THE SUNDAY-CHILD
In the days before railroads were known or tourists ran to and fro over the face of the earth, the Black Forest was given up, one may say, to two races of men—the woodmen and the glass-blowers, who even yet hold their own among the remoter hills and valleys. They have always been fine fellows, tall and broad-shouldered, as though the strengthening breath of the mountain pines had given them, from their youth up, a healthier body, a clearer eye, and a braver spirit than the inhabitants of the valleys and plains below. The glass-blowers live on the Baden side of the hills, and theirs was of old the most picturesque dress—you may see it still in the more out-of-the-way parts of the forest. Their black jerkins, wide, closely pleated breeches, red stockings, and pointed hats give them a quaint, somewhat serious appearance, in keeping with the work which they carry on in the depths of the woods. There are watchmakers among them as well, who peddle their goods for sale, far and wide; but the glass-makers, as a rule, are stay-at-home folk. They are very different from their brethren the woodmen, who live on the other side of the forest, and spend their lives felling and hewing their great pine-trees, which they then float down the Nagold into the Neckar, and from the Neckar into the Rhine. Then down that mighty river they go, far away into Holland, where the men of the Black Forest and their long rafts are a familiar sight. They stop in every city along the banks of the Rhine, to see if any one will purchase their stout beams and planks; but the longest and stoutest they keep for the Mynheers, who buy them at a high price to build their ships with. Now these raftsmen are used to a rough and wandering life; it is joy to them to spin down the stream upon their tree-trunks, and sorrow to climb the bank homewards again. And their holiday dress, too, is quite different from that of the glass-makers. Their jerkins are of dark linen, with wide, green braces crossed over their broad chests; their breeches are of black leather, and from one pocket, as a sign of their calling, an inch-rule is always to be seen peeping forth. But their chief pride and joy are their boots, the highest, most likely, that are worn in any part of the world, for they can be drawn up two spans and more above the knee, and the raftsmen can wade through three or four feet of water without getting wet.
Not so very long ago, the people of the forest still believed in spirits that haunted the woods, and the superstition died hard. Strangely enough, the legends clothe these supernatural inhabitants of the woods in just the same garments, varying with the district, that the men of flesh and blood wear. So they tell that the little Glass-man, a kindly spirit, only about four feet high, was never to be seen save in a broad-brimmed, pointed hat, with little black jerkin, wide breeches, and red stockings. But Dutch Michael, who haunted the other side of the forest, seems to have been a huge, broad-shouldered fellow, in the dress of the raftsmen; and many who are supposed to have seen him, swear that they would have been sorry to pay out of their own pockets, the price of the calf-skins that made his boots,—“for they were so big that an ordinary man could have stood up to his neck in them,” they say, “and this is the sober truth.”
There is a wonderful story of the dealings of these wood-spirits with a young fellow of the Black Forest, which I will tell just as I heard it.
There lived then, in the forest, a widow, Dame Barbara Munk, whose husband had been a charcoal-burner, and supplied the glass-makers with the fuel they needed for their work. After his death, she kept her son, a boy of sixteen, to the same calling as his father; and young Peter Munk, though a well-grown lad, at first made no objection, for he had always seen his father looking black and ugly, as he crouched, the whole week long, over his smoky kiln, or went abroad to sell his coals, an object of disgust to every one; so that it never came into his head to mind such a thing. But a charcoal-burner has a great deal of time for thought, about himself and others; and as Peter Munk sat by his kiln, the dark trees, and the deep silence of the forest round about him, often inclined his heart to tears and nameless yearnings. There was something—he knew not what—that both saddened and angered him. After thinking it over for a long time, he at last came to the conclusion that it was his calling.
“A lonely, black-faced charcoal-burner!” he said to himself; “it is but a poor life. The glass-blowers, the watchmakers, even the musicians who play in the tavern on Sunday evenings, are all thought of some consequence. And yet if Peter Munk, washed and dressed in his best, with his father’s holiday jerkin and silver buttons, and a pair of new red stockings, were to make his appearance, and some one behind, seeing the new stockings and the upright gait, were to say: ‘Who is yon fine lad?’ I am sure that directly he passed me by and caught sight of my face, he would add: ‘Oh, it is but “Coal-Munk Peter”!’”
The raftsmen, too, from the other side of the forest, excited his envy. When these giants of the woods went by in their grand clothes, with half-a-hundredweight of silver buttons, clasps, and chains upon them; when they stood watching the dance, with widespread legs and important faces, and swore in Dutch, and smoked yard-long Cologne pipes, like the richest of the Mynheers, then he would think that the lot of such men must be the happiest on earth. But when these fortunate beings felt in their pockets and brought out handfuls of thaler-pieces, tossing up for sixpenny-bits, and staking five guldens here, and ten there, Peter would turn quite bewildered, and slink sadly away to his hut; for he saw many of these master wood-cutters play away more in one evening than poor father Munk had been wont to earn in a year. There were, in particular, three of these men whom he thought so wonderful; he did not know which of them to admire most. One was a big, stout, red-faced fellow, known as “fat Ezekiel,” and supposed to be the richest man in all the country round. He went twice a year to Amsterdam to sell wood for building, and was always lucky enough to sell it for a higher price than any one else, so that, whereas the others had to come home on foot, he always drove back in great style.
