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.