PART I

I

I will tell you something about Little Johannes and his quest. My story

is very like a fairy tale, but everything in it really happened. As soon

as you lose faith in it, read no farther, for then it was not written

for you. And, should you chance to meet Little Johannes, you must never

speak to him about it, for that would grieve him and make me sorry I had

told you all this.

Johannes lived in an old house with a big garden. It was hard to find

the way about them, for in the house were many dark halls, flights of

stairs, chambers, and spacious garrets; and in the garden everywhere

were fencings and hot-houses. To Johannes it was a whole world in

itself. He could make far journeys in it, and he gave names to

everything he discovered. For the house he chose names from the animal

kingdom; the caterpillar loft, because there he fed the caterpillars and

watched them change their state; the chicken room, because once he had

found a hen there. This had not come of itself, but had been put there

by Johannes' mother, to brood. For things in the garden, preferring

those products of which he was most fond, he chose names from the

vegetable kingdom, such as Raspberry Mountain, Gooseberry Woods, and

Strawberry Valley. Behind all was a little spot he named Paradise; and

there, of course, it was exceedingly delightful. A great sheet of water

lay there--a pond where white water-lilies were floating, and where the

reeds held long, whispered conversations with the wind. On the opposite

side lay the dunes. Paradise itself was a little grass-plot on the near

shore, encircled by shrubbery. From the midst of this shot up the tall

nightingale-plant. There, in the thick grass, Johannes often lay gazing

through the swaying stalks to the gentle hill-tops beyond the water. He

used to go every warm summer evening and lie looking for hours, without

ever growing weary of it. He thought about the still depths of the clear

water before him--how cozy it must be down amid the water plants, in

that strange half-light. And then again, he thought of the far-away,

gloriously-tinted clouds which hovered above the dunes--wondering what

might be behind them, and if it would not be fine to be able to fly

thither. Just as the sun was sinking, the clouds piled up upon one

another till they seemed to form the entrance to a grotto; and from the

depths of that grotto glowed a soft, red light. Then Johannes would feel

a longing to be there. Could I only fly into it! he thought. What would

really be beyond? Shall I sometime--sometime be able to get there?

But often as he made this wish, the grotto always fell apart in ashen,

dusky flecks, and he never was able to get nearer to it. Then it would

grow cold and damp by the pond, and again he would seek his dark little

bedroom in the old house.

He lived there not entirely alone. He had a father who took good care of

him, a dog named Presto, and a cat named Simon. Of course, he thought

most of his father, but he by no means considered Presto and Simon so

very much beneath him, as a big man would have. He confided even more

secrets to Presto than to his father, and for Simon he felt a devout

respect. That was not strange, for Simon was a big cat with glossy,

black fur, and a thick tail. By merely looking at him one could see that

he was perfectly convinced of his own greatness and wisdom. He always

remained dignified and proper, even when he condescended to play with a

rolling spool, or while gnawing a waste herring-head behind a tree. At

the extreme demonstrativeness of Presto he closed his green eyes

disdainfully, and thought: "Well--dogs know no better!"

Can you realize now, that Johannes had a great awe of him? He held much

more intimate relations with the little brown dog. Presto was neither

beautiful nor superior, but an unusually good and sagacious dog, never

farther than two steps away from Johannes, and patiently listening to

whatever his master told him. I do not need to tell you how much

Johannes thought of Presto. But he still had room in his heart for other

things. Does it seem strange that his little dark bedroom, with the

diamond window-panes, held also a large place? He liked the

wall-hangings, with the big flowers in which he saw faces--faces he had

so often studied when he was ill, or while he lay awake mornings. He

liked the one small picture that hung there. It represented stiff

figures walking in a still stiffer garden beside a smooth lake, where

sky-high fountains were spouting, and coquetting swans were swimming. He

liked best, however, the hanging clock. He always wound it up carefully

and seriously, and considered it a necessary courtesy to watch it while

it was striking. At least that was the way unless he happened to be

asleep. If, through neglect, the clock ran down, Johannes felt very

guilty and begged its pardon a thousand times. You would have laughed,

perhaps, if you had heard him in conversation with his room. But confess

how often you talk to your own self. It does not appear to you in the

least ridiculous. Besides, Johannes was convinced that his hearers

understood him perfectly, and he had no need of an answer. Secretly,

however, he expected an answer some day from the clock or the

wall-paper.

Johannes certainly had schoolmates, but they were not properly friends.

He played with them, invented plots in school, and formed robber bands

with them out-of-doors; but he only felt really at home when he was

alone with Presto. Then he never longed for the boys, but felt himself

at ease and secure.

His father was a wise and serious man, who often took Johannes with him

on long expeditions through the woods and over the dunes. They talked

but little--and Johannes followed ten steps behind his father, greeting

the flowers he met. And the old trees, which must always remain in the

selfsame place, he stroked along their rough bark with his friendly

little hand. Then the good-natured giants rustled their thanks.

Sometimes his father wrote letters in the sand, one by one, and Johannes

spelled the words which they formed. Again, the father stopped and

taught Johannes the name of some plant or animal.

And Johannes often asked questions, for he saw and heard many perplexing

things. He often asked silly questions. He wanted to know why the world

was just as it was, why plants and animals must die, and if miracles

could take place. But Johannes' father was a wise man, and did not tell

all he knew. That was well for Johannes.

Evenings, before he went to sleep, Johannes always made a long prayer.

His nurse had taught him. He prayed for his father and for Presto.

Simon, he thought, did not need to be prayed for. He prayed a good while

for himself, too, and almost always ended with the wish that some day

there might be a miracle. And when he had said _Amen_, he peeped

expectantly around the darkening room, at the faces on the

wall-hangings, which looked still stranger in the faint twilight; and at

the door-knob, and the clock, where the miracle ought now to begin. But

the clock always kept on ticking in the very same way--the door-knob did

not stir--it grew quite dark, and Johannes fell asleep without having

seen the miracle.

But some day it would happen. He knew it would.

II

It was warm by the pool and utterly still. The sun, flushed and tired

with his daily work, seemed to rest a moment on the rim of the dunes,

for a breathing spell before diving under. The smooth water reflected,

almost perfectly, the flaming face of the sun. The leaves of the beech

tree which hung over the pond took advantage of the stillness to look at

themselves attentively, in the mirror-like water. The solitary heron,

standing on one foot between the broad leaves of a water-lily, forgot

that he had come out to catch frogs, and, deep in thought, was gazing

along his nose.

Then came Johannes to the grass plot, to see the cloud-grotto. Plump!

plump! sprang the frogs from the bank. The mirror was all rippled, the

image of the sun was broken up into broad bands, and the beech leaves

rustled angrily, for they had not yet viewed themselves long enough.

Fastened to the bare roots of a beech tree lay a little old boat.

Johannes had been strictly forbidden to get into it; but, oh, how strong

the temptation was this evening! The clouds had already taken the

semblance of a wondrous portal, behind which the sun would soon sink to

rest. Glittering ranks of clouds ranged themselves at the sides, like a

golden-armored life-guard. The face of the water reflected the glow, and

red rays darted through the reeds like arrows.

Slowly, Johannes loosened the boat-rope from the roots. He would drift

there, in the midst of the splendor. Presto had already sprung into the

boat, and before his master intended it the reeds moved apart, and away

they both drifted toward the evening sun.

Johannes lay in the bow, and gazed into the depths of the light-grotto.

Wings! thought he. Wings now, and away I would fly!

The sun had disappeared, but the clouds were all aglow. In the east the

sky was deep blue. A row of willows stood along the bank, their small,

pale leaves thrust motionlessly out into the still air. They looked like

exquisite, pale-green lace against the sombre background.

Hark! What was that? It darted and whizzed like a gust of wind cutting a

sharp furrow in the face of the water. It came from the dunes--from the

grotto in the clouds!

When Johannes looked round, a big, blue dragon-fly sat on the edge of

the boat. He had never seen one so large. It rested there, but its wings

kept quivering in a wide circle. It seemed to Johannes that the tips of

its wings made a luminous ring.

That must be a fire dragon-fly, he thought--a rare thing.

The ring grew larger and larger, and the wings whirled so fast that

Johannes could see nothing but a haze. And little by little, from out

this haze, he saw the shining of two dark eyes; and a light, frail form

in a garment of delicate blue sat in the place of the dragon-fly. A

wreath of white wind-flowers rested upon the fair hair, and at the

shoulders were gauzy wings which shimmered in a thousand hues, like a

soap bubble.

A thrill of happiness coursed through Johannes. _This_ was a miracle!

"Will you be my friend?" he whispered.

That was a queer way of speaking to a stranger. But this was not an

every-day case, and he felt as if he had always known this little blue

being.

"Yes, Johannes," came the reply, and the voice sounded like the rustling

of the reeds in the night wind, or the pattering of rain-drops on the

forest leaves.

"What is your name?" asked Johannes.

"I was born in the cup of a wind-flower. Call me Windekind."[1]

Windekind laughed, and looked in Johannes' eyes so merrily that his

heart was blissfully cheered.

"To-day is my birthday," said Windekind. "I was born not far away, of

the first rays of the moon and the last rays of the sun. They say the

sun is feminine.[2] It is not true. The sun is my father."

Johannes determined forthwith to speak of the sun as masculine, the next

morning, in school.

"Look! There comes up the round, fair face of my mother. Good evening,

Mother! Oh! oh! But she looks both good-natured and distressed!"

He pointed to the eastern horizon. There, in the dusky heavens, behind

the willow lace-work which looked black against the silver disk, rose

the great shining moon. Her face wore a pained expression.

"Come, come, Mother! Do not be troubled. Indeed, I can trust him!"

The beautiful creature fluttered its gauzy wings frolicsomely and

touched Johannes on the cheek with the Iris in its hand.

"She does not like it that I am with you. You are the first one. But I

trust you, Johannes. You must never, never speak my name nor talk about

me to a human being. Do you promise?"

"Yes, Windekind," said Johannes. It was still so strange to him. He felt

inexpressibly happy, yet fearful of losing his happiness. Was he

dreaming? Near him, Presto lay calmly sleeping on the seat. The warm

breath of his dog put him at rest. The gnats swarmed over the face of

the water, and danced in the sultry air, just as usual. Everything was

quite clear and plain about him. It must be true! And all the time he

felt resting upon him the trustful glance of Windekind. Then again he

heard the sweet, quavering voice:

"I have often seen you here, Johannes. Do you know where I was?

Sometimes I sat on the sandy bottom of the pond, among the thick water

plants, and looked up at you as you leaned over to drink, or to peep at

the water beetles, or the newts. But you never saw me. And many times I

peeped at you from the thick reeds. I am often there. When it is warm I

sleep in an empty reed-bird's nest. And, oh! it is so soft!"

Windekind rocked contentedly on the edge of the boat, and struck at the

gnats with his flower.

"I have come now to give you a little society. Your life will be too

dreary, otherwise. We shall be good friends, and I will tell you many

things--far better things than the school-master palms off upon you. He

knows absolutely nothing about them. And when you do not believe me, I

shall let you see and hear for yourself. I will take you with me."

"Oh, Windekind! dear Windekind! Can you take me there?" cried Johannes,

pointing to the sky, where the crimson light of the setting sun had just

been streaming out of the golden cloud-gates. That glorious arch was

already melting away in dull, grey mist, yet from the farthest depths a

faint, rosy light was still shining.

Windekind gazed at the light which was gilding his delicate features and

his fair locks, and he gently shook his head.

"Not yet, Johannes, not yet. You must not ask too much just now. Even I

have not yet been at my father's home."

"I am always with my father," said Johannes.

"No! That is not your father. We are brothers, and my father is your

father, too. But the earth is your mother, and for that reason we are

very different. Besides, you were born in a house, with human beings,

and I in a wind-flower. The latter is surely better. But it will be all

the same to us."

Then Windekind sprang lightly upon the side of the boat, which did not

even stir beneath his weight, and kissed Johannes' forehead.

That was a strange sensation for Johannes. Everything about him was

changed.

He saw everything now, he thought, much better and more exactly. The

moon looked more friendly, too, and he saw that the water-lilies had

faces, and were gazing at him pensively.

