A peasant of Svalings, in the parish of Gothem, by the name of Hans,
was, one spring day, employed in mending a fence which divided two
meadows. It chanced he required a few more willow twigs for bands,
whereupon he sprang over the fence to cut them in a neighbor’s grove.
Entering the thicket, what was his surprise at seeing an old man
sitting upon a stump, bowed forward, his face buried in his hands. His
astonishment uncontrollable, Hans broke out:
“Who are you?”
“A wanderer,” replied the old man without lifting his head.
“How long have you been a wanderer?” inquired the peasant.
“Three hundred years!” answered the old man.
Still more astonished, the peasant again asked:
“Is it not hard to travel thus?”
“It has never been so hard to me,” replied the old man, “for I love the
woods.”
“Very well, go on then,” said Hans.
Hardly were the words uttered than the peasant heard a sound like that
from a wild bird startled to wing, and the old man had vanished so
suddenly that Hans could not say whether he had sunk into the earth or
gone into the air.