[1]The child of the bindweed.
[1]The child of the bindweed.
'Well, where is he, Presto? Where is your little master then?' How alarming to wake in the boat among the reeds—quite alone—the master vanished entirely! this is something indeed to be frightened at.
And now run about, hunting on all sides with timid little whinings, poor Presto! How could you sleep so soundly as not to notice when your master left the boat? Generally you are wont to wake if only he moves a little. Here—you can see here where your master landed; but now you are on land the track is very much confused. All your busy snuffing is in vain! What a misfortune! The little master gone, quite lost! Seek, Presto, seek him then!
'Look! There, against that low mound just before you—Is there not a little dark figure lying? Look at it closely!'
For a moment the dog stood motionless, looking eagerly into the distance. Then he suddenly stretched out his head and flew as fast as his four slender legs could carry him to the dark object on the mound. And when he found that it really was the little master he had so sorely missed, all his powers were too feeble to express his joy and thankfulness. He wagged his tail, his whole body wriggled with glee, he leaped, barked, yelped, and laid his cold nose against his re-found friend, licking and sniffing all over his face.
'Down, Presto! Go to your basket!' cried Johannes, but half awake. How stupid of master! There was no basket to be seen, look where he might.
Slowly, slowly, light began to dawn on the little sleeper's mind. Presto's sniffing!—he was used to that, every morning. Faint images still floated before his soul, dream-pictures of elves and moonlight, like morning mists over a landscape of sand-hills. He feared that the cold breath of day would waft them away. 'Keep your eyes shut,' said he to himself, 'or you will see the clock against the wall where it always hangs!'
But there was something strange about his bed. He felt that he had no bed-clothes over him. Gently and warily he opened his eyes, just a little way.
Bright daylight. Blue sky. Clouds.
Then Johannes opened his eyes very wide and said: 'Then it was true?'
Yes. He was lying among the sand-hills. The cheerful sunshine warmed him; he breathed the fresh morning air; a filmy mist hung over the woods beyond. He saw the tall beech-tree by the pool, and the roof of his own home rising above the shrubbery. Bees and beetles were buzzing around him, overhead a lark was singing; in the distance he could hear dogs barking and the hum of the neighbouring town. It was all real, beyond a doubt.
What then had he dreamed, and what was true? Where was Windekind? And the rabbit? He saw nothing of either. Only Presto, who sat as close to him as possible and looked at him expectantly.
'Can I have been walking in my sleep?' Johannes murmured softly to himself.
By his side there was a rabbit's burrow; but there were so many in the down. He sat up to see more plainly. What was this in his tightly clasped fingers? A glow flashed through him from head to foot as he opened his hand. In it lay a bright little gold key.
For a few moments he sat silent.
'Presto,' said he then, and the tears almost came into his eyes, 'Presto. Then itwastrue!'
Presto sprang up, and tried by barking to make his master understand that he was hungry and wanted to go home.
Home? To be sure. Johannes had not thought of that, and he did not particularly care to go. However, he presently heard his name called by loud voices. Then he began to understand that his proceedings would certainly not be regarded as right and satisfactory, and that far from kindly words awaited him on his return.
For a moment he could hardly be sure whether his tears of joy had not, in vexation, turned to tears of fear and contrition; but then he remembered Windekind, who was now his friend, his friend and ally; and the Elfin King's gift; and the splendid, indisputable reality of all that had happened;—and so he made his way homeward calmly, and prepared for whatever might betide.
It fell out as he had anticipated. But he had not imagined that the distress and alarm of the house-hold could be so serious a matter. He must solemnly promise never again to be so naughty and heedless. This quite restored his presence of mind.
'That I cannot promise,' he said very resolutely.
They looked at him in amazement. He was questioned, coaxed, threatened. But he thought of Windekind and was firm. What did he care for punishment so long as he had Windekind for his friend—and what would he not endure for Windekind's sake? He clutched the little key tightly to his breast and shut his mouth firmly, answering every question with a shrug of his shoulders.
'I cannot promise,' was all he replied.
But his father said: 'Leave him in peace; he is quite in earnest about it. Something strange must have happened to him. He will tell us all about it some day.'
Johannes smiled, ate his breakfast in silence, and crept up to his little room. There he nipped off a bit of the blind-cord, slipped it through his precious little key and hung it round his neck next to his breast. Then he very contentedly went to school.
Things went ill with him at school that day. He knew none of his lessons and paid no attention at all. His thoughts were constantly wandering to the pool, and the wonderful things which had happened last evening. He could scarcely believe that a friend of the fairy king's could be expected and required to do sums and conjugate verbs. But it had all been true, and no one there knew anything about it, or would believe it or understand it; not even the master, however cross he might be, calling Johannes an idle little boy in a tone of great contempt. He took the bad marks he had earned with a light heart, and did the task set him as a punishment for his inattention.
'You, none of you understand anything about it. You may scold me as much as you please. I am Windekind's friend, and Windekind is worth more to me than all of you put together. Ay, with the master into the bargain!'
This was not respectful of Johannes. But his estimation of his fellow-creatures had not been raised by all the evil he had heard said of them the evening before.
But, as is often the case, he was not yet wise enough to use his wisdom wisely, or, better still, to keep it to himself.
When the master went on to say that man alone of all creatures was endowed by God with speech, and appointed lord over all other animals, Johannes began to laugh. This cost him a bad mark and serious reproof. And when his next neighbour read the following sentence out of an exercise-book: 'The age of my wilful aunt is great, but not so great as that of the Sun'—parsing 'the Sun' correctly as feminine, Johannes shouted out loudly, correcting him: 'Masculine, masculine!'
Every one laughed excepting the master, who was amazed at such utter stupidity as he thought it, and he desired Johannes to remain in school and write out a hundred times: 'The age of my wilful aunt is great, but not so great as that of the Sun (feminine), and greater still is my arrogant stupidity.'
His school-fellows had departed, and Johannes sat alone writing, in the great empty school-room. The sun shone in brightly, making the dust-motes glitter in its beams, and painting the wall with patches of light which crept round as time went on. The master, too, was gone, slamming the door behind him. Johannes had just got to the fifty-second 'wilful aunt' when a tiny, brisk mouse, with black, beady little eyes and erect ears, came out of the farthest corner of the room and ran noiselessly along by the wall. Johannes kept as still as death, not to scare the pretty little thing; but it was not shy and came close to where he was sitting. It looked sharply about for a minute or two, with its small, bright eyes; then with one spring leaped on to the bench, and with a second on to the desk on which Johannes was writing.
