out what Cuno had set down there. Every act of enmity

they had shown him during his lifetime was chronicled there, and then

came an order that his estates and all that he possessed, with the

exception of his mother’s jewels, were to be sold to the State of

Würtemberg for the sum of one florin. The jewels, however, were to be

sold, and the money be used to endow a house for the poor in the

little town of Balingen.

The brothers laughed no longer; but gnashed their teeth with rage, for

they knew they could not wrest their inheritance from Würtemberg; they

had lost for ever the beautiful castle and all the estates belonging

to it, all they were to inherit was a paltry florin.

Wolf slipped it into his pocket and he and Schalk stalked from the

castle without so much as a word to the Commissioner of Würtemberg.

They rode home, each to his own castle, but on the following morning

Wolf rode over to Schalksberg and suggested they should go to the

little town of Balingen which had gone to Würtemberg with the rest of

the estates, and, just to show the folks they did not care, spend

their inheritance on a quart of wine in which to drink each other’s

healths. So they rode together to the inn at Balingen, called for a

quart of red wine, and drank to each other.

When it was finished they called for the landlord, and Wolf flung the

florin upon the table, but the landlord shook his head and told them

that early that morning a messenger had come from Würtemberg and had

paraded the town, with beat of drum, and proclaimed that the State had

ordered all florin pieces to be called in and the use of them

discontinued--“and therefore,” said the landlord, “I must ask you to

pay me in a different coin.”

The brothers looked at each other and turned pale. Neither of them had

any other money with him and so they were obliged to owe the landlord

for the quart of wine.

They went on their way silently, for they did not feel in the mood for

conversation, but when they came to the cross roads, where the way to

the right led to Hohenzollern and that to the left to Schalksberg,

Schalk said: “Well, our inheritance, it seems, was not worth a florin,

moreover, the wine we thought to purchase with it was bad!”

“Yes,” replied Wolf thoughtfully, “and the old woman’s prediction has

come true, for did she not say ‘We shall see some day if your

inheritance be worth so much as a florin’? We have not been able to

pay for a quart of wine with ours.”

Then they parted company and rode back to their castles, angry with

themselves and the whole world.

THE COLD HEART.

If ever you should travel through the country of Suabia you should

take a peep at the Black Forest, not only that you may admire the

magnificent pine-trees, but that you may study the people living

there, for they are quite unlike any of their neighbours. The

inhabitants of the Black Forest near the town of Baden are tall and

broad and it would almost seem as though the invigorating scent of the

pine-trees had strengthened their bodies and their characters too, for

they are fearless, frank and honest. Their principal industries are

glass-making and clock-making. The costume they wear, too, is

different from the ordinary run of peasants, and gives them a strange

and somewhat dignified appearance.

[Illustration: _The Little Glass-man._]

On the other side of the Forest, although of the same race, the

inhabitants are, on account of the different occupations they pursue,

somewhat different in their manners and customs. These people work

chiefly in the Forest as wood-cutters and timber-merchants. They fell

their pine-trees and then float them down the Nagold to the Neckar,

down the Neckar to the Rhine, even travelling as far as Holland, the

rafts of the Black Forest being known upon the sea-coast. They stop

their rafts at every town they come to, so that folks may buy their

timber if they have a mind to; but the broadest and tallest beams and

masts are sold to the Dutch ship-builders for a good round sum of

money. These men, accustomed to a rough, wandering life, are as

different in character from the people living in the other part of the

Forest as their costumes differ.

The men living in the neighbourhood of Baden wear black jackets,

closely pleated trousers, red stockings, and peaked hats; the woodmen,

however, wear jackets of dark coloured linen, broad green braces,

black leather breeches, from one of the pockets of which a brass foot

rule protrudes, but their chief pride is in their boots, which reach

nearly to their middle, so that the raftsmen can wade through fairly

deep water without wetting their feet.

At one time it was believed that two spirits inhabited the Black

Forest; the one, known as “The Little Glass-man,” was a good little

spirit, and but three feet and a half in height, and was always to be

seen dressed in the same costume as the glass-makers or clock-makers

wore; but Dutch Michael, who haunted the further side of the Forest,

was a broad-shouldered giant and was dressed like a raftsman. Some of

the wood-cutters who had seen him declared his boots were so big that

an ordinary full-grown man could have stood upright in one of them and

yet not have reached to the top of it.

A young Black Forester, named Peter Munk, is said to have had a very

extraordinary adventure with these two wood-spirits. Peter lived with

his mother, who was a widow, in the very heart of the Forest. His

father had been a charcoal burner and after his death the mother

trained her son to the same employment.

At first Peter was content to follow his father’s occupation and to

sit by his sooty kiln, as black as soot himself, and now and again to

drive into the towns and villages to sell his charcoal. But he had

plenty of time for reflection and it gradually began to occur to him

that his lot was not a very happy one. He thought how smart the

glass-makers and clock-makers looked, decked out in their best clothes

on Sunday. “But,” said he to himself, “if I were to put on my father’s

jacket with its silver buttons, and encase my legs in bright red

stockings and swagger down the street, folks would say, ‘’Tis only

Peter Munk, the charcoal burner, after all.’”

The wood-cutters, raftsmen and timber-merchants were also objects of

his envy. Whenever these forest giants came into the village in their

splendid costumes, decked out with silver buttons and buckles and

chains, and stood with their great legs wide apart, watching the dance

perhaps, using strange Dutch oaths, and smoking long pipes from

Cologne, he would say to himself--“Ah! what happiness to be a man like

that!” Sometimes one of these fortunate beings would lunge a hand into

his pocket and bring out a handful of florins and commence to gamble

with them; six batzen at a time they would risk at dice, and Peter had

seen one of the richest timber-merchants lose in a night more money

than he or his father had ever earned in a year, and yet not seem

greatly upset over the loss of the money.

At these times Peter would feel half beside himself and would steal

away to his lonely hut consumed with rage and jealousy.

There were three men in particular who excited his admiration and

envy. One was a tall stout man, with a very red face, who was said to

be the richest man in the country. He was called “Fat Ezekiel.”

Twice a year he journeyed to Amsterdam and was always lucky in getting

a better price for his timber than anyone else, so that he could

travel back in state, whilst his neighbours had to get back as best

they could.

The second man was the tallest and thinnest man in the whole Forest

and was nicknamed the Long-legged Lounger, and Peter Munk envied him

his extraordinary impudence, for he would flatly contradict the most

important personages, and no matter how crowded the inn might be he

would take up four times as much room as the fattest men; he would

plant his elbows on the table, or stretch his long legs upon a bench,

and no one ventured to expostulate, because he was so immensely rich.

The third man, however, was young and handsome, and was the best

dancer in the district, so that he was known far and wide as the King

of the Dancers. He had at one time been very poor and acted as servant

to one of the timber merchants, but suddenly he had become enormously

rich. Some said he had found a pot of gold, others affirmed he had

fished up a parcel of gold pieces from the bottom of the river, which

had been part of the lost Nibelungen treasure; but, no matter how he

had attained it, the fact remained that he had suddenly become very

rich indeed and was looked upon as little short of a prince by his

less lucky friends and companions.

Peter Munk’s mind was often occupied by the good fortune of these

three men, as he sat alone in the forest or by his fire!

It is true that all three of them were hated by their neighbours on

account of their unnatural avarice and their want of feeling for those

who owed them money, or for the poor, but though they were hated they

were treated with respect on account of their money, for they could

afford to scatter it about as the pine-trees scattered their needles.

“Alas!” sighed Peter one day, “I can stand my poverty no longer;

would that I were as rich and respected as Fat Ezekiel, or as impudent

and powerful as the Long-legged Lounger, or as fine a dancer as the

Dance King and be able to throw florins to the fiddlers instead of

pence. Where _do_ these fellows get their money from?”

In thinking of ways and means by which he might amass money, he at

length remembered the stories the people used to tell of the little

Glass-man and Dutch Michael. In his father’s lifetime they had

frequently been visited by folks as poor as themselves, and the

conversation would turn to rich folks and how they had acquired their

money, and the little Glass-man had not infrequently played a

prominent part in the conversation. He even thought he could remember

the little verse it was necessary to recite in the Forest if one

wished to summon the little man; it began:

Owner of all in the pine woods green,

Many a hundred years thou hast seen,

Thine all the land where the pine-trees grow--

But there he stopped short, and strive as he would he could not

remember the rest of the verse.

