IV

'Children! children! A summer like this is a terrible infliction!'

sighed one of three large stoves which stood side by side to bewail

their fate in a garret of the old house. 'For weeks I have not seen one

living soul or heard one rational remark. And always that hollow within!

It is fearful!'

'I am full of spiders' webs,' said the second. 'And that would never

happen in the winter.'

'And I am so dry and dusty that I shall be quite ashamed when, as winter

comes on, the Black Man appears again, as the poet says.'

This piece of learning the third stove had of course picked up from

Johannes, who had repeated some verses last winter, standing before the

hearth.

'You must not speak so disrespectfully of the smith,' said the first

stove, who was the eldest. 'It annoys me.'

A few shovels and tongs which lay on the floor, wrapped in paper to

preserve them from rust, also expressed their opinion of this frivolous

mode of speech.

But suddenly they were all silent, for the shutter in the roof was

raised; a beam of light shone in on the gloomy place, and the whole

party lapsed into silence under their dust and confusion.

It was Johannes who had come to disturb their conversation. This loft

was at all times a delightful spot to him, and now, after the strange

adventures of the last few days, he often came here. Here he found peace

and solitude. There was a window, too, closed by a shutter, which looked

out towards the sand-hills. It was a great delight to open the shutter

suddenly, and, after the mysterious twilight of? the garret, to see all

at once the sunlit landscape shut in by the fair, rolling _dimes_.

It was three weeks since that Friday evening, and Johannes had seen

nothing of his friend since. The key was gone, and there was nothing now

to assure him that he had not dreamed it all. Often, indeed, he could

not conquer a fear that it was all nothing but fancy. He grew very

silent, and his father was alarmed, for he observed that since that

night out of doors Johannes had certainly had something the matter with

him. But Johannes was only pining for Windekind.

'Can he be less fond of me than I of him?' he murmured, as he stood at

the garret window and looked out over the green and flowery garden. 'Why

is it that he never comes near me now? If I could--but perhaps he has

other friends, and perhaps he loves them more than me. I have no other

friend, not one. I love no one but him! I love him so much--oh so much!'

Then, against the deep blue sky he saw a flight of six white doves, who

wheeled, flapping their wings, above the roof over his head. It seemed

as though they were moved by one single impulse, so quickly did they

veer and turn all together, as if to enjoy to the utmost the sea of

sunshine and summer air in which they were flying.

Suddenly they swept down towards Johannes' window in the roof, and

settled with much flapping and fussing on the water-pipe, where they

pattered to and fro with endless cooings. One of them had a red feather

in his wing. He plucked and pulled at it till he had pulled it out, and

then he flew to Johannes and gave it to him.

Hardly had Johannes taken it in his hand when he felt that he was as

light and swift as one of the doves. He stretched out his arms, the

doves flew up, and Johannes found himself in their midst, in the

spacious free air and glorious sunshine. There was nothing around him

but the pure blue, and the bright shimmer of fluttering white wings.

They flew across the great garden, towards the wood, where the thick

tree-tops waved in the distance like the swell of a green sea. Johannes

looked down and saw his father through the open window, sitting in the

house-place,--Simon was lying in the window seat with his crossed

forepaws, basking in the sun.

'I wonder if they see me!' thought he; but he dared not call out to

them.

Presto was trotting about the garden walks, sniffing at every shrub and

behind every wall, and scratching against the door of every shed or

greenhouse to find his master.

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

tail and yelp most dolefully.

'I am coming back, Presto! only wait,' cried Johannes, but he was too

far away.

They soared over the wood, and the rooks flew cawing out of the top

branches where they had built their nests. It was high summer, and the

scent of the blossoming limes came up in steamy gusts from the green

wood.

In an empty nest, at the top of a tall lime-tree, sat Windekind, with

his wreath of bindweed. He nodded to Johannes.

'There you are! that is good,' said he. 'I sent for you; now we can

remain together for a long time--if you like.'

'I like it very much,' said Johannes.