'Well done!' said he half to himself, 'you are a very bold little mouse.'
'I ought to know whom I should be afraid of,' said a wee-wee voice, and the mouse showed his little white teeth as if he were laughing.
Johannes was by this time quite used to marvels; still, this made him open his eyes very wide. Here, in school, in the middle of the day—it was incredible.
'You need not be afraid of me,' said he, very gently for fear of frightening the mouse. 'Did Windekind send you?'
'I am sent to tell you that the master was quite right, and that you thoroughly deserved your extra task.'
'But it was Windekind who told me that the sun was masculine. He said he was his father.'
'Yes; but no one else need know it. What have men to do with that? You must never discuss such delicate matters with men; they are too gross to understand them. Man is an astonishingly perverse and stupid creature that only cares to catch or kill whatever comes within his reach. Of that we mice have ample experience.'
'But why then, little mouse, do you live among men? Why do you not run away to the woods?'
'Oh, that we cannot do now. We are too much accustomed to town living. And so long as we are prudent, and always take care to avoid their traps and their heavy feet, we get on very well among men. Fortunately we are very nimble. The worst of it is, that man ekes out his own slowness by an alliance with the cat; that is a great grievance. But in the woods there are owls and hawks, and we should all be starved. Now, Johannes, mind my advice—here comes the master.'
'Mouse, mouse; do not go away. Ask Windekind what I am to do with my little key. I have tied it round my neck, next my skin. But on Saturday I am tubbed, and I am so afraid that it will be found. Tell me, where can I hide it?'
'Underground, always underground, that is always safest. Shall I keep it for you?'
'No, not here in school.'
'Then bury it out in the sand-hills. I will tell my cousin the field-mouse that he must take care of it.'
'Thank you, little mouse.'
Tramp, tramp! In came the master. While Johannes was dipping his pen the mouse had vanished. The master, who wanted to go home, let Johannes off the other forty-eight lines.
For two days Johannes lived in constant dread. He was kept strictly within sight, and had no opportunity of slipping off to the sand-hills. It was already Friday, and still the precious key was about his neck. The following evening he would inevitably be stripped; the key would be discovered and taken from him—his blood turned cold at the thought. He dared not hide it in the house or garden—no place seemed to him safe enough.
Friday afternoon, and dusk was creeping down! Johannes sat at his bedroom window, gazing with longing at the distance, over the green shrubs in the garden to the downs beyond.
'Windekind, Windekind, help me!' he whispered anxiously.
He heard a soft rustling of wings close at hand, he smelt the scent of lilies of the valley, and suddenly heard the sweet, well-known voice. Windekind sat by him on the window-sill, waving the bells of a lily of the valley on their slender stems.
'Here you are at last!' cried Johannes; 'I have longed for you so much!'
'Come with me, Johannes, we will bury your little key.'
'I cannot,' said Johannes sadly.
But Windekind took him by the hand and he felt himself wafted through the still evening air, as light as the wind-blown down of a dandelion.
'Windekind,' said Johannes, as they floated on, 'I love you so dearly. I believe I would give all the people in the world for you, and Presto into the bargain.'
'And Simon?'
'Oh, Simon does not care whether I love him or not. I believe he thinks it too childish. Simon loves no one but the fish-woman, and that only when he is hungry. Do you think that Simon is a common cat, Windekind?'
'No, formerly he was a man.'
Whrrr—bang! There went a fat cockchafer buzzing against Johannes.
'Can you not look where you are going?' grumbled the cockchafer, 'those Elves fly abroad as though the whole air were theirs by right. That is always the way with idlers who go flitting about for pleasure; those who, like me, are about their business, seeking their food and eating as hard as they can, are pushed out of their road.' And he flew off, scolding loudly.
'Does he think the worse of us because we do not eat?' asked Johannes.
'Yes, that is the way of cockchafers. According to them, the highest duty is to eat a great deal. Shall I tell you the history of a young cockchafer?'
'Ay, do,' said Johannes.
'There was a pretty young cockchafer who had just crept out of the earth. That was a great surprise. For a whole year he had sat waiting in the dark earth, watching for the first warm summer evening. And when he put his head out of the clod, all the greenery, and the waving grass, and the singing-birds quite bewildered him. He had no idea what to be about. He touched the blades of grass with his feelers, spreading them out in a fan. Then he observed that he was a male cockchafer, very handsome in his way, with shining black legs, a large, fat body, and a breastplate that shone like a mirror. As luck would have it, he at once saw, not far off, another cockchafer, not indeed so handsome as himself, but who had come out the day before and who was quite old. Very modestly, being still so young, he crept towards the other.
'What do you want, my friend?' said the second cockchafer rather haughtily, seeing that the other was a youngster, 'do you wish to ask me the way?'
'No, I am obliged to you,' said the younger one civilly, 'but I do not know what I ought to be doing. What is there for cockchafers to do?'
'Dear me,' said the other, 'do not you know that much? Well, I cannot blame you, for I was young myself once. Listen, then, and I will tell you. The principal thing in a cockchafer's life is to eat. Not far from this is a delicious lime-walk which was placed there for us, and it is our duty to eat there as diligently as we can.'
'Who put the lime-walk there?' asked the younger beetle.
'Well, a great being who means very kindly to us. He comes down the Avenue every morning, and those who have eaten most he takes away to a splendid house where a beautiful light shines, and where chafers are all happy together. Those, on the other hand, who, instead of eating, spend the night in flying about are caught by the Bat.'
'What is that?' asked the young one.
'A fearful monster with sharp teeth who comes flying down on us all on a sudden and eats us up with a horrible crunch.
As the chafer spoke they heard a shrill squeak overhead which chilled them to the very marrow.
'Hark! There he is!' cried the elder, 'beware of him, my young friend, and be thankful that I have given you timely warning. You have the whole night before you. Make good use of your time. The less you eat, the greater the risk of the bat's seizing you. And none but those who choose a serious vocation in life ever go to the house where the beautiful light is. Mark that; a serious vocation.'
Then the chafer, who was by a whole day the elder, disappeared among the blades of grass, leaving the other greatly impressed.
'Do you know what a vocation is, Johannes? No? Well, the young chafer did not know. It had something to do with eating—he understood that. But how was he to find the lime-walk? Close at hand stood a slender but stalwart grass-stem, waving softly in the evening air. This he firmly clutched with his six crooked legs. It seemed a long journey up to the top, and very steep. But the cockchafer was determined to reach it. 'This is a vocation!' he thought to himself, and began to climb with much toil. He went but slowly and often slipped back; but he got on, and when at last he found himself on the slender tip, and rocked with its swaying, he felt triumphant and happy. What a view he had from thence! It seemed to him that he could see the whole world. How blissful it was to be surrounded by air on all sides! He eagerly breathed his fill. What a wonderful feeling had come over him! Now he craved to go higher!'