He thought about asking some of the old men who had been his father’s

friends, but a certain shyness prevented his mentioning the little

Glass-man and so betraying perhaps what was in his mind. There were

very few rich people in the Forest and he wondered why some of them

had not tried their luck with the wood-spirits. At last he persuaded

his mother to talk about the little man; but she could tell him

little more than he knew already. Moreover, she could only remember

the first line of the verse; but finally she said the spirit only

showed himself to folks born on a Sunday between the hours of eleven

and two.

“Had you but known the charm,” said she, “you might have summoned the

Little Man yourself, for you were born at mid-day on a Sunday.”

On hearing this Peter Munk was nearly beside himself with impatience

to set out upon this adventure. Surely the portion of the verse he

knew would prove sufficient to summon the little Glass-man to a

Sunday’s child like himself.

[Illustration: _Peter Munk sat alone in the forest._ (P. 211.)]

So one day when he had managed to sell all his charcoal, instead of

kindling a new fire he dressed himself in his father’s best jacket and

red stockings, put the pointed hat upon his head and, taking his five

foot blackthorn staff in his hand, bade good-bye to his mother. “It

will soon be time to draw lots and decide who is to go for a soldier,

and I am going to the magistrate to remind him that as you are a

widow and I your only son I am exempt from serving in the army,” said

he.

His mother praised him for his thoughtfulness and he set out towards a

particular clump of black pines.

This spot was the highest point in the Black Forest and there was not

a village nor a hut for some miles around it, for the superstitious

people thought it was haunted. Although the trees there grew thick and

tall they were never felled, for it was said that when anyone had

attempted to do so terrible accidents occurred. Sometimes the axe had

sprung from the haft and buried itself in the man’s foot, or a

stubborn tree trunk that seemed to defy the stroke of the axe fell

suddenly and crushed the wood-cutter, injuring him severely and even

killing him. Even the finest tree could but be used for fuel, for the

raftsmen would not take a single log from this particular clump, for

it was said that it would bring them bad luck and that raft and

raftsmen would sink.

And so it chanced that the trees grew thicker and taller, excluding

every ray of sunshine, so that even in the daytime it was dark as

night there, and Peter Munk’s courage began to fail him as he reached

the spot, for there was not a sound to be heard, no voice, no footstep

except his own, the stroke of no axe resounded, and even the birds

seemed to have deserted the place.

[Illustration: _THE COLD HEART_

_“This” thought he “must surely be the abode of the Glass-man”_

(_p. 217_)]

Peter reached the highest point of the mountain and stood before a

pine-tree of tremendous girth, for which a Dutch ship-builder would

have given many a hundred florins. “This,” thought he, “must surely be

the abode of the Glass-man,” and so he drew his hat from his head,

bowed low, and said with a trembling voice:--

“Good-evening, Master Glass-man,” but there was not a sound in reply.

“Perhaps I had better try the little verse,” he thought, and began in

flattering tones:

“Owner of all in the pine woods green,

Many a hundred years thou hast seen,

Thine all the lands where the pine-trees grow--”

As he spoke he saw to his terror a strange little figure peeping out

from behind the big tree trunk. It seemed to be dressed exactly as he

had heard in the black vest, red stockings, and pointed hat. Even the

pale, clever little face he seemed to see for a moment; but it

disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“Master Glass-man,” cried Peter in trembling tones, “I pray you do not

make sport of me. If you think I did not see you you are mistaken.”

But there was no reply, beyond a faint chuckle from behind the tree.

At length his impatience overcame his fear--“Wait awhile, my fine

fellow,” he cried angrily, “I will soon catch you.” He made a bound

towards the tree and darted round to the other side. But there was no

Glass-man there, only a dainty little squirrel that scampered up the

trunk of the tree.

Peter Munk shook his head. He perceived clearly that his failure was

on account of his not knowing the concluding line of the verse, but

ponder as he might he could not call it to memory. The squirrel showed

itself upon the lower branches of the pine-tree and appeared to mock

and make sport of him. It dressed its fur, waved its bushy tail, gazed

at him with its bright clever eyes, but at length he was half afraid

of it, for one moment it seemed to have a man’s head and to wear a

pointed hat, the next moment it was like any ordinary squirrel, then

suddenly its hind legs became clothed with red stockings and black

shoes. In short it was quite the strangest little creature Peter Munk

had ever seen and he was afraid of it, and so he turned and left the

spot quicker than he had gone there.

It seemed to him that the woods grew darker and thicker as he ran,

until he became possessed of an absolute terror, and it was not until

he heard the barking of dogs in the distance that he slackened his

pace, then, as a peasant’s hut burst on his astonished gaze, he found

that in his fright he had been running in the opposite direction to

that which he had intended, and instead of arriving at the dwellings

of the glass-makers he had come out amongst the wood-cutters and

raftsmen.

The people who lived in this particular cottage were wood-cutters, and

the family consisted of an old man, his son, the master of the house,

and his family.

Peter Munk approached them and asked if they could give him a night’s

lodging, and they received him kindly and hospitably, never so much as

asking for his name or where he came from. They gave him cider to

drink and in the evening they roasted a large woodcock for his supper,

one of the daintiest morsels to be had in the Black Forest.

When they had made a good meal the housewife and her daughters seated

themselves round a big blaze of light, which the youths kindled from

the resinous pine-wood, and commenced plying their distaffs, the old

grandfather, the guest, and the master sat smoking and watching the

women at their work, but the young men of the family busied themselves

fashioning wooden spoons and forks.

Out in the woods a storm raged and howled amongst the pine-trees. Now

and again there was the sound of a falling tree or the cracking of

branches as they were torn from the parent stem. The fearless youths

would have run out into the wood in order to watch the fearful but

grand spectacle, but their grandfather forbade them.

“No one wandering in the wood to-night would ever return,” said he.

“Without doubt Dutch Michael is abroad and seeks a new raft-load in

the forest.”

The boys had heard many a time of Dutch Michael; but nevertheless they

begged their grandfather to tell them a story about him. Peter Munk,

too, who had only heard vague reports about him in his own part of the

country, joined his requests to that of the boys and asked him to tell

him who he really was and where he lived.

“Why, to think you don’t know that now,” said the old man. “You must

have come from the other side of the forest then, if not further

away. I will tell you all I know of Dutch Michael.

“Some hundreds of years ago, so the story goes, there were no more

honest and respectable folks to be found far and wide than the Black

Foresters. It is only since so much money came into the country that

folks have become dishonest and wicked. Nowadays on a Sunday young men

dance and smoke, and swear, enough to make one’s hair stand on end,

but in those days it was different, and even though he stands at the

window and hears me say it, I maintain that Dutch Michael is at the

root of all the evil.

“More than a hundred years ago there lived a rich timber merchant, who

had many work-people and whose business was carried on from here to

far down the Rhine. He was a good pious man and a blessing rested on

all his ventures.

“One evening there came to his door a man the like of whom he had

never seen before. He wore the dress of a Black Forester, but he was a

great deal taller than the tallest man and one could scarcely believe

it possible for there to be such a giant.

“He asked for work and the merchant, seeing that he looked so strong

and likely to be able to carry heavy burdens, asked what wages he

required and soon came to terms with him.

“Michael was the man’s name, and such a workman his master had never

had before. When it came to hewing trees, he was worth three other

men, and when the timber had to be carried away, though there were six

men at the end of a trunk he would take the other end by himself and

make no labour of it at all.

“At the end of half a year he came to his master and said he was tired

of felling timber and would like to go with the rafts and see the

places the timber went to.”

“‘Well,’ said his master, ‘I will not stand in your way. It is true

that you are more useful to me as a wood-cutter, for strong men are

needed for such hard work, whereas one has need of skill and dexterity

rather than strength upon a raft. However, this once you shall go.’

“And so it came to pass, and he was to set out with a raft consisting

of eight portions, all being connected. But on the evening before they

were to start Michael brought down to the river’s edge eight more huge

trees, the biggest and longest that had ever been seen, and each one

he carried upon his shoulder as easily as though it had been his

raft-pole. To this day no one knows where they had been felled.

“The timber merchant’s heart rejoiced, for he reckoned this timber

would fetch a vast sum; but Michael only said--‘They are for a raft

for myself. I could not very well manage on the other little rafts.’