Then he thanked the friendly doves who had brought him hither, and went

down with Windekind into the woods. There it was cool and shady. The

oriole piped his tune, almost always the same, but still a little

different.

'Poor bird!' said Windekind. 'He was once a bird of Paradise. That you

still may see by his strange yellow feathers; but he was transformed

and turned out of Paradise. There is a word which can restore him to his

former splendid plumage, and open Paradise to him once more; but he has

forgotten the word; and now, day after day, he tries to find his way

back there. He says something like the word, but it is not quite right.'

Numberless insects glittered like dancing crystals in the sun's rays

where they pierced between the thick leaves. When they listened sharply

they could hear a humming, like a great concert on one string, filling

the whole wood. This was the song of the sunbeams.

The ground was covered with deep dark-green moss, and Johannes had again

grown so tiny that it appeared to him like another wood on the ground,

beneath the greater wood. What elegant little stems! and how closely

they grew! It was difficult to make a way between them, and the moss

forest seemed terribly large.

Presently they crossed an ants' track. Hundreds of ants were hurrying up

and down, some dragging chips of wood or little blades of grass in their

jaws. There was such a bustle that Johannes was almost bewildered.

It was a long time before one of the ants would spare them a word. They

were all too busy. At last they found an old ant who was set to watch

the plant-lice from which the ants get honeydew. As his herd was a very

quiet one he could very well give a little time to the strangers, and

let them see the great nest. It was situated at the foot of an old

tree-trunk, and was very large, with hundreds of passages and cells. The

plant-louse herd led the way, and conducted the visitors into every part

of it, even into the nurseries where the young larvæ were creeping out

of their cocoons. Johannes was amazed and delighted.

The old ant told them that every one was very busy by reason of the

campaign which was immediately at hand. Another colony of ants, dwelling

not far off, was to be attacked by a strong force, their nest destroyed

and the larvæ carried off or killed; and as all the strength at their

command must be employed, all the most necessary tasks must be got

through beforehand.

'What is the campaign about?' said Johannes. 'I do not like fighting.'

'Nay, nay!' replied the herdsman. 'It is a very grand and praiseworthy

war. You must remember that it is the soldier-ants we are going to

attack; we shall exterminate the race, and that is a very good work.'

'Then you are not soldier-ants?'

'Certainly not. What are you thinking about? We are the peace-loving

ants.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'Do not you know? Well, I will explain. Once upon a time all ants were

continually fighting, not a day passed without some great battle. Then

there came a good, wise ant, who thought that he should save much sorrow

if he could persuade them all to agree among themselves to fight no

more. But when he said so every one thought him very odd, and for that

reason they proceeded to bite him in pieces. Still, after this, other

ants came who said the same thing, and they too were bitten to pieces.

But at last so many were of this opinion that biting them to pieces was

too hard work for the others. So then they called themselves the

Peaceful Ants, and they did everything which their first teacher had

done, and those who opposed them they, in their turn, bit in pieces. In

this way almost all the ants at the present time have become Peaceful

Ants, and the fragments of the first Peaceful Ant are carefully and

reverently preserved. We have his head--the genuine head. We have

devastated and annihilated twelve other colonies who pretended to have

the True Head. Now there are but four who dare to do so. They call

themselves Peaceful Ants, but in fact they are Fighting Ants by

nature--but we have the True Head, and the Peaceful Ant had but one

head. Now we are going to-morrow to destroy the thirteenth colony. So

you see it is a good work.'

'Yes, yes,' said Johannes. 'It is very strange!'

He was in fact a little uneasy, and felt happier when, after thanking

the herd-keeper, they had taken their leave, and were sitting far from

the Ant colony, rocked on the top of a tall grass-stem, under the shade

of a graceful fern.

'Hooh!' sighed Johannes, 'that was a bloodthirsty and stupid tribe!'

Windekind laughed, and swung up and down on the grass haulm.

'Oh!' said he, 'you must not call them stupid. Men go to the ants to get

wisdom.'