'In his rapture he raised his wing-cases and quivered his gauzy wings. Higher! and yet higher I His wings fluttered, his legs released the grass-stem, and then—oh joy! Whoo-oo I He was flying—freely and gladly, in the still, warm evening air!'
'And then?' said Johannes.
'The end is not happy. I will tell it you some day later.'
They were hovering over the pool. A pair of white butterflies fluttered to meet them.
'Whither are you travelling, elves?' they asked.
'To the large wild rose-tree which blooms by yonder mound.'
'We will go with you; we will go too!'
The rose-bush was already in sight in the distance, with its abundance of pale-yellow sheeny blossoms. The buds were red and the open flowers were dashed with red, as if they remembered the time when they were still buds.
The wild down-rose bloomed in peaceful solitude, and filled the air with its wonderfully sweet odours. They are so fine that the down-elves live on nothing else. The butterflies fluttered about and kissed flower after flower.
'We have come to place a treasure in your charge,' cried Windekind. 'Will you keep it safe for us?'
'Why not—why not?' whispered the rose. 'It is no pain to me to keep awake—and I have no thought of going away unless I am dragged away. And I have sharp thorns.'
Then came the field-mouse—the cousin of the school-mouse—and burrowed quite under the roots of the rose-tree. And there he buried the little key.
'When you want it again you must call me; for you must on no account hurt the rose.'
The rose twined its thorny arms thickly over the entrance and took a solemn oath to guard it faithfully. The butterflies were witnesses.
Next morning Johannes awoke in his own little bed, with Presto, and the clock against the wall. The cord with the key was gone from round his neck.
'Children! children! A summer like this is a terrible infliction!' sighed one of three large stoves which stood side by side to bewail their fate in a garret of the old house. 'For weeks I have not seen one living soul or heard one rational remark. And always that hollow within! It is fearful!'
'I am full of spiders' webs,' said the second. 'And that would never happen in the winter.'
'And I am so dry and dusty that I shall be quite ashamed when, as winter comes on, the Black Man appears again, as the poet says.'
This piece of learning the third stove had of course picked up from Johannes, who had repeated some verses last winter, standing before the hearth.
'You must not speak so disrespectfully of the smith,' said the first stove, who was the eldest. 'It annoys me.'
A few shovels and tongs which lay on the floor, wrapped in paper to preserve them from rust, also expressed their opinion of this frivolous mode of speech.
But suddenly they were all silent, for the shutter in the roof was raised; a beam of light shone in on the gloomy place, and the whole party lapsed into silence under their dust and confusion.
It was Johannes who had come to disturb their conversation. This loft was at all times a delightful spot to him, and now, after the strange adventures of the last few days, he often came here. Here he found peace and solitude. There was a window, too, closed by a shutter, which looked out towards the sand-hills. It was a great delight to open the shutter suddenly, and, after the mysterious twilight of? the garret, to see all at once the sunlit landscape shut in by the fair, rollingdimes.
It was three weeks since that Friday evening, and Johannes had seen nothing of his friend since. The key was gone, and there was nothing now to assure him that he had not dreamed it all. Often, indeed, he could not conquer a fear that it was all nothing but fancy. He grew very silent, and his father was alarmed, for he observed that since that night out of doors Johannes had certainly had something the matter with him. But Johannes was only pining for Windekind.
'Can he be less fond of me than I of him?' he murmured, as he stood at the garret window and looked out over the green and flowery garden. 'Why is it that he never comes near me now? If I could—but perhaps he has other friends, and perhaps he loves them more than me. I have no other friend, not one. I love no one but him! I love him so much—oh so much!'
Then, against the deep blue sky he saw a flight of six white doves, who wheeled, flapping their wings, above the roof over his head. It seemed as though they were moved by one single impulse, so quickly did they veer and turn all together, as if to enjoy to the utmost the sea of sunshine and summer air in which they were flying.
Suddenly they swept down towards Johannes' window in the roof, and settled with much flapping and fussing on the water-pipe, where they pattered to and fro with endless cooings. One of them had a red feather in his wing. He plucked and pulled at it till he had pulled it out, and then he flew to Johannes and gave it to him.
Hardly had Johannes taken it in his hand when he felt that he was as light and swift as one of the doves. He stretched out his arms, the doves flew up, and Johannes found himself in their midst, in the spacious free air and glorious sunshine. There was nothing around him but the pure blue, and the bright shimmer of fluttering white wings.
They flew across the great garden, towards the wood, where the thick tree-tops waved in the distance like the swell of a green sea. Johannes looked down and saw his father through the open window, sitting in the house-place,—Simon was lying in the window seat with his crossed forepaws, basking in the sun.
'I wonder if they see me!' thought he; but he dared not call out to them.
Presto was trotting about the garden walks, sniffing at every shrub and behind every wall, and scratching against the door of every shed or greenhouse to find his master.
'Presto, Presto!' cried Johannes. The dog looked up and began to wag his tail and yelp most dolefully.
'I am coming back, Presto! only wait,' cried Johannes, but he was too far away.
They soared over the wood, and the rooks flew cawing out of the top branches where they had built their nests. It was high summer, and the scent of the blossoming limes came up in steamy gusts from the green wood.
In an empty nest, at the top of a tall lime-tree, sat Windekind, with his wreath of bindweed. He nodded to Johannes.
'There you are! that is good,' said he. 'I sent for you; now we can remain together for a long time—if you like.'
'I like it very much,' said Johannes.
Then he thanked the friendly doves who had brought him hither, and went down with Windekind into the woods. There it was cool and shady. The oriole piped his tune, almost always the same, but still a little different.
'Poor bird!' said Windekind. 'He was once a bird of Paradise. That you still may see by his strange yellow feathers; but he was transformed and turned out of Paradise. There is a word which can restore him to his former splendid plumage, and open Paradise to him once more; but he has forgotten the word; and now, day after day, he tries to find his way back there. He says something like the word, but it is not quite right.'
Numberless insects glittered like dancing crystals in the sun's rays where they pierced between the thick leaves. When they listened sharply they could hear a humming, like a great concert on one string, filling the whole wood. This was the song of the sunbeams.
The ground was covered with deep dark-green moss, and Johannes had again grown so tiny that it appeared to him like another wood on the ground, beneath the greater wood. What elegant little stems! and how closely they grew! It was difficult to make a way between them, and the moss forest seemed terribly large.