“His master offered him a pair of raftsmen’s boots, in return for the

service he had done him, but Michael thrust them aside and produced a

pair such as never were seen before. My grandfather assured me they

must have weighed a hundred pounds at least and were five or six feet

high.

“The raft set out and, just as he had astonished the wood-cutters,

now he made the raftsmen open their eyes.

“They had believed, when they saw the huge additional portion Michael

had attached to the raft, that it would travel much slower on that

account. But not so, as soon as it reached the Neckar it darted ahead

like an arrow. When they came to a sharp bend in the river, whereas

the raftsmen would formerly have had some trouble to keep the raft in

the middle of the stream, and not to run it aground, now, Michael just

sprang into the water and with one mighty push turned the raft either

to left or right until the danger was past.

“When they came to a straight stretch he would run along the different

portions of the raft until he came to the front one, and then, bidding

all the men put by their poles he would stick his own enormous pole

into the gravelly river-bed and send the raft rushing forward at such

a pace that trees, country, villages, all seemed flying past. And so

it came about that they reached Cologne in less than half the time it

usually took. Here the raftsmen had been wont to sell all their

timber; but Michael now dissuaded them from doing this.

“‘You are fine merchants,’ said he, ‘you don’t know how to protect

your own interests. Do you suppose the people of Cologne need all the

wood they purchase from the Black Forest for themselves? Not they!

They give you about half what it is really worth and sell it again at

a dearer rate in Holland. Let us sell the smaller timber here and take

the larger trees to Holland, and whatever we make over and above the

usual price will be our profit.’

[Illustration: _Michael made the raftsmen open their eyes._

(P. 222.)]

“So spoke the crafty Michael, and his companions were only too ready

to follow his advice, some because they wanted to go to Holland to see

the country and some because they liked the idea of the extra money.

Only one man amongst them remained honest, and he begged the rest not

to endanger his master’s property risking the troublesome journey to

Holland, or at least if they went there not to cheat the merchant out

of the better price that they sold the wood for. But they would not

listen to him and soon forgot his words, that is to say, with the

exception of Michael. So they floated down the Rhine, Michael steering

the raft, and very soon they reached Rotterdam.

“Here they obtained four times the usual price for the wood, the huge

trunks Michael had added fetching in particular a very high price. The

Black Foresters were delighted at the sight of so much gold. Michael

divided it, one portion for the master and three portions to be

divided between the raftsmen.

“The men at once began to waste their money in the inns, drinking and

gambling with sailors and all sorts of rabble and dishonest folks. The

one honest man amongst them Dutch Michael sold to a press-gang man and

he was carried off and never heard of again. From that time Holland

became the Black Foresters’ Paradise and Dutch Michael was their king.

It was some time before the timber merchants discovered the truth of

the matter, and so it gradually came about that riches, oaths, bad

habits, drinking and gambling were introduced from Holland into the

Black Forest.

“When the whole story did come out, however, Dutch Michael was

nowhere to be found. But he is not dead, and for over a hundred years

he has haunted our forest, and it is said he has helped many a one to

become rich, but at the cost of his poor soul. I will say no more

about that, still it is very certain that on stormy nights such as the

present, he seeks out the finest trees from the portion of the forest

where it is forbidden to fell timber; my own father saw him break one

that was full four feet thick as though it had been a reed. This

timber he gives to those who have left the straight path of honesty

and gone to him for help. At midnight he helps them to carry the wood

to the river, and steers the rafts down the streams for them until

they reach Holland.

“But if I were King in Holland, I would have them sunk with shot to

the bottom of the stream, for every ship that carries but a single

board or beam sold by Dutch Michael is bound to sink. That is why one

hears of so many shipwrecks. How else could it be that a fine ship, as

large as a church should go to the bottom of the sea? Every time Dutch

Michael fells a tree in the forest, a plank in some ship bursts, the

water penetrates and the good ship is lost with all hands.

“That is the story of Dutch Michael, and it is quite true that it was

he who introduced everything that is bad in the Black Forest. He can

make one as rich as a dream,” he added mysteriously, “but I would

rather be without his wealth, and not for the whole world would I

stand in the shoes of Fat Ezekiel or the Long-legged Lounger, and it

is said that the Dance King had given up his soul to him also.”

The storm had blown over during the old man’s recital and now the

maidens timidly lit their lamps and crept away to bed, and the men

placed a sack of leaves for a pillow for Peter Munk upon the bench in

the chimney corner, and wishing him good-night, left him to himself.

Charcoal Peter, as he was usually called, had terrible dreams that

night. He thought that the grim gigantic form of Dutch Michael came to

the window and, forcing it open, stretched a long arm through the

space and shook a purse of gold pieces at Peter. The money clinked

musically in his ears. The next moment however, who should appear but

the little Glass-man. He rode here and there in the air upon a huge

green glass bottle and Peter thought he could hear the low chuckling

he had heard in the clump of black pines; then suddenly he caught the

sound of a hoarse voice booming in his left ear these words:

“In Holland there’s gold to be had

For the asking, so wherefore be sad?

Dutch Michael has gold, glitt’ring gold,

Come to him, then, for riches untold.”

Then in his right ear he heard the three lines of the little

Glass-man’s verse recited and a soft voice whispered, “Foolish

Charcoal Peter, foolish Peter Munk, can’t you think of a word to rhyme

with ‘grow’ and you born at mid-day on a Sunday, too? For shame,

Peter, come try for a rhyme, try for a rhyme.” Peter groaned and

sighed in his sleep and tried his hardest to make a rhyme, but as he

had never made a single one when awake he did not succeed any better

in his dreams.

[Illustration: _Peter tapped his forehead with his fingers._

(P. 227.)]

He awoke as the first streaks of dawn appeared and sat up, placed his

elbows on the table and rested his head upon his hands. As he

remembered the whispering in his ears he said to himself: “Rhyme

foolish Charcoal Peter, for goodness sake make a rhyme.” He tapped his

forehead with his fingers, but no rhyme would come, and as he sat

there sad and disturbed in his mind, trying hard to find a rhyme to

“grow,” the young fellows passed the cottage and one of them was

singing at the top of his voice:

“I stood beside a little hut,

Just where the pine-trees grow,

Peeped in for my beloved,

But her face she would not show.”

The words rushed through Peter’s ears like lightning; but like

lightning they were gone again. He jumped up, ran from the cottage,

pursued the three men, and seized the singer roughly by the arm.

“Stop, friend,” he cried, “what did you rhyme with ‘grow’? Be good

enough, please, to tell me what you were singing.”

“What’s that to you, fellow?” replied the Black Forester. “I can sing

what I like, I suppose? Let go my arm, or----”

“No, no,” screamed Peter, clinging all the tighter to him, “I will not

let you go until you have told me what you were singing.” But the

singer’s two companions fell upon Peter and gave him such a drubbing

he was forced to let go the singer’s clothing, and fell fainting to

his knees.

“Now you have your deserts,” they said, laughing, “and perhaps you

will know better another time than to molest honest folk on an open

road.”

“I will certainly remember not to do so any more,” replied Charcoal

Peter with a sigh, “but now that you have given me a good beating be

so good as to tell me slowly and clearly the words of the song.”

They laughed at him and mocked him, but the singer repeated the words

to him and then, laughing and singing, the three young men went on

their way.

Peter raised himself painfully to his feet. “Ah,” he said, “so ‘show’

rhymes with ‘grow.’ Very well, Master Glass-man, we will have a word

to say to each other by-and-by.” He went back to the cottage, took

leave of his host, and with his staff in his hand set out once more

for the clump of black pine-trees.

He walked slowly, for he had to compose a last line to the verse, and

although he now had a word to rhyme he found it a difficult matter to

make up the whole line. But by the time he was close to the place and

the pines began to grow taller and thicker, he had his line quite

complete, and so overjoyed was he that he made a bound forward and

nearly bounded up against a huge giant of a man, dressed as a

raftsman, and carrying a pole in his hand the size of a ship’s mast,

who stepped suddenly from out of the clump of pine-trees.

Peter Munk’s knees shook with fright as he saw the giant taking slow

steps alongside of him, in order to accommodate himself to Peter’s

pace. “Without doubt it is Dutch Michael,” thought he, but the huge

figure paced silently on.

