The Will-O-the Wisp is in the Town, Says the Moor Woman Page #2

								

mother, had stood clipped hedges, but now only ferns and stinging
nettles grew there, hiding the scattered fragments of old sculptured
figures; the moss is growing in their eyes, but they can see as well
as ever, which was more than the man could do who was in search of the
Story, for he could not find that. Where could it be?

The crows flew past him by hundreds across the old trees, and
screamed, "Krah! da!--Krah! da!"

And he went out of the garden and over the grass-plot of the yard,
into the alder grove; there stood a little six-sided house, with a
poultry-yard and a duck-yard. In the middle of the room sat the old
woman who had the management of the whole, and who knew accurately
about every egg that was laid, and about every chicken that could
creep out of an egg. But she was not the Story of which the man was in
search; that she could attest with a Christian certificate of
baptism and of vaccination that lay in her drawer.

Without, not far from the house, is a hill covered with
red-thorn and broom. Here lies an old grave-stone, which was brought
here many years ago from the churchyard of the provincial town, a
remembrance of one of the most honored councillors of the place; his
wife and his five daughters, all with folded hands and stiff ruffs,
stand round him. One could look at them so long, that it had an effect
upon the thoughts, and these reacted upon the stones, as if they
were telling of old times; at least it had been so with the man who
was in search of the Story.

As he came nearer, he noticed a living butterfly sitting on the
forehead of the 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
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