Presently they crossed an ants' track. Hundreds of ants were hurrying up and down, some dragging chips of wood or little blades of grass in their jaws. There was such a bustle that Johannes was almost bewildered.
It was a long time before one of the ants would spare them a word. They were all too busy. At last they found an old ant who was set to watch the plant-lice from which the ants get honeydew. As his herd was a very quiet one he could very well give a little time to the strangers, and let them see the great nest. It was situated at the foot of an old tree-trunk, and was very large, with hundreds of passages and cells. The plant-louse herd led the way, and conducted the visitors into every part of it, even into the nurseries where the young larvæ were creeping out of their cocoons. Johannes was amazed and delighted.
The old ant told them that every one was very busy by reason of the campaign which was immediately at hand. Another colony of ants, dwelling not far off, was to be attacked by a strong force, their nest destroyed and the larvæ carried off or killed; and as all the strength at their command must be employed, all the most necessary tasks must be got through beforehand.
'What is the campaign about?' said Johannes. 'I do not like fighting.'
'Nay, nay!' replied the herdsman. 'It is a very grand and praiseworthy war. You must remember that it is the soldier-ants we are going to attack; we shall exterminate the race, and that is a very good work.'
'Then you are not soldier-ants?'
'Certainly not. What are you thinking about? We are the peace-loving ants.'
'What do you mean by that?'
'Do not you know? Well, I will explain. Once upon a time all ants were continually fighting, not a day passed without some great battle. Then there came a good, wise ant, who thought that he should save much sorrow if he could persuade them all to agree among themselves to fight no more. But when he said so every one thought him very odd, and for that reason they proceeded to bite him in pieces. Still, after this, other ants came who said the same thing, and they too were bitten to pieces. But at last so many were of this opinion that biting them to pieces was too hard work for the others. So then they called themselves the Peaceful Ants, and they did everything which their first teacher had done, and those who opposed them they, in their turn, bit in pieces. In this way almost all the ants at the present time have become Peaceful Ants, and the fragments of the first Peaceful Ant are carefully and reverently preserved. We have his head—the genuine head. We have devastated and annihilated twelve other colonies who pretended to have the True Head. Now there are but four who dare to do so. They call themselves Peaceful Ants, but in fact they are Fighting Ants by nature—but we have the True Head, and the Peaceful Ant had but one head. Now we are going to-morrow to destroy the thirteenth colony. So you see it is a good work.'
'Yes, yes,' said Johannes. 'It is very strange!'
He was in fact a little uneasy, and felt happier when, after thanking the herd-keeper, they had taken their leave, and were sitting far from the Ant colony, rocked on the top of a tall grass-stem, under the shade of a graceful fern.
'Hooh!' sighed Johannes, 'that was a bloodthirsty and stupid tribe!'
Windekind laughed, and swung up and down on the grass haulm.
'Oh!' said he, 'you must not call them stupid. Men go to the ants to get wisdom.'
Then Windekind showed Johannes all the wonders of the wood; they flew up to visit the birds in the tree-tops and in the thick shrubs, went down into the moles' clever dwellings, and saw the bees' nest in the old hollow tree.
At last they came out on an open place surrounded by brushwood. Honeysuckle grew there in great abundance. Its luxuriant trails climbed over everything, and the scented flowers peeped from among the greenery. A swarm of tomtits hopped and fluttered among the leaves with a great deal of twittering and chirping.
'Let us stay here a little while,' said Johannes; 'this is splendid.'
'Very well,' said Windekind. 'And you shall see something very droll.'
There were blue-bells in the grass. Johannes sat down by one of them and began to talk with the bees and the butterflies. They were friends of the blue-bells', so the conversation went on at a great rate.
What was that? A huge shadow came across the grass, and something like a white cloud fell down on the blue-bell—Johannes had scarcely time to get away,—he flew to Windekind who was sitting high up in a honeysuckle flower. Then he saw that the white cloud was a pocket-handkerchief, and bump! A sturdy damsel sat down on the handkerchief and on the poor blue-bell which was under it.
He had not time to bewail it before the sound of voices and the cracking of branches filled the glade in the forest. A crowd of men and women appeared.
'Now we shall have something to laugh at,' said Windekind.
The party came on, the ladies with umbrellas in their hands, the men with tall chimney-pot hats, and almost all in black, completely black. In the green sunny wood they looked like great, ugly ink-spots on a beautiful picture. The brushwood was broken down, flowers trodden underfoot; many white handkerchiefs were spread, and the yielding grass and patient moss sighed as they were crushed under the weight they had to bear, fearing much that they might never recover from the blow. The smoke of cigars curled among the honeysuckle wreaths, and enviously supplanted the delicate odour of their blossoms. Sharp voices scared the gleeful tomtits, who, with terrified and indignant piping, took refuge in the nearest trees.
One man rose and went to stand on a little mound. He had long light hair, and a pale face. He said something, and then all the men and women opened their mouths very wide and began to sing so loud, that the rooks flew cawing out of their high nests, and the inquisitive little rabbits, who had come from the sand-hills to see what was going on, ran off in alarm, and were still running fully a quarter of an hour after they were safe at home again in the dunes.
Windekind laughed and fanned away the cigar-smoke with a fern leaf; but there were tears in Johannes' eyes, though not from the tobacco.
'Windekind,' said he, 'I want to go. This is all so ugly and so rude.'
'No, no, we must stay. You will laugh; it will be more amusing.'
The singing ceased and the pale man began to speak. He shouted hard, that every one might hear him; but what he said sounded very kind. He called them all his brothers and sisters, spoke of the glories of nature and the wonders of creation, of God's sunshine and the dear little birds and flowers.
'What is this?' asked Johannes. 'How can he talk of these things? Does he know you? Is he a friend of yours?'
Windekind shook his flower-crowned head disdainfully.
'He does not know me, and the sun and the birds and the flowers even less. What he says is all lies.'
The people listened very attentively. The stout lady who sat on the blue-bell began to cry several times, and wiped her eyes on her skirt, as she could not get at her handkerchief.
The pale man said that God had made the sun shine so brightly for the sake of their meeting here, and Windekind laughed and threw an acorn down from the thick leaves, which hit the tip of his nose.
'He shall learn to know better,' said he; 'my father shines for him, indeed! a fine idea!'
But the pale man was too much excited to pay any heed to the acorn, which seemed to have dropped from the sky; he talked a long time, and the longer the louder. At last he was red and purple in the face, doubled his fists, and shouted so loud that the leaves quivered and the grass stems were dismayed, and waved to and fro. When at last he came to an end they all began to sing again.