Then Windekind showed Johannes all the wonders of the wood; they flew up

to visit the birds in the tree-tops and in the thick shrubs, went down

into the moles' clever dwellings, and saw the bees' nest in the old

hollow tree.

At last they came out on an open place surrounded by brushwood.

Honeysuckle grew there in great abundance. Its luxuriant trails climbed

over everything, and the scented flowers peeped from among the greenery.

A swarm of tomtits hopped and fluttered among the leaves with a great

deal of twittering and chirping.

'Let us stay here a little while,' said Johannes; 'this is splendid.'

'Very well,' said Windekind. 'And you shall see something very droll.'

There were blue-bells in the grass. Johannes sat down by one of them and

began to talk with the bees and the butterflies. They were friends of

the blue-bells', so the conversation went on at a great rate.

What was that? A huge shadow came across the grass, and something like a

white cloud fell down on the blue-bell--Johannes had scarcely time to

get away,--he flew to Windekind who was sitting high up in a honeysuckle

flower. Then he saw that the white cloud was a pocket-handkerchief, and

bump! A sturdy damsel sat down on the handkerchief and on the poor

blue-bell which was under it.

He had not time to bewail it before the sound of voices and the cracking

of branches filled the glade in the forest. A crowd of men and women

appeared.

'Now we shall have something to laugh at,' said Windekind.

The party came on, the ladies with umbrellas in their hands, the men

with tall chimney-pot hats, and almost all in black, completely black.

In the green sunny wood they looked like great, ugly ink-spots on a

beautiful picture. The brushwood was broken down, flowers trodden

underfoot; many white handkerchiefs were spread, and the yielding grass

and patient moss sighed as they were crushed under the weight they had

to bear, fearing much that they might never recover from the blow. The

smoke of cigars curled among the honeysuckle wreaths, and enviously

supplanted the delicate odour of their blossoms. Sharp voices scared the

gleeful tomtits, who, with terrified and indignant piping, took refuge

in the nearest trees.

One man rose and went to stand on a little mound. He had long light

hair, and a pale face. He said something, and then all the men and women

opened their mouths very wide and began to sing so loud, that the rooks

flew cawing out of their high nests, and the inquisitive little rabbits,

who had come from the sand-hills to see what was going on, ran off in

alarm, and were still running fully a quarter of an hour after they were

safe at home again in the dunes.

Windekind laughed and fanned away the cigar-smoke with a fern leaf; but

there were tears in Johannes' eyes, though not from the tobacco.

'Windekind,' said he, 'I want to go. This is all so ugly and so rude.'

'No, no, we must stay. You will laugh; it will be more amusing.'

The singing ceased and the pale man began to speak. He shouted hard,

that every one might hear him; but what he said sounded very kind. He

called them all his brothers and sisters, spoke of the glories of nature

and the wonders of creation, of God's sunshine and the dear little birds

and flowers.

'What is this?' asked Johannes. 'How can he talk of these things? Does

he know you? Is he a friend of yours?'

Windekind shook his flower-crowned head disdainfully.

'He does not know me, and the sun and the birds and the flowers even

less. What he says is all lies.'

The people listened very attentively. The stout lady who sat on the

blue-bell began to cry several times, and wiped her eyes on her skirt,

as she could not get at her handkerchief.

The pale man said that God had made the sun shine so brightly for the

sake of their meeting here, and Windekind laughed and threw an acorn

down from the thick leaves, which hit the tip of his nose.

'He shall learn to know better,' said he; 'my father shines for him,

indeed! a fine idea!'

But the pale man was too much excited to pay any heed to the acorn,

which seemed to have dropped from the sky; he talked a long time, and

the longer the louder. At last he was red and purple in the face,

doubled his fists, and shouted so loud that the leaves quivered and the

grass stems were dismayed, and waved to and fro. When at last he came to

an end they all began to sing again.

'Well, fie!' said a blackbird, who was listening from the top of a high

tree, 'that is a shocking noise to make! I had rather the cows should

come into our wood. Only listen. Well, for shame!'

Now the blackbird knows what he is talking about, and has a fine taste

in music.