The other was the tallest, thinnest man in the whole forest, nick-named “long Shuffler,” and Peter envied him because of his extraordinary impudence. He contradicted the most important people, and always took up more room in the tavern, however crowded it was, than four of the stoutest among the other guests; for he must needs sit with both elbows on the table, or draw up one of his long legs before him on the bench; yet no one ever dared gainsay him, for he had endless sums of money.
But the third was a young, handsome fellow, and the best dancer for miles round, so that he was called the “king of the dancing-floor.” He had been quite poor, and had worked for one of the master wood-cutters, but all at once he became as rich as any of them. Some said he had found a pot of gold under an ancient pine-tree; others that he had been spearing fish, as the raftsmen often do, and that, not far from Bingen on the Rhine, he had fished up on his spear a great roll of gold pieces, and that the roll belonged to the famous Nibelung-treasure, which, as every one knows, lies buried there. Be this as it may, he certainly grew rich all of a sudden, and was looked up to by young and old, as though he were a prince.
Coal-Munk Peter often thought of these three men, as he sat alone in the pine-woods. All three, indeed, had one and the same ugly fault, which won them every man’s hatred—and this was their inhuman avarice and hard-heartedness towards their debtors and the poor about them; yet the people of the Black Forest are kind-hearted as a rule. But so it goes in this world—if they were hated for their meanness, they were thought much of for their wealth, for who else could throw money about as though they shook it down from the fir-trees?
“I can’t go on like this,” said Peter sadly to himself one morning—the day before had been a holiday, and the ale-house full of people—“if the luck doesn’t turn soon, I shall do myself a harm! If only I were rich and respected, like fat Ezekiel, or bold and powerful, like the long Shuffler, or famous, like the king of the dancing-floor, and could throw the musicians thalers instead of pence, as he does! Where can the fellow get all his money from?”
He thought over all the means he had heard of, whereby men make money, but could not seem to hit on any good ones. At last he remembered the tales about the folk who had been enriched, in old days, by Dutch Michael and the little Glass-man. In his father’s lifetime their hut had often been visited by poor people like themselves; then the talk had always been of rich men, and of how they had come by their riches, and in these tales the little Glass-man often played a part. When he thought hard, he could almost remember the verse which had to be spoken in the “Pine-thicket” in the midst of the forest, to make him appear. It began thus:—
“O Treasure-keeper in the forest green,
Thine age is many hundred years—this land
Is all thine own, wherever pine-trees stand——”
But however he cudgelled his memory, he could not remember another line. He was often on the point of asking some old man among the neighbours how the verse ended; but a certain timidity withheld him from betraying his thoughts to any one; and besides, he came to the conclusion that the legend of the little Glass-man could not be widely known, or the verse either, for there were not many rich people in the district, and why should not his own father, or any of the other poor men, have tried their luck? At last he led his mother to speak about the little man. She began by telling him nothing but what he already knew; nor could she remember any but the first line of the charm; but she wound up by saying that the spirit only appeared to persons who were born on a Sunday between eleven and two o’clock. He himself, she added, was one of the right people, as he had been born exactly at noon on a Sunday.
When Coal-Munk Peter heard this, he was beside himself with joy and eagerness to attempt the adventure. He thought it might, perhaps, be enough to have been born on a Sunday, and to know part of the charm; so one day, when he had sold his charcoal, he did not light the kiln again, but put on his father’s holiday jerkin, his new red stockings and Sunday hat, took his five-foot staff of blackthorn in his hand, and bade his mother farewell.
“I must go to the town,” he said, “for they will soon be drawing the conscription, to see who is to serve his time in the army, and I want to remind the gentlemen in office that thou art a widow, and I thine only son.”
His mother let him go, saying it was a wise step to take. But it was not to the town, but to the “Pine-thicket,” that he took his way. The part of the woods so called lies on the highest slopes of the Black Forest hills, and there is not a single house, or even a hut, for the space of a two hours’ journey all around; for the superstitious people believe that it is not a safe place, and though the pine-trees there stand high and splendid, they are very seldom cut down, for mishaps have often befallen the wood-cutters when they have been working there. Now it has been an axe that has flown from its handle and cut deep into a man’s foot; or again, a tree they were felling has fallen over suddenly, and carried the workmen down with it, wounding, or even killing them. And one could only have used these fine trees for fire-wood, in any case; for the raftsmen would never put a trunk from the “thicket” into their rafts, because of the saying that men and wood came to grief together, if a “thicket-stem” were with them upon the water. So it came about that the trees in the “thicket” stood so high and so close together that even at noontide it was almost as dark as night there; and Peter Munk felt quite eerie as he entered that deep shadow, where he heard no voice, no sound of an axe, and no foot-fall save his own. Even the birds seemed to avoid that thick darkness among the fir-trees.