Suddenly he understood why the gnats were all the time dancing so

merrily around one another, back and forth and up and down, till their

long legs touched the water. Once he had thought a good deal about it,

but now he understood perfectly.

He knew, also, what the reeds were whispering, and he heard the trees on

the bank softly complaining because the sun had set.

"Oh, Windekind, I thank you! This is delightful. Yes, indeed, we will

have nice times together!"

"Give me your hand," said Windekind, spreading his many-colored wings.

Then he drew Johannes in the boat, over the water, through the lily

leaves which were glistening in the moonlight.

Here and there, a frog was sitting on a leaf. But now he did not jump

into the water when Johannes came. He only made a little bow, and said:

"Quack." Johannes returned the bow politely. Above everything, he did

not wish to appear conceited.

Then they came to the rushes. They were wide-spread, and the boat

entirely disappeared in them without having touched the shore. But

Johannes held fast to his guide, and they scrambled through the high

stalks to land.

Johannes thought he had become smaller and lighter, but perhaps that was

imagination. Still, he could not remember ever having been able to climb

up a grass stalk.

"Now be ready," said Windekind, "you are going to see something funny."

They walked on through the high grass, beneath the dark undergrowth

which here and there let through a small, shining moonbeam.

"Did you ever hear the crickets evenings in the dunes? It is just as if

they were having a concert. Is it not? But you can never tell where the

sound comes from. Now they never sing for the pleasure of it; but the

sound comes from the cricket-school where hundreds of little crickets

are learning their lessons by heart. Keep still, for we are close to

them."

Chirp! Chirp!

The bushes became less dense, and when Windekind pushed apart the grass

blades with his flower, Johannes saw a brightly lighted, open spot in

the thin, spindling dune-grass, where the crickets were busily learning

their lessons.

Chirp! Chirp!

A big fat cricket was teacher, and heard the lessons. One by one the

pupils sprang up to him; always with one spring forward, and one spring

back again, to their places. The one that made a bad spring was obliged

to take his stand upon a toadstool.

"Pay good attention, Johannes. Perhaps you too can learn something,"

said Windekind.

Johannes understood very well what the little crickets answered. But it

was not in the least like that which the teacher of his school taught.

First came geography. They knew nothing of the parts of the world. They

were only obliged to learn twenty-six dunes and two ponds. No one could

know anything about what lay beyond, said the teacher, and whatever

might be told about it was nothing but idle fancy.

Then botany had its turn. They were all very clever at that, and there

were many prizes distributed: selected grass blades of various

lengths--tender and juicy. But the zoology astonished Johannes the most.

There were springing, flying, and creeping creatures. The crickets could

spring and fly, and therefore stood at the head. Then followed the

frogs. The birds were mentioned, with every token of aversion, as most

harmful and dangerous. Finally, human beings were discussed. They were

great, useless, dangerous creatures that stood very low, since they

could neither fly nor spring; but luckily they were very scarce. A wee

little cricket who had never yet seen a human being got three hits with

a wisp because he numbered human beings, by mistake, among the harmless

animals.

Johannes had never heard anything like this before.

Suddenly, the teacher called out: "Silence. The springing exercise!"

Instantly all the little crickets stopped studying their lessons and

began to play leap-frog. They played with skill and zeal, and the fat

teacher took the lead.

It was such a merry sight that Johannes clapped his hands with joy.

At the sound, the entire school rushed off in a twinkling to the dunes;

and the little grass plot was as still as death.

"See what you have done, Johannes!" cried Windekind. "You must not be so

rude--one can very well see that you were born among human beings."

"I am sorry. I will try my best to behave. But it was so funny!"

"It is going to be funnier still," said Windekind. They cut across the

grass plot and ascended the dunes on the other side.

Ah, me! It was hard work in the deep sand, but Johannes caught hold of

Windekind's light blue garment, and then he sped quickly and lightly up

the slope. Half-way to the top was a rabbit-hole.

The rabbit whose home it was lay with his head and forepaws out of the

entrance. The sweet-briar was still in flower, and its faint, delicate

fragrance mingled with that of the wild thyme which was growing near.

Johannes had often seen rabbits disappear into their holes. He wondered

what it was like inside them, and about how many could sit together

there, and if it would not be very stifling. So he was very glad when he

heard his companion ask the rabbit if they might take a peep inside.

"Willingly, so far as I am concerned," said the rabbit, "but

unfortunately, it just happens that I have resigned my dwelling this

evening for the giving of a charity-festival. So, really, I am not

master in my own house."

"Ah, indeed! Has there been an accident?"

"Alas, yes!" said the rabbit, sorrowfully. "A great calamity. We shall

not recover from it in years. A thousand jumps from here a house for

human beings has been built-a big, big house--and there those creatures

with dogs have come to live. Fully seven members of my family have

perished through their deeds, and three times as many more have been

bereft of their homes. And matters are still worse with the Mouse and

the Mole families. And the Toads have suffered heavily. So we have

gotten up a festival for the benefit of the surviving relatives.

Everybody does what he can. I gave my hole. One ought to have something

to spare for his fellow-creatures."

The compassionate rabbit sighed and, pulling a long ear over his head

with his right forepaw, wiped a tear out of his eye. His ear was his

handkerchief.

Then something rustled in the grass, and a stout, clumsy figure came

scrabbling up to the hole.

"Look!" said Windekind. "Here comes Father Toad--hopping along."

Then followed a pun at the toad's expense.

But the toad paid no attention to the jest. His name furnished occasion

for frequent jokes. Composedly he laid down by the entrance a full ear

of corn, neatly folded in a dry leaf, and then he climbed dexterously

over the back of the rabbit into the hole.

"May we go in?" asked Johannes, who was full of curiosity. "I will give

something, too!"

He remembered that he still had a biscuit in his pocket-a little round

biscuit of Huntley and Palmer's. As he pulled it out he noticed for the

first time how small he had become. He could scarcely lift it with both

hands, and could not understand how his pocket had contained it.

"That is very rare and expensive," said the rabbit. "It is a costly

gift."

The entrance was respectfully made free to them both. It was dark in the

cave, and Johannes let Windekind go in front. Soon, they saw a

pale-green light approaching. It was a glow-worm, who obligingly

offered to light the way for them.

"It promises to be a very pleasant evening," said the glow-worm, as he

led them on. "There are a great many guests. You are elves, I should

say. Is it not so?" With these words, the glow-worm glanced at Johannes

somewhat suspiciously.

"You may announce us as elves," replied Windekind.

"Do you know that your king is at the party?" continued the glow-worm.

"Is Oberon here? That gives me a great deal of pleasure," exclaimed

Windekind. "I know him personally."

"Oh!" said the glow-worm. "I did not know I had the honor to...." and

his light nearly went out from fright. "Yes, His Majesty much prefers

the open air, but he is always ready to perform a charitable act. This

is going to be a most brilliant affair!"

It was indeed the case. The main room in the rabbit cave was splendidly

decorated. The floor had been trodden smooth, and strewn with fragrant

thyme. Directly in front of the entrance a bat was hanging, head

downward. He called out the names of the guests, and served at the same

time as a measure of economy for a curtain. The walls of the room were

tastefully adorned with dry leaves, spider-webs and tiny, suspended

bats. Innumerable glow-worms crept in and out of these, and all around

the ceiling; and they made a most beautiful, ever-changing illumination.

At the end of the chamber was a throne, built of bits of phosphorescent

wood. It was a charming spectacle.

There were many guests. Johannes felt himself rather out of place in the

strange crowd, and drew close to Windekind. He saw queer things there. A

mole was chatting with a field-mouse about the handsome decorations. In

a corner sat two fat toads, nodding their heads at each other, and

bewailing the continued dry weather. A frog, arm in arm with a lizard,

attempted a promenade. Matters went badly with him, for he was timid and

nervous, and every once in a while he jumped too far, thus doing damage

to the wall decorations.

On the throne sat Oberon, the elf-king, encircled by a little retinue of

elves. These looked down rather disdainfully upon their surroundings.

The king himself was most royal in his affability, and conversed in a

friendly way with various guests. He had come from a journey in the

Orient, and wore a strange garment of brightly colored flower-petals.

Flowers like that do not grow here, thought Johannes. On his head rested

a deep blue flower-cup, which was still as fragrant as though it had

just been picked. In his hand was his sceptre--the stamen of a

lotus-flower.

All present were quietly lauding his goodness. He had praised the

moonlight on the dunes, and had said that the glow-worms here were

almost as beautiful as the fireflies of the Orient. He had pleasantly

overlooked the wall decorations, and a mole, even, had noticed that he

nodded approvingly.

"Come with me," said Windekind. "I will present you." And they pressed

forward to the place where the king sat.

When Oberon recognized Windekind, he greeted him joyfully, and gave him

a kiss. At that the guests whispered to one another, and the elves threw

envious glances at the pair. The two plump toads in the corner mumbled

together something about "fawning and flattering," and "not lasting

long," and then nodded very significantly to each other.

Windekind talked with Oberon for a long time in a strange language, and

then beckoned to Johannes to come closer.

"Give me your hand, Johannes," said the king. "Windekind's friends are

mine also. Whenever I can I will help you, and I will give you a token

of our alliance."

Oberon released from the chain about his neck a little gold key, and

gave it to Johannes who took it respectfully and held it shut close in

his hand.

"That little key may be your fortune," said the king. "It fits a golden

chest which contains a precious treasure. Who holds that chest I cannot

say, but you must search for it zealously. If you remain good friends

with me and with Windekind--steadfast and true--you will surely

succeed." With that, the elf-king inclined his beautiful head,

cordially, while Johannes, overflowing with happiness, expressed his

thanks.

At this moment, three frogs, who were sitting together upon a little

mound of damp moss, began to sing the introduction to a slow waltz, and

partners were taken for the dance. Those who did not dance were lined

along the side walls by the master of ceremonies--a lively, fussy little

lizard--to the great vexation of the two toads who complained that they

could not see. Then the dancing began.

And it was so comical! Every one danced in his own way, and fancied, of

course, that he danced better than any one else. The mice and frogs

sprang high up on their hind feet, and an old rat whirled round so

wildly that all the dancers retreated before him. A fat tree-slug took a

turn with a mole, but soon gave it up, under pretense that she was taken

with a stitch in the side. The real reason was that she could not dance

very well.

However, everything moved on seriously and ceremoniously. It was a

matter of conscience with them, and all looked anxiously toward the king

to find a sign of approval upon his countenance. But the king was afraid

of causing discontent, and looked very sedate. His followers considered

it beneath them to take part in the dancing.

Johannes had contained himself well, through all this seriousness, but

when he saw a tiny toad whirling around with a tall lizard, who now and

then lifted the unhappy toad high up off the floor and described a half

circle with her in the air, he burst out into a merry laugh.

Then there was consternation. The music stopped and the king; looked

round with a troubled air. The master of ceremonies flew in full speed

up to the laugher, and urgently besought him to conduct himself with

more decorum.

"Dancing is a serious matter," said he, "and nothing at all to be

laughed at. This is a dignified company, who are dancing not merely for

the fun of it. Every one was doing his best, and no one wished to be

laughed at. That was very rude. More than that, this is a mourning

feast--a sorrowful occasion. One should conduct himself respectably

here, and not behave as though he were among human beings."

Johannes was frightened at that. Moreover, he saw hostile looks. His

familiarity with the king had made him many enemies. Windekind led him

to one side.

"We would better go away," he whispered. "You have made a mess of it

again. That is the way when one is brought up among human beings."

Hastily, they slipped out under the bat-wing portiere, and entered the

dim passage. The polite glow-worm was waiting for them.

"Have you had a good time?" he asked. "Did King Oberon speak with you?"

"Oh, yes. It was a jolly festival," said Johannes. "Do you have to stay

here all the time, in this dark passage?"

"That is my own choice," said the glow-worm, in a bitter, mournful

voice. "I care no more for vanities."

"Come," said Windekind, "you do not mean that!"

"It is just as I say. Formerly--formerly there was a time when I, too,

went to feasts, and danced, and kept up with such frivolities; but now I

am purified through suffering, now...." And he became so agitated that

his light went out again. Fortunately they were near the outlet, and the

rabbit, hearing them coming, moved a little to one side, so that the

moonlight shone in.

As soon as they were outside by the rabbit, Johannes said: "Will you not

tell us your history, Glow-worm?"