After singing, the folks brought all sorts of eatables out of baskets,

boxes and bags. Sheets of paper were spread out; cakes and oranges were

handed round. And bottles and glasses also made their appearance.

Then Windekind called his allies together, and they began to attack the

feasters.

A smart frog leaped up into an old maid's lap, flopped on to the bread

she was just about to put into her mouth, and sat there as if amazed at

his own audacity. The lady gave a fearful yell, and stared at the

intruder without daring to stir. This bold beginning soon found

imitators. Green caterpillars crept fearlessly over hats, handkerchiefs

and rolls, inspiring terror and disgust; fat field-spiders let

themselves down on glittering threads into beer glasses, and on to heads

or necks, and a loud shriek always followed their appearance; endless

winged creatures fairly attacked the human beings in the face,

sacrificing their lives for the good cause by throwing themselves on the

food and in the liquor, making them useless by their corpses. Finally

the ants came in innumerable troops and stung the enemy in the most

unexpected places, by hundreds at once. This gave rise to the greatest

consternation and confusion. Men and women alike fled from the long

crushed moss and grass. The poor blue-bell, too, was released in

consequence of a well-directed attack by two ear-wigs on the stout

maiden's legs. The men and women grew desperate; by dancing and leaping

with the most extraordinary gestures, they tried to escape their

persecutors. The pale man stood still for a long time, hitting about

him with a small black stick; but a few audacious tomtits, who were not

above any form of attack, and a wasp, who stung him in the calf through

his black trousers, placed him _hors de combat_.

Then the sun could no longer keep his countenance, and hid his face

behind a cloud. Large drops of rain fell on the antagonistic parties. It

looked as though the shower had suddenly made a forest of great black

toadstools spring out of the ground. These were the umbrellas, which

were hastily opened. The women turned their skirts over their heads,

thus displaying their white petticoats, white-stockinged legs, and shoes

without heels. Oh, what fun for Windekind! He had to hold on to a

flower-stem to laugh.

The rain fell more and more heavily; the forest was shrouded in a grey

sparkling veil. Streams of water ran off the umbrellas, tall hats and

black overcoats, which shone like the shell of a water-snail; their

shoes slopped and smacked in the soaking ground. Then the people gave it

up, and dropped off doubtfully in twos and threes, leaving behind them a

litter of papers, empty bottles and orange peel, the hideous relics of

their visit. The open glade in the forest was soon deserted once more,

and ere long nothing was to be heard but the monotonous rush of the

rain.

'Well, Johannes! now we have seen what men are like. Why do you not

laugh at them?'

'Oh, Windekind! Are all men like these?'

'Indeed, there are worse and uglier. Sometimes they shout and rave, and

destroy everything that is pretty or good. They cut down trees and stick

their horrible square houses in their place; they wilfully crush the

flowers, and kill every creature that comes within their reach, merely

for pleasure. In their dwellings, where they crowd one upon another, it

is all dirty and black, and the air is tainted and poisoned by the smell

of smoke. They are complete strangers to nature and their

fellow-creatures. That is why they cut such a foolish, miserable figure

when they come forth to see them.'

'Oh dear! Windekind, Windekind.'

'Why do you cry, Johannes? You must not cry because you were born to be

a man. I love you all the same and choose you out of them all. I have

taught you to understand the language of the butterflies and birds, and

the faces of the flowers. The moon knows you, and the good kind earth

regards you as her dearest child. Why should you not be glad since I am

your friend?'

'You are, Windekind, you are!--still I cannot help crying over men.'

'Why? You need not remain among them if it vexes you. You can live here

with me, and always keep me company. We will make our home in the

thickest of the wood, in the solitary, sunny downs, or among the reeds

by the pool. I will take you everywhere, down under the water among the

water-plants, in the palaces of the elves and in the earth-spirits'

homes. I will waft you over fields and forests, over strange lands and

seas. I will make the spiders spin fine raiment for you, and give you

wings such as I have. We will live on the scent of flowers, and dance

with the elves in the moonlight. When autumn comes we will follow the

summer, to where the tall palm-trees stand, where gorgeous bunches of

flowers hang from the cliffs, and the dark blue ocean sparkles in the

sun. And I will always tell you fairy tales. Will you like that,

Johannes?'