Peter had now reached the highest point among the forest hills, and stood under a tree of mighty girth, for which a Dutch shipbuilder would have given many hundred guldens. “Surely it will be here the Treasure-keeper dwells,” he thought, and taking off his broad Sunday hat, he made his best bow to the tree, cleared his throat, and said with a trembling voice: “I wish you a right good evening, Mr. Glass-man.” But there was no answer, and everything around remained as silent as before. “Perhaps I must say the charm first,” he thought, and stammered forth the words:
“O Treasure-keeper in the forest green,
Thine age is many hundred years—this land
Is all thine own, wherever pine-trees stand——”
As he spoke these lines, he beheld, with much alarm, a strange, tiny figure peeping out from behind the tree; it looked just like the description he had heard of the Glass-man—the little black jerkin, red stockings, and pointed hat; he even thought he saw the pale, but wise and shrewd little face he had heard tell of. But, alas! no sooner had it shown itself than it disappeared again.
“Mr. Glass-man,” called Peter, after some hesitation, “pray do not take me for a fool! If you think I didn’t see you, you are much mistaken; I saw you peep from behind the tree, plain enough.”
Still there was no answer; only he fancied he caught the sound of a faint, hoarse chuckle from behind the tree. At last impatience got the better of fear. “Wait a bit, thou little man,” he cried, “I’ll have thee yet!” And he sprang with one bound to the other side of the tree, but no “Treasure-keeper in the forest green” was there—only a little squirrel that dashed up the tree as he approached.
Peter Munk shook his head; he saw well enough that he had partly succeeded with the spell, and that very likely he only lacked the last line of the verse, to be able to make the little Glass-man appear; but think as he might, he could not think of that.
The little squirrel ran down to the lower boughs of the tree, and seemed to look at him encouragingly—or mockingly? It cleaned its paws, whisked its bushy tail, and peered at him with shrewd eyes, till he felt quite afraid of being alone with the creature, for one minute it seemed to have a man’s head, with a pointed hat on it, and the next it looked just like an ordinary squirrel, except that it wore red stockings and black shoes on its hind feet. In short, though it seemed a merry creature, it made Peter’s flesh creep, for he felt there was something uncanny about it. He hurried away faster than he had come, for the darkness seemed to be growing deeper and deeper, and the trees to be standing thicker and thicker about him, so that at last he grew positively terrified, and broke into a run; nor did he feel easy until he heard a dog bark, and saw the smoke rising from a hut among the trees. But as he approached the hut and noticed the dress of its inmates, he found that, in his fright, he had run in the wrong direction, and come among the raftsmen instead of the glass-makers. The people in the hut were wood-cutters—an old man, his son—the master of the house—and some grandchildren of various ages. When Peter begged for shelter over night, they welcomed him kindly, without asking his name or that of his native place, and presently gave him a drink of cider, and served up for supper a fine grouse, which is the greatest of dainties among the Black Forest folk.
After supper the family gathered round the great pine-torches, the women spinning, the men smoking, or carving spoons and forks out of spare bits of wood. Out in the forest a violent storm was howling and raging among the pines; and now and then heavy blows were heard, as though whole trees were being snapped off and hurled to the ground. The foolhardy youths of the party would have run out into the forest to witness this splendid and terrible sight, but the grandfather held them back with stern word and glance.
“I would not advise any one to go out at yon door to-night,” said he. “By Heaven! he would never return, for Dutch Michael is busy hewing himself a new raft in the forest.”
The children stared at him; though they had doubtless heard something of Dutch Michael before, yet they knew too little to satisfy them, and now begged their grandfather to tell them the whole tale about him for once. And Peter Munk, too, who had only heard of him vaguely on the other side of the hills, joined in, and asked the old man what the truth about him was.
“He is the master of these woods,” returned the grandfather; “and if you, at your age, do not know this, it proves you must belong to the other side of the ‘Pine-thicket,’ or to some yet more distant place. But I will tell you the tale, as it goes in this district, of Dutch Michael.
“A hundred years ago—so my grandfather used to say—there were no worthier people on earth than those of the Black Forest. But now, since so much money has come into the land, men have grown bad and dishonest. The lads dance and sing on Sundays, and swear so, that ’tis dreadful to hear! In other days it was not thus; and though Dutch Michael should look in at the window this very minute, I say, as I often have already, that all this evil is his fault. A hundred years ago, then, and more, there was a rich master woodman, who employed many work-people, and sold his stuff far down the Rhine, and his trade was blessed with prosperity, for he was a pious man. One evening there came to his door a man whose like he had never seen before; he wore the dress of the Black Forest lads, but he was a good head taller than any of them; no one would have believed that such a giant could be. He asked the master for work, and the latter, seeing how strong he was, and fitted for heavy tasks, agreed with him for a price, and engaged him. Such a workman that master had never had before. For felling trees, Michael was as good as three men, and when it took six together to lift one end of a trunk, Michael could raise the other all by himself. But when he had cut down trees for half a year, he went one day to the master and said: ‘I have had enough of hewing wood now, and should like to see whither my tree-trunks go. How would it be if thou shouldst let me travel with one of the rafts?’
“‘I will not stand in thy way, Michael, if thou art fain to see the world a bit,’ the woodman answered. ‘To be sure, I need strong fellows like thee for the tree-felling, and on the rafts it is rather skill that is needed; but let it be so for once.’
