But at that moment in came the little gnomish King himself, and said, in the tenderest accents, "Oh, my sweet, darling fiancée! Idol of my heart! Do not suppose for a moment that I am in the least degree annoyed with the little piece of rather unseemly conduct which Herr Dapsul von Zabelthau was guilty of. Oh, no--and indeed it has led to the more rapid fulfilment of my hopes; so that the solemn ceremony of our marriage will actually be celebrated to-morrow. You will be pleased to find that I have appointed Herr Amandus von Nebelstern our Poet Laureate, and I should wish him at once to favour us with a specimen of his talents, and recite one of his poems. But let us go out under the trees, for I love the open air: and I will lie in your lap, while you, my most beloved bride elect, may scratch my head a little while he is singing--for I am fond of having my head scratched in such circumstances."
Fräulein Aennschen, turned to stone with horror and alarm, made no resistance to this proposal. Daucus Carota, out under the trees, laid himself in her lap, she scratched his head, and Herr Amandus, accompanying himself on the guitar, began the first of twelve dozen songs which he had composed and written out in a thick book.
It is matter of regret that in the Chronicle of Dapsulheim (from which all this history is taken), these songs have not been inserted, it being merely stated that the country folk who were passing, stopped on their way, and anxiously inquired who could be in such terrible pain in Herr Dapsul's wood, that he was crying and screaming out in such a style.
Daucus Carota, in Aennschen's lap, twisted and writhed, and groaned and whined more and more lamentably, as if he had a violent pain in his stomach. Moreover, Fräulein Aennchen fancied she observed, to her great amazement, that Cordovanspitz was growing smaller and smaller as the song went on. At last Herr Amandus sung the following sublime effusion (which is preserved in the Chronicle):--
"Gladly sings the Bard, enraptured,
Breath of blossoms, bright dream-visions,
Moving thro' roseate spaces in Heaven,
Blessed and beautiful, whither away?
'Whither away?' oh, question of questions--
Towards that 'Whither,' the Bard is borne onward,