'Well, fie!' said a blackbird, who was listening from the top of a high tree, 'that is a shocking noise to make! I had rather the cows should come into our wood. Only listen. Well, for shame!'
Now the blackbird knows what he is talking about, and has a fine taste in music.
After singing, the folks brought all sorts of eatables out of baskets, boxes and bags. Sheets of paper were spread out; cakes and oranges were handed round. And bottles and glasses also made their appearance.
Then Windekind called his allies together, and they began to attack the feasters.
A smart frog leaped up into an old maid's lap, flopped on to the bread she was just about to put into her mouth, and sat there as if amazed at his own audacity. The lady gave a fearful yell, and stared at the intruder without daring to stir. This bold beginning soon found imitators. Green caterpillars crept fearlessly over hats, handkerchiefs and rolls, inspiring terror and disgust; fat field-spiders let themselves down on glittering threads into beer glasses, and on to heads or necks, and a loud shriek always followed their appearance; endless winged creatures fairly attacked the human beings in the face, sacrificing their lives for the good cause by throwing themselves on the food and in the liquor, making them useless by their corpses. Finally the ants came in innumerable troops and stung the enemy in the most unexpected places, by hundreds at once. This gave rise to the greatest consternation and confusion. Men and women alike fled from the long crushed moss and grass. The poor blue-bell, too, was released in consequence of a well-directed attack by two ear-wigs on the stout maiden's legs. The men and women grew desperate; by dancing and leaping with the most extraordinary gestures, they tried to escape their persecutors. The pale man stood still for a long time, hitting about him with a small black stick; but a few audacious tomtits, who were not above any form of attack, and a wasp, who stung him in the calf through his black trousers, placed himhors de combat.
Then the sun could no longer keep his countenance, and hid his face behind a cloud. Large drops of rain fell on the antagonistic parties. It looked as though the shower had suddenly made a forest of great black toadstools spring out of the ground. These were the umbrellas, which were hastily opened. The women turned their skirts over their heads, thus displaying their white petticoats, white-stockinged legs, and shoes without heels. Oh, what fun for Windekind! He had to hold on to a flower-stem to laugh.
The rain fell more and more heavily; the forest was shrouded in a grey sparkling veil. Streams of water ran off the umbrellas, tall hats and black overcoats, which shone like the shell of a water-snail; their shoes slopped and smacked in the soaking ground. Then the people gave it up, and dropped off doubtfully in twos and threes, leaving behind them a litter of papers, empty bottles and orange peel, the hideous relics of their visit. The open glade in the forest was soon deserted once more, and ere long nothing was to be heard but the monotonous rush of the rain.
'Well, Johannes! now we have seen what men are like. Why do you not laugh at them?'
'Oh, Windekind! Are all men like these?'
'Indeed, there are worse and uglier. Sometimes they shout and rave, and destroy everything that is pretty or good. They cut down trees and stick their horrible square houses in their place; they wilfully crush the flowers, and kill every creature that comes within their reach, merely for pleasure. In their dwellings, where they crowd one upon another, it is all dirty and black, and the air is tainted and poisoned by the smell of smoke. They are complete strangers to nature and their fellow-creatures. That is why they cut such a foolish, miserable figure when they come forth to see them.'
'Oh dear! Windekind, Windekind.'
'Why do you cry, Johannes? You must not cry because you were born to be a man. I love you all the same and choose you out of them all. I have taught you to understand the language of the butterflies and birds, and the faces of the flowers. The moon knows you, and the good kind earth regards you as her dearest child. Why should you not be glad since I am your friend?'
'You are, Windekind, you are!—still I cannot help crying over men.'
'Why? You need not remain among them if it vexes you. You can live here with me, and always keep me company. We will make our home in the thickest of the wood, in the solitary, sunny downs, or among the reeds by the pool. I will take you everywhere, down under the water among the water-plants, in the palaces of the elves and in the earth-spirits' homes. I will waft you over fields and forests, over strange lands and seas. I will make the spiders spin fine raiment for you, and give you wings such as I have. We will live on the scent of flowers, and dance with the elves in the moonlight. When autumn comes we will follow the summer, to where the tall palm-trees stand, where gorgeous bunches of flowers hang from the cliffs, and the dark blue ocean sparkles in the sun. And I will always tell you fairy tales. Will you like that, Johannes?'
'And I shall never live among men any more?'
'Among men, endless vexations await you, weariness, troubles and sorrow. Day after day you will toil and sigh under the burden of life. Your tender soul will be wounded and tortured by their rough ways. You will be worn and grieved to death. Do you love men more than you love me?'
'No, no! Windekind, I will stay with you.'
Now he could prove how much he cared for Windekind. Yes, he would forsake and forget everybody and everything for his sake: his little room, and Presto, and his father. He repeated his wish, full of joy and determination.
The rain had ceased. A bright smile of sunshine gleamed through the grey clouds on the wet sparkling leaves, on the drops which hung twinkling from every twig and blade of grass, and gemmed the spiders' webs spread among the oak leaves. A filmy mist rose slowly from the moist earth and hung over the underwood, bringing up a thousand warm, sleepy odours. The blackbird flew to the topmost bough and sang a short, passionate melody to the sinking sun—as though he would show what kind of singing befitted the spot—in the solemn evening stillness, to the soft accompaniment of falling drops.
'Is that not more lovely than the noises of men, Johannes? Ah, the blackbird knows exactly the right thing to sing! Here all is harmony; you will find none so perfect among men.'
'What is harmony, Windekind?'
'It is the same thing as happiness. It is that which all agree in striving after. Men too, but they do so like children trying to catch a butterfly. Their stupid efforts are just what scare it away.'
'And shall I find it with you?'
'Yes, Johannes. But you must forget men and women. It is a bad beginning to have been born to be a man; but you are still young. You must put away from you all remembrance of your human life; among them you would go astray, and fall into mischief and strife and wretchedness—it would be with you as it was with the young cockchafer of whom I told you.'
'What happened to him afterwards?'
'He saw the beautiful light of which the old chafer spoke; he thought he could do no better than fly towards it at once. He flew straight into a room, and into a human hand. For three days he lived in torture; he was shut up in a cardboard box; they tied a thread to his feet and let him fly at the end of it; then they untied him, with one wing and one leg torn off; and at last, helplessly creeping round and round on a carpet, trying to feel his way back to the garden, a heavy foot crushed him to death.