“And so it was. The raft which he was to take down the river had eight divisions, and the last was made up of the stoutest roof-beams. But see what happened. The evening before they started, big Michael brought down eight more beams to the river, the thickest and longest that had ever been seen, and he bore each on his shoulder as lightly as though it had been a raftsman’s pole, so that all who saw it were taken aback. Where he had hewn these beams no one knows to this day. The master woodman laughed in his heart when he saw them, for he knew what such beams were worth. But Michael only said: ‘There, these are for me to stand upon, I could never manage upon yonder little chips.’ His master would have given him a pair of raftsman’s boots as a reward, but he threw them aside, and brought out a pair, such as none had ever seen before; my grandfather swore they were five feet long and weighed over a hundred pounds.
“The raft started off, and if Michael had astonished the wood-cutters before, it was the raftsmen’s turn to be amazed now. For the raft, instead of going more slowly, as they expected, because of the huge beams, flew along like an arrow as soon as they got into the Neckar; and when there was a bend in the river, where the men usually had trouble in keeping their rafts in mid-stream, and away from shoals and sand-banks, Michael would leap into the river and push them clear of every hindrance; then, when they reached an open stretch of water, he would spring on to the foremost raft, and bidding the others put their poles aside, would give one mighty shove into the gravel with his huge beam, and away sped the raft, so that trees, banks, and houses seemed to fly past on either hand. By this means, they came in half their usual time to Cologne upon the Rhine, where they had always been used to sell their cargo of wood; but now Michael spoke thus:
“‘A nice set of traders ye are, and well ye understand your own interests! Do ye think the men of Cologne need all the wood for themselves that comes out of the Black Forest? Nay, but they buy it of us half-price, and then sell it for far more to Holland. Let us sell the small beams here, and go on to Holland with the big ones; and whatever we get over the usual price, we will pocket for ourselves.’
“So spoke the crafty Michael, and the rest heard him gladly, some because they wished to see Holland, others because they were greedy for the money. Only one was honest, and warned his comrades against risking their master’s goods, or deceiving him about their price; but they paid no heed to his words, only Dutch Michael did not forget them. So they went on down the Rhine with their wood, and Michael steered the raft, and brought it quickly to Rotterdam. There they were soon offered four times the usual price for the cargo, and Michael’s huge beams, in particular, were sold for much money.
“When the Black Forest lads saw all that gold, they were beside themselves with joy. Michael divided it into four parts; one he kept for the master, and the other three were for the men. And now they went into the taverns, with sailors and other bad company, and guzzled or played away their money. But the honest man who had given them good counsel, Michael sold to a kidnapping shipowner, and nothing more was ever heard of him.
“From that time forth Holland was the paradise of all the Black Forest lads, and Dutch Michael their king. It was long before the master woodman found out the trick; and meanwhile money, swearing, bad customs, drunkenness and gambling came up into this land from Holland. When the story leaked out, Dutch Michael was nowhere to be found. Yet he is not dead. For more than a hundred years he has haunted this forest, and people say he has helped many men to get rich, but only at the cost of their own poor souls,—I will say no more. Yet this much is certain, that on these stormy nights he still picks out the finest trees from the ‘Pine-thicket,’ where no man may hew wood, and my father once saw him break off a stem four feet thick as if it had been a reed. These he gives to the misguided folk who turn away from righteous dealing, and go to him for help; then they take their raft down to the water at midnight, and float away with Dutch Michael to Holland. But if I were king there, I would have him shot to pieces, for all ships that have a single one of Dutch Michael’s beams in them will go down some day. That is why we hear of all these shipwrecks; for how else should a fine, strong ship, as big as a church, come to harm upon the water? But every time that Dutch Michael hews a fresh tree during a stormy night in the ‘Pine-thicket,’ one of his old beams cracks, and the ship springs a leak, and goes to the bottom with all hands. That is the story of Dutch Michael, and true it is that all the evil in the Black Forest may be traced to him.”
“Oh, he can make one rich, sure enough,” the old man added in a mysterious whisper, “but I would not take anything from him for the world. I would not be in the shoes of fat Ezekiel, or the long Shuffler—and they say the king of the dancing-floor, too, has sold himself to him.”
The storm had died away while the old man told his tale, and now the maidens lit their lamps and went to bed. The men laid a sack full of leaves upon the bench near the stove, as a pillow for Peter Munk, and wished him good-night. But Peter had never had such restless dreams as upon this night. One moment he thought he saw the black-browed giant, Dutch Michael, tearing open the window and thrusting in his long arm to offer him a purse full of gold pieces, which he chinked with a pleasant sound; and the next, it was the kindly-faced little Glass-man who was riding about the room on a huge green bottle, and then Peter seemed to hear the same hoarse chuckle again, that he had heard in the forest. Presently some one muttered in his left ear:
“In Holland there is gold;
Ye can have it, an’ ye will;
For a trifle it is sold—
Gold, gold!”
And again, in his right ear sounded the little song about the Treasure-keeper in the green woods; and a gentle voice added: “Foolish Coal-Peter, foolish Peter Munk, canst find no rhyme to ‘green?’ and yet art born at noon on a Sunday! Rhyme, silly Peter, rhyme!”