Peter glanced sideways at him from time to time. He was certainly

taller than the tallest man he had ever seen, his face was neither

young nor old, but was covered with lines and creases innumerable. He

wore a linen vest and the enormous boots which were drawn up over his

leather breeches Peter recognised at once from the old man’s story.

“Peter Munk, what are you doing in this clump of black pines?” he

asked at length in deep threatening tones.

“Good morning, sir,” answered Peter, trying to appear unconcerned,

although he was trembling violently. “I am only on my way home.”

“Peter Munk,” replied the Forest King, glaring at the unfortunate

young man, “your way does not lie through this clump of trees.”

“Well, not exactly,” said Peter, “but it is so hot to-day that I

thought it would be cooler here beneath the pine-trees.”

[Illustration: _Peter nearly bounded up against a huge giant._

(P. 229.)]

“Don’t lie to me, Charcoal Peter,” thundered the giant, “or I will

strike you to the earth with my pole. Do you suppose I did not see you

begging from the little Glass-man?” Then in milder tones Dutch Michael

went on. “It was a foolish thing to do, Peter, and it was lucky for

you you could not remember the lines of the verse, for the little

fellow is a terrible miser, and only gives grudgingly; moreover,

whoever accepts money from him is never happy again his whole life

long. You are a simpleton, Peter, and I am sorry for you from the

bottom of my heart. To think that a fine handsome fellow like you

should be nothing better than a charcoal burner! When other folks

jingle fat ducats in their pockets you have only a few copper coins to

show. It is a wretched life to lead.”

“You are right there, it is a wretched life,” said Peter.

“Well, well,” proceeded Dutch Michael, “I have helped many a poor

fellow in distress and you would not be the first. Just say how many

hundred florins you would like to have to begin with?”

As he spoke he jingled the money in his enormous pockets and it

sounded just as it had done in Peter’s dream.

Peter’s heart beat fast with fear and he was hot and cold by turns,

for Dutch Michael had not the appearance of one who gave money out of

charity alone. He remembered the mysterious words of the old man

regarding the men who had enriched themselves at the Forest King’s

expense, and overcome with terror he cried out: “Many thanks, sir, for

your kind offer, but I would rather have nothing to do with you,” and

with that he took to his heels and ran for his life.

But the terrible Michael was not to be shaken off. By taking huge

strides he kept pace with Peter--“You will regret this,” he said,

“mark my words you will regret it. Do not run so fast, yonder is the

boundary of my domains and I can go no further.”

On hearing these words Peter hastened on more than ever and as he

reached the boundary he made a spring for safety. Dutch Michael hurled

his huge pole after him. It missed him, but the force with which it

had been thrown caused it to break into splinters. One splinter fell

at his feet and Peter stopped to pick it up to throw it back at

Michael; but before he could do so he felt the wood turn and twist in

his hand, and to his horror he saw that it had turned into a huge

snake, which was about to spring at him. He tried to shake it off, but

it had fastened itself round his arm and darted its horrible head

towards his face, when suddenly a woodcock flew down and seized the

snake’s head in its beak and flew off with it. Dutch Michael raged and

bellowed in vain, and Peter, trembling in every limb, once more set

out upon his way. The path grew steeper and steeper until at length he

found himself before the big pine-tree in the centre of the clump of

black pines. As on the previous day, he bowed to the invisible

Glass-man and began reciting the verse:

“Owner of all in the pine-woods green,

Many a hundred years thou hast seen,

Thine all the lands where the pine trees grow--

To the Sunday-born thy face now show!”

“Well, it’s not quite right yet, but as it is you Charcoal Peter, I

will let it pass,” said a fine soft voice near him.

Peter turned in surprise and saw, seated beneath a beautiful

pine-tree, a little old man. He was wearing a black vest, red

stockings, and a large pointed hat. He had a refined, delicate little

face and a long white beard as soft as a cobweb; but the most

extraordinary thing about him that Peter at first sight noticed was

that he was smoking a long pipe of blue glass; but on approaching

nearer Peter discovered that everything the little man wore, coat,

shoes, stockings, all were made of coloured glass; but it was as

flexible as though it were still hot, and went into folds, as cloth

would have done, with every movement of the little man’s body.

[Illustration: _THE COLD HEART._

_Charcoal Peter and the Glass-man._]

“And so you met that rascal Dutch Michael,” said the little man. “He

would have done you an injury had I not taken his magic wand from him.

Moreover, he will not easily get it again.”

“Yes, Master Glass-man,” replied Peter, bowing low. “I had a terrible

fright. And so you were the woodcock that pecked the snake to death?

Very many thanks. But I have come to you for advice. Things are not

very flourishing with me. A charcoal-burner does not get on in the

world, and, as I am young and strong, I should like to be in a better

position, especially when I see others like Fat Ezekiel and the Dance

King with as much money as they can spend.”

“Peter,” said the little man sternly, as he blew a cloud of smoke from

his pipe, “Peter, don’t let me hear you speak of these men. Just for a

few years’ happiness, or perhaps only the appearance of happiness they

will pay by an eternity of misery. You should not be-little your

trade. Your father and grandfather before you pursued it. I trust

it is not the love of idleness that has led you to me.”

Peter was alarmed by the little man’s earnestness and blushed. “No,

no,” he faltered, “I know full well that idleness is the root of all

trouble; but you cannot wonder that I should wish to better myself. A

charcoal-burner is thought so little of, the glass-makers,

clock-makers and raftsmen are all of higher standing.”

“Pride goes before a fall,” said the little man in more friendly

tones. “You men are a strange race! It is seldom that any one of you

is content with his position. If you were a glass-worker you would no

doubt wish to be a timber merchant, and if you were a timber merchant

you would want to be the Keeper of the Forest, or even a magistrate. I

am accustomed to grant three wishes to every Sunday-child that knows

how to find his way to me. The first two are free to be granted; but I

can refuse to grant the third if I think it is a foolish one. So wish

something for yourself, Peter, but take care that it is something good

and useful.”

“Hurrah! you are without doubt a first-rate little fellow, Master

Glass-man. And so as I may wish what I will, I wish that I may dance

as well as the Dance King, and when I am with Fat Ezekiel I may always

have as much money in my pockets as he has.”

“Fool!” cried the little man angrily, “what an idiotic wish to make,

to be able to dance and to have a supply of money with which to

gamble. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Peter, to cheat yourself

of your good fortune in such a manner. Of what use will it be to your

poor mother that you can dance well? And of what use your money if you

only spend it in the ale house? When you are with Fat Ezekiel and the

Dance King your pockets will be as full as theirs, but you will leave

your money behind you, and be as poor and hungry the rest of the week

as you were before. I will grant you one other wish, but see that you

make better use of it.”

Peter scratched his head and spoke after some deliberation. “Very

well, I wish for the finest glass factory in the Black Forest and

sufficient money to carry on my business.”

“Nothing else?” asked the little man earnestly. “Nothing else, Peter?”

“Well,” said Peter, “whilst I am about it you might as well add a

horse and a little carriage.”

“Oh! you stupid, you stupid!” cried the little man, and in his wrath

he flung his glass pipe at the nearest pine-tree and smashed it into a

hundred pieces. “A horse and carriage indeed! Why couldn’t you wish

for knowledge and common sense. But there, there, no need to look so

sad, the second wish was not altogether so foolish as the first. A

glass factory is not a bad thing to possess and will certainly provide

its owner with a living, but had you wished for knowledge and common

sense with it, the horse and carriage would have followed as a natural

consequence.”

“But, Master Glass-man,” replied Peter, “I have still one wish left

and I will wish for knowledge and common sense if you think it so

necessary for me to possess it.”

“No, no, mark my words you will find yourself in such a dilemma one of

these fine days that you will be thankful to have a remaining wish to

help you out, and now go home. Here are two thousand golden crowns,

see that you use them to the best advantage, and don’t come here

asking for more money or I will hang you from the top of the tallest

tree. Three days ago old Winkfritz died. He owned the largest glass

factory in the forest. Go first thing to-morrow morning and make a bid

for the business. See that you are industrious and behave yourself

well, and I will visit you from time to time and give you good advice

to make up for your not having wished for common sense, but I must

tell you seriously that your first wish was an evil wish. Be careful

how you take to frequenting ale-houses, for never yet did they do

anyone anything but harm.”