"Alas!" sighed the glow-worm, "it is a sad and simple story. It will not

amuse you."

"Tell us! Tell us, all the same!" they cried.

"Well, then, you know that we glow-worms are very peculiar beings. Yes,

I believe no one would contradict that we glow-worms are the most

highly gifted of all who live.

"Why? I do not know that," said the rabbit. At this, the glow-worm asked

disdainfully, "Can you give light?"

"No, indeed, I cannot," the rabbit was obliged to confess.

"Now _we_ give light--all of us. And we can make it shine or can

extinguish it. Light is the best gift of Nature, and to make light is

the highest achievement of any living being. Ought any one then to

contest our precedence? Moreover, we little fellows have wings, and can

fly for miles."

"I cannot do that, either," humbly admitted the rabbit.

"Through the divine gift of light which we have," continued the

glow-worm, "other creatures stand in awe of us, and no bird will attack

us. Only one animal--the human being--the basest of all, chases us, and

carries us off. He is the most detestable monster in creation!"

At this sally Johannes looked at Windekind as though he did not

understand. But Windekind smiled, and motioned to him to be silent.

"Once, I flew gaily around among the shrubs, like a bright

will-o'-the-wisp. In a moist, lonely meadow on the bank of a ditch there

lived one whose existence was inseparably linked with my own happiness.

She sparkled beautifully in her light emerald-green as she crept about

in the grass, and my young heart was enraptured. I circled about her,

and did my best, by making my light play, to attract her attention.

Gratefully, I saw that she had perceived me, and demurely extinguished

her own light. Trembling with emotion, I was on the point of folding my

wings and sinking down in rapture beside my radiant loved one, when the

air was filled with an awful noise. Dark figures approached. They were

human beings. In terror, I took flight. They chased me, and struck at me

with big black things. But my wings went faster than their clumsy legs."

"When I returned--"

Here the narrator's voice failed him. After an instant of deep emotion,

during which the three listeners maintained a respectful silence, he

continued:

"You may already have surmised it. My tender bride--the brightest, most

glowing of all--she had disappeared; kidnapped by cruel human beings.

The still, dewy grass-plot was trampled, and her favorite place by the

ditch was dark and deserted. I was alone in the world."

Here the impressionable rabbit once again pulled down an ear, and wiped

a tear from his eye.

"Since that time I have been a different creature. I have an aversion

for all idle pleasures. I think only of her whom I have lost, and of the

time when I shall see her again."

"Really! Do you still hope to?" said the rabbit, rejoiced.

"I more than hope--I am certain. In heaven I shall see my beloved

again."

"But--" the rabbit objected.

"Bunnie," said the glow-worm, gravely, "I can understand that one who

was obliged to grope about in the dark might doubt, but when one can

see, with his own eyes! That puzzles me. There!" said the glow-worm,

gazing reverently up at the star-dotted skies; "there I behold them--all

my forefathers, all my friends, and her, too, more gloriously radiant

than when here upon earth. Ah, when shall I be able to rise up out of

this lower life, and fly to her who beckons me so winsomely? When, ah,

when?"

With a sigh, the glow-worm turned away from his listeners and crept back

again into the dark passage.

"Poor creature!" said the rabbit. "I hope he is right."

"I hope so too," added Johannes.

"I have my doubts," said Windekind, "but it was very touching."

"Dear Windekind," began Johannes, "I am very tired and sleepy."

"Then come close to me, and I will cover you with my mantle."

Windekind took off his little blue mantle and spread it over Johannes

and himself.

So they lay down on the gentle slope, in the fragrant moss, with their

arms about each other's neck.

"Your heads lie rather low," said the rabbit. "Will you rest them

against me?"

They did so.

"Good-night, Mother!" said Windekind to the moon.

Then Johannes shut the little gold key tight in his hand, pressed his

head against the downy coat of the good rabbit, and fell fast asleep.

[1] Windekind = Child of the _Winde_ or Windflower.

[2] In Dutch, the word sun is feminine.

III

Where is he, Presto?--Where is he? What a fright to wake up in the boat,

among the reeds, all alone, the master gone and not a trace of him! It

is something to be alarmed about.

And how long you have been running, barking nervously, trying to find

him, poor Presto! How could you sleep so soundly and not notice the

little master get out of the boat? Otherwise, you would have wakened as

soon as he made the least move.

You could scarcely find the place where he landed, and here in the downs

you are all confused. That nervous sniffing has not helped a bit. Oh,

despair! The master gone--not a sign of him. Find him, Presto, find him!

See! straight before you on the hillside. Is not that a little form

lying there? Look! look!

For an instant the little dog stood motionless, straining his gaze out

into the distance. Then suddenly he stretched out his head, and

raced--flew with all the might of his four little paws toward that dark

spot on the hillside.

And when it proved to be the grievously wanted little master, he could

not find a way to fully express his joy and thankfulness. He wagged his

tail, his entire little body quivering with joy--he jumped, yelped,

barked, and then pushed his little cold nose against the face of his

long-sought friend, and licked and sniffed all over it.

"Cuddle down, Presto, in your basket," said Johannes, only half awake.

How stupid of the master! There was no basket there, as any one could

see.

Very, very slowly the day began to break in the mind of the little

sleeper.

Presto's sniffings he was used to--every morning. But dream-figures of

elves and moonshine still lingered in his soul as the morning mists

cling to the landscape. He feared that the chill breath of the dawn

might chase them away. "Eyes fast shut," thought he, "or I shall see the

clock and the wall-paper, just as ever."

But he was not lying right. He felt there was no covering over him.

Slowly and cautiously he opened his eyelids a very little way.

Bright light. Blue sky. Clouds.

Then Johannes opened his eyes wide and said: "Is it really true?"

Yes, he lay in the middle of the dunes. The cheerful sunshine warmed

him, he breathed the fresh morning air, and in the distance a fine mist

skirted the woods. He saw only the tall beech tree beside the pond, and

the roof of his house rising above the foliage. Bees and beetles hummed

about him; above him sang the ascending skylark; from far away came the

sound of barkino-does, and the rumble of the distant town. It was all as

plain as day.

But what had he dreamed and what not? Where was Windekind? And where was

the rabbit?

He could see neither of them. Only Presto, who sat up against him as

close as possible, watching him expectantly.

"Could I have been sleep-walking?" murmured Johannes, softly.

Beside him was a rabbit-hole. But there were a great many such in the

dunes. He sat up straight, so as to give it a good look. What was it he

felt in his tightly shut hand?

A thrill ran through him from the crown of his head to his feet as he

opened his hand. There lay a bright little gold key.

For a time he sat speechless.

"Presto," said he then, while the tears sprang to his eyes, "Presto,

then it _is_ true!"

Presto sprang up and tried, by barking, to make it clear to his master

that he was hungry and wanted to go home.

To the house? Johannes had not thought of that, and cared little to

return. But soon he heard different voices calling his name. Then he

began to realize that his behavior would be considered neither kind nor

courteous; and that, for a long time to come, there would be no friendly

words in store for him.

For an instant, at the first trouble, his tears of joy were very nearly

turned into those of fear and regret. But when he thought about

Windekind, who now was his friend--his friend and confidant--of the

elf-king's gift, and of the glorious, indisputable truth of all that had

occurred, he took his way home, calm and prepared for anything.

But the meeting was more difficult than he expected. He had not fully

anticipated the fear and distress of the household over his absence. He

was urged to promise solemnly that he never again would be so naughty

and imprudent.

"I cannot do so," said he, resolutely. They were surprised at that. He

was interrogated, coaxed, threatened; but he thought of Windekind and

remained stubborn. What could it matter if only he held Windekind's

friendship--and what would he not be willing to suffer for Windekind's

sake! He pressed the little key close to his breast, and shut his lips

together, while he answered every question with a shrug of his

shoulders. "I cannot promise," said he, again.

But his father said: "It is a serious matter with him--we will let him

be, now. Something unusual must have happened. Sometime, he will tell us

about it."

Johannes smiled, silently ate his bread and butter, and then slipped

away to his little bedroom. There, he snipped oft a bit of the curtain

cord, strung his precious key upon it, and hung it around his neck, on

his bare breast. Then, comforted, he went to school.

It went very badly that day at school. He knew none of his lessons, and

paid absolutely no attention. His thoughts flew continually to the pond,

and to the marvelous happenings of the evening before. He could scarcely

believe that a friend of the elf-king could again be obliged to figure

sums, and conjugate verbs.

But it had all truly been, and not one of those around him knew anything

about it. No one could believe or understand--not even the master--no

matter how fierce he looked, nor how scornfully he called Johannes a

lazy dog. He endured the angry comments with resignation and performed

the tasks which his absent-mindedness brought upon him.

"They have not the least idea of it. They may rail at me as much as they

please. I shall remain Windekind's friend, and Windekind is worth more

to me than all of them put together; yes, master and all."

That was not respectful of Johannes. But after all the hard things he

had heard about them the evening before, his esteem for his

fellow-creatures had not been increased.

More than that, he was not sensible enough to put his wisdom to the best

use; or, rather, to keep silent.

When his master stated that human beings only were gifted by God with

reasoning powers, and were placed as rulers over all the other animals,

he began to laugh. That cost him a bad mark, and a severe rebuke. And

when his seat-mate read aloud from his exercise-book the following

sentence: "The sun is very old--she is older than my cross old aunt,"

Johannes instantly cried out, "_He_ is older!"

Everybody laughed at him, and the master, astonished at such amazing

stupidity, as he called it, made Johannes remain after school to write

out this sentence a hundred times: "The age of my aunt is very great,

the age of the sun is greater; but the greatest thing of all is my

amazing stupidity."

His schoolmates had all disappeared, and Johannes sat alone writing in

the great school-room. The sun shone gaily in, lighting up a thousand

motes on the way, and forming on the white-washed walls great splashes

of light which, with the passing hours, crept slowly forward. The

teacher had gone away, and shut the door behind him with a bang.

Johannes was already on the fifty-second "age of my aunt," when a nimble

little mouse, with silky ears, and little black beads of eyes, came out

of the farthest corner of the room and ran without a sound along by the

wall. Johannes kept as still as death, not to frighten away the pretty

creature. It was not afraid, and came up close to where he was sitting.

Then, peering round a moment with its bright keen little eyes, it sprang

lightly up--one jump to the bench, the second to the desk on which

Johannes was writing.

"Hey!" said he, half to himself, "but you are a plucky little mouse!"

"I do not know whom I should be afraid of," said a mite of a voice; and

the mouse showed his little teeth as if he were laughing.

Johannes had already become used to many wonderful things, but this made

him open his eyes wide. In the middle of the day, and in school! It was

past all belief.

"You need not be afraid of me," said he, softly--for fear of startling

the mouse. "Have you come from Windekind?"

"I came just to say to you that the teacher is quite right, and that you

roundly deserved your punishment."

"But Windekind said that the sun was our father."

"Yes, but it was not necessary to let anybody else know it. What have

human beings to do with it? You must never speak of such delicate

matters to them--they are too coarse. A human being is an astonishingly

cruel and clumsy creature, who would prefer to seize and trample to

death whatever came within his reach. We mice have had experience of

that."

"But, Mousie, why do you stay in this neighborhood? Why do you not go

far away--to the woods?"

"Alas! we cannot do that now. We are too much accustomed to town food.

Provided one is prudent and always takes care to avoid their traps and

their heavy feet, it becomes possible to endure human beings.

Fortunately, we still retain our nimbleness. The worst of it is that

human beings help out their own clumsiness by covenanting with the cat.

That is a great calamity, but in the woods there are owls and hawks, and

we should all certainly perish there. Now, Johannes, remember my advice.

There comes the teacher!"

"Mousie, Mousie! Do not go away! Ask Windekind what I must do with my

key. I have hung it around my neck, on my bare breast. But Saturday I

have to take a bath, and I am so afraid somebody will see it. Tell me,

Mousie dear, where I can safely hide it."

"In the ground--always in the ground. Everything is safest there. Shall

I take, and keep it?"

"No, not here, at school!"

"Bury it then, out in the dunes. I will tell my cousin, the field-mouse,

that he must keep watch of it."

"Thank you, Mousie."