He moaned and groaned, and tried to think of a rhyme, but as he had never in his life made one waking, it was not likely he should find one in his sleep. But when he awoke at dawn, he could not help thinking his dream a very strange one, and sitting down at the table, with his head in his hands, he began to ponder over the whispers he had heard, and which still rang in his ears.
“Rhyme, foolish Peter, rhyme!” he kept saying to himself, and tapped his forehead with his finger, yet no rhyme came forth. But as he sat there, puzzling over a rhyme to “green,” three lads went by the house, and one was singing:
“I stood upon the hill-top green,
And gazed into the vale below,
For there it was I last had seen
Her——”
Peter Munk waited to hear no more, but springing from his chair and out at the door like an arrow, he caught the singer roughly by the arm.
“Stay, friend,” he cried; “only tell me! what didst thou rhyme to ‘green’?”
But the other was startled and angered, and shaking himself free, rejoined: “A plague on thee for a rude fellow! What business is it of thine? Take that!” And he gave him a stinging box on the ear, which his comrades followed up with more blows.
Poor Peter sank to his knees, quite stunned. “I pray you to forgive me,” he moaned; “I meant no harm, and was but over anxious about a certain matter. But since I have got the blows now, will ye not also plainly tell me the words of your song?”
At this they began to laugh and mock at him; but at last the singer consented to repeat the words, after which they went on, laughing and singing, upon their way.
“‘Seen,’ then,” said poor Peter, as he got up, feeling quite sore, “‘seen’ with ‘green.’ Now, Mr. Glass-man, we will have another word together.”
He went back to the hut, fetched his hat and long staff, and bidding his hosts farewell, took his way homeward towards the “Pine-thicket.” He went along slowly and thoughtfully, for he still had to compose his verse; but as he began to enter the “thicket,” and the trees grew higher and thicker about him, he thought he had found it, and leapt into the air for joy. At that very moment a gigantic man in a raftsman’s dress, and with a staff as long as a mast in his hand, stepped from behind the trees. Peter Munk’s knees shook beneath him as he saw this apparition walking slowly by his side, for he thought to himself: “This is no other than Dutch Michael.” The dreadful being never said a word, and from time to time Peter shot a terrified glance up at him. He was a good head taller than any one he had ever seen; his face was no longer young, neither was it old, yet it was deeply seamed and wrinkled; he wore a linen jerkin, and Peter easily recognised the huge boots he had heard of in the story, which were drawn up over his leather breeches.
“Peter Munk,” said the King of the Forest at last, in a deep, hollow voice, “what art thou doing here in the ‘Pine-thicket’?”
“Good morrow, countryman,” answered Peter, who wished to appear undismayed, though he was trembling all over; “I am going homewards through the ‘Pine-thicket.’”
“Peter Munk,” rejoined the other, with a dreadful, piercing glance at him, “thy way home does not lie through this wood.”
“Well, perhaps not exactly,” stammered the youth, “but it is a hot day, and I thought it would be cooler here.”
“No lies, thou Coal-Peter!” thundered Dutch Michael, “or I will fell thee to the earth with my staff. Dost think I did not see thee creep begging to yon little man?” he added more quietly. “Go to! that was a silly trick, and it is a good thing thou didst not know the charm. The little fellow is a niggard, and gives but scantily, and he to whom he gives is never merry all his life long. Peter, thou art a poor wight, and from my soul I pity thee; such a fine, jolly lad as thou, that mightest make something of thy life—and thou art to spend it in charcoal-burning! Where others can shake heavy thalers and ducats out of their sleeves, thou canst scarce spare a beggarly sixpence. ’Tis a wretched life!”
—“Thou art right, it is indeed—a wretched life!”
—“Well, I will not be hard on thee,” the terrible Michael went on; “I have helped many a good fellow in his need—thou wouldst not be the first. Tell me, then, how many hundred thalers mightest thou want to begin with?”
As he spoke, he rattled the money in his huge pockets, so that it chinked as Peter had heard it in his dream. But the lad’s heart fluttered painfully as he listened to the tempter’s words, and he grew hot and cold all at once, for Dutch Michael did not look the sort of person who would give away money out of sheer kindness of heart and ask for nothing in return. The mysterious words of the old grandfather, about the men who had grown suddenly rich, returned to his mind, and urged by a strange uneasiness and fear, he cried out:
“My best thanks to you, sir; but I would rather have nothing to do with you, and I know well enough who you are;” and ran off as fast as his legs could carry him.
But the wood-spirit still kept alongside of him with mighty strides, muttering in hollow, threatening tones: “Thou wilt yet repent it, Peter. I see it written on thy brow—I read it in thine eyes—that thou art not to escape me. Do not run so fast; give heed to one more sensible word of advice, for yonder is my boundary-line.”
But when Peter heard this, and caught sight of a small ditch not far off, he hurried faster than ever towards it, so that Michael was obliged to go faster too, and pursued him with threats and curses. With a desperate leap Peter cleared the ditch, just as he saw his enemy raising the great staff to crush him. It fell with a crash, but Peter was already safe, and the staff broke into splinters, as upon an invisible wall, so that a long piece of it fell over close to the lad. He picked it up in triumph, to throw it back to its churlish owner, but as he did so, he felt it writhe in his hand, and saw, to his horror, that it had changed into a great snake, which was already shooting out its forked tongue, and with glittering eyes, prepared to dart up into his face. He let the creature go, but it had twisted about his arm, and he could scarcely have escaped being attacked by it, but that a large hawk suddenly swooped down from above, seized the serpent by the head, and rose with it into the air.
