THE WILL-O-THE WISP IS IN THE TOWN, SAYS THE MOOR WOMAN [2]
sculptured councillor. The butterfly flapped its
wings, and flew a little bit farther, and then returned fatigued to
sit upon the grave-stone, as if to point out what grew there.
Four-leaved shamrocks grew there; there were seven specimens close
to each other. When fortune comes, it comes in a heap. He plucked
the shamrocks and put them in his pocket.
"Fortune is as good as red gold, but a new charming story would be
better still," thought the man; but he could not find it here.
And the sun went down, round and large; the meadow was covered
with vapor. The moor-woman was at her brewing.
It was evening. He stood alone in his room, and looked out upon
the sea, over the meadow, over moor and coast. The moon shone
bright, a mist was over the meadow, making it look like a great
lake; and, indeed, it was once so, as the legend tells- and in the
moonlight the eye realizes these myths.
Then the man thought of what he had been reading in the town, that
William Tell and Holger Danske never really lived, but yet live in
popular story, like the lake yonder, a living evidence for such myths.
Yes, Holger Danske will return again!
As he stood thus and thought, something beat quite strongly
against the window. Was it a bird, a bat or an owl? Those are not
let in, even when they knock. The window flew open of itself, and an
old woman looked in at the man.
"What's your pleasure?" said he. "Who are you? You're looking in
at the first floor window. Are you standing on a ladder?"
"You have a four-leaved shamrock in your pocket," she replied.
"Indeed, you have seven, and one of them is a six-leaved one."
"Who are you?" asked the man again.
"The Moor-woman," she replied. "The Moor-woman who brews. I was at
it. The bung was in the cask, but one of the little moor-imps pulled
it out in his mischief, and flung it up into the yard, where it beat
against the window; and now the beer's running out of the cask, and
that won't do good to anybody."
"Pray tell me some more!" said the man.
"Yes, wait a little," answered the Moor-woman. "I've something
else to do just now." And she was gone.
The man was going to shut the window, when the woman already stood
before him again.
"Now it's done," she said; "but I shall have half the beer to brew
over again to-morrow, if the weather is suitable. Well, what have
you to ask me? I've come back, for I always keep my word, and you have
seven four-leaved shamrocks in your pocket, and one of them is a
six-leaved one. That inspires respect, for that's an order that
grows beside the sandy way; but that every one does not find. What
have you to ask me? Don't stand there like a ridiculous oaf, for I
must go back again directly to my bung and my cask."
And the man asked about the Story, and inquired if the
Moor-woman had met it in her journeyings.
"By the big brewing-vat!" exclaimed the woman, "haven't you got
stories enough? I really believe that most people have enough of them.
Here are other things to take notice of, other things to examine. Even
the children have gone beyond that. Give the little boy a cigar, and
the little girl a new crinoline; they like that much better. To listen
to stories! No, indeed, there are more important things to be done
here, and other things to notice!"
"What do you mean by that?" asked the man, "and what do you know
of the world? You don't see anything but frogs and Will-o'-the-Wisps!"
"Yes, beware of the Will-o'-the-Wisps," said the Moor-woman,
"for they're out- they're let loose- that's what we must talk about!
Come to me in the moor, where my presence is necessary, and I will
tell you all about it; but you must make haste, and come while your
seven four-leaved shamrocks, for which one has six leaves, are still
fresh, and the moon stands high!"
And the Moor-woman was gone.
It struck twelve in the town, and before the last stroke had
died away, the man was out in the yard, out in the
wings, and flew a little bit farther, and then returned fatigued to
sit upon the grave-stone, as if to point out what grew there.
Four-leaved shamrocks grew there; there were seven specimens close
to each other. When fortune comes, it comes in a heap. He plucked
the shamrocks and put them in his pocket.
"Fortune is as good as red gold, but a new charming story would be
better still," thought the man; but he could not find it here.
And the sun went down, round and large; the meadow was covered
with vapor. The moor-woman was at her brewing.
It was evening. He stood alone in his room, and looked out upon
the sea, over the meadow, over moor and coast. The moon shone
bright, a mist was over the meadow, making it look like a great
lake; and, indeed, it was once so, as the legend tells- and in the
moonlight the eye realizes these myths.
Then the man thought of what he had been reading in the town, that
William Tell and Holger Danske never really lived, but yet live in
popular story, like the lake yonder, a living evidence for such myths.
Yes, Holger Danske will return again!
As he stood thus and thought, something beat quite strongly
against the window. Was it a bird, a bat or an owl? Those are not
let in, even when they knock. The window flew open of itself, and an
old woman looked in at the man.
"What's your pleasure?" said he. "Who are you? You're looking in
at the first floor window. Are you standing on a ladder?"
"You have a four-leaved shamrock in your pocket," she replied.
"Indeed, you have seven, and one of them is a six-leaved one."
"Who are you?" asked the man again.
"The Moor-woman," she replied. "The Moor-woman who brews. I was at
it. The bung was in the cask, but one of the little moor-imps pulled
it out in his mischief, and flung it up into the yard, where it beat
against the window; and now the beer's running out of the cask, and
that won't do good to anybody."
"Pray tell me some more!" said the man.
"Yes, wait a little," answered the Moor-woman. "I've something
else to do just now." And she was gone.
The man was going to shut the window, when the woman already stood
before him again.
"Now it's done," she said; "but I shall have half the beer to brew
over again to-morrow, if the weather is suitable. Well, what have
you to ask me? I've come back, for I always keep my word, and you have
seven four-leaved shamrocks in your pocket, and one of them is a
six-leaved one. That inspires respect, for that's an order that
grows beside the sandy way; but that every one does not find. What
have you to ask me? Don't stand there like a ridiculous oaf, for I
must go back again directly to my bung and my cask."
And the man asked about the Story, and inquired if the
Moor-woman had met it in her journeyings.
"By the big brewing-vat!" exclaimed the woman, "haven't you got
stories enough? I really believe that most people have enough of them.
Here are other things to take notice of, other things to examine. Even
the children have gone beyond that. Give the little boy a cigar, and
the little girl a new crinoline; they like that much better. To listen
to stories! No, indeed, there are more important things to be done
here, and other things to notice!"
"What do you mean by that?" asked the man, "and what do you know
of the world? You don't see anything but frogs and Will-o'-the-Wisps!"
"Yes, beware of the Will-o'-the-Wisps," said the Moor-woman,
"for they're out- they're let loose- that's what we must talk about!
Come to me in the moor, where my presence is necessary, and I will
tell you all about it; but you must make haste, and come while your
seven four-leaved shamrocks, for which one has six leaves, are still
fresh, and the moon stands high!"
And the Moor-woman was gone.
It struck twelve in the town, and before the last stroke had
died away, the man was out in the yard, out in the