iss.

"I like that!" exclaimed both the Englishmen together. "Always going
down-hill, and always merry; that's worth the money." So they paid a
hundredweight of gold to the peasant, who was not scolded, but kissed.

Yes, it always pays, when the wife sees and always asserts that her
husband knows best, and that whatever he does is right.

You see, that is my story. I heard it when I was a child; and now you
have heard it too, and know that "What the old man does is always
right."

THE WIND TELLS ABOUT WALDEMAR DAA AND HIS DAUGHTERS.

When the wind sweeps across the grass, the field has a ripple like a
pond, and when it sweeps across the corn the field waves to and fro
like a high sea. That is called the wind's dance; but the wind does
not dance only, he also tells stories; and how loudly he can sing out
of his deep chest, and how different it sounds in the tree-tops in the
forest, and through the loopholes and clefts and cracks in walls! Do
you see how the wind drives the clouds up yonder, like a frightened
flock of sheep? Do you hear how the wind howls down here through the
open valley, like a watchman blowing his horn? With wonderful tones he
whistles and screams down the chimney and into the fireplace. The fire
crackles and flares up, and shines far into the room, and the little
place is warm and snug, and it is pleasant to sit there listening to
the sounds. Let the wind speak, for he knows plenty of stories and
fairy tales, many more than are known to any of us. Just hear what the
wind can tell.

Huh--uh--ush! roar along! That is the burden of the song.

"By the shores of the Great Belt, one of the straits that unite the
Cattegut with the Baltic, lies an old mansion with thick red walls,"
says the Wind. "I know every stone in it; I saw it when it still
belonged to the castle of Marsk Stig on the promontory. But it had to
be pulled down, and the stone was used again for the walls of a new
mansion in another place, the baronial mansion of Borreby, which still
stands by the coast.

"I knew them, the noble lords and ladies, the changing races that
dwelt there, and now I'm going to tell about Waldemar Daa and his
daughters. How proudly he carried himself--he was of royal blood! He
could do more than merely hunt the stag and empty the wine-can. 'It
_shall_ be done,' he was accustomed to say.

"His wife walked proudly in gold-embroidered garments over the
polished marble floors. The tapestries were gorge