'All the creatures, Johannes, which come out and about at night are just as much children of the Sun as we are. And although they have never seen their glorious father, still an obscure remembrance always tempts them wherever a light is beaming. And thousands of poor creatures of the darkness find a miserable end through their love for the Sun, from which they were so long since parted, and to which they have become strangers. And in the same way a vague and irresistible attraction brings men to ruin in the false image of that Great Light whence they proceeded, but which they no longer know.'
Johannes looked inquiringly into Windekind's eyes, but they were as deep and mysterious as the dark sky between the stars.
'Do you mean God?' he timidly asked.
'God?' There was a soft smile in the deep eyes. 'I know, Johannes, what you are thinking of when you speak that word,—of the chair by your bed-side where you knelt to say your long prayers last evening—of the green serge curtains in front of the church window, which you gaze at by the hour on Sunday mornings—of the capital letters in your little Bible—of the church-bag with its long pole—of the stupid singing and the stuffy atmosphere. All that you mean by the word, Johannes, is a monstrous, false image. In place of the sun a huge petroleum lamp, to which thousands and thousands of flies are helplessly and hopelessly stuck fast!'
'But what then is the name of that Great Light, Windekind? And to whom must I pray?'
'Johannes, it is as though a patch of mould should ask me what was the name of the earth which bears it round in space. Even if there were any answer to your question you would no more understand it than an earthworm can hear the music of the stars. Still, I will teach you to pray.'
And while Johannes was still silently wondering over Windekind's reply, the elf flew out of the wood with him, high up, so high that beyond the edge of the down a long narrow line was visible, gleaming like gold. They flew on and on, the undulating sand-hills beneath them gliding away, and the streak of light growing broader and broader. The green hue faded, the wild broom was grey and thin, and strange bluish-green plants grew among the bushes. Then another range of hills—a long narrow strip of sand—and beyond, the wide unresting sea.
The vast expanse was blue to the very horizon; but out there, under the sun, a small streak shone in blinding red fire. An endless fringe of downy-looking white foam edged the waters, as ermine borders blue velvet. On the horizon a wonderful, fine line divided the air from the ocean. It was indeed a marvel; straight yet curved; sharply defined yet non-existent; visible yet intangible. It was like the vibration of a harp-string, which thrills dreamily for a long time, seeming to die away and yet still be there.
Then little Johannes sat down on the sand-hill and gazed—gazed long—motionless and silent; till he felt as though he were about to die,—as though the great golden gates of the Infinite had opened majestically before him, and his little soul were soaring forth towards the first light of eternity; until the tears, which welled up to his wide-open eyes, had dimmed the radiance of the sun, and the splendour of sky and earth floated off into soft tremulous light.
'That is the way to pray!' said Windekind.
Have you ever loitered in the woods on a fresh autumn day? When the sun shines calmly and clearly on the richly-tinted foliage; when the boughs creak, and the dry leaves rustle under foot. The forest seems weary of life; it can merely think, and lives in its memories of the past. A blue mist hangs about it like a dream, full of mysterious splendour, and the glistening gossamers float on the air with slow undulations—a sweet aimless musing.
And now from the moist ground among the mosses and withered leaves suddenly and inexplicably the strange forms of toadstools spring into being. Some sturdy, deformed and fleshy; others slim and tall with ringed stems and gaily painted hats. These are the quaint dream-figures of the forest. On the decayed tree-trunks, too, there are little white columns in numerable, with black heads as though they had been burnt. Certain learned men regard them as a sort of fungus. But Johannes knew better:—
'They are little tapers. In the still autumn nights they burn while the boguey-sprites sit near them, reading their little books.'
Windekind had told him this one such tranquil autumn day, and Johannes dreamily drank in the faint earthy smell which came up from the mouldering ground.
'How is it that the leaves of the ash-trees are so speckled with black?'
'Ah! the boguey-sprites do that too,' said Windekind. 'When they have been busy writing at night, in the morning they throw out what is left in their ink-bottles over the leaves. They do not love the ash-trees; crosses are made of ash-wood, and poles for church bags.'
Johannes was curious to know all about the busy little sprites, and he made Windekind promise to take him to see one of them. He had now stayed some time with Windekind, and he was so happy in his new life that he felt very little regret for his promise to forget all he had left behind him. And he had no hours of loneliness or terror, when repentance is always apt to intrude. Windekind never quitted him, and with him he felt everywhere at home. He slept soundly in the swinging nest, where it hung between the green reeds, however ominously the bittern might boom or the raven croak. He knew no fear of the pelting rain or howling storm—he could creep into a hollow tree or a rabbit's burrow, and hide close under Windekind's cloak, and listen to his voice as he told him tales.
And now he was to see the Wood-Sprites.
It was a good day for such a visit. So calm, so still, Johannes fancied he could already hear tiny voices and the rustle of little feet, though it was mid-day. The birds had almost all fled; only the thrushes were feasting on the scarlet berries. One was caught in a snare. There he hung with flapping wings, struggling till his sharp clenched claws were almost torn away. Johannes made haste to set him free, and he flew off with a happy chirp.
The toadstools had a great deal to say.
'Only look at me!' said a fat puffy Toadstool.
'Did you ever see the like? See how thick and white my stem is, and how my hat shines. I am the biggest of you all. And that in one night!'
'Pooh!' said the red spotted toadstool. 'You are most vulgar!—so brown and clumsy. Now, I sway on a tall stem like a reed; I am of a splendid red like the rowan berries, and most elegantly speckled. I am the handsomest of you all.'
'Hush!' said Johannes, who knew them both of old. 'You are both poisonous.'
'That is a virtue,' said the red fellow.
'Or are you a man by chance?' retorted the fat toadstool. 'Then indeed I wish you would eat me.'
But Johannes did not eat him; he took some dry twigs and stuck them into his round hat. That looked funny, and all the others laughed; even a swarm of slender toadstools with little brown heads who had only come up a few hours since, and pushed themselves everywhere to look out on the world. The fat toadstool turned blue with spite, thus displaying his venomous nature. Earth-stars raised their little pert heads on angular stems. Now and then a little cloud of the finest brown powder puffed out of the opening in a round head. Wherever that dust fell on the moist soil, threads would tangle and plait beneath the dark earth, and next year myriads of fresh stars would come up.
'What a beautiful existence!' they said to each other.
'The happiest lot in life is to shed dust. What joy to think we may do it as long as we live!' And they puffed the little smoke-like cloud into the air with the deepest concentration.
'Are they really happy, Windekind?'
'Why not? What higher joy can they know? They are happy, for they ask no better because they know no better.'