Dutch Michael, who was looking on from the other side of the ditch, raged and swore worse than ever, as he beheld his snake carried off by a more powerful enemy. Exhausted and trembling, Peter went on his way. The path grew steeper, the landscape wilder, and after a bit he found himself once more on the mountain-top, under the huge fir-tree. He again made his bow to the invisible Glass-man, and then began immediately:
“O Treasure-keeper in the forest green,
Thine age is many hundred years—this land
Is all thine own, wherever pine-trees stand;
By none save Sunday children art thou seen.”
“Thou hast not got it quite right; but since it is thou, Coal-Munk Peter, I will let it pass,” said a gentle, low voice beside him.
He stared about him in amaze, and there, beneath a tall pine, sat a little old man, in black jerkin and red stockings, with the broad, pointed hat on his head. He had a kind, delicately cut face, and a little beard, as soft as a spider’s web; he was smoking, strange to say, a blue glass pipe, and as Peter went nearer, he saw that all his clothes too, and his hat, and his shoes, were made of coloured glass, but it was pliable, as though it were still warm, and fitted like cloth to every turn and movement of the little man’s body.
“Thou hast met that scoundrel, Dutch Michael, then?” said the little man, making an odd, hoarse sound in his throat between almost every word. “He tried to frighten thee badly, but I got his magic whip away from him, and he shall never have it back again!”
“Yea, Master Treasure-keeper,” answered Peter, with a deep bow, “I was dreadfully frightened. But doubtless you were his lordship the hawk, who killed the snake for me. I am very much obliged to you. But I was coming to get some advice from you, for things are going very poorly with me. A charcoal-burner does not get on very well in life, and as I am still young, I thought I might manage to better myself. Specially when I look at others, who seem to have got on so easily. Take fat Ezekiel, or the ‘dancers’ king,’ for instance; with them money is as plentiful as hay.”
“Peter,” said the little man very gravely, and as he spoke he blew the smoke from his pipe far out before him—“Peter, never speak to me of them. What does it advantage them to seem happy here for a few years, and then to be all the more miserable afterwards? Thou must not despise thy calling. Thy father and grandfather were honest folk, and yet they followed the same. Peter Munk, I hope it is not love of idleness that has brought thee to me.”
Peter was alarmed at the little man’s serious tone, and reddened as he answered: “Nay, Master Treasure-keeper, idleness, I know full well, is the beginning of all evil; but you cannot blame me if another calling pleases me better than my own. A charcoal-burner is so very low, you see, and glass-blowers, and raftsmen, and watchmakers are all of more consequence.”
“Pride often goes before a fall,” answered the little master of the forest, rather more kindly. “Ye are a strange race, ye sons of men. You are scarcely ever quite content with the state of life to which you are born and brought up! And what is the use of wishing? Wert thou a glass-maker, thou wouldst wish to be a master woodman; and if that were granted thee, thou wouldst covet the forester’s place, or the Mayor’s house! But let be; if thou wilt promise to work diligently, I will help thee to something better, Peter. I am wont to give every Sunday child that finds its way to me three wishes. The first two are granted without question; the third I can deny if it is a foolish one. So now thou mayst wish for something—but let it be something good and useful, Peter.”
“Hurrah! you are a capital little Glass-man!” shouted Peter, “rightly called the Treasure-keeper, for you have treasures indeed in your hand. And so I may wish for whatever my heart desires? Then I will begin by wishing to dance better than the ‘king of the dancing-floor,’ and always to have as much money in my pocket as fat Ezekiel.”
“Thou fool!” exclaimed the little man angrily. “What a miserable wish is this! To dance well, and to have money for gambling! Art thou not ashamed, foolish Peter, of being so blind to thine own welfare? What use is it to thyself, or thy poor mother, that thou shouldst be able to dance? What use is money, when by thine own wish, it is but to be spent in the tavern, and will stay there, like that of the miserable ‘dancers’ king’? So all the week long thou wilt still have nought, and starve as before. I will give thee one more free wish, but be careful to choose something more sensible.”
Peter scratched his head, and resumed after some hesitation: “Well, then, I will wish for the finest and richest glass-hut in all the Black Forest, with its belongings, and all the money that is needed to carry on the work.”
“Nothing else?” said the little man anxiously. “Oh, Peter, nothing else?”
“Well, you might add a horse and a little cart.”
“Oh thou foolish Coal-Munk Peter!” cried the little fellow, and threw his glass pipe in a rage against a neighbouring tree, so that it broke into a hundred pieces.
“Horses, carts!” he continued. “Wisdom, I tell thee, wisdom and plain common sense, and insight—these thou shouldst have wished for, not horses and carts! Well, do not look so downcast; we will try and see that thou dost not come to harm, even so, for the second wish was not altogether foolish. A good glass-hut keeps master and man alive; only thou shouldst have wished for knowledge and sense to carry it on, then horses and carts would have followed of themselves.”
