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During the recital of the old man’s story, the storm had ceased. The girls now timidly lighted their lamps and went off to bed; while the man gave Peter a bag of leaves for a pillow on the settee, and wished him goodnight.

Never before did Charcoal Pete have such dreams as on this night. Now the sullen giant, Dutch Michel, would raise the window and hold out before him with his enormously long arm a purse full of gold pieces, which he chincked together; then he would see the good-natured Little Glass-Man riding about the room on a monstrous green bottle, and he could hear his merry laugh just as it sounded in the Tannenbuehl; then again there was hummed into his left ear:

“In Holland there is gold;
You can have it if you will
For very little pay;
Gold, Gold!”

then in his right ear he heard the song of the “Schatzhauser im gruenen Tannenwald,” and a soft voice whispered: “Stupid Charcoal Pete! stupid Peter Munk can’t think of any thing to rhyme with stehen, and yet was born on Sunday at twelve o’clock. Rhyme, stupid Peter, rhyme!”

He sighed and groaned in his sleep. He tried his best to think of a rhyme for that word; but as he had never made a rhyme in his life, all his efforts in his dream were fruitless. But on awaking with the early dawn, his dream recurred to his mind. He sat himself down behind the table with folded arms, and thought over the whispers he could still hear. “Rhyme, stupid Charcoal Pete, rhyme,” said he to himself, meanwhile tapping his forehead with his finger; but the rhyme would not come forth at his bidding.

While he was sitting thus, looking sadly before him with his mind intent on a rhyme for stehen, three fellows passed by the house, one of whom was singing:

“Am Berge that ich stehen
Und schaute in das Thal,
Da hab’ ich sie gesehen
Zum allerletzten Mal.”

That struck Peter’s ear instantly, and springing up he rushed hastily out of the house, ran after the three men, and seized the singer roughly by the arm. “Stop, friend,” cried he, “what was your rhyme for stehen ? Be so kind as to recite what you sang.”

“What’s the trouble with you, young fellow?” retorted the singer. “I can sing what I please, so let go of my arm, or—-“

“No, you must tell me what you sang!” shouted Peter, taking a firmer grip on his arm. The two others did not hesitate long on seeing this but fell upon Peter with their hard fists and gave him such a beating that he was forced to let go his hold on the first man and sank exhausted to his knees. “You have got your share now,” said they laughing, “and mind you, stupid fellow, never to jump upon people again on the highway.”

“Oh, I will surely take care!” replied Charcoal Pete sighing; “but now that I have had the blows, be so good as to tell me plainly what it was that man sang.”

They began to laugh again, and made sport of him; but the one who had sung the song repeated it to him, and laughing and singing they continued on their way.

“Also gesehen,” said the beaten one, as he raised himself up with some difficulty; ” gesehen rhymes with stehen. Now then, Little Glass-Man, we will speak a word together.” He went back to the hut, took his hat and stick, and bade farewell to the inmates of the hut, and started on his way back to the Tannenbuehl.

He walked on slowly and thoughtfully, for he had a line to make up; finally as he came into the neighborhood of the Tannenbuehl, and the pines grew taller and thicker, he had completed the verse, and in his joy made a leap into the air. Just then appeared a man of giant size, who held in his hand a pole as long as a ship’s mast. Peter’s courage failed him as he saw this giant walking along very slowly near him; for, thought he, that is none other than Dutch Michel. But the giant remained silent, and Peter occasionally took a half-frightened look at him. He was fully a head taller than the largest man Peter had ever seen; his face was neither young nor old, and yet full of lines; he wore a linen jacket, and the enormous boots drawn over the leather breeches, Peter recognized from the legend he had heard the night before.