Tramp! tramp! The master was coming. In the time it took Johannes to dip

his pen, the mouse had disappeared. The master himself, who was

impatient to go home, excused Johannes from the forty-eight remaining

lines.

For two long days Johannes lived in constant fear. He was closely

watched, and no opportunity was allowed him for escaping to the dunes.

Friday came, and he was still carrying around that precious key. The

following evening he must take his weekly bath; the key would be

discovered and taken away from him. He grew stiff with fear at the

thought of it. He dared not hide it in the house--nor in the garden--no

place seemed to him safe enough.

It was Friday afternoon and the twilight began to fall. Johannes sat

before his bedroom window, looking wistfully out over the green shrubs

of the garden to the distant dunes.

"Windekind, Windekind, help me!" he whispered, anxiously.

There was a gentle rustling of wings near him, then came the fragrance

of lilies-of-the-valley, and suddenly he heard the sweet, familiar

voice.

Windekind sat near him on the window-seat, making the little lily-bells

swing on their slender stalk.

"At last! Have you come? I have longed for you so!" said Johannes.

"Come with me, Johannes; we will go and bury your key."

"I cannot," said Johannes, with a sigh.

But Windekind took him by the hand, and, light as the feathery seed of

a dandelion, he was drifting away through the still evening air.

"Windekind," said Johannes as they went, "I think so much of you! I

believe I would willingly give up every human being for you. Presto,

even."

"And Simon?" said Windekind.

"Oh, it cannot make much difference to Simon whether I like him or not.

He thinks such things childish, I believe. Simon cares only for the

fishwoman; and not even for her, save when he is hungry. Do you believe,

Windekind, that Simon is an ordinary cat?"

"No! He has been a human being."

Buz-z-z-z! Just then a big May-bug flew against Johannes.

"Cannot you look out for yourself better than that?" grumbled the

May-bug. "H'm! You elfin baggage! You fly as if you owned all the air

there was. You have learned that from the do-nothings who only just fly

round and round for their own pleasure. One who always does his duty,

like me--who always seeks food, and eats as hard as he can, is put out

by such actions." And away he flew, buzzing loudly.

"Is he vexed because we are not eating anything?" asked Johannes.

"Yes, that is May-bug fashion. Among the May-bugs it is considered the

highest duty to eat a great deal. Shall I tell you the story of a young

May-bug?"

"Yes, do, Windekind."

"He was a fine, young May-bug who had only just crept out of the sod.

What a surprise it was! For four long years he had been under the dark

ground, waiting for the first warm evening. When he got his head up out

of the clods and saw all that foliage, and the waving grass, and the

singing birds, he was greatly perplexed. He did not know what to do. He

touched the near-by grass blades all over with his feelers, thrusting

them out in fan shape. From this he perceived, Johannes, that he was a

male. He was very handsome in his way--with shining black legs, a plump,

powdered after-part, and a breastplate that gleamed like a mirror.

Happily, he soon discovered, not far away, another May-bug--not quite so

handsome, but who had flown out a full day earlier and thus was of age.

Quite modestly, because he was still so young, he hailed this other one.

"'What do you want, little friend?' said the second one condescendingly,

observing that it was a novice: 'Do you want to inquire the way?'

"'No, but you see,' said the younger, politely, 'I do not know what I

ought to be doing here. What does one do when he is a May-bug?'

"'Indeed,' said the other, 'do you not know that? Well, that is

excusable. Once _I_ did not know. Listen, and I will tell you. The chief

concern of a May-bug's life is to eat. Not far from this is a delicious

linden hedge that was put there for us to eat from as busily as

possible.'

"'Who planted the linden hedge there?' asked the young beetle.

"'Well, a great creature who means well by us. Every morning he comes

along the hedge, picks out those that have eaten the most, and takes

them with him to a splendid house where a bright light shines, and where

all the May-bugs are very happy together. But those who keep flying

about the whole night instead of eating are caught by the bat.'

"'Who is that?' asked the novice.

"'A fearful monster with sharp teeth, that all of a sudden comes flying

after us, and crunches us up with a horrible crack.' As the beetle said

this, they heard above them a shrill squeaking which pierced through to

the marrow. 'Hey! There he is!' exclaimed the older one. 'Look out for

him, my young friend. Be thankful that I have warned you in good time.

You have a long night before you--make the best of it. The less you eat

the greater the chance of your being devoured by the bat. Only those who

choose a serious calling in life can enter the great house with the

bright light. Bear that in mind! A serious calling!'

"Then the beetle, who was a whole day the older, scrabbled away among

the blades of grass, leaving the other behind, greatly impressed. Do you

understand what a calling is, Johannes? No? Well, neither did the young

beetle know. It had something to do with eating, he knew, but how was he

to get to the linden hedge?

"Close beside him stood a slim, strong grass-stem swaying gently in the

evening wind. He grasped it, and hugged it tightly with his six little

crooked feet. It seemed as tall as a giant viewed from below, and

fearfully steep. But the May-bug was determined to reach the very tip of

it.

"'This is a calling,' he thought, and he began to climb, pluckily. It

was slow work--he often slipped back; but still he made progress, and at

last, when he had climbed to the tip-top and was swinging and swaying

there, he felt content and happy. What a view! It seemed to him as if he

overlooked the world. How blissful it was to be surrounded, on all

sides, by the air! He breathed it in eagerly. How marvelously it cheered

him up! He would go still higher!

"In ecstasy he lifted up his shields, and made his filmy wings quiver.

Higher he would go! Higher! Again he fluttered his wings--his feet let

loose the grass-stem, and--oh, joy!--He was flying, free and clear, in

the still, warm evening air!"

"And then?" asked Johannes.

"The continuation is not cheerful. I will tell it you a little later."

They had flown away over the pond. A pair of belated white butterflies

fluttered along with them.

"Where are you going, elves?" they asked.

"To the big wild-rose that blossoms on yonder hill."

"We will go, too! We will go, too!"

In the distance, the rose-bush with its many pale-yellow satiny flowers

was already visible. The buds were red, and the open roses showed little

stripes of the same color, in token of the time when they still were

buds.

In solitary calm, this sweet wild-rose bloomed, and filled the region

with its marvelous fragrance. So delicious is this that the dune-elves

live upon it alone.

The butterflies fluttered up to it, and kissed flower after flower.

"We come to entrust a treasure to you," said Windekind. "Will you take

care of it for us?"

"Why not? why not?" whispered the wild-rose. "Watching does not tire me,

and I do not think to go away from here, if no one carries me off. And I

have sharp thorns."

Then came the field-mouse--the cousin of the mouse at the school. He dug

a passage under the roots of the rose-bush, and pulled in the little

key.

"If you want it back again, you must call on me. And then the rose need

not be harmed."

The rose interlocked its thorny twigs close over the entrance, and took

a solemn oath to guard the trust. The butterflies were witnesses.

The next morning, Johannes woke up in his own little bed, with Presto,

the clock, and the wall-hangings. The cord around his neck, and the

little key upon it, had disappeared.

IV

"Oh, boys, boys! How dreadfully tedious it is in summer!" sighed one of

the three big stoves which stood together, fretting, in a dark corner of

the garret in the old house. "For weeks I have not seen a living soul

nor heard a sensible word. And that emptiness within. It is horrible!"

"I am full of spider-webs," said the other. "In winter that would not

happen."

"And I am so dusty that I shall be shamed to death next winter when the

black man appears, as Van Alphen says." This bit of learning the third

stove had gotten, of course, from Johannes, as he sat before the hearth

winters, reciting verses.

"You must not speak so disrespectfully of the Smith," said the first

stove--which was the eldest. "It pains me."

And a number of shovels and tongs also, which lay here and there on the

floor, wrapped in paper to keep them from rusting, expressed freely

their indignation at the frivolous remark.

Suddenly, they all stopped talking; for the trap-door was lifted, a ray

of light darted to the far corner, exposing the entire dusty company, to

their surprise and confusion.

It was Johannes whose coming had disturbed their talk. He had always

enjoyed a visit to the garret; and now, after all the recent happenings,

he often went there to find quiet and seclusion. There, too, closed with

a shutter was a window, which looked out over the hillside. It was a

keen delight to open that shutter suddenly, and after the mysterious

gloom of the garret, to see before him all at once the wide-spread,

clearly lighted landscape, framed by the gently undulating lines of the

hills.

Three weeks had passed away since that Friday evening, and Johannes had

not seen nor heard anything of his friend. His little key was now gone,

and there was nothing to prove to him that he had not been dreaming.

Often, he could not reason away the fear that all had been only

imagination. He kept his own counsel, and his father remarked with

anxiety that Johannes, since that night in the dunes, had certainly been

ill. Johannes, however, was only longing for Windekind.

"Ought not he to care as much for me as I do for him?" he mused, while

he leaned against the garret window and gazed out over the verdant,

flowery garden. "And why does he not come oftener, and stay longer? If

_I_ could!... But perhaps he has other friends, and cares more for them

than for me? I have no other friend--not one. I care only for him--so

much, oh, so much!"

Then he saw defined against the deep blue sky a flock of six white doves

which wheeled with flapping wings above the house. It seemed as if one

thought impelled them, so swiftly and simultaneously, again and again,

they altered their direction, as if to enjoy to the full the sea of

sunlight in which they were circling.

All at once they flew toward Johannes' little attic-window, and, with

much fluttering and flapping of wings, alighted on the gutter. There

they cooed, and bustled back and forth, with little, mincing steps. One

of them had a little red feather in his wing. He tugged and pulled at it

until he held it in his beak. Then he flew up to Johannes and gave it to

him.

Johannes had scarcely taken it when he felt that he had become as light

and fleet as one of the doves. He stretched himself out, up flew the

flock of doves, and Johannes soared in their midst, through the free,

open air and the clear sunshine. Nothing was around him but the pure

blue, and the bright gleaming of the white dove-wings.

They flew over the garden toward the woods, whose tree-tops were waving

in the distance like the swell of a green sea. Johannes looked down

below, and saw his father sitting at the open window of the living-room.

Simon sat on the window-sill, his forepaws folded, basking in the

sunshine. "Can they see me?" he thought; but he did not dare call to

them.

Presto was tearing through the garden paths, sniffing about every shrub,

behind every wall, and scratching against the door of every hot-house or

out-building, trying to find his master.

"Presto! Presto!" cried Johannes. The dog looked up, and began to wag

his tail and whimper, plaintively.

"I am coming back, Presto. Watch!" cried Johannes, but he was too far

away.

They swept over the woods, and the crows flew croaking out of the high

tree-tops where their nests were. It was midsummer, and the odor of the

blossoming lindens streamed up from the green woods below them.

In an empty nest at the top of a tall linden tree sat Windekind with the

wreath of wind-flowers upon his head. He nodded to Johannes.

"Is that you? That is good," said he. "I sent for you. Now we can stay

together a long while--if you would like to."

"Indeed, I would like to," said Johannes.

Then he thanked the kind doves who had brought him thither, and dropped

down with Windekind into the woods.

It was cool and shady there. The golden thrush was fluting his

strain--nearly always the very same, but yet a little different.

"Poor bird!" said Windekind. "He was once a bird-of-paradise. That you

can still see by his strange, yellow feathers; but he was given another

covering and expelled from Paradise. There is a word which can bring

back again his former glorious covering, and restore him to Paradise,

but he has forgotten it. Day after day he tries to find that word. He

sings something like it, but it is not the right word."

Countless flies were glistening like floating crystals in the sunbeams

that fell through the dark foliage. Listening acutely, one could hear

their buzzing like a great, monotonous concert, filling the entire

forest. It was as if the sunbeams sang.

Thick, dark-green moss covered the ground, and Johannes had become so

small again that it appeared to him like a new-grown woods at the bottom

of the great forest. What elegant little stems and how closely they

grew! It was difficult to pass between them, and the moss-woods seemed

dreadfully large.

Then they came upon an ant-path. Hundreds of ants ran busily to and fro,

some carrying bits of wood, little leaves, or blades of grass in their

jaws. There was such a tumult that it almost made Johannes dizzy. They

were all so busy it was a long time before one of the ants would stop to

speak with them. At last they found an old ant who had been stationed to

keep watch over the small plant-lice from which the ants draw their

honey-dew. Since his small herd was quiet he could devote a little time

to the strangers, and show them the great nest. It was situated at the

foot of an old tree-trunk, was very large, and had hundreds of entrances

and little chambers. The plant-louse herder gave explanations, and led

the visitors around everywhere, till they came to the cells of the

young, where the larvæ crept out of their white cocoons. Johannes was

amazed and delighted.

