By no means! It is the Butzemann.
Some merry companions are assembled in the large dining-room of the hotel and celebrate there a feast of grapes in memory of the divine Dionysius. The night advances and there they are still, glass in hand, singing, drinking.... Silence! all of a sudden singing and drinking comes to an end; the glasses halt half way in the midst of a toast; the heavy eyes open wide, the trembling knees grow strong once more. Every one of the guests hastens home. Three times a hairy, ill-shapen creature has come and knocked with its wings against the window. You will say it was a bat.
By no means! It is the Butzemann!
The family is gathering around the warm porcelain stove, where they can safely defy cold winter. The men are smoking, a pot of beer by their side; the women are knitting and talking of the approaching wedding of the eldest daughter. Oh misery! Away back in the fireplace, a great noise is heard; a bright light shines. Coals and sparks are scattered all around, and some have fallen upon the dress of the betrothed. What is the matter? You will say again, it was a knot in the wood, perhaps a chestnut that had been overlooked in the ashes and has burst now.
By no means! it is the Butzemann!
The Butzemann, a prophetic family spirit, warns you of coming danger and bids you prepare for an approaching misfortune. Never undertake a journey, never get married if a clear sign has made you aware that Butzemann has put his veto upon your journey or your marriage. The only difficulty you will have is to distinguish between Butzemann and a puff of wind, a bat, or an exploding chestnut.
It is much easier to recognize Frau Holle, as her presence is always announced by unmistakable indications. She has assumed the task of overlooking the poor country girls at their work. But it has never been found out why this benevolent fairy of work-people does not live in some great industrial city, or some beautiful country district, where the signs of active life are abundant and the whirring of wheels or the stamping of machinery is heard; where the spinners sing, and the washerwomen beat time at the limpid stream. She prefers, with unaccountable perverseness, to live in dismal swamps, beside faithless Will-o’-the-Wisps and low Nixen!
No one has ever dared examine this question so closely as to ascertain the precise truth.
Some have dropped timid hints that Frau Holle, now occupying a very humble position and rated among the familiar spirits only, was once upon a time a high and mighty personage, but they have had nothing more to say of her past glory, as is the case with poor ladies who have been “unfortunate.” Others, with more boldness or more knowledge, have recognized in her the goddess Frigg, Odin’s wife. Dear Frau Holle! what a coming down! what poor creatures we are, after all. As soon as the cross was planted on the banks of the Rhine and the Danube, Frigg, under the name of Hertha (Mother Earth), had taken refuge on an island in the ocean, where she lived invisible and alone in the heart of a sacred forest, which was constantly invaded by the waves of the sea.
A priest, who had remained faithful to the old religion, alone knew the hour and the minute when the goddess would deign once more to appear to men. At the given moment he drew forth, on the marshy island, a chariot wrapped in veils. Hertha got in, and for some days travelled through the world, diffusing all around her good will and consolation. Then all wars were suspended; not only the sword went back into its sheath, but all irons, all defensive and offensive weapons and even the iron shoes of the ploughs, had to be kept carefully concealed. Hertha invited the world to enjoy peace and repose.