Whilst speaking the little man had taken out another pipe made of the

very finest glass, filled it with dried fir cones, and stuck it in his

little toothless mouth. He now drew forth an enormous burning glass

and, stepping out into the sunlight, lighted his pipe by means of the

glass.

When he had succeeded he offered his hand to Peter in friendly

fashion, gave him a little more good advice, smoked faster and faster,

and at length disappeared in a cloud of smoke, which circled higher

and higher until it reached the tree tops, leaving a scent of genuine

Dutch tobacco behind it.

When Peter reached home he found his mother in great trouble about

him, for the good woman quite supposed he had been made to enlist for

a soldier.

He told her he had met a good friend in the Forest who had given him

enough money to start a different business. Although his mother had

lived for thirty years in the charcoal-burner’s hut and had become as

accustomed to the sooty faces of her men-folk as a miller’s wife to

her husband’s floury face, she had still sufficient vanity at once to

despise their former position as soon as she saw a chance of

bettering it.

[Illustration: _The little man disappeared in a cloud of smoke._

(P. 236.)]

“As the mother of a man who owns a glass factory,” said she, “I shall

be a degree above my neighbours, and in future I shall take a foremost

seat in church amongst the well-to-do people.”

Peter soon made a bargain with Winkfritz’s heirs for possession of the

glass factory. He retained all the workmen employed there and worked

hard, making glass night and day. At first he liked his new trade. He

walked about the factory with his hands stuck in his pockets, looking

at this and that and making his workmen laugh at his queer questions.

His greatest pleasure was to watch the glass-blowing; he liked to take

the soft material and fashion it into all sorts of queer figures. But

he soon tired of the work and by degrees he came less often to the

factory; first it fell to passing only an hour a day there, then he

would come in every other day, finally only once a week, and all this

came of frequenting the ale-house. The Sunday after he had met the

little Glass-man, he went to the inn and there he found the Dance

King, already dancing, and Fat Ezekiel, with a can of beer beside him,

playing pitch and toss for crown pieces. He put his hand in his pocket

to be sure the little Glass-man kept good faith, and found his pockets

bulging with gold and silver. In his limbs he felt a strange and

unaccustomed twitching, as though he wanted to dance, and as soon as

the first dance was over he took his partner out and placed himself

close to the Dance King. For every skip the Dance King made Peter made

two. If the Dance King bounded a foot into the air Peter bounded twice

as high, and no matter what complicated steps the Dance King made,

Peter’s dancing was twice as complicated. He bounded, he pranced, he

twisted until all who beheld him were in a whirl of wonder.

As soon as it became known that Peter had purchased a glass factory,

and when folks saw the careless way in which he flung a handful of

coppers at a time to the musicians, their astonishment knew no

bounds. Some said he must have found buried treasure in the forest,

others said he had inherited a big sum of money, and everyone paid him

great respect and attention because it was apparent he was a monied

man. The same evening he lost twenty crowns, but in spite of that his

money still chinked in his pockets as though he had plenty left.

When Peter saw how much he was looked up to he scarcely knew how to

contain himself for pride and joy. He threw his money about with a

free hand and gave a goodly portion to the poor, remembering the times

when he had suffered for want of money.

The Dance King’s art having been quite supplanted by that of Peter,

the latter was nicknamed “Dance Emperor,” but this nickname soon gave

place to another and a worse one. On Sundays in the inn there was no

worse gambler than he, for no one could afford to lose as much as he

could, but as he always played with Fat Ezekiel, who won his money

easily, he had still, just as the little Glass-man had promised, as

much money in his pockets as his opponent.

If he lost twenty or thirty crowns one minute, no sooner had Fat

Ezekiel slipped them into his pocket than the same sum appeared in

Peter’s. He took to gambling every day in the week, and what with

drinking and playing he soon became one of the worst characters in the

Black Forest, and so he came to be called “Gambling Peter” instead of

“Dance Emperor.”

It was on account of this that his glass factory soon began to show

signs of decay. He ordered glass to be made as before; but as he had

no business capacity he did not know how to dispose of it to the best

advantage, and soon had such an accumulation of glass goods that he

was obliged to sell to pedlars or anyone who would buy it at half

price, so that he might have the money to pay his workmen.

One evening as he was going home from the inn he could not help

thinking of the terrible muddle he had made of his affairs and

worrying himself over the loss of his fortune, when suddenly he became

aware that someone was walking beside him, and behold it was the

little Glass-man.

Peter flew into a terrible rage and accused the little man of being

the cause of all his misfortunes. “Of what use to me is a horse and a

carriage?” he cried. “Of what use my factory and all my glass? I was

happier as a poverty-stricken charcoal-burner than I am now, for I

never know when the bailiffs may come and seize my goods to pay my

debts.”

“Oh!” replied the little Glass-man, “so it is my fault, is it, that

you are unhappy? Is this the thanks you offer me for my generosity?

Why did you wish so foolishly? You wished to be a glass manufacturer

and yet knew nothing about the business. Did I not warn you to be

careful what you wished for? It was knowledge and common sense you

wanted.”

[Illustration: _Peter grabbed the Glass-man by the collar._

(P. 241.)]

“Knowledge and common sense,” screamed Peter. “I will show you that I

have as much common sense as you have,” and with these words he

grabbed the Glass-man by the collar and cried--“Now I have you,

Master Glass-man, and I will not let you go until you have granted me

a third wish. Give me now at this very moment, on this very spot, two

hundred thousand crown pieces, a house and--oh! oh!!” he shrieked

aloud, for the Glass-man had turned into a mass of hot molten glass

and burnt his hand. Of the little man himself there was nothing to be

seen.

For several days he was reminded of his ingratitude and foolishness by

his burnt and swollen hand, but he managed to stifle his conscience

and said to himself--“Well, well, even if my factory and everything in

it is sold, I have still got Fat Ezekiel to provide me with as much

money as I shall require. As long as his pockets are full on a Sunday,

I cannot have mine empty.”

Just so, Peter, but how if a time should come when they are empty?

This was exactly what happened. One Sunday he came driving up to the

inn in his carriage and the people looking out of the window remarked:

“Here comes Gambling Peter,” or “Here comes the Dance Emperor,” or

“Here comes the rich glass manufacturer.”

“I’m not so sure about his riches,” said another, “there are grave

reports about him in the town and it is said that the bailiffs are to

seize his goods for debt.”

Peter nodded to the men at the window and called pompously--“Master

Innkeeper, is Fat Ezekiel here yet?” “Yes, yes, here I am,” said Fat

Ezekiel, “we have kept your place, Peter, and we are at the cards

already.”

So Peter Munk went in and slipped his hand into his pocket and found

that Fat Ezekiel must have plenty of money, for his own pockets were

quite full.

He sat down to the table and began to play, losing and winning much

as the others did. But as the night began to fall most of the players

rose and went home, but not so Peter Munk. He challenged Fat Ezekiel

to remain and play on.

At first he was not willing, but presently he consented. “Very well,”

he said at length, “I will just count my money and then we will throw

the dice for five crowns a point, for less than that it is mere

child’s play.” Ezekiel drew out his purse and counted five hundred

crowns, so Peter knew exactly how much he had.

But though Ezekiel had won before, he now began to lose his money and

his temper too. So sure as he threw double fives Peter threw double

sixes; whatever Ezekiel threw, Peter threw higher, until at length he

had won all Ezekiel’s money with the exception of five crown pieces.

“If I lose this,” cried Ezekiel, “I will still go on playing, and try

to retrieve my luck; you shall lend me some of your winnings, Peter,

for one good comrade always helps another.”

“As much as you please,” replied Peter, “a hundred crowns if

possible,” for he was merry over his winnings and in a very good

temper.

But again Ezekiel lost and Peter started as he heard a harsh voice

behind him say--“Oh! ho! there goes the last coin!”

Peter looked round and saw Dutch Michael standing behind him. In his

terror he let fall his money, but Fat Ezekiel saw nothing, but only

asked Peter to lend him some money that they might go on playing.

Half in a dream Peter thrust his hand into his pocket. It was empty,

he tried the other--empty too. He turned them inside out, but not the

smallest copper coin was to be seen, and now he remembered for the

first time what his wish had been--that he might always have as much

money as Fat Ezekiel--well, Ezekiel had none and so Peter’s had all

disappeared like smoke.