The old ant said that they were living under great stress on account of

the military campaign which was about to be executed. They were going,

with a huge force, to attack another ant colony not far away; to destroy

the nest, and to steal or kill the larvæ. To accomplish this, they would

need all the help possible, and thus they must first settle the most

urgent affairs.

"What is the reason for this military expedition?" asked Johannes. "It

does not seem nice."

"Indeed," said the herder, "it is a very fine and praiseworthy

enterprise! You must know that it is the Fighting-Ants we are going to

attack. We are going to extirpate their species, and that is a very good

deed."

"Are not you Fighting-Ants, then?"

"Certainly not! What makes you think so? We are Peace-Ants."

"Then what does that mean?"

"Do you not know? I will explain. Once, all the ants were continually

fighting--not a day passed without great slaughter. Then there came a

good, wise ant who thought it would save a great deal of trouble if all

the ants would agree to fight no more.

"When he said that, they all found it very strange; and what did they do

but begin to bite him into pieces. Later, came still other ants who were

of the very same opinion. These also were bitten into mince-meat. But so

many of them kept coming that the biting-up became too much work for the

others.

"Then they named themselves Peace-Ants, and all agreed that the first

Peace-Ant was right. Whoever dissented was, in his turn, bitten up.

Thus, nearly all the ants nowadays have become Peace-Ants, and the

remnants of the first Peace-Ant have been preserved with great care and

respect. We have the head--the authentic head. We have laid waste twelve

other colonies, and have murdered the ants who pretended to have the

genuine head. Now, there are only four such colonies left. They call

themselves Peace-Ants, but they are really Fighting-Ants; because, you

see, we have the true head, and the Peace-Ant had but one head. We are

going, one of these days, to stamp out the thirteenth colony. You see

now, that this is a good work."

"Yes, indeed," said Johannes, "it is very ... remarkable."

Really he had become a little afraid, and felt more comfortable when

they had taken their leave of the obliging herder and, far away from the

ant colony, were resting awhile on a swaying grass-blade, in the shadow

of a graceful fern-leaf.

"Whoo!" sighed Johannes, "that was a stupid, blood-thirsty set."

Windekind laughed, and swung up and down on his grass-blade.

"Oh," said he, "you must not call them stupid. Human beings go to the

ants to learn wisdom from them."

Thus Windekind showed Johannes all the wonders of the woods. They flew

together to the birds in the tree-tops, and in the close hedges; went

down into the clever little dwellings of the moles, and saw the bees'

nest in the old tree-trunk.

Finally, they came to an open place surrounded with undergrowth. The

honeysuckle grew there in great abundance. It twined its wanton tendrils

over all the shrubs, and its fragrant garlands adorned the luxuriant

foliage. A flock of tomtits hopped and fluttered among the leaves, and

chirped and chattered clamorously.

"Let us stay a little longer," said Johannes. "It is delightful here."

"Good," said Windekind. "Then you will see some more comical things."

Little blue-bells were growing in the grass. Johannes went up to one of

them, and began to chat about the bees and the butterflies. These were

good friends of the blue-bell, and so the conversation flowed smoothly

on.

What was that? A great shadow passed over the grass, and something like

a white cloud descended upon the blue-bell. Johannes scarcely had time

to get out of the way. He flew to Windekind, who was sitting high up in

a honeysuckle. From thence he saw that the white cloud was a

handkerchief, and just then a portly woman sat down hard upon the

handkerchief, and upon the poor little blue-bell that was under it.

He had not time to lament, for the sound of voices and of cracking

branches filled the open place, and a crowd of people approached.

"Now we are going to have a laugh," said Windekind.

There they came--human beings. The women with baskets and umbrellas in

hand; the men with high, stiff black hats on. Almost all the men were

very, very black. In the sunny, green forest, they looked like great,

ugly ink spots on a splendid picture.

Bushes were thrust rudely aside, and flowers were trampled under foot.

Many more white handkerchiefs were spread over the meek grass; and the

patient mosses, sighing, yielded to the weight that bore them down, and

feared never to recover from the shock.

The smoke of cigars curled up over the honeysuckle vines, spitefully

driving away the delicate fragrance of their flowers; and loud voices

scattered the merry tomtits, that, chirping their fright and

indignation, sought refuge in the nearest trees.

One man rose up from the crowd, and went to stand on a little mound. He

had long, light hair, and a pale face. He said something, and then all

the people opened their mouths frightfully wide and began to sing so

hard that the crows flew up, croaking, from their high nests, and the

inquisitive rabbits that had come to the edge of the glade, just to look

on, took fright and started on a run, and kept it up a quarter of an

hour after they were safe again in the dunes.

Windekind laughed, and whisked away the cigar smoke with a fern-leaf.

The tears came into Johannes' eyes, but not from the smoke.

"Windekind," said he, "I want to go away--it is so ugly and horrid

here."

"No, we must stay a while longer. You will laugh; it is going to be

still more comical."

The singing was over, and the pale man began to speak. He shouted, so

that all could hear, but what he said sounded very kind. He called the

people brothers and sisters, and spoke of glorious nature, and the

wonders of creation, of God's sunshine and of the dear birds and

flowers....

"What is that?" asked Johannes. "Why does he speak of those things? Does

he know you? Is he a friend of yours?"

Windekind shook his garlanded head disdainfully.

"He does not know me; still less the sun, the birds, the flowers.

Everything he says is false."

The people all listened very attentively. The fat woman who was sitting

on the blue-bell began several times to cry, and wiped away her tears

with her skirt, because she had not the use of her handkerchief.

The pale man said that God had caused the sun to shine so brightly for

the sake of their meeting. Then Windekind laughed and, out of the thick

foliage, threw an acorn at his nose.

"He shall find it otherwise," said he. "My father shine for him! How

conceited!"

But the pale man was too full of enthusiasm to mind the acorn, which

appeared to have fallen out of the sky. He spoke a long time, and the

longer the louder. At last he grew purple in the face, clenched his

fists, and shouted so loud that the leaves trembled and the grasses

waved hither and thither in astonishment. When at last he calmed down,

they all began to sing again.

"Fie!" said a blackbird, who had heard the uproar from the top of a high

tree. "What a frightful racket! I would rather the cows came into the

woods. Just hear that! For shame!"

Now, the blackbird is a critic, and has fine taste.

After the singing, the people brought all sorts of eatables from

baskets, boxes, and bags. They spread out papers, and distributed rolls

and oranges. Bottles and glasses, too, came to light.

Then Windekind called his allies together, and the siege of the feasting

company began.

A gallant frog jumped into the lap of an old lady, close beside the

bread she was just about to eat, and remained sitting there, astonished

at his own daring. The lady gave a horrible shriek, and stared at the

intruder in amazement, without daring to stir. This mettlesome example

found imitators. Green caterpillars crept valiantly over hats,

handkerchiefs, and rolls, awakening fright and dismay. Big, fat spiders

let themselves down glistening threads into the beer glasses, and upon

heads or necks, and a loud, continual screaming accompanied their

attack. Innumerable small flies assailed the people straight in the

face, offering their lives for the good of the cause by tumbling into

the food and drink, and, with their bodies, making it unfit for use.

Finally, came multitudes of ants, a hundred at a time, and nipped the

enemy in the most unexpected places. Men and women sprang up hurriedly

from the long-crushed moss and grass; and the blue-bell was liberated

through the well-aimed attack of two ear-wigs upon the ankles of the

plump woman. Desperation seized them all; dancing and jumping with the

most comical gestures, the people tried to escape from their pursuers.

The pale man stood his ground well, and struck out on all sides with a

small black stick; till a pair of malicious tomtits, that considered no

method of attack too mean, and a wasp, that gave him a sting through his

black trousers on the calf of the leg, put him out of the fight.

The jolly sun could no longer keep his countenance, and hid his face

behind a cloud. Big rain-drops descended upon the struggling party.

Suddenly, as though it had rained down, a forest of big black toadstools

appeared. It was the outstretched umbrellas. The women drew their skirts

over their heads, exposing white petticoats, white-stockinged ankles,

and shoes without heels. Oh, what fun it was for Windekind! He laughed

so hard he had to cling to the flower-stem.

Faster and faster fell the rain, and a greyish, glistening veil began to

envelop the woods. Water dripped from umbrellas, high hats, and black

coats. The coats shone like the shells of the water beetle, while the

shoes kissed and smacked on the saturated ground. Then the people gave

it up--dropping silently away in little groups, leaving many papers,

empty bottles, and orange peels for unsightly tokens of their visit. The

little glade in the woods was again solitary, and soon nothing was heard

but the monotonous patter of the rain.

"Well, Johannes! Now we have seen human beings, also. Why do you not

laugh at them, as well?"

"Oh, Windekind! Are all human beings like that?"

"Some of them are much worse and more ugly. At times they swear and tear

and make havoc with everything that is beautiful or admirable. They cut

down trees, and put horrid, square houses in their places. They

wantonly trample the flowers, and kill, for the mere pleasure of it,

every animal that comes within their reach. In their cities, where they

swarm together, everything is dirty and black, and the air is dank and

poisonous with stench and smoke. They are completely estranged from

Nature and her fellow-creatures. That is why they make such a foolish

and sorry figure when they return to them."

"Oh, Windekind! Windekind!"

"Why are you crying, Johannes? You must not cry because you were born

among human beings. I love you all the same, and prefer you to everybody

else. I have taught you the language of the birds and the butterflies,

and how to understand the look of the flowers. The moon knows you, and

good, kind Earth loves you as her dearest child. Why should you not be

glad, since I am your friend?"

"Oh, Windekind, I am, I am! But then, I have to cry about all those

people."

"Why? If it makes you sad, you need not remain with them. You can live

here, and always keep me company. We will dwell in the depths of the

woods, on the lonely, sunny dunes, or in the reeds by the pond. I will

take you everywhere--down under the water among the water-plants, in the

palaces of the elves, and in the haunts of the goblins. I will hover

with you over fields and forests--over foreign lands and seas. I will

have dainty garments spun for you, and wings given you like these I

wear. We will live upon the sweetness of the flowers, and dance in the

moonlight with the elves. When autumn comes, we will keep pace with the

sun, to lands where the tall palms rise, where gorgeous flowers festoon

the rocks, and the face of the deep blue sea lies smiling in the sun.

And I will always tell you stories. Would you like that, Johannes?"

"Shall I never live with human beings any more?"

"Among human beings there await you endless sorrow, trouble, weariness,

and care. Day after day must you toil and sigh under the burden of your

life. They will stab and torture your sensitive soul with their

roughness. They will rack and harass you to death. Do you love human

beings more than you love me?"

"No, no, Windekind! I will stay with you."

Now he could show how much he cared for Windekind. Yes, for his sake he

would leave and forget each and everything--his bedroom, Presto, and his

father. Joyfully and resolutely he repeated his wish.

The rain had ceased. From under grey clouds the sunlight streamed over

the woods like a bright smile. It touched the wet, shining leaves, the

rain-drops which sparkled on every twig and stem, and adorned the

spider-webs, stretched over the oak-leaves. From the moist ground below

the shrubbery a fine mist languidly rose, bearing with it a thousand

sultry, dreamy odors. The blackbird flew to the top of the highest tree,

and sang in broken, fervent strains to the sinking sun, as if he would

show which song suited best, in this solemn evening calm, as an

accompaniment to the falling drops.

"Is not that finer than the noise of human beings, Johannes? Yes, the

blackbird knows exactly the right tone to strike. Here everything is in

harmony--such perfect harmony you will never find among human beings."

"What is harmony, Windekind?"

"It is the same as happiness. It is that for which all strive. Human

beings also. Yet they are like children trying to catch a butterfly.

They simply drive it away by their silly efforts."

"Shall I find it here with you?"

"Yes, Johannes; but then you must forget human beings. It is a bad

beginning to have been born among human beings; but you are still young.