“But, Master Treasure-keeper,” said Peter, “I have still a wish left. I can wish for wisdom with that, if it is really as indispensable as you think.”
—“Nay, stop there! Thou wilt find thyself in many a scrape yet, that will make thee glad thou hast a wish still left. Now go home; and here,” continued the little spirit of the pine-wood, drawing a purse out of his pocket, “here are two thousand gulden, and let that suffice; do not come asking me for money again, or I should be obliged to hang thee from the highest fir-tree. That has been my rule since I have dwelt in this forest. Three days ago old Winkfritz died, who owned the large glass-hut in the lower forest. Go there to-morrow morning, and make a proper bid for the business. Look to thyself, be diligent, and I will pay thee a visit now and again, and give thee a helping hand, and wise counsel, since thou didst not ask for wisdom thyself. But I tell thee again, and I am in earnest, thy first wish was bad. Beware of the ale-house, Peter; it has never yet done any one good for long!”
As he spoke, the little man had drawn a new pipe of fine glass from his pocket, and stuffed it with dry pine-needles. He now put it between his little toothless gums, and producing a large burning-glass, he stepped into the sun and lit his pipe. Having done this, he shook Peter kindly by the hand, and after giving him a few more good counsels, as they went along, he began to puff and blow so rapidly at his pipe, that he ended by completely disappearing in a cloud of smoke, which smelt of real Dutch tobacco, and faded slowly away among the tops of the fir-trees.
When Peter got home, he found his mother very anxious about him, for the good woman had quite made up her mind that her son had been drawn for a soldier, and already carried off. But he was in high spirits, and told her that he had met a kind friend in the forest, who had procured him money to start a new business, instead of the charcoal-burning. And though his mother had lived for thirty years in a charcoal-burner’s hut, and had been as used to blackened faces as a miller’s wife is to floury ones, still she was foolish and proud enough to despise her former condition as soon as Peter promised her a more prosperous one, and said “that now, as the mother of a man who owned a glass-hut, she was something above the neighbours, Betty and Grete, and should take a front seat in church, among the respectable people.”
Peter soon struck a bargain with the inheritors of the glass-hut the little man had told him of; he kept on the workmen he found there, and let the glass-making go on night and day. At first the work pleased him. He went down to the workshop at his convenience, and walked about it with an important air, his hands in his pockets, looking to right and left, and making this and that remark, over which his work-people often laughed not a little. His greatest pleasure was to see the glass blown, and he would often set to work himself, and form the strangest figures out of the soft, warm mass. But after a while he tired of it, and went to the hut, first only an hour each day, then only every two days, and at last only once a week, while his workmen did as they pleased. Now his fondness for the tavern was to blame for all this. The Sunday after his return from the “Pine-thicket,” he went there as usual, and there was the “king” already bounding about upon the dancing-floor; and there sat fat Ezekiel, too, his tankard before him, rattling the dice and casting for crown thalers. Peter’s hands jumped to his pockets, that he might see if the little Glass-man had kept his word; and lo! they were bulging with silver and gold coins. His legs, too, twitched and itched, as though they were fain to jump and dance; and when the first dance was over, he stood up with his partner opposite the “dancing-king,” and when the latter sprang three feet into the air, Peter leaped four, and when his opponent cut all sorts of nimble and dainty steps, Peter twisted and turned his feet about so much more rapidly, that the beholders could hardly contain themselves for wonder and admiration. But when people heard that Peter had bought a glass-hut, and saw how he scattered sixpences among the musicians whenever he went by, there was no end to the general astonishment. Some said he had found a treasure in the forest, others that he had come into an inheritance, but one and all honoured him, and looked up to him, only because he had money. He played away as much as twenty guldens that evening, and yet the coins rattled in his pocket, as though there were at least a hundred thalers left there. When Peter saw how much he was respected, he was beside himself with pride and joy. He threw his money about with both hands, and gave generously of it to the poor. Did he not know by experience how bitter is the sting of poverty? The “dancing king” was cast quite into the shade by Peter’s superhuman talents, and Peter was now called “the dancers’ emperor.”
The most reckless of the Sunday gamblers did not make such wagers as he did, but neither did they lose so much. But, then, the more he lost, the more he won, and this happened just as he had begged the little Glass-man that it might. He had wished “always to have as much money in his pocket as fat Ezekiel,” and it was to this very man that he always lost his money; so when he lost twenty or thirty gulden at a stroke, there they were in his pocket again, the very moment Ezekiel swept them into his own. Presently he went further in betting and gambling than the most daring ne’er-do-weels in all the forest, and he was oftener called “gambling Peter” than “the dancers’ emperor,” for he played on most work-days as well as Sundays now. Hence his business began to go badly, and this was the fault of Peter’s lack of wisdom. He had as much glass made as there possibly could be, but with the business, he had not bought the secret of disposing of his wares to the best advantage. At last he did not know what to do with all his unsold glass, and got rid of it half-price, to pedlars, only that he might have enough to pay his workmen their wage.
One evening, as he was coming home from the ale-house, and thinking with shame and distress—despite all the wine he had drunk to cheer himself up—of the failure of his fortunes, he perceived that some one was walking beside him, and when he looked round, behold, it was the little Glass-man!