At first the innkeeper and Fat Ezekiel would not believe that he had

no money, but when they saw that his pockets really were empty they

were very angry, for they declared he must be a sorcerer and that he

had wished his money and his winnings away at home so that he might

not have to lend any.

Peter attempted to defend himself, but appearances were against him.

Ezekiel declared that the following day he would publish the news all

over the Black Forest, and the innkeeper said he should go and

denounce Peter as a sorcerer to the magistrate and that he would most

assuredly be burnt. Then they flew at him, beat him soundly, tore his

jacket off his back, and threw him out of the door of the inn.

No star shone in the sky as Peter crept miserably home, but in spite

of that he recognised a dark figure that walked beside him and kept

pace with him. At length the figure spoke--“Well, Peter Munk, there is

an end to you and your splendour. I could have told you exactly what

would happen when you would not listen to me but hurried off to that

stupid Glass Dwarf. Now see what you have come to through despising my

advice. But try me once, for I am really sorry for your pitiful fate.

No one has ever repented of coming to me for assistance, and if you

are not afraid come to me to-morrow to the clump of pine-trees; I will

be there if you call me.”

But Peter shuddered and ran home as fast as his legs could carry him.

PART II.

When Peter entered his glass factory on the Monday morning he found

the bailiffs already in possession. He was asked if he had any money

with which he could settle his debts, and on his replying that he had

not, his factory, house, stables, horse, carriage and the stock in

hand were all seized.

“Well,” said he, “since the little man has done nothing for me I will

see what the big one will do.” And he set off running as fast as

though the police were at his heels.

He reached the clump of black pines, and as he passed the spot where

he had seen the little Glass-man it seemed as though an invisible hand

caught him and held him back. But he tore himself loose and dashed

across the boundary line into Dutch Michael’s domain. Breathlessly he

called: “Dutch Michael, Dutch Michael,” and immediately the gigantic

figure of the raftsman stood before him.

“So you have come,” he said, laughing. “And did they wish to sell up

you and your possessions? Well, well, it was the fault of the little

man, miser that he is. If one makes a present it may as well be one

worth having. But follow me to my house and I will see if we cannot

drive a bargain.”

“Make a bargain?” thought Peter, “what have I to exchange with him?

Have I got to serve him, I wonder?”

Dutch Michael led him up a steep woodland pathway until at length they

came to a steep ravine, with rugged rocky sides. Michael sprang down

the rugged rocks as though they had been a polished marble staircase,

but Peter almost fainted when he saw that the giant grew taller and

taller until he was the height of a church tower. He stretched up an

arm as long as a weaver’s beam, with a hand the size of a parlour

table, and bade Peter seat himself upon it and hold tight.

Peter trembled with fright but obeyed, took his seat upon the giant’s

hand, and held tight to his thumb.

They went down and down, ever deeper, but to Peter’s surprise it was

not at all dark, indeed it was quite the contrary, for the sun shone

so brightly in his eyes that it dazzled him. The further Peter went

down, the smaller Michael became, until when they reached the bottom

of the ravine he was the same size as he had been when Peter first saw

him.

They were standing outside a house, such as a well-to-do peasant might

have inhabited, and the room Peter was shown into was much the same as

any other room except that it seemed very dreary. A tall clock in a

wooden case stood by the wall, an enormous china stove and the usual

furniture were all there. Michael invited him to take a seat at the

table and, going out, returned speedily with glasses and a flask of

wine. He poured it out and they began to talk, Dutch Michael telling

Peter of all the joys there were to be met with in foreign lands. He

described the beautiful towns and rivers until Peter conceived a great

longing to go and see them.

[Illustration: _Michael stretched up an arm, with a hand the

size of a parlour table._ (P. 246.)]

“Ah!” said Michael craftily, “even if your whole body and mind wanted

to undertake some great piece of business your poor silly heart would

quake with fear. I can’t think what a fine fellow like you wants with

a heart. When you were called a cheat and a rogue where did you feel

it most? Not in your head, I’ll be bound! When the officers of the law

came and took possession of all your belongings did you have a

stomach-ache? Tell me, where did it hurt you most?”

“My heart,” replied Peter, placing his hand upon his heaving breast.

“Now forgive me,” said Michael, “if I remind you that you have given

away many hundred crown pieces to beggars and other rabble. What good

has it done you? They blessed you and wished you good health. Did that

do you any good? What was it prompted you to put your hand in your

pocket every time a beggar held out his ragged hat to you? Your

_heart_, I tell you. Neither your eyes, nor your tongue, nor your arm,

nor your leg, but your heart. You took things to _heart_ as the saying

is.”

“But how can I help it? I try my best to suppress it; but my heart

beats until it hurts me.”

“You poor fellow,” laughed Michael, “give me that little palpitating

thing and see how much better you will feel without it!”

“Give you my heart!” screamed Peter in horror, “why, I should die on

the spot. No, that I will not!”

“Of course, you would die if an ordinary physician were to cut out

your heart. But with me it is quite a different matter. Come with me,

and I will convince you.”

He rose and beckoned to Peter to follow him into another room. Peter’s

heart contracted painfully as he crossed the threshold of this room;

but he paid no heed to it, such astonishing sights claimed his

attention. There were rows of shelves, and upon these stood glass

bottles filled with transparent fluid, and in each of these bottles

there was a heart. Every bottle was labelled and Peter read the names

with the greatest curiosity. There was the name of the Chief

Magistrate, Fat Ezekiel’s, the Dance King, in fact all the principal

people in the neighbourhood.

“Observe,” said Michael, “all these people have rid themselves of fear

and sorrow for life. Not one of these hearts beats with fear or sorrow

any more, and their former possessors are very well off without such

unquiet guests to disturb them.”

“But what do they carry in their breasts in place of them?” enquired

Peter, who felt faint and giddy.

“This,” replied Michael, and he showed him a heart of stone he had

taken from a drawer.

“Oh!” said Peter with a shudder, “a heart of stone? But that must be

very cold in one’s breast.”

“Yes, yes,” replied Michael, “quite pleasantly cool. What do you want

with a warm heart? Even in winter a glass of good cherry brandy will

warm your body better than your heart could, and in summer when it is

hot and sultry it is nice and cooling. Then, as I have said, neither

grief, nor foolish pity, nor sorrow of any sort can affect such a

heart.”

“And is that all you have to offer me?” asked Peter ungraciously, “I

had hoped for money and you offer me a stone.”

“Come, I think a hundred thousand crown pieces would be sufficient for

you at first. If you deal advantageously with it you will soon be a

millionaire.”

“A hundred thousand!” exclaimed the poor charcoal-burner, joyfully.

“Come, come, my heart, don’t beat so wildly, for we are about to part

company. Here, Michael, give me the money and the stone and you may

have this disturber of my peace.”

“I thought you would prove a sensible fellow,” said Michael, “come, we

will have another glass of wine and then I will count out the money.”

They seated themselves in the next room and drank so much wine that

Peter fell asleep.

When he awoke it was to the friendly sound of a post horn, and see,

there he was, seated in a beautiful carriage. He put his head out of

the window and saw the Black Forest in the distance behind him. At

first he could not believe it was himself that sat in the carriage,

for his clothes were not the same as those he had worn the day before;

but he remembered everything so clearly that he could no longer doubt.

“Charcoal Peter am I, and no mistake,” he said.

He was surprised he felt no sadness at leaving his home and the Forest

where he had lived for so long. Even the thought of his mother whom he

was leaving alone, helpless and in dire poverty, provoked no feeling

of remorse in him, and he could not call up a tear nor even a sigh. He

felt perfectly indifferent.

“Of course,” said he, “tears and sighs, home-sickness, and grief, come

from the heart and, thanks to Dutch Michael, mine is now of stone.”

He put his hand to his breast, but nothing moved there. “If he has

kept his word as well regarding the hundred thousand dollars as he has

kept it respecting my heart, I shall have nothing to complain of;”

with that he began to search the carriage. He found everything he

could possibly require in the shape of clothing, but no money. But at

length he came across a pocket in the lining of the carriage which was

stuffed with gold and notes, and letters of credit to all the

principal cities.

“Now I have everything I can possibly want,” he said, and settling

himself comfortably in the corner of his carriage drove away out into

the world.