'And I shall never live among men any more?'

'Among men, endless vexations await you, weariness, troubles and sorrow.

Day after day you will toil and sigh under the burden of life. Your

tender soul will be wounded and tortured by their rough ways. You will

be worn and grieved to death. Do you love men more than you love me?'

'No, no! Windekind, I will stay with you.'

Now he could prove how much he cared for Windekind. Yes, he would

forsake and forget everybody and everything for his sake: his little

room, and Presto, and his father. He repeated his wish, full of joy and

determination.

The rain had ceased. A bright smile of sunshine gleamed through the grey

clouds on the wet sparkling leaves, on the drops which hung twinkling

from every twig and blade of grass, and gemmed the spiders' webs spread

among the oak leaves. A filmy mist rose slowly from the moist earth and

hung over the underwood, bringing up a thousand warm, sleepy odours. The

blackbird flew to the topmost bough and sang a short, passionate melody

to the sinking sun--as though he would show what kind of singing

befitted the spot--in the solemn evening stillness, to the soft

accompaniment of falling drops.

'Is that not more lovely than the noises of men, Johannes? Ah, the

blackbird knows exactly the right thing to sing! Here all is harmony;

you will find none so perfect among men.'

'What is harmony, Windekind?'

'It is the same thing as happiness. It is that which all agree in

striving after. Men too, but they do so like children trying to catch a

butterfly. Their stupid efforts are just what scare it away.'

'And shall I find it with you?'

'Yes, Johannes. But you must forget men and women. It is a bad beginning

to have been born to be a man; but you are still young. You must put

away from you all remembrance of your human life; among them you would

go astray, and fall into mischief and strife and wretchedness--it would

be with you as it was with the young cockchafer of whom I told you.'

'What happened to him afterwards?'

'He saw the beautiful light of which the old chafer spoke; he thought he

could do no better than fly towards it at once. He flew straight into a

room, and into a human hand. For three days he lived in torture; he was

shut up in a cardboard box; they tied a thread to his feet and let him

fly at the end of it; then they untied him, with one wing and one leg

torn off; and at last, helplessly creeping round and round on a carpet,

trying to feel his way back to the garden, a heavy foot crushed him to

death.

'All the creatures, Johannes, which come out and about at night are just

as much children of the Sun as we are. And although they have never seen

their glorious father, still an obscure remembrance always tempts them

wherever a light is beaming. And thousands of poor creatures of the

darkness find a miserable end through their love for the Sun, from which

they were so long since parted, and to which they have become strangers.

And in the same way a vague and irresistible attraction brings men to

ruin in the false image of that Great Light whence they proceeded, but

which they no longer know.'

Johannes looked inquiringly into Windekind's eyes, but they were as deep

and mysterious as the dark sky between the stars.

'Do you mean God?' he timidly asked.

'God?' There was a soft smile in the deep eyes. 'I know, Johannes, what

you are thinking of when you speak that word,--of the chair by your

bed-side where you knelt to say your long prayers last evening--of the

green serge curtains in front of the church window, which you gaze at by

the hour on Sunday mornings--of the capital letters in your little

Bible--of the church-bag with its long pole--of the stupid singing and

the stuffy atmosphere. All that you mean by the word, Johannes, is a

monstrous, false image. In place of the sun a huge petroleum lamp, to

which thousands and thousands of flies are helplessly and hopelessly

stuck fast!'

'But what then is the name of that Great Light, Windekind? And to whom

must I pray?'

'Johannes, it is as though a patch of mould should ask me what was the

name of the earth which bears it round in space. Even if there were any

answer to your question you would no more understand it than an

earthworm can hear the music of the stars. Still, I will teach you to

pray.'