When night fell, and the shadows of the trees were merged in uniform gloom, the mysterious vitality of the forest knew no rest. The branches snapped and cracked, the dry leaves rustled hither and thither among the grass and in the underwood. Then Johannes felt the touch of invisible wings and was aware of the presence of invisible beings. He could plainly hear the murmur of little voices and tripping of little feet. There! there in the darkest depth of the thicket, a tiny blue spark glowed and vanished. There was another and another!—Hark! When he listened attentively he could hear a rustling in the leaf-strewn floor near him, close to the black tree-trunk. The blue lights again were visible and then stood still on the top.
Now Johannes saw such lights all about him; they flitted among the brown leaves, dancing along with airy leaping; and in one place a large sparkling mass beamed like a blue bonfire.
'What fire is that?' asked Johannes. 'It burns splendidly.'
'That is a rotten tree-stump,' replied Windekind.
They went towards a bright light which remained steady.
'Now I will introduce you to Wistik.[1]He is the oldest and wisest of the Wood-Sprites.
As they approached Johannes saw him sitting by his candle. The wrinkled little face with its grey beard could be plainly seen by the blue light; he was reading diligently with knitted brows. On his head he wore an acorn-cup with a tiny feather in it. Before him sat a wood-spider listening to his reading.
When the pair went near him, the little boguey, without raising his head, looked up from his book and lifted his eyebrows.
The spider crept away.
'Good-evening,' said he. 'I am Wistik. Who are you?'
'My name is Johannes. I should like to make acquaintance with you. What are you reading?'
'It is not meant for your ears,' said Wistik. 'It is only for wood-spiders.'
'Just let me once look at it, dear Wistik,' begged Johannes.
'I cannot. This is the sacred book of the spiders, and is in my charge. I may not let it out of my own hands. I have the keeping of the sacred books of the snails, and the butterflies, and the hedge-hogs, and the moles, and all the creatures that live here. They cannot all read, and when they want to know anything I read it to them. This is a great honour for me, a post of trust, you understand.'
The sprite nodded very gravely several times, and pointed with his tiny forefinger.
'And what were you studying just now?'
'The history of Kribbelgauw, the great hero among spiders, who lived very long ago and had a net which spread over three trees, and in which he caught millions of flies every day. Before the time of Kribbelgauw spiders made no nets, but lived on grass and dead creatures; but Kribbelgauw was a very clever fellow, and proved that all living insects were created on purpose for food for spiders. Then, by the most laborious calculation, Kribbelgauw discovered the art of making nets, for he was very learned. And to this day the wood-spiders make their nets exactly as he taught them, thread for thread, only much smaller. For the spider race is greatly degenerate. Kribbelgauw caught great birds in his net, and murdered thousands of his own children—he was something like a spider! At last there came a great storm and carried away Kribbelgauw and his net, with the three trees it was made fast to, through the air to a distant wood, where he is now perpetually honoured for his great achievements and sagacity.'
'Is that all true?' asked Johannes.
'It is all in this book,' said Wistik.
'Do you believe it?'
The boguey shut one eye and laid his forefinger to his nose.
'The sacred books of other creatures, when they mention Kribbelgauw, speak of him as a hateful and contemptible monster. But that is no concern of mine.'
'And is there a Sprites' Book, Wistik?'
Wistik looked at Johannes rather suspiciously.
'What sort of creature are you really, Johannes? There is something—just something—human about you, so to speak.'
'No, no; be easy, Wistik,' said Windekind, 'we are elves. But formerly Johannes saw a good deal of men and their doings. You may trust him entirely. It can do him no harm.'
'Ay, ay, well and good. But I am called the wisest of the sprites—and I studied long and hard before I knew what I know. So now I must be cautious with my learning. If I tell you too much, I shall lose my reputation.'
'But in what book do you think that the truth is to be found?'
'I have read a great deal, but I do not believe that I have ever read that book. It is not the Elves' Book nor the Sprites'. Yet it must exist.'
'The Men's Book perhaps?'
'That I do not know, but I do not think it. For the True Book must bring with it great peace and great happiness. In it there must be an exact explanation of why everything is as it is, so that no one need ever ask or inquire any more. Now men, I believe, have not got so far as that.'
'Oh dear, no!' said Windekind, laughing.
'Is there anywhere such a book?' said Johannes eagerly.
'Yes, yes,' whispered the sprite. 'I know there is, from very ancient legends. And—hush!—I know where it is, and who can find it.'
'Oh, Wistik! Wistik!'
'Why then have you not yet got it?' asked Windekind.
'Patience, patience,—it will be found. I know as yet no particulars,—but I shall soon find it. I have toiled for it and sought it all my life. For to him who finds it life shall be one perpetual autumn day—blue air above and blue mists all round,—only no falling leaves shall rustle, no twigs shall snap, no raindrops patter, the shadows shall not change, the sun-gold on the tree-tops shall not fade. What seems to us now to be light shall be darkness; what seems to us now to be joy shall be woe by comparison, to those who read that book! Ay! I know this much, and some day I shall find it.'
The Wood-Sprite raised his eyebrows very much and laid his finger on his lips.
'Wistik, if you could but teach me——' Johannes began; but before he could say more he felt a strong gust of wind and saw a great, broad black shroud overhead, which silently and swiftly swept by. When he looked for Wistik again he saw one little foot just vanishing into the hollow tree. Whisk! the sprite had leapt into his cave, book and all. The candles burnt paler and paler and suddenly went out. Those were very strange little candles.
'What was that?' asked Johannes, clinging in terror to Windekind in the darkness.
'An owl,' said Windekind. Then they were both silent for some time. Presently Johannes said:—
'Do you believe what Wistik said?'
'Wistik is not so wise as he thinks himself. He will never find such a book, nor you either.'
'But does it exist?'
'It exists, as your shadow exists, Johannes. However fast you run, however cautiously you seize it, you can never overtake it or hold it. And at last you discover that you are trying to catch yourself. Do not be foolish; forget the sprite's chatter. I can tell you a hundred finer tales. Come along! We will go to the outskirts of the wood and see how our good father draws off the white woollen coverlets of dew from the sleeping meadows. Come.'
Johannes went; but he did not understand Windekind's words, nor did he follow his counsel. And while he watched the dawn of the glorious autumn morning, he was meditating over the book in which it is written why everything is as it is, and repeating to himself in a low tone, 'Wistik!'