For two years he drove about the country, peering right and left from

the windows of his carriage at the houses and villages he passed. When

he came into a town he put up at an inn, then went round with a

courier, who showed him all the beautiful and interesting sights, not

one of which afforded him the least delight, for his heart of stone

prevented him taking pleasure in anything. Nothing, however beautiful,

appealed to his senses any longer. Nothing was left to him but to eat

and drink and sleep--and so he lived without interest or aim in life;

to amuse himself he ate and drank, and to prevent his being bored he

slept.

Now and again he thought of the days when he had been happy and gay,

although he had been obliged to work hard for a livelihood. In those

days every beautiful view had delighted him, music and singing had

enchanted him, and the simple food his mother cooked for him and

brought to him as he sat beside his kiln had been more appetising

than all the dainty dishes he partook of now. As he thought of the

past it struck him as very singular that he no longer desired to smile

even, whereas formerly the smallest joke had served as an excuse for

laughter. When other folks laughed he drew his lips into the form of a

grin out of politeness; but his heart no longer laughed. It is true he

was never upset over anything, but then he was not really satisfied.

It was not home-sickness or grief; but a sense of blankness, weariness

and friendlessness that at length drove him back home.

As he drove out of Strassburg and saw again the beautiful dark

pine-trees of his native forest, and looked upon the honest faces of

his countrymen, and heard the homely, well-remembered tones of their

speech, he placed his hand quickly to his heart, for his blood was

coursing wildly through his veins and he felt as though he must both

weep and laugh together. But--how foolish! His heart was of stone, and

stones are dead and can neither laugh nor weep.

His first visit was to Dutch Michael, who received him with

friendliness as he had formerly done. “Michael,” said Peter, “I have

travelled all over the world and taken pleasure in nothing; I was only

bored. It is true that the stone thing I carry in my breast shielded

me from a great deal of unpleasantness, I am never angry or sad, but

then I am never glad either and I feel only half alive. Could you not

put a little life into the stone heart, or even give me back my old

heart? I had it for five-and-twenty years and had become accustomed to

it, and even if it makes me commit some foolishness occasionally,

still it was a merry, happy heart.”

[Illustration: _For two years Peter drove about the country._

(P. 251.)]

The giant laughed a grim and bitter laugh. “When you are dead, Peter

Munk,” he replied, “you shall have your soft, feeling heart back

again, and experience all the sensations you knew before. But as long

as you are alive you cannot have it. It would have been of little

service to you either, in the life of idleness you have been living

lately. Why don’t you settle down now, marry, build a house, make

money? All you require is work; because you were idle you were bored

and then you blame your innocent stone heart.”

Peter saw that there was sense in what Michael said and made up his

mind to devote his time to money-making. Michael gave him another

hundred thousand dollars and they parted good friends.

Very soon the news was spread abroad in the Black Forest that Charcoal

Peter, or Gambling Peter, had returned, and that he was richer than

formerly. As usual, now that he had returned a rich man he was

received with open arms by those who had turned their backs on him in

his misfortunes. He now pretended that he was a timber merchant, but

this was only a blind, his real business was that of a money-lender

and corn-dealer.

Very soon half the folks in the Black Forest owed him money, and he

charged ten per cent for all he lent. Or again he sold corn to the

poor, who had not the money to pay immediately, for three times its

worth.

He was first-rate friends with the magistrate now, and when it

happened that Peter’s debtors did not pay up to the very day the

magistrate would come with his officers and sell up their homes and

drive father, mother and children out into the forest. At first it

caused rich Peter some inconvenience, for the poor creatures besieged

his house, the men begged for some consideration, the women tried to

soften his heart of stone, and the children cried for bread. But he

bought a pair of fierce dogs to stop the “caterwauling,” as he called

it, and so soon as a beggar appeared he set his dogs on to him.

But what caused him the most trouble was his poor old mother. She had

fallen into extreme poverty, and though her son had returned a rich

man he did not attempt to provide for her. She came sometimes to his

door, weak and ill, her tottering steps supported by a stick, but she

did not venture into the house, for once she had been driven out of

it. It was a sore grief to her that she should be dependent on the

charity of others when her own son could so well have afforded to care

for her in her old age. But his heart of stone was never moved by the

sight of the pale worn face and the withered outstretched hand.

When she knocked at his door he drew some coppers from his pocket and

gave them to a servant to hand to her. He could hear her trembling

voice as she thanked him and wished him well, he heard her coughing

pitifully as she crept away, and then he thought no more about the

matter, except that he had spent some money with no hope of its being

returned.

At last Peter made up his mind to get married. He knew quite well that

every father in the Black Forest would be only too glad to let him

marry his daughter, but he was very difficult to please, for he

wanted everyone to praise the good sense he had shown in making his

choice and to be envious of his good fortune.

So he went to every dance-room in the countryside, but not one of the

beautiful maidens he met there did he think sufficiently beautiful. At

length he heard that a poor wood-cutter’s daughter was the most

beautiful and most virtuous maiden in the whole of the Black Forest.

She lived quietly, keeping her father’s house in beautiful order, and

never so much as showed herself at the dance-rooms, not even at

holiday times. No sooner did Peter hear of this marvel than he made up

his mind to wed her, and rode out to the cottage where she dwelt. The

beautiful Lisbeth’s father received this fine-looking gentleman with

surprise, and was still more astonished when he heard that Peter

wished to be his son-in-law. He did not take long to make up his mind,

for he supposed that all his poverty and anxious striving would now be

at an end, and so he agreed to his request without so much as asking

Lisbeth’s consent, but she was such an obedient child that she did not

venture to object, and so became Mrs. Peter Munk.

But the poor girl was not as happy as she expected to be. She had

thought herself an accomplished housekeeper, but she could do nothing

to please Master Peter. She was pitiful towards the poor, and, knowing

her husband to be a man of means, she thought it no wrong to give them

a little money or food. But when Peter happened to see her one day he

told her with an angry glance and in harsh tones that she was wasting

his goods. “What did you bring with you,” he cried, “that you think

you can spend so lavishly? Why, your beggar father’s staff would

scarcely serve to heat the soup, and yet you throw money about as

though you were a princess. If I catch you doing it again you shall

feel the weight of my hand.”

The beautiful Lisbeth wept bitterly when she was alone, and wished

herself back again in her father’s poor little cottage instead of

living in the grand house of the rich but miserly and hard-hearted

Peter Munk. Had she known that he had a heart of stone in his breast

and could love neither her nor anyone else she would not have been so

surprised.

Sometimes, as she sat in her doorway, a beggar would pass by and hold

out his hand in entreaty. Then Lisbeth closed her eyes tightly that

she might not see his misery, and clenched her hands so that they

should not involuntarily stray to her pocket for a coin. And so it

happened that Lisbeth came to be ill-thought of throughout the whole

of the Black Forest, and it was said that she was even more miserly

than Peter himself.

But one day Lisbeth sat by the door of her house and sang a little

song as she twirled her distaff, for she was merry because the weather

was fine and Peter had ridden out into the country. She saw a little

old man coming along, bent beneath the weight of an enormous sack and

panting painfully. She looked at him pityingly, thinking to herself

that it was not right that such an old man should be so heavily laden.

Just as the old man reached Lisbeth he stumbled and almost fell

beneath the weight of his sack. “Have pity, dear lady, and give me a

drink of water,” he gasped, “I can go no further, I am completely

exhausted.”

“You are too old to carry such a heavy weight,” said Lisbeth.

“True,” replied the old man, “but it is on account of my poverty that

I am forced to go round as a carrier, otherwise I should not be able

to earn a livelihood. But a rich lady like yourself knows nothing of

the pinch of poverty or how good a cool draught of fresh water seems

on such a hot day.”

On hearing this Lisbeth hurried into the house, took a pitcher from

the shelf and filled it with water, and when she turned to hand it to

the old man and saw how wretched and tired out he looked as he sat

upon his sack, she felt so much pity for him, that she could not

resist giving him more substantial help. So she set the water aside

and filled a cup with red wine and gave it to him with a large slice

of rye bread.

“This will do you more good than water, seeing that you are so old,”

she said, “but be careful, do not drink so hastily, take a morsel of

bread with the wine.”

[Illustration: _THE COLD HEART_

_“She saw a little old man coming along.”_

(_p. 258_)]

The old man looked at her with tears in his eyes--“I am very old,”

he said, “but in all my life I have seen few so pitiful as you or

whose gifts were given with such gracious kindness. But such a kind

heart will not go unrewarded.”