And while Johannes was still silently wondering over Windekind's reply,

the elf flew out of the wood with him, high up, so high that beyond the

edge of the down a long narrow line was visible, gleaming like gold.

They flew on and on, the undulating sand-hills beneath them gliding

away, and the streak of light growing broader and broader. The green hue

faded, the wild broom was grey and thin, and strange bluish-green plants

grew among the bushes. Then another range of hills--a long narrow strip

of sand--and beyond, the wide unresting sea.

The vast expanse was blue to the very horizon; but out there, under the

sun, a small streak shone in blinding red fire. An endless fringe of

downy-looking white foam edged the waters, as ermine borders blue

velvet. On the horizon a wonderful, fine line divided the air from the

ocean. It was indeed a marvel; straight yet curved; sharply defined yet

non-existent; visible yet intangible. It was like the vibration of a

harp-string, which thrills dreamily for a long time, seeming to die away

and yet still be there.

Then little Johannes sat down on the sand-hill and gazed--gazed

long--motionless and silent; till he felt as though he were about to

die,--as though the great golden gates of the Infinite had opened

majestically before him, and his little soul were soaring forth towards

the first light of eternity; until the tears, which welled up to his

wide-open eyes, had dimmed the radiance of the sun, and the splendour of

sky and earth floated off into soft tremulous light.

'That is the way to pray!' said Windekind.

V

Have you ever loitered in the woods on a fresh autumn day? When the sun

shines calmly and clearly on the richly-tinted foliage; when the boughs

creak, and the dry leaves rustle under foot. The forest seems weary of

life; it can merely think, and lives in its memories of the past. A blue

mist hangs about it like a dream, full of mysterious splendour, and the

glistening gossamers float on the air with slow undulations--a sweet

aimless musing.

And now from the moist ground among the mosses and withered leaves

suddenly and inexplicably the strange forms of toadstools spring into

being. Some sturdy, deformed and fleshy; others slim and tall with

ringed stems and gaily painted hats. These are the quaint dream-figures

of the forest. On the decayed tree-trunks, too, there are little white

columns in numerable, with black heads as though they had been burnt.

Certain learned men regard them as a sort of fungus. But Johannes knew

better:--

'They are little tapers. In the still autumn nights they burn while the

boguey-sprites sit near them, reading their little books.'

Windekind had told him this one such tranquil autumn day, and Johannes

dreamily drank in the faint earthy smell which came up from the

mouldering ground.

'How is it that the leaves of the ash-trees are so speckled with black?'

'Ah! the boguey-sprites do that too,' said Windekind. 'When they have

been busy writing at night, in the morning they throw out what is left

in their ink-bottles over the leaves. They do not love the ash-trees;

crosses are made of ash-wood, and poles for church bags.'

Johannes was curious to know all about the busy little sprites, and he

made Windekind promise to take him to see one of them. He had now stayed

some time with Windekind, and he was so happy in his new life that he

felt very little regret for his promise to forget all he had left

behind him. And he had no hours of loneliness or terror, when repentance

is always apt to intrude. Windekind never quitted him, and with him he

felt everywhere at home. He slept soundly in the swinging nest, where it

hung between the green reeds, however ominously the bittern might boom

or the raven croak. He knew no fear of the pelting rain or howling

storm--he could creep into a hollow tree or a rabbit's burrow, and hide

close under Windekind's cloak, and listen to his voice as he told him

tales.

And now he was to see the Wood-Sprites.

It was a good day for such a visit. So calm, so still, Johannes fancied

he could already hear tiny voices and the rustle of little feet, though

it was mid-day. The birds had almost all fled; only the thrushes were

feasting on the scarlet berries. One was caught in a snare. There he

hung with flapping wings, struggling till his sharp clenched claws were

almost torn away. Johannes made haste to set him free, and he flew off

with a happy chirp.

The toadstools had a great deal to say.

'Only look at me!' said a fat puffy Toadstool.

'Did you ever see the like? See how thick and white my stem is, and how

my hat shines. I am the biggest of you all. And that in one night!'

