ey, laughing, "and mark you, madcap, never again stop
people like us upon the highway."

"Woe is me!" replied Peter with a sigh, "I shall certainly recollect
it. But now that I have had the blows, you will oblige me by telling
me plainly what he was singing." To this they laughed again and mocked
him; but the one who had sung repeated the song to him, after which
they went away laughing and singing.

"Face," then said the poor belaboured Peter as he got up slowly; "will
rhyme with 'place,' now glass-mannikin, I will have another word with
you." He went into the hut, took his hat and long stick, bid farewell
to the inmates, and commenced his way back to the Tannenbuehl. Being
under the necessity of inventing a verse, he proceeded slowly and
thoughtfully on his way; at length, when he was already within the
precincts of the Tannenbuehl, and the trees became higher and closer, he
found his verse, and for joy cut a caper in the air. All at once he
saw coming from behind the trees a gigantic man dressed like a
raftsman, who held in his hand a pole as large as the mast of a ship.
Peter Munk's knees almost gave way under him, when he saw him slowly
striding by his side, thinking he was no other than the Dutchman
Michel. Still the terrible figure kept silence, and Peter cast a side
glance at him from time to time. He was full a head taller than the
biggest man Peter had even seen; his face expressed neither youth nor
old age, but was full of furrows and wrinkles; he wore a jacket of
linen, and the enormous boots being drawn above his leather breeches,
were well known to Peter from hearsay.

"What are you doing in the Tannenbuehl, Peter Munk?" asked the wood king
at length, in a deep, roaring voice.

"Good morning, countryman," replied Peter, wishing to show himself
undaunted, but trembling violently all the while.

"Peter Munk," replied Michel, casting a piercing, terrible glance at
him, "your way does not lie through this grove."

"True, it does not exactly," said Peter; "but being a hot day, I
thought it would be cooler here."

"Do not lie, Peter," cried Michel, in a thundering voice, "or I strike
you to the ground with this pole; think you I have not seen you begging
of the little one?" he added mildly. "Come, come, confess it was a
silly trick, and it is well you did not know the verse; for the little
fellow is a skinflint, giving but little; and he to whom he gives is
never again cheerful in his life. Pete