“No, indeed, and the reward she shall have at once,” cried a terrible

voice, and when they turned, there stood Peter with a face purple with

rage.

“And so you give my best wine to beggars, and serve it in my own cup,

too. Now you shall have your reward.”

Lisbeth threw herself at his feet and begged for forgiveness, but his

heart of stone knew no pity; he turned the whip he was carrying round

and struck her forehead with the ebony handle with so much force that

she sank back lifeless into the arms of the old man. Immediately he

began to regret what he had done and stooped to see if she were yet

alive. But the little old man spoke in well-known tones: “Do not

trouble, Charcoal Peter, she was the sweetest and loveliest flower in

the whole of the Black Forest; now that you have trodden it under foot

it will never bloom again.”

Every drop of blood forsook Peter’s cheeks--“So it is you,” he said.

“Well, what is done, is done. I trust you will not give me up to the

hand of the law for this murder.”

“Miserable wretch!” replied the little Glass-man. “What satisfaction

should I have in giving your mortal body to the hangman? It is no

earthly court of justice you have to fear, but another and a more

awful one, for you have sold your soul to the evil one.”

“And if I have sold my heart,” screamed Peter, “who, but you, is to

blame for it, you and the deceitful tricks you played on me with the

treasures I was to gain through you? You drove me to seek other help,

that has been my undoing, and so the responsibility lies with you.”

But scarcely had he spoken before the little Glass-man began to grow

bigger. He grew and he swelled until he became a huge giant, his eyes

were as big as saucers and his mouth was the size of a baker’s oven out

of which flames began to dart. Peter threw himself on his knees, for

his stone heart did not prevent his limbs from shaking like an aspen

tree.

With hands like vulture’s claws the wood spirit seized him by his

neck, twisted him about as the whirlwind does the dry leaves, and then

dashed him to the ground so that his ribs cracked.

“Earth-worm!” he cried, in a voice that rolled like thunder, “I could

shatter you to pieces if I would, for you have offended the Lord of

the Forest. But for the sake of this dead woman, who fed me and gave

me drink, I will give you eight days’ grace. If during that time you

do not repent, I will come and grind your bones to powder and you will

depart in the midst of your sins.”

It was evening when some passing men found Peter Munk lying

unconscious on the ground; they turned him over and sought for some

sign of life, but for some time in vain. At length one of them went

into the house and fetched some water and sprinkled it on his face.

Then he drew a deep breath, groaned and opened his eyes, looked around

him anxiously, and asked for his wife, but no one had seen her.

[Illustration: _Some passing men found Peter Munk lying

unconscious on the ground._ (P. 263.)]

He thanked the men for their assistance, crept into his house and

searched from cellar to attic, but in vain; what he had hoped might

prove a bad dream was bitter reality.

Now that he was left quite alone, strange thoughts came to him; he

had no fear, for was not his heart cold? But when he thought of the

death of his wife, it reminded him that his own death would come one

day. And how heavily laden with sin he would be! His soul would be

weighed down by the tears of the needy, the curses of those he had

ruined, the groans of the wretched ones that had been dragged down by

his dogs, the quiet despair of his own mother, and the innocent blood

of Lisbeth. How would he be able to answer her old father when he came

and demanded: “Where is my daughter, your wife?”

He was tormented in his dreams, and repeatedly awoke, hearing a sweet

voice calling to him: “Peter, Peter, see that you get a warmer heart.”

Even when he was awake it was the same, and he knew the voice to be

Lisbeth’s. He went down to the inn to divert his thoughts, and there

he met Fat Ezekiel. He sat down opposite to him and they began to talk

of all sorts of things, the weather, the war, the stars, and at last

of death and how quickly some had died off.

Then Peter asked the fat one what he thought of death and the

hereafter.

Ezekiel answered that the body died and was buried, but the soul

soared up to heaven or down to the evil one.

“Is the heart buried with the body?” asked Peter.

“Certainly that is buried too!”

“But if one had no heart?” queried Peter.

Ezekiel looked at him in horror. “What do you say? Are you trying to

make game of me? Do you mean to say that I have no heart?”

“Oh! yes, you have a heart right enough,” said Peter, “but it is made

of stone.”

Ezekiel stared at him in astonishment, looked round to see that no one

was listening, and then said: “How do you know that? Has your own

ceased to beat also?”

“It beats no longer, at least not in my breast,” answered Peter Munk.

“But tell me, now you understand how it is with me, what will happen

to our _hearts_?”

“Why worry about that, my friend,” laughed Ezekiel. “You are alive at

present and that is the best of having a heart of stone, one is never

afraid of such thoughts.”

“Quite true, but one thinks about them all the same,” said Peter, “and

I can remember still how they would have frightened me once upon a

time.”

“Of course, we can’t expect things to go very well with us,” said

Ezekiel. “Once upon a time I asked a schoolmaster about it and he told

me that our hearts would be weighed; the light ones went up on the

scale and those heavy with sin went down, so I expect our stone hearts

will be pretty heavy.”

“Sometimes I am a little uncomfortable to think that my heart _should_

be so indifferent to such things,” said Peter.

So they talked together. That night Peter heard the voice whispering

five or six times in his ear: “Peter, Peter, see that you get a warmer

heart!” He felt no remorse for what he had done, but when he told his

servants that his wife had gone on a journey he wondered to himself

whither she had journeyed.

Six whole days and nights passed and ever it seemed to him there was a

voice whispering in his ear, and he could think of nothing but the

little Glass-man and his warning. And so, on the seventh day, he

sprang out of bed and said: “Well, I will see if I cannot get a warm

heart again, instead of this unfeeling stone in my bosom, for it makes

my life both tedious and lonely.” So he dressed himself in his best

and rode off to the clump of black pines. When he reached the

outskirts he dismounted, tied up his horse, and hurried to the summit

of the hill, and as he came to the big pine-tree he repeated his

verse:

“Owner of all in the pine-woods green,

Many a hundred years thou hast seen,

Thine all the lands where the pine-trees grow--

To the Sunday-born thy face now show!”

At once the little Glass-man appeared, but he did not seem at all

friendly; but looked gloomy and sad. He wore a coat of black glass,

and a long crape veil floated from his hat, and Peter knew very well

for whom he wore mourning.

“What do you want with me, Peter Munk?” he asked in deep tones.

“There is still a wish due to me, Mr. Glass-man,” answered Peter with

downcast eyes.

“Is it possible for a heart of stone to wish for anything?” said the

little man. “You have everything a man of your bad disposition

requires, and I shall not readily grant your request.”

[Illustration: _That night Peter heard the voice whispering in

his ear._ (P. 266.)]

“But you promised me three wishes,” said Peter “and one I have not yet

made use of.”

“I have the right to withhold it if it is a foolish wish,” said the

little man, “but say on, what do you want?”

“Take this cold stone out of my breast and give me back my warm

living heart in place of it,” Peter asked.

“Had I aught to do with the exchange?” demanded the little man. “Am I

Dutch Michael, who gives fortunes and stone hearts away? You must

recover your heart from him.”

“But he will never give it back to me,” answered Peter.

“Bad as you are, I am sorry for you,” said the little man after a few

moments’ consideration, “and as your wish is not a foolish one I will

promise to assist you. Listen, you will never obtain your heart by

force and so you must employ cunning, and it may not be a difficult

task, for stupid Michael always was and stupid he will remain,

although he prides himself upon being extremely clever. So go straight

to him and do exactly as I tell you.” The Glass-man then gave Peter a

little cross of pure transparent glass, and proceeded to give him

minute instructions as to how he should act. “He cannot take your

life,” said the little man, “and he will let you go free if you hold

this out to him and whisper a prayer. As soon as you have obtained

what you want come back here to me.”

Peter Munk took the little cross, made sure he remembered every word

the little man had told him, and went straight off to the spot where

Michael was wont to be found. He called him three times by name and at

once the giant appeared. “And so you have killed your wife,” he said

with a horrible laugh. “Well, I should have done the same. Did she not

waste your fortune on beggars? But it would be best for you to leave

the country for a time, for there will be a fine fuss when it is found

out; and so I suppose you want money and have come to fetch it from

me?”

“You have guessed it exactly,” replied Peter, “but I shall require a

good big sum this time. It is a long way to America.”