'Pooh!' said the red spotted toadstool. 'You are most vulgar!--so brown

and clumsy. Now, I sway on a tall stem like a reed; I am of a splendid

red like the rowan berries, and most elegantly speckled. I am the

handsomest of you all.'

'Hush!' said Johannes, who knew them both of old. 'You are both

poisonous.'

'That is a virtue,' said the red fellow.

'Or are you a man by chance?' retorted the fat toadstool. 'Then indeed I

wish you would eat me.'

But Johannes did not eat him; he took some dry twigs and stuck them into

his round hat. That looked funny, and all the others laughed; even a

swarm of slender toadstools with little brown heads who had only come up

a few hours since, and pushed themselves everywhere to look out on the

world. The fat toadstool turned blue with spite, thus displaying his

venomous nature. Earth-stars raised their little pert heads on angular

stems. Now and then a little cloud of the finest brown powder puffed

out of the opening in a round head. Wherever that dust fell on the moist

soil, threads would tangle and plait beneath the dark earth, and next

year myriads of fresh stars would come up.

'What a beautiful existence!' they said to each other.

'The happiest lot in life is to shed dust. What joy to think we may do

it as long as we live!' And they puffed the little smoke-like cloud into

the air with the deepest concentration.

'Are they really happy, Windekind?'

'Why not? What higher joy can they know? They are happy, for they ask no

better because they know no better.'

When night fell, and the shadows of the trees were merged in uniform

gloom, the mysterious vitality of the forest knew no rest. The branches

snapped and cracked, the dry leaves rustled hither and thither among the

grass and in the underwood. Then Johannes felt the touch of invisible

wings and was aware of the presence of invisible beings. He could

plainly hear the murmur of little voices and tripping of little feet.

There! there in the darkest depth of the thicket, a tiny blue spark

glowed and vanished. There was another and another!--Hark! When he

listened attentively he could hear a rustling in the leaf-strewn floor

near him, close to the black tree-trunk. The blue lights again were

visible and then stood still on the top.

Now Johannes saw such lights all about him; they flitted among the brown

leaves, dancing along with airy leaping; and in one place a large

sparkling mass beamed like a blue bonfire.

'What fire is that?' asked Johannes. 'It burns splendidly.'

'That is a rotten tree-stump,' replied Windekind.

They went towards a bright light which remained steady.

'Now I will introduce you to Wistik.[1] He is the oldest and wisest of

the Wood-Sprites.

As they approached Johannes saw him sitting by his candle. The wrinkled

little face with its grey beard could be plainly seen by the blue light;

he was reading diligently with knitted brows. On his head he wore an

acorn-cup with a tiny feather in it. Before him sat a wood-spider

listening to his reading.

When the pair went near him, the little boguey, without raising his

head, looked up from his book and lifted his eyebrows.

The spider crept away.

'Good-evening,' said he. 'I am Wistik. Who are you?'

'My name is Johannes. I should like to make acquaintance with you. What

are you reading?'

'It is not meant for your ears,' said Wistik. 'It is only for

wood-spiders.'

'Just let me once look at it, dear Wistik,' begged Johannes.

'I cannot. This is the sacred book of the spiders, and is in my charge.

I may not let it out of my own hands. I have the keeping of the sacred

books of the snails, and the butterflies, and the hedge-hogs, and the

moles, and all the creatures that live here. They cannot all read, and

when they want to know anything I read it to them. This is a great

honour for me, a post of trust, you understand.'

The sprite nodded very gravely several times, and pointed with his tiny

forefinger.

'And what were you studying just now?'

'The history of Kribbelgauw, the great hero among spiders, who lived

very long ago and had a net which spread over three trees, and in which

he caught millions of flies every day. Before the time of Kribbelgauw

spiders made no nets, but lived on grass and dead creatures; but

Kribbelgauw was a very clever fellow, and proved that all living insects

were created on purpose for food for spiders. Then, by the most

laborious calculation, Kribbelgauw discovered the art of making nets,

for he was very learned. And to this day the wood-spiders make their

nets exactly as he taught them, thread for thread, only much smaller.

