But there he stopped short, and strive as he would he could not remember the rest of the verse.
He thought about asking some of the old men who had been his father’s friends, but a certain shyness prevented his mentioning the little Glass-man and so betraying perhaps what was in his mind. There were very few rich people in the Forest and he wondered why some of them had not tried their luck with the wood-spirits. At last he persuaded his mother to talk about the little man; but she could tell him little more than he knew already. Moreover, she could only remember the first line of the verse; but finally she said the spirit only showed himself to folks born on a Sunday between the hours of eleven and two.
“Had you but known the charm,” said she, “you might have summoned the Little Man yourself, for you were born at mid-day on a Sunday.”
On hearing this Peter Munk was nearly beside himself with impatience to set out upon this adventure. Surely the portion of the verse he knew would prove sufficient to summon the little Glass-man to a Sunday’s child like himself.
Peter Munk sat alone in the forest. (P. [211].)
So one day when he had managed to sell all his charcoal, instead of kindling a new fire he dressed himself in his father’s best jacket and red stockings, put the pointed hat upon his head and, taking his five foot blackthorn staff in his hand, bade good-bye to his mother. “It will soon be time to draw lots and decide who is to go for a soldier, and I am going to the magistrate to remind him that as you are a widow and I your only son I am exempt from serving in the army,” said he.
His mother praised him for his thoughtfulness and he set out towards a particular clump of black pines.
This spot was the highest point in the Black Forest and there was not a village nor a hut for some miles around it, for the superstitious people thought it was haunted. Although the trees there grew thick and tall they were never felled, for it was said that when anyone had attempted to do so terrible accidents occurred. Sometimes the axe had sprung from the haft and buried itself in the man’s foot, or a stubborn tree trunk that seemed to defy the stroke of the axe fell suddenly and crushed the wood-cutter, injuring him severely and even killing him. Even the finest tree could but be used for fuel, for the raftsmen would not take a single log from this particular clump, for it was said that it would bring them bad luck and that raft and raftsmen would sink.
And so it chanced that the trees grew thicker and taller, excluding every ray of sunshine, so that even in the daytime it was dark as night there, and Peter Munk’s courage began to fail him as he reached the spot, for there was not a sound to be heard, no voice, no footstep except his own, the stroke of no axe resounded, and even the birds seemed to have deserted the place.