It seemed to him, all the next few days, as though it was no longer so delightful or so beautiful to be with Windekind in the wood or on the sand-hills. His thoughts were no onger wholly occupied with all that Windekind told him or showed him. He could not help thinking of that Book, but he dared not speak of it. The things he saw seemed to him less fine and wonderful than before. The clouds were so black and heavy, he was afraid lest they should fall upon him. It distressed him when the unresting autumn wind shook and bowed the poor weary trees, so that the sallow under side of the leaves was seen, and yellow leaves and dry twigs were swept before the gale.
What Windekind told him had ceased to interest him. A great deal of it he did not understand, and he never got a perfectly clear and satisfactory answer when he asked one of his old questions.
And this again made him think of that Book in which everything was set forth so plainly and simply; and of that everlasting still and sunny autumn day which would ensue.
'Wistik! Wistik!' he murmured.
Windekind heard him.
'Johannes, I am afraid you ought to have remained a human being. Even your friendship is as that of men—the first person who has spoken to you after me has won all your confidence from me. Ah! my mother was right after all!'
'No, Windekind. But you are much wiser than Wistik—as wise as that Book. Why do you not tell me everything? See now! Why does the wind blow through the trees so that they bend and bow? Look, they can bear it no longer; the boughs snap and the leaves are flying by hundreds on all sides, though they are still green and fresh. They are so tired they can no longer hold on, and yet they are constantly shaken and thrashed by the rude, spiteful wind. Why is it so? What does the wind mean?'
'My poor Johannes, you are talking as men talk.'
'Make it stop, Windekind. I want calm and sunshine.'
'You question and want as a man; there is no answer, no fulfilment. If you cannot learn to ask or wish better, the autumn day will never dawn for you, and you will be like the thousands of human beings who have talked to Wistik.'
'What, so many?'
'Yes, thousands. Wistik affects great mystery, but he is a chatterbox who cannot keep his own secrets. He hoped to find the Book among men, and communicates his knowledge to every one who might be able to help him. And he has made many as unhappy as himself. They believe in him, and go forth to seek the Book with as much zeal as some use in seeking the art of making gold. They sacrifice everything, give up their calling and their happiness, and shut themselves up among big volumes or strange matters and instruments. They risk their lives and health, they forget the blue sky and kindly gentle Nature—nay, even their fellow-creatures. Some find good and useful things, as it were gold nuggets, which they throw out of their holes on to the bright sunlit surface of the earth; but they do not themselves care for these; they leave them for others to enjoy, while they dig and grub on in the dark without cessation or rest. They are not seeking gold but the Book. Some lose their wits over the work, forgetting their object and aim, and becoming mere miserable dotards. The sprite has made them quite childish. You may see them building up little castles of sand, and calculating how many grains more are needed to make them fall in; they make little watercourses, and estimate precisely the bends and bays the water will make; they dig trenches, and devote all their patience and reason to making them very smooth and free from stones. If these poor idiots are interrupted in their work and asked what they are doing, they look up with great importance, shake their heads and mutter, 'Wistik, Wistik!' Yes, it is all the fault of that little foolish Wood-Sprite. Have nothing to say to him, Johannes.'
But Johannes stared before him at the swaying, creaking trees. The smooth brow above his clear childish eyes puckered into furrows. He had never before looked so grave.
'And yet—you yourself said—that there is such a Book! And oh! I am quite sure that in it there is all about the Great Light, whose name you will not tell me.'
'Poor, poor little Johannes!' said Windekind, and his voice rose above the dizzy clamour of the storm like a peaceful hymn, sounding very far away. 'Love me, only love me with all your might. In me, you will find even more than you wish. You shall understand that which you cannot conceive of, and be, yourself, what you desire to know. Earth and heaven shall be familiar to you, the stars shall be your neighbours, infinitude shall be your dwelling-place. Love me! only love me! Cling to me as the hop-bine to the tree, be true to me as the lake is to its bed—in me alone shall you find rest, Johannes.'
Windekind ceased speaking, but the choral psalm still went on. It seemed to float at an immense distance, in solemn rhythm, through the raging and sighing of the wind—as tranquil as the moonlight shining between the driving clouds. Windekind opened his arms and Johannes fell asleep on his breast, under the shelter of the blue cloak.
But in the night he awoke. Peace had suddenly and imperceptibly fallen on the world; the moon was below the horizon; the leaves hung limp and motionless; the forest was full of silence and darkness.
And questions came back on Johannes' mind, in swift spectral succession, dislodging all his newly-born confidence. Why were men thus made? Why must he come away from them and lose their love? Why must the winter come? Why must the leaves fall and the flowers die? Why—why?
Down in the thicket the blue lights were dancing again. They came and went. Johannes gazed at them with eager attention. He saw the larger, brighter light shining on the dark tree-trunk. Windekind was sleeping soundly and peacefully.
'Just one more question!' thought Johannes, creeping out from under the blue mantle.
'So, here you are again!' cried Wistik, with a friendly nod, 'I am very pleased to see you. And where is your friend?'
'Out yonder. But I wanted to ask you one more question—alone. Will you answer it?'
'You have lived among men, I am sure. Has it anything to do with my secret?'
'Who will find the Book, Wistik?'
'Ay, ay! That's it, that's it. If I tell you, will you help me?'
'If I can—certainly.'
'Then listen, Johannes.' Wistik opened his eyes astonishingly wide, and raised his eyebrows higher than ever. Then he whispered behind his little hand. 'Men have the golden casket; elves have the golden key; the foe of the elves can never find it, the friend of men alone can open it. The first night of Spring is the right time, and Robin Redbreast knows the way.'
'Is that true, quite true?' cried Johannes, remembering his little key.
'Yes,' said Wistik.
'How is it that no one has found it yet?' asked Johannes, 'so many men are seeking for it.'
'I have never confided to any man, never to any man, what I have told you. I never before knew a friend of the Elves.'
'I have it, Wistik, I can help you!' Johannes leaped and clapped his hands. 'I will ask Windekind about it.'
Away he flew over the moss and dry leaves. But he stumbled now and then and his feet were heavy. Stout twigs snapped under his tread, while before, it had not even bent the blades of grass. There was the shady fern under which they had been sleeping. Their bed was empty.
'Windekind!' he called. But he started at the sound of his own voice. 'Windekind!' It sounded like a human voice.
A scared night-bird flew up with a shriek.
There was no one under the fern. Johannes could see no one. The blue lights had vanished. It was very cold and perfectly dark on all sides. Overhead, he saw the black tree-tops against the starry sky.
Once more he called. Then he dared no more; his voice was an insult to the silence, and Windekind's name a mockery. Poor Johannes fell on the ground and sobbed in helpless grief.