For the spider race is greatly degenerate. Kribbelgauw caught great

birds in his net, and murdered thousands of his own children--he was

something like a spider! At last there came a great storm and carried

away Kribbelgauw and his net, with the three trees it was made fast to,

through the air to a distant wood, where he is now perpetually honoured

for his great achievements and sagacity.'

'Is that all true?' asked Johannes.

'It is all in this book,' said Wistik.

'Do you believe it?'

The boguey shut one eye and laid his forefinger to his nose.

'The sacred books of other creatures, when they mention Kribbelgauw,

speak of him as a hateful and contemptible monster. But that is no

concern of mine.'

'And is there a Sprites' Book, Wistik?'

Wistik looked at Johannes rather suspiciously.

'What sort of creature are you really, Johannes? There is

something--just something--human about you, so to speak.'

'No, no; be easy, Wistik,' said Windekind, 'we are elves. But formerly

Johannes saw a good deal of men and their doings. You may trust him

entirely. It can do him no harm.'

'Ay, ay, well and good. But I am called the wisest of the sprites--and I

studied long and hard before I knew what I know. So now I must be

cautious with my learning. If I tell you too much, I shall lose my

reputation.'

'But in what book do you think that the truth is to be found?'

'I have read a great deal, but I do not believe that I have ever read

that book. It is not the Elves' Book nor the Sprites'. Yet it must

exist.'

'The Men's Book perhaps?'

'That I do not know, but I do not think it. For the True Book must bring

with it great peace and great happiness. In it there must be an exact

explanation of why everything is as it is, so that no one need ever ask

or inquire any more. Now men, I believe, have not got so far as that.'

'Oh dear, no!' said Windekind, laughing.

'Is there anywhere such a book?' said Johannes eagerly.

'Yes, yes,' whispered the sprite. 'I know there is, from very ancient

legends. And--hush!--I know where it is, and who can find it.'

'Oh, Wistik! Wistik!'

'Why then have you not yet got it?' asked Windekind.

'Patience, patience,--it will be found. I know as yet no

particulars,--but I shall soon find it. I have toiled for it and sought

it all my life. For to him who finds it life shall be one perpetual

autumn day--blue air above and blue mists all round,--only no falling

leaves shall rustle, no twigs shall snap, no raindrops patter, the

shadows shall not change, the sun-gold on the tree-tops shall not fade.

What seems to us now to be light shall be darkness; what seems to us now

to be joy shall be woe by comparison, to those who read that book! Ay! I

know this much, and some day I shall find it.'

The Wood-Sprite raised his eyebrows very much and laid his finger on his

lips.

'Wistik, if you could but teach me----' Johannes began; but before he

could say more he felt a strong gust of wind and saw a great, broad

black shroud overhead, which silently and swiftly swept by. When he

looked for Wistik again he saw one little foot just vanishing into the

hollow tree. Whisk! the sprite had leapt into his cave, book and all.

The candles burnt paler and paler and suddenly went out. Those were very

strange little candles.

'What was that?' asked Johannes, clinging in terror to Windekind in the

darkness.

'An owl,' said Windekind. Then they were both silent for some time.

Presently Johannes said:--

'Do you believe what Wistik said?'

'Wistik is not so wise as he thinks himself. He will never find such a

book, nor you either.'

'But does it exist?'

'It exists, as your shadow exists, Johannes. However fast you run,

however cautiously you seize it, you can never overtake it or hold it.

And at last you discover that you are trying to catch yourself. Do not

be foolish; forget the sprite's chatter. I can tell you a hundred finer

tales. Come along! We will go to the outskirts of the wood and see how

our good father draws off the white woollen coverlets of dew from the

sleeping meadows. Come.'

Johannes went; but he did not understand Windekind's words, nor did he

follow his counsel. And while he watched the dawn of the glorious autumn

morning, he was meditating over the book in which it is written why

everything is as it is, and repeating to himself in a low tone,

'Wistik!'