You must put away from you all remembrance of your human life, else it

would cause you to err and plunge you into conflicts, perplexities, and

misery. It would be with you as with the young May-bug I told you

about."

"What else happened to him?"

"He had seen the bright light which the older beetle had spoken of, and

could think of nothing better to do than promptly to fly to it. Straight

as a string, he flew into a room, and fell into human hands. For three

long days he suffered martyrdom. He was put into cardboard boxes,

threads were tied to his feet, and he was made to fly. Then he tore

himself free, with the loss of a wing and a leg, and finally, creeping

helplessly around on the carpet in a vain endeavor to reach the garden,

he was crushed by a heavy foot.

"All creatures, Johannes, that roam around in the night are as truly

children of the sun as we are. And although they have never seen the

shining face of their father, still a dim remembrance ever impels them

to anything from which light streams. And thousands of poor creatures of

the darkness find a pitiful death through that love for the sun from

whom they were long ago cut off and estranged. Thus a mysterious,

irresistible tendency brings human beings to destruction in the false

phantom of that Great Light which gave them being, but which they no

longer understand."

Johannes looked up inquiringly into Windekind's eyes. But they were deep

and mysterious--like the dark sky between the stars.

"Do you mean God?" he asked shyly.

"God?" The deep eyes laughed gently. "I know, Johannes, of what you

think when you utter that name; of the chair before your bed beside

which you make your long prayer every evening; of the green serge

curtains of the church window at which you look so often Sunday

mornings; of the capital letters of your little Bible; of the church-bag

with the long handle; of the wretched singing and the musty atmosphere.

What you mean by that name, Johannes, is a ridiculous phantom; instead

of the sun, a great oil-lamp where hundreds of thousands of gnats are

helplessly stuck fast."

"But what then is the name of the Great Light, Windekind? And to whom

must I pray?"

"Johannes, it is the same as if a speck of mold turning round with the

earth should ask me its bearer's name. If there were an answer to your

question you would understand it no more than does the earth-worm the

music of the spheres. Still, I will teach you how to pray."

Then, with little Johannes, who was musing in silent wonder over his

words, Windekind flew up out of the forest, so high that beyond the

horizon a long streak of shining gold became visible. On they flew--the

fantastically shadowed plain gliding beneath their glance. And the band

of light grew broader and broader. The green of the dunes grew dun, the

grass looked grey, and strange, pale-blue plants were growing there.

Still another high range of hills, a long narrow stretch of sand, and

then the wide, awful sea.

That great expanse was blue as far as the horizon, but below the sun

flashed a narrow streak of glittering, blinding red.

A long, fleecy margin of white foam encircled the sea, like an ermine

border upon blue velvet.

And at the horizon, sky and water were separated by an exquisite,

wonderful line. It seemed miraculous; straight, and yet curved, sharp,

yet undefined--visible, yet inscrutable. It was like the sound of a harp

that echoes long and dreamfully, seeming to die away and yet remaining.

Then little Johannes sat down upon the top of the hill and gazed--gazed

long, in motionless silence, until it seemed to him as if he were about

to die--as if the great golden doors of the universe were majestically

unfolding, and his little soul were drifting toward the first light of

Infinity.

And then the tears welled in his wide-open eyes till they shrouded the

glory of the sun, and obscured the splendor of heaven and earth in a dim

and misty twilight.

"That is the way to pray," said Windekind.

V

Did you ever wander through the woods on a beautiful autumn day, when

the sun was shining, calm and bright, upon the richly tinted foliage;

when the boughs creaked, and the dry leaves rustled about your feet?

The woods seem so weary. They can only meditate, and live in old

remembrances. A blue haze, like a dream, surrounds them with a

mysterious beauty, and glistening gossamer floats through the air in

idle undulations--like futile, aimless meditations.

Yet, suddenly and unaccountably, out of the damp ground, between moss

and dry leaves, rise up the marvelous toadstools; some thick, deformed,

and fleshy; others tall and slender with ringed stems and bright-colored

hoods. Strange dream-figures of the woods are they!

There may be seen also, on moldering tree-trunks, countless, small white

growths with little black tops, as if they had been burnt. Some wise

folk consider them a kind of fungus. But Johannes learned better.

"They are little candles. They burn in still autumn nights, and the

goblin mannikins sit beside them, and read in little books."

Windekind taught him that, on such a still autumn day, while Johannes

dreamily inhaled the faint odor of the forest soil.

"What makes the leaves of the sycamore so spotted with black?"

"Oh, the goblins do that, too," said Windekind. "When they have been

writing nights, they throw out in the morning, over the leaves, what is

left in their ink bottles. They do not like this tree. Crosses, and

poles for contribution bags, are made out of sycamore wood."

Johannes was inquisitive about the busy little goblins, and he made

Windekind promise to take him to one of them.

He had already been a long time with Windekind, and he was so happy in

his new life that he felt very little regret over his promise to forget

all he had left behind. There were no times of anxiety or of

loneliness--times when remorse wakens. Windekind never left him, and

with him he was at home in any place. He slept peacefully, in the

rocking nest of the reed-bird that hung among the green stalks, although

the bittern roared and the raven croaked so ominously. He felt no fear

on account of pouring rains nor shrieking winds. At such times he took

shelter in hollow trees or rabbit-holes, and crept close under

Windekind's mantle, and listened to the voice which was telling him

stories.

And now he was going to see the goblins.

It was a good day for the visit--so very still. Johannes fancied he

could already hear their light little voices, and the tripping of their

tiny feet, although it was yet midday.

The birds were nearly all gone--the thrushes alone were feasting on the

scarlet berries. One was caught in a snare. There it hung with

outstretched wings, struggling until the tightly pinioned little foot

was nearly severed. Johannes quickly released it, and with a joyful

chirp the bird flew swiftly away.

The toadstools were having a chatty time together.

"Just look at me," said one fat devil-fungus. "Did you ever see anything

like it? See how thick and white my stem is, and see how my hood shines!

I am the biggest of all. And that in one night!"

"Bah!" said the red fly-fungus. "You are very clumsy--so brown and

rough. I sway on my slender stalk like a grass stem. I am splendidly

red, like the thrush-berry and gorgeously speckled. I am handsomer than

any of you."

"Be still!" said Johannes, who had known them well in former days. "You

are both poisonous."

"That is a virtue," said the red fungus.

"Do you happen to be a human being?" grumbled the big fellow,

scornfully. "If so, I would like to have you eat me up!"

Johannes did not do that, however. He took little dry twigs, and stuck

them into his clumsy hood. That made him look silly, and all the others

laughed--among them, a little group of tiny toadstools with small, brown

heads, who in a couple of hours had sprung up together, and were

jostling one another to get a peep at the world. The devil-fungus was

blue with rage. That brought to light his poisonous nature.

Puff-balls raised their round, inflated little heads on four-pointed

pedestals. From time to time a cloud of brown powder, of the utmost

fineness, flew out of the opening in the round head. Wherever on the

moist ground that powder fell, tiny rootlets would interlace in the

black earth, and the following year hundreds of new puff-balls would

spring up.

"What a beautiful existence!" said they to one another. "The very acme

of attainment is to puff powder. What a joy to be able to puff, as long

as one lives!"

And with devout consecration they drove the small dust-clouds into the

air.

"Are they right, Windekind?"

"Why not? For them, what can be higher? It is fortunate that they long

for nothing more, when they can do nothing else."

When night fell, and the shadows of the trees were intermingled in one

general obscurity, that mysterious forest life did not cease. The

branches cracked and snapped, the dry leaves rustled hither and thither

over the grass and in the underwood, and Johannes felt the draft from

inaudible wing-strokes, and was conscious of the presence of invisible

beings. And now he heard, clearly, whispering voices and tripping

footsteps. Look! There, in the dusky depths of the bushes, a tiny blue

spark just twinkled, and then went out. Another one, and another! Hush!

Listening attentively, he could hear a rustling in the leaves close

beside him, by the dark tree-trunk. The blue lights appeared from behind

this, and held still at the top.

Everywhere, now, Johannes saw glimmering lights. They floated through

the foliage, danced and skipped along the ground; and yonder was a

great, glowing mass like a blue bonfire.

"What kind of fire is that?" asked Johannes. "How splendidly it burns!"

"That is a decayed tree-trunk," said Windekind. Then they went up to a

bright little light, which was burning steadily.

"Now I will introduce you to Wistik.[1] He is the oldest and wisest of

the goblins."

Having come up closer, Johannes saw him sitting beside his little

candle. By the blue light of this, one could plainly distinguish the

wrinkled, grey-bearded face. He was reading aloud, and his eyebrows were

knit. On his head he wore a little acorn cap with a tiny feather in it.

Before him sat a spider--listening to the reading.

Without lifting his head, the goblin glanced up from the book as the two

approached, and raised his eyebrows. The spider crept away. "Good

evening," said the goblin. "I am Wistik. Who are you?"

"My name is Johannes. I am very happy to make your acquaintance. What

are you reading?"

"This is not intended for your ears," said Wistik. "It is only for

spiders."

"Let me have just a peep at it, dear Wistik!" said Johannes.

"I must not. It is the Sacred Book of the spiders. It is in my keeping,

and I must never let it out of my hands. I have the Sacred Book of the

beetles and the butterflies and the hedgehogs and the moles, and of

everything that lives here. They cannot all read, and when they wish to

know anything, I read it aloud to them. That is a great honor for me--a

position of trust, you know."

The mannikin nodded very seriously a couple of times, and raised a tiny

forefinger.

"What were you reading just now?"

"The history of Kribblegauw,[2] the great hero of the spiders, who

lived a long while ago. He had a web that stretched over three trees,

and that caught in it millions of flies in a day. Before Kribblegauw's

time, spiders made no webs, and lived on grass and dead creatures; but

Kribblegauw was a clever chap, and demonstrated that living things also

were created for spider's food. And by difficult calculations, for he

was a great mathematician, Kribblegauw invented the artful spider-web.

And the spiders still make their webs, thread for thread, exactly as he

taught them, only much smaller; for the spider family has sadly

degenerated."

"Kribblegauw caught large birds in his web, and murdered thousands of

his own children. There was a spider for you! Finally, a mighty storm

arose, and dragged Kribblegauw with his web, and the three trees to

which it was fastened, away through the air to distant forests, where he

is now everlastingly honored because of his nimbleness and

blood-thirstiness."

"Is that all true?" asked Johannes.

"It is in this book," said Wistik.

"Do you believe it?"

The goblin shut one eye, and rested his forefinger along the side of his

nose.

"Whenever Kribblegauw is mentioned, in the Sacred Books of the other

animals, he is called a despicable monster; but that is beyond me."

"Is there a Book of the Goblins, too, Wistik?"

Wistik glanced at Johannes somewhat suspiciously.

"What kind of being are you, really, Johannes? There is something about

you so--so human, I should say."

"No, no! Rest assured, Wistik," said Windekind then. "We are elves; but

Johannes has seen, formerly, many human beings. You can trust him,

however. It will do him no harm."

"Yes, yes, that is well and good; but I am called the wisest of the

goblins, and I studied long and hard before I learned what I know. Now I

must be prudent with my wisdom. If I tell too much, I shall lose my

reputation."

"But in what book, then, do you think the truth is told?"

"I have read much, but I do not believe I have ever read that book. It

is not the Book of the Elves, nor the Book of the Goblins. Still, there

must be such a book."

"The Book of Human Beings, perhaps?"

"That I do not know, but I should hardly think so, for the Book of Truth

ought to bring great peace and happiness. It should state exactly why

everything is as it is, so that no one could ask or wish for anything

more. Now, I do not believe human beings have got so far as that."

"Oh, no! no!" laughed Windekind.

"Is there really such a book?" asked Johannes, eagerly.

"Yes!" whispered the goblin. "I know it from old, old stories. And hush!

I know too, where it is, and who can find it."

"Oh, Wistik, Wistik!"

"Then why have you not yet got it?" asked Windekind.

"Have patience. It will happen all right. Some of the particulars I do

not yet know, but I shall soon find it. I have worked for it and sought

it all my life. For to him who finds it, life will be an endless

autumnal day--blue sky above and blue haze about--but no falling leaves

will rustle, no bough will break, and no drops will patter. The shadows

will not waver, and the gold on the tree-tops will not fade. What now

seems to us light will be as darkness, and what now seems to us

happiness will be as sorrow, to him who has read that book. Yes, I know

this about it, and sometime I shall find it." The goblin raised his

eyebrows very high, and laid his finger on his lips.