Then Peter broke out in anger against him, and with boastful, daring words, swore that the little man was to blame for all his troubles.
“What use are my horse and cart to me now?” he cried. “What use are my hut and all my glass? Even when I was only a poor charcoal-burner’s lad, I had a happier life and fewer cares. Now I do not even know at what hour the sheriff will come and value my goods, and sell me up because of my debts!”
“So,” answered the little man, “so! I am to blame if thou art unhappy? Are these the thanks I get for all my benefits? Was it I who told thee to make such foolish wishes? Thou wouldst be a glass-maker, and didst not even know whither to sell thy wares! Did I not warn thee to frame thy wishes carefully? Common sense, Peter, common sense and knowledge were lacking to thee.”
“Sense and knowledge, indeed!” shouted Peter. “I am as sensible a lad as any, and I will prove it to thee, little Glass-man!” And with these words he seized the little man by the collar, and yelled: “I have thee now, have I not, thou Treasure-keeper! And now I will wish my third wish, and thou shalt grant it. I wish, then, this moment, for two hundred thousand hard thalers, and a house, and—ah!” he screamed, for the little man of the woods had changed into burning glass, and was scorching Peter’s hand like a flaming fire. But of the little man himself no trace was to be seen.
For several days Peter’s swollen hand reminded him unpleasantly of his ingratitude and folly. But after a time he stifled the voice of conscience, and said to himself: “What matter though they should sell my glass-hut, and all I have? I still have fat Ezekiel, and as long as he has money on Sundays, I cannot want for it.”
Yea, Peter, but if he should have none?
And so it happened one day, as a strange and wonderful judgment upon them both. For one Sunday he drove up to the inn, and the people stretched their heads out of window, and said: “There goes gambling Peter—there goes the ‘dancers’ emperor,’ the rich glass-man!” And others rejoined: “Who knows about the riches? They do say his debts are many, and that it will not be long before the sheriff appears to seize his goods!”
But meanwhile Peter dismounted, and greeted them all pompously, and called out to the host: “Good-evening, mine host of the Sun Inn! Is fat Ezekiel here?” And a voice from within replied: “Here we are, Peter, at the cards already, and thy place is kept for thee.”
So Peter Munk went in, feeling his pockets, and saw directly that Ezekiel must be well off that night, for they were brimming over with gold and silver. He sat down to the table, and played with one and another, and won and lost, and won again, till it grew late, and the steadier heads among them said it was enough, and they must go home to wife and child. So one and another went, till gambling Peter and Ezekiel were left alone. Peter begged the latter to stop on a while, but he was loth, and resisted for a long time. At last he cried: “Well, I will count what I have left, and then we will play one last bout, five gulden a throw, for it is childish to keep on for less.”
He counted his money, and found he had just a hundred guldens; and now Peter did not need to count his, for he knew how much he had, too.
But if Ezekiel had won before, he lost now, one throw after another, swearing fearfully the while. At last he put his only remaining five gulden on the table, and said: “Now, even if I lose this time, I will yet not leave off, for thou wilt lend me some of thy winnings, Peter; one good fellow helps another.”
“To be sure I will, and were it a hundred guldens!” cried the other, proud of his winnings; and fat Ezekiel threw the dice—fifteen. “Now let us see!” he cried.
Peter rattled the box, and threw—eighteen; and as he did so, a hoarse, well-known voice behind him said: “So, that was the last!”
He turned round, and saw the giant form of Dutch Michael. He let the money he had won fall in terror. But fat Ezekiel saw no one, and only begged Peter to lend him ten guldens, that he might go on playing. Half dreaming, Peter thrust his hand into one pocket—it was empty. He tried the other—it was the same. He turned his coat inside out, but not a penny-piece was to be found; and now he thought of his own wish—that he might always have as much money as fat Ezekiel. It had all disappeared like smoke.
The host and Ezekiel gazed at him in surprise as he went on hunting, and still found none of his money. They would not believe he had no more; but when they themselves felt in his pockets, and were obliged to confess it was the truth they became very wroth, and swore gambling Peter was a wicked conjurer and had “wished” all Ezekiel’s money, and his own, away into his coffers at home. He defended himself as best he could, but appearances were against him. Ezekiel swore he would spread the shameful tale through all the Black Forest, and the host declared he would go to the town at dawn and denounce Peter as a sorcerer, adding that he believed he would come to be burnt as one yet. Then they set upon him in a rage, tore his jerkin from his back, and thrust him out of doors.
No star lit up the dark sky as Peter slunk dejectedly homewards, yet he could make out a dusky form that strode along beside him, and at last spoke as follows:
“Thou art done for now, Peter Munk; all thy grandeur is at an end. And I could have told thee as much before, but thou wouldst have naught to do with me, and wert set upon running to that foolish little glass-dwarf. Now thou seest what happens to those who scorn my counsels. But try me again, for I have pity upon thy miserable plight. No one ever repented it yet who turned to me, and if thou dost not fear the way, I am to be found all day to-morrow in the ‘Pine-thicket,’ and will come forth to speak with thee, if thou dost but call.”
Peter was well aware who it was that spoke thus to him, but a sense of dread crept over him. He made no answer, but hurried on upon his homeward way.
