ack
to my cousin;
But it turned out as he said,--I'd somewhere
forgotten my snuff-box!

[Footnote C: _Dengle-Geist_, literally, "Whetting-Spirit." The exact
meaning of _dengeln_ is to sharpen a scythe by hammering the edge of the
blade, which was practised before whetstones came in use.]

[Footnote D: According to an old legend, Fridolin (a favorite saint with
the Catholic population of the Black Forest) harnessed two young heifers
to a mighty fir-tree, and hauled it into the Rhine near Saeckingen,
thereby damming the river and forcing it to take a new course, on the
other side of the town.]

In this poem the hero of the story unconsciously describes himself by
his manner of telling it,--a reflective action of the dramatic faculty,
which Browning, among living poets, possesses in a marked degree. The
"moral" is so skilfully inwoven into the substance of the narrative as
to conceal the appearance of design, and the reader has swallowed the
pill before its sugar-coating of fancy has dissolved in his mouth. There
are few of Hebel's poems which were not written for the purpose of
inculcating some wholesome lesson, but in none does this object
prominently appear. Even where it is not merely implied, but directly
expressed, he contrives to give it the air of having been accidentally
suggested by the theme. In the following, which is the most pointedly
didactic of all his productions, the characteristic fancy still betrays
itself:--

THE GUIDE-POST.

D' ye know the road to th' bar'l o' flour?
At break o' day let down the bars,
And plough y'r wheat-field, hour by hour,
Till sundown,--yes, till shine o' stars.

You peg away, the livelong day,
Nor loaf about, nor gape around;
And that's the road to the thrashin'-floor,
And into the kitchen, I'll be bound!

D' ye know the road where dollars lays?
Follow the red cents, here and there:
For if a man leaves them, I guess,
He won't find dollars anywhere.

D' ye know the road to Sunday's rest?
Jist don't o' week-days be afeard;
In field and workshop do y'r best,
And Sunday comes itself, I've heerd.
On Saturdays it's not fur off,
And brings a basketful o' cheer,--
A roast, and lots o' garden-stuff,
And, like as not, a jug o' beer!

D' ye know the road to poverty?
Turn in at any tavern-sign:
Turn in,--it's temptin' as can be:
There's bran'-new cards and liquor fine.

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