"Wistik, if you could only teach me...." began Johannes, but before he

could end he felt a heavy gust of wind, and saw, exactly above him, a

huge black object which shot past, swiftly and inaudibly.

When he looked round again for Wistik, he caught just a glimpse of a

little foot disappearing in a tree-trunk. Zip!--The goblin had dashed

into his hole, head first--book and all. The candles burned more and

more feebly, and suddenly went out. They were very queer little candles.

"What was that?" asked Johannes, in a fright, clinging fast to Windekind

in the darkness.

"A night-owl," said Windekind.

They were both silent for a while. Then Johannes asked: "Do you believe

what Wistik said?"

"Wistik is not so wise as he thinks he is. He will never find such a

book. Neither will you."

"But does it exist?"

"That book exists the same as your shadow exists, Johannes. However hard

you run, however carefully you may reach for it, you will never overtake

nor grasp it; and, in the end, you will discover that it is yourself you

chase. Do not be foolish--forget the goblin's chatter. I will tell you a

hundred finer stories. Come with me! We will go to the edge of the

woods, and see how our good Father lifts the fleecy, white dew-blankets

from the sleeping meadow-lands. Come!"

Johannes went, but he had not understood Windekind's words and he did

not follow his advice. And while he watched the dawn of the brilliant

autumn day, he was brooding over the book wherein was stated why all is

as it is, and softly repeating to himself, "Wistik!"

[1] Wistik = Would that I knew.

[2] Kribblegauw = Quarrel = quick.

VI

It seemed to him during the days that followed that it was no longer so

merry and cheerful as it had been--in the woods and in the dunes--with

Windekind. His thoughts were no longer wholly occupied with what

Windekind told or showed him. Again and again he found himself musing

over that _book_, but he dared not speak of it. Nothing he looked at now

seemed beautiful or wonderful. The clouds were so black and heavy, he

feared they might fall upon him. It pained him when the restless autumn

winds shook and whipped the poor, tired trees until the pale under sides

of the green leaves were upturned, and yellow foliage and dry branches

flew up in the air.

What Windekind related gave him no satisfaction. Much of it he did not

understand, and whenever he asked one of his old questions he never

received a full, clear, satisfactory answer.

Thus he was forced to think again of that book wherein everything stood

so clearly and plainly written; and of that ever sunny, tranquil, autumn

day which was to follow.

"Wistik! Wistik!"

Windekind heard it.

"Johannes, you will remain a human being, I fear. Even your friendship

is like that of human beings. The first one after me to speak to you has

carried away your confidence. Alas! My mother was quite right!"

"No, Windekind! But you are so much wiser than Wistik; you are as wise

as that book. Why do you not tell me all? See, now! Why does the wind

blow through the trees, making them bend and sway? Look! They can bear

no more; the finest branches are breaking and the leaves are torn away

by hundreds, although they are still so green and fresh. They are so

tired, and yet again and again they are shaken and lashed by this rude

and cruel wind. Why is it so? What does the wind want?"

"My poor Johannes. That is human language!"

"Make it be still, Windekind! I like calm and sunshine."

"You ask and wish like a human being; therefore there is neither answer

nor fulfilment. If you do not learn better to ask and desire, the autumn

day will never dawn for you, and you will become like the thousands of

human beings who have spoken to Wistik."

"Are there so many?"

"Yes, thousands. Wistik pretended to be very mysterious, but he is a

prater who cannot keep his secret. He hopes to find that book among

human beings, and he shares his knowledge with any one who, perhaps, can

help him. And so he has already caused a great deal of unhappiness. Many

believe him, and search for that book with as much fervor as some do the

secret of the art of making gold. They sacrifice everything, and forget

all their affairs--even their happiness--and shut themselves up among

thick books, and strange implements and materials. They hazard their

lives and their health--forget the blue heavens, good, kindly Nature,

and even their fellow-beings. Sometimes they find beautiful and useful

things, like lumps of gold. These they cast up out of their caves, on

the sunny surface of the earth. Yet they do not concern themselves with

these things--leaving them for others to enjoy. They dig and drudge in

the darkness with eager expectancy. They are not seeking gold, but the

book. Some grow feeble-minded with the toil, forget their object and

their desire, and wander about in aimless idleness. The goblin has made

them childish. They may be seen piling up little towers of sand, and

reckoning how many grains are lacking before they tumble down. They make

little waterfalls, and calculate precisely each bend and bay the flow

will make. They dig little pits, and employ all their patience and

genius in making them smooth and quite free from stones. If these poor,

infatuated ones are disturbed in their labor, and asked what they are

doing, they look at you seriously and importantly, shake their heads and

mutter: 'Wistik! Wistik!' Yes, it is all the fault of that wicked little

goblin. Look out for him, Johannes!"

But Johannes was staring before him at the swaying, creaking trees.

Above his clear child-eyes wrinkles had formed in the tender flesh.

Never before had he looked so grave.

"But yet--you have said it yourself, that there was such a book! Oh, I

know--certainly--that there is something in it which you will not tell

me concerning the Great Light."

"Poor, poor Johannes!" said Windekind. And above the rushing and roaring

of the storm his voice was like a peaceful choral-song borne from afar.

"Love me--love me with your whole being. In me you will find more than

you desire. You will realize what you cannot now imagine, and you will

yourself be what you have longed to know. Earth and heaven will be your

confidants--the stars your next of kin--infinity your dwelling-place.

Love me--love me! Cling to me as the hop-vine clings to the tree--be

true to me as the lake is to its bed. In me alone will you find repose,

Johannes."

Windekind's words were ended, but it seemed as though the choral-song

continued. Out of the remote distance it seemed to be floating

on--solemn and regular--above the rushing and soughing of the

wind--peaceful as the moonlight shining between the driving clouds.

Windekind stretched out his arms, and Johannes slept upon his bosom,

protected by the little blue mantle.

Yet in the night he waked up. A stillness had suddenly and imperceptibly

come over the earth, and the moon had sunk below the horizon. The

wearied leaves hung motionless, and silent darkness filled the forest.

Then those questions came back to Johannes' head again--in swift,

ghostly succession--driving out the very recent trustfulness. Why were

human beings as they were? Why must he leave them--forego their love?

Why must the winter come? Why must the leaves fall, and the flowers

die? Why?--Why?

There were the blue lights again--dancing in the depths of the

underwood. They came and went. Johannes gazed after them expectantly. He

saw the big, bright light shining on the dark tree-trunk. Windekind lay

very still, and fast asleep.

"Just one question more," thought Johannes, and he slipped out from

under the blue mantle.

"Here you are again!" said Wistik, nodding in a friendly way. "That

gives me a great deal of pleasure. Where is your friend?"

"Over yonder. I only wanted to ask you one more question. Will you

answer it?"

"You have been among human beings, have you not? Is it my secret you

have come for?"

"Who will find that book, Wistik?"

"Ah, yes. That's it; that's it! Will you help me if I tell you?"

"If I can, certainly."

"Listen then, Johannes." Wistik opened his eyes amazingly wide, and

lifted his eyebrows higher than ever. Then he whispered along the back

of his little hand:

"Human beings have the golden chest, fairies have the golden key. The

foe of fairies finds it not; fairies' friend only, opens it. A

springtime night is the proper time, and Robin Redbreast knows the way."

"Is that true, really true?" cried Johannes, as he thought of his little

key.

"Yes," said Wistik.

"Why, then, has no one yet found it?" asked Johannes. "So many people

are seeking it!"

"I have told no human being what I have confided to you, I have never

yet found the fairies' friend."

"I have it, Wistik! I can help you!" cried Johannes, clapping his hands.

"I will ask Windekind."

Away he flew, over moss and dry leaves. Still, he stumbled now and then,

and his step was heavy. Thick branches cracked under his feet where

before not a grass-blade had bent.

There was the dense clump of ferns under which they had slept: how low

it looked!

"Windekind!" he cried. But the sound of his own voice startled him.

"Windekind?" It sounded like a human voice! A frightened night-bird flew

up with a scream.

There was no one under the ferns. Johannes could see nothing.

The blue lights had vanished. It was cold, and impenetrably dark all

around him. Up above, he saw the black, spectral tree-tops against the

starlight.

Once more he called. He dared not again. His voice seemed a profanation

of the stillness, and Windekind's name a mocking sound.

Then poor little Johannes fell to the ground, and sobbed in contrite

sorrow.

VII

The morning was cold and grey. The black, glimmering boughs, all

stripped by the storm, were weeping in the mist. Little Johannes ran

hurriedly on over the wet, down-beaten grass--staring before him toward

the edge of the woods where it was lighter, as if that were the end in

view. His eyes were red from crying, and strained with fear and misery.

He had been running back and forth the whole night, looking for the

light. It had always been safe and home-like with Windekind. Now, in

every dark spot lurked the ghost of forlornness, and he dared not look

around.

At last, he left the woods and saw before him a meadow over which a

fine, drizzling rain was falling. A horse stood in the middle of it near

a leafless willow-tree, motionless and with drooping head, while the

water dripped slowly from its shining sides, and out of its matted mane.

Johannes walked along by the woods. He looked with tired, anxious eyes

toward the lonely horse and the grey, misty rain, and he whimpered

softly.

"All is over now," he thought. "The sun will never come out again. After

this it will always be with me as it is now--here."

But he dared not stand still in his despair; something more frightful

yet would happen, he thought.

Then he saw the grand enclosure of a country-seat, and, under a linden

tree with bright yellow foliage, a little cottage.

He went within the enclosure, and walked through broad avenues where the

ground was thickly covered with layers of brown and yellow linden

leaves. Purple asters grew along the grass-plots, and other brilliant

autumn flowers were flaming there.

Then he came to a pond. Beside it stood a large house with low windows

and glass doors. Rose-bushes and ivy grew against the wall. It was all

shut up, and wore a gloomy look. Chestnut-trees, half stripped of their

foliage, stood all around; and, amid their fallen leaves, Johannes saw

the shining brown chestnuts.

Then that chill, deathly feeling passed away. He thought of his own

home. There, too, were chestnut-trees, and at this season he always went

to find the glossy nuts. Suddenly he began to feel a longing--as though

he had heard the call of a familiar voice. He sat down upon a bench near

the house, and gave vent to his feelings in tears.

A peculiar odor caused him to look up. A man stood near him with a white

apron on, and a pipe in his mouth. About his waist were strips of linden

bark for binding up the flowers. Johannes knew this scent so well; it

made him think of his own garden, and of the gardener, who brought him

pretty caterpillars, and showed him starlings' eggs.

He was not alarmed, although it was a human being who stood beside him.

He told the man that he had been deserted and was lost, and he

gratefully followed him to the small dwelling under the yellow-leaved

linden-tree.

Indoors sat the gardener's wife, knitting black stockings. Over the peat

fire in the fireplace hung a big kettle of boiling water. On the mat by

the fire lay a cat with folded forepaws--just as Simon sat when

Johannes left home.

Johannes was given a seat by the fire that he might dry his feet. "Tick,

tack!--Tick, tack!" said the big, hanging clock. Johannes looked at the

steam which rose, hissing, from the kettle, and to the little tongues of

flame that skipped nimbly and whimsically over the peat.

"Now I am among human beings," thought he.

It was not bad. He felt calm and contented. They were good and kind, and

asked what he would like best to do.

"I would like best to stay here," he replied.

Here he was at peace, but if he went home, sorrow and tears would

follow. He would be obliged to maintain silence, and they would tell him

that he had been naughty. He would have to see all the past over again,

and think once more of everything.

He did long for his little room, for his father, for Presto--but he

would rather endure the silent longing where he was, than the painful,

racking return. It seemed as if here he might be thinking of Windekind,

while at home he could not.

Windekind had surely gone away now--far away to the sunny land where the

palms were bending over the blue seas. He would do penance here, and

wait for him.

And so he implored the two good people to let him stay. He would be

obedient and work for them. He would help care for the garden and the

flowers, but only for this winter;--for he hoped in his heart that

Windekind would return in the spring.

