drink of the clear bright waters of the lovely Meuse,
which reflected in those days every lily-bell and every grass-blade
which grew upon its banks, and gave a faithful portraiture in its cool
waters of every creature that leant over them--though he was certainly
the most frightful creature that had ever met the blacksmith's sight, it
was evident enough that he did not like being called Ugly-face. But when
the honest, good-natured smith spoke of earning a draught for his new
acquaintance as well as himself, he smacked his ugly lips and twisted
out a sort of smile which made him still more hideous.

"Ah, ah!" said he, "wine's good in winter weather, wine's good in winter
weather. Listen, listen! Jacques Perron! listen, listen! Go you up the
hill-side--yonder, yonder!" and he pointed with a yellow finger, which
seemed to stretch out longer and longer as the smith strained his
eyes up the slope, until the digit looked quite as long as the tallest
chimney that smoked over Liege. "Listen, listen!" and he sang in a voice
like the breath of a huge bellows:

"'Wine's good in winter weather;
Up the hill-side near the heather
Go and gather the black earth,
It shall give your fire birth.
Ill fares the hide when the buckler wants mending;
Ill fares the plough when the coulter wants tending:
Go! Go!'

"Mind my cup of wine--mind my cup of wine!" As he ended this rude chant
Jacques saw the long finger run back into the shrivelled hand, as a
telescope slips back into its case, and then the hand was wrapped up in
the dingy garment, and with a dreadful shiver, and a chattering of teeth
as loud as the noise of the anvils now heard on the same spot, the ugly
man was wafted away round the corner of the building like a thick gust
of smoke from a newly fed furnace.

"Mind my cup of wine--mind my cup of wine!" rang again in the ears of
the startled Jacques, and after running several times round his house in
vain pursuit of the voice, he sat down on the cold anvil to scratch his
head and think. It was quite certain he had work to do, and it was as
certain as half a score searches could make it that he had not a single
coin in his pouch to buy charcoal to do it with. He was reflecting that
the old man was a very strange creature--he was more than half afraid to
think who he might be--when in the midst of his cogitation he heard
his three children calling out for their morning meal. Not a loaf
had Jacques