The gardener and his wife thought that Johannes had run away because he

was not treated well at home. They sympathized with him, and promised to

let him stay.

He remained, and helped them in the garden and among the flowers. He was

given a little bedroom, with a blue wooden bedstead. From it, mornings,

he could see the wet, yellow linden leaves slipping along the

window-panes; and nights, the dark boughs rocking to and fro--with the

stars playing hide-and-seek behind them. He gave names to the stars, and

called the brightest Windekind.

He told his history to the flowers--almost all of which he had known at

home; the big, serious asters, the gaudy zinias, and the white

chrysanthemums which continued to bloom so late in the rude autumn. When

all the other flowers were dead the chrysanthemums still stood--and even

after the first snowfall, when Johannes came one morning early to look

at them, they lifted their cheerful faces and said: "Yes, we are still

here. You didn't think we would be, _did_ you?" They were very brave,

but two days later they were all dead.

But the palms and tree-ferns still flourished in the green-house, and

the strange flower-clusters of the orchids hung in their humid, sultry

air. Johannes gazed with wonder into the splendid cups, and thought of

Windekind. On going out-of-doors, how cold and colorless everything

looked--the black footsteps in the damp snow, and the rattling, dripping

skeletons of trees!

Hour after hour, while the snowflakes were silently falling until the

branches bowed beneath their weight of down, Johannes walked eagerly on

in the violet dusk of the snow-shadowed woods. It was silence, but not

death. And it was almost more beautiful than summer verdure; the

interlocking of the pure white branches against the clear blue sky, or

the descending clouds of glittering flakes when a heavily laden shrub

let slide its snowy burden.

Once, on such a walk, when he had gone so far that nothing was to be

seen save snow, and snow-covered branches--half white, half black--and

all sound and life seemed smothered under its glistening covering, he

thought he saw a tiny white animal run nimbly out in front of him. He

followed it. It bore no likeness to any that he knew. Then he tried to

grasp it, but it sped away and disappeared in a tree-trunk. Johannes

peered into the round, black opening, and thought--"Could it be

Wistik?"

He did not think much about him. It seemed mean to do so, and he did not

wish to weaken in his doing of penance. And life with the two good

people left him little to ask for. Evenings, he had to read aloud out of

a thick book, in which much was said about God. But he knew that book,

and read it absent-mindedly.

The night after his walk in the snow, however, he lay awake in bed,

looking at the cold shining of the moonlight on the floor. Suddenly he

saw two tiny hands close beside him--clinging fast to the bedside. Then

the top of a little white fur cap appeared between the two hands, and at

last he saw a pair of earnest eyes under high-lifted eyebrows.

"Good evening, Johannes," said Wistik. "I came to remind you of our

agreement. You cannot have found the book yet, for the spring has not

come. But are you keeping it in mind? What is the thick book I have

seen you reading in? That cannot be the true book. Do not think that."

"I do _not_ think so, Wistik," said Johannes. He turned over and tried

to go to sleep again, but he could not get the little key out of his

head.

And from this time on, as he read in the thick book, he kept thinking

about it, and he saw clearly that it was not the true book.

VIII

"Now he will come," thought Johannes, the first time the snow had melted

away, and here and there little clusters of snowdrops began to appear.

"Will he not come now?" he asked the snowdrops. They could not tell, but

remained with drooping heads looking at the earth as if they were

ashamed of their haste, and wished to creep away again.

If they only could have done so! The numbing east winds soon began to

blow again, and the poor, rash things were buried deep in the drifted

snow.

Weeks later came the violets, their sweet perfume floating through the

shrubbery. And when the sun had shone long and warmly on the mossy

ground, the fair primulas opened out by hundreds and by thousands.

The shy violets, with their rich fragrance, were mysterious harbingers

of coming magnificence, yet the cheerful primulas were gladness itself.

The awakened earth had taken to herself the first sunbeams, and made of

them a golden ornament.

"Now," thought Johannes, "now he is surely coming!" In suspense he

watched the buds on the branches, as they swelled slowly day by day, and

freed themselves from the bark, till the first pale-green points

appeared among the brown scales. Johannes stayed a long time looking at

those little green leaves, and never saw them stir. But even if he only

just turned around they seemed to have grown bigger. "They do not dare

while I am watching them," he thought.

The foliage had already begun to cast a shade, yet Windekind had not

come. No dove had alighted near him--no little mouse had spoken to him.

When he addressed the flowers they scarcely nodded, and made no reply

whatever. "My penance is not over yet," he thought.

Then one sunny spring morning he passed the pond and the house. The

windows were all wide open. He wondered if any of the people had come

yet.

The wild cherry that stood by the pond was entirely covered with tender

leaves. Every twig was furnished with little, delicate-green wings. On

the grass beside the bush sat a young girl. Johannes saw only her

light-blue frock and her blonde hair. A robin was perched on her

shoulder, and pecked out of her hand. Suddenly, she turned her head

around and saw Johannes.

"Good day, little boy," said she, nodding in a friendly way.

Again Johannes thrilled from head to foot. Those were Windekind's

eyes--that was Windekind's voice!

"Who are you?" he asked, his lips quivering with feeling.

"I am Robinetta, and this is my bird. He will not be afraid of you. Do

you like birds?"

The redbreast was not afraid of Johannes. It flew to his arm. That was

like old times. And it must be Windekind--that azure being!

"Tell me your name, Laddie," said Windekind's voice.

"Do you not know me? Do you not know that I am Johannes?"

"How could I know that?"

What did that mean? Still, it was the well-known, sweet voice. Those

were the dark, heavenly-deep, blue eyes.

"Why do you look at me so, Johannes? Have you ever seen me before?"

"Yes, I do believe so."

"Surely, you must have dreamed it!"

"Dreamed?" thought Johannes. "Can I have dreamed everything? Can I be

dreaming now?"

"Where were you born?" he asked.

"A long way from here, in a great city."

"Among human beings?"

Robinetta laughed. It was Windekind's laugh. "I believe so. Were not

you?"

"Alas, yes! I was too!"

"Are you sorry for that? Do you not like human beings?"

"No. Who _could_ like them?"

"Who? Well, Johannes; but you are an odd child! Do you like animals

better?"

"Oh, much better--and flowers."

"Really, I do, too--sometimes. But that is not right. Father says we

must love our friends."

"Why is that not right? I like whom I choose whether it is right or

not."

"Fie, Johannes! Have you no parents, then, nor any one who cares for

you? Are you not fond of them?"

"Yes," said Johannes, remembering. "I love my father, but not because it

is right, nor because he is a human being."

"Why, then?"

"I do not know--because he is not like other human beings--because he,

too, is fond of birds and flowers."

"And so am I, Johannes. Look!" And Robinetta called the robin to her

hand, and petted it.

"I know it," said Johannes. "And I love you very much, too.

"Already? That is very soon," laughed the girl. "Whom do you love best

of all?"

"I love--" Johannes hesitated. Should he speak Windekind's name? The

fear that he might let slip that name to human ears was never out of his

thoughts. And yet, was not this fair-haired being in blue, Windekind

himself? Who else could give him that feeling of rest and happiness?

"You!" said he, all at once, looking frankly into the deep blue eyes.

Courageously, he ventured a full surrender. He was anxious, though, and

eagerly awaited the reception of his precious gift.

Again Robinetta laughed heartily, but she pressed his hand, and her look

was no colder, her voice no less cordial.

"Well, Johannes," said she, "what have I done to earn this so

suddenly?"

Johannes made no reply, but stood looking at her with growing

confidence.

Robinetta stood up, and laid her arm about Johannes' shoulders. She was

taller than he.

Thus they strolled through the woods, and picked great clusters of

cowslips, until they could have hidden under the mountain of sun-filled

yellow flowers. The little redbreast went with them--flying from branch

to branch, and peering at them with its shining little black eyes.

They did not speak much, but now and then looked askance at each other.

They were both perplexed by this adventure, and uncertain what they

ought to think of each other.

Much to her regret, Robinetta had soon to turn back.

"I must go now, Johannes, but will you not take another walk with me? I

think you are a nice little boy," said she in taking her leave.

"Tweet! Tweet!" said the robin as he flew after her.

When she had gone, and her image alone remained to him, he doubted no

more who she was. She was the very same to whom he had given his

friendship. The name Windekind rang fainter, and became confused with

Robinetta.

Everything about him was again the same as it had formerly been. The

flowers nodded cheerfully, and their perfume chased away the melancholy

longing for home which, until now, he had felt and encouraged. Amid the

tender greenery, in the soft, mild, vernal air, he felt all at once at

home, like a bird that had found its nest. He stretched out his arms and

took in a full, deep breath--he was so happy! On his way home, wherever

he looked he always saw gliding before him the figure in light blue with

the golden hair. It was as though he had been looking at the sun, until

its image was stamped upon everything he saw.

From this day on Johannes went to the pond every clear morning. He went

early--as soon as he was wakened by the squabbling of the sparrows in

the ivy about his window, and by the tedious chirping and chattering of

the starlings, as they fluttered in the water-leader in the early

sunshine. Then he hurried through the dewy grass, close to the house,

and watched from behind the lilac-bush until he heard the glass door

open, and saw the bright figure coming toward him.

Then they wandered through the woods, and over the hills which lay

beyond. They talked about everything in sight; the trees, the plants,

and the dunes. Johannes had a strange, giddy sensation as he walked

beside her. Sometimes he felt light enough again to fly through the air.

But he never could. He told the story of the flowers and of the animals,

as Windekind had given it to him. But he forgot how he had learned it,

and Windekind existed no more for him--only Robinetta. He was happy when

she laughed with him, and he saw the friendship in her eyes; and he

spoke to her as he had formerly done to his little dog--saying whatever

came into his head, without hesitation or shyness. When he did not see

her he spent the hours in thinking of her; and each thing he did was

with the question whether Robinetta would find it good or beautiful.

And she, herself, appeared always so pleased to see him. She would smile

and hasten her steps. She had told him that she would rather walk with

him than with any one else.

"But, Johannes," she once asked, "how do you know all these things? How

do you know what the May-bugs think, what the thrushes sing, and how it

looks in a rabbit-hole, or on the bottom of the water?"

"They have told me," answered Johannes, "and I have myself been in a

rabbit-hole and on the bottom of the water."

Robinetta knitted her delicate eyebrows and looked at him half

mockingly. But his face was full of truth.

They were sitting under lilac trees, from which hung thick, purple

clusters. Before them lay the pond with its reeds and duck-weed. They

saw the black beetles gliding in circles over the surface, and little

red spiders busily darting up and down. It swarmed with life and

movement. Johannes, absorbed in remembrances, gazed into the depths, and

said:

"I went down there once. I slipped down a reed to the very bottom. It is

all covered with fallen leaves which make it so soft and smooth. It is

always twilight there--a green twilight--for the light falls through the

green duck-weed. And over my head I saw the long, white rootlets hanging

down.

"The newts, which are very inquisitive, came swimming about me. It gives

a strange feeling to have such great creatures swimming above one; and I

could not see far in front, for it was dark there--yet green, too. And

in that darkness the living things appeared like black shadows. There

were paddle-footed water-beetles, and flat mussels, and sometimes, too,

a little fish. I went a long way--hours away, I believe--and in the

middle was a great forest of water-plants, where snails were creeping,

and water-spiders were weaving their glistening nests. Minnows darted in

and out, and sometimes they stayed with open mouths and quivering fins

to look at me, they were so amazed. There I made the acquaintance of an

eel whose tail I had the misfortune to step on. He told me about his

travels. He had been as far as the sea, he said. Because of this, he had

been made King of the Pond--for no one else had been so far. He always

lay in the mud, sleeping, except when others brought him something to

eat. He was a frightful eater. That was because he was a king. They

prefer a fat king--one that is portly and dignified. Oh, it was splendid

in that pond!"

"Then why can you not go there again--now?"

"Now?" asked Johannes, looking at her with great, pondering eyes. "Now?

I can never go again. I should be drowned. But there is no need of it. I

would rather be here by the lilacs, with you."

Robinetta shook her little blonde head wonderingly, and stroked

Johannes' hair. Then she looked at her robin, which seemed to be finding

all kinds of tid-bits at the margin of the pond. Just then it looked up,

and kept watching the two with its bright little eyes.