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a smtMMm mimlt mmii, —..psiona to litimtois, th uts mb sckhibbs, mb t® ibul iktelugool
For Richards’ Weekly Gazelte
W A T C II!
BY MRS. C. W. DUBOSE.
* 4 Watch, therefore ; for ye know not what hour
your Lord doth tome. 9 ’
Pilgrim on life's weary journey,
Wanderer on earth's barren soil,
Let your lamp be trimmed and burning,
Ready for your master’s toil!
Watch! ye know not when he comet h—
* Be ye ready at his voice—
Heady when the summons soundeth,
Which should make your souls rejoice!
~ Watch and pray !” for no one knoweth,
When the day or hour shall be,
Os the Master’s glorious coining
In 11 is heavenly majesty !
Life is short! but not the ending
Os our share of bliss or woe ;
All beyond the grave there lieth
Other worlds to which we go !
When the call of Death shall summon
Wearied spirits to their rest,
And the valley’s sod shall slumber
Peacefully upon our breast:
Theu the Master's voice shall call us.
And, obedient to His word.
Must our souls go forth to meet Him,
When that solemn call is heard!
fc * Watch and pray !” this brief existence
Very soon must ended be,
And these forms of life and beauty,
In the tomb sleep silently!
Hearts that now with joy are beating—
Spirits that are stout and brave—
Pnresisfcingly are wending
To the silence of the grave !
To that bourne whose hidden secret,
Traveller ne'er returns to tell,
All unconsciously we ’re tending,
While life’s billows round us swell:
Bearing us in silence onward,
As around they swiftly roll—
Every moment drawing nearer
To that dark, unfathomed goal!
Watch and pray !” the Lord is coining:
Woe to those who fail to keep
Steady watch for His appearing.
And in thoughtless silence sleep !
From that sleep His voice shall rouse them,
When’t will be, alas ! too late ;
Then in silent, sad repentance,
Vainly at the door they’ll wait!
WatdV J the hour is drawing nearer—
■ilo*teas on the fatal day,
When your Lord shall come to seek you :
Be ye ready ! “ watch and pray !”
Trias Boa MESS*
.— — .. ——
THE FIELD_OF TERROR.
BY BF. LA MOTTK FOUfttlE.
CHAPTER I .
During the latter part of the war, which
terminated with the peace of Westphalia,
there assembled at the foot of the Riesett
berg, in a beautiful part of the country of
Silesia, a number of persons who were the
relations, and had lately succeeded to the
property, of an opulent deceased farmer.
This man had died without children, and
had left several farms and fields scattered
about that fertile country; and his heirs
were now met together to divide the in
heritance.
For this purpose, they assembled in the
principal inn of one of the villages; and
they found no difficulty among themselves
as to the allotment of every part of the es
tate except one particular piece of ground,
which was known by the name of the
“Haunted Field,” or “Field of Terror,” on
account of the wonderful stories which
were told concerning it- 1 l'* s was
entirely overgrown with wild flowers, and
an abundance of rank and luxuriant shi übs,
which, while they bore ample testimony to
the vigor and fertility of the soil, were
equally indicative of the neglect and deso
lation to which it was abandoned. For a
long series of years, no ploughshare had
penetrated its surface, and no seed had been
cast upon its furrows; or if, at intervals,
the attempt was marie, the cattle had been
invariably seized with frenzy, had wildly
broken from the yoke, and the ploughman
and his men had rushed from the spot in
fright and alarm, affirming that it was
haunted by the most terrific phantoms,
who followed the laborer in his occupation
with the most fearful familiarity, looking
over his shoulder with such hideous as
pects, that no one could venture to con
tinue his work.
The question now arose, to whom this
field should be allotted. As is the common
course in the world, every one felt that
this spot, which would be useless and of
no value in his own case, might yet be ex
tremely applicable, and even advantageous,
to his neighbor ; and thus the contest for
its right appropriation, continued till a
late hour of the evening. At length, one
of the party proposed a remedy, which,
though not directly benefitting any one
present, seemed to promise a settlement of
the dispute.
•‘By a codicil in the will, 1 ’ said he, “we
are enjoined to shew some mark of kind
ness to a poor relation of the testator, who
iives hard by in the village. It is true,
the girl is very distantly related to us; and
there can be no doubt that, portionless as
she is, she will yet procure a good hus
band, for she is virtuous and frugal, and
goes by the name of the pretty Sabine.—
Suppose we give up this • Field of Terror’
to her; we shall in this way discharge the
injunctions of our lamented relative ; and,
to say the truth, it may yet prove a rich
dowry for her, provided she can find a
husbaud who will venture to cultivate it.”
The others immediately consented to
this proposal, and one of the relatives was
despatched to communicate the intelligence
of their bounty.
In the mean time, as the twilight drew
on, somebody tapped at Sabine’s cottage
window ; and to her question of “ Who’s
there V a reply was given, which had the
instant etlcct of withdrawing the rustic bolt
of her little window. It was a voice long
and anxiously expected—the voice of her
brave Frederick, who, born poor as her
self, had some years before set out for the
wars, in the hope of gaining some little
subsistence, to enable him to marry his be
loved Sabine, whose heart, filled with the
purest allection, was entirely devoted to
him.
It was a delightful picture too see Sabine
leaning out of her wired lattice, with tears
of joy starting in her beautiful eyes, as the
erect and youthful soldier gazed upon her
in modest, silent bliss, and extended to
wards her his faithful hand.
“ Ah, Frederick !” she said, in a low and
bashful voice, “ God be praised, thou art
returned safe; this has been my constant
prayer morn and evening. And tell me,
Frederick, have you made your fortune in
ttie campaign'?”
“ Fortunes are not so soon won,” said
Frederick, shaking his head, and smiling ;
“ and prizes do not fall to every one. How
ever, 1 am better off than when I.went
away; and if you have but a courageous
heart, 1 think we may marry, and get
through the world pretty well.”
“Kind-hearted Frederick!” ejaculated
Sabine, “to take a poor orphan for better
and worse!”
“Come,” said Frederick, “give me but
one friendly ‘yes,’ and promise to be mine,
and we shall be happy in each other, and
thrive, and live like princes.”
“And have you got your discharge, and
are you really no longer a soldier ?”
Frederick, looking into his knapsack,
that held his treasures, brought out a sil
ver medal, which he reached to Sabine;
and as she received it, the light of the little
lamp in her chamber fell on the piece.
There was a burst drum figured in an old
fashioned manner, and over it were written
the words, “God be praised, the war is
ended!”
“ Perhaps,” added Frederick, helping
her to decipher the medal, “it is not yet
peace, hut it is thought we shall have no
moie fighting at present, and our colonel
has therefore discharged his men.”
At this intelligence, Sabine held out her
hand, as a pledge of her affection to her
lover, and invited him to come into her lit
tle dwelling, where he seated himself by
her side, and related how he had won his
gold and silver in honorable battle, and in
the open field, from a foreign officer of
rank whom he had made prisoner—having
obtained the money as his ransom.
Sabine, as she turned her wheel, listened
with deep attention to her lover’s recital,
bestowing, from time to time, a smile of
fond approbation upon his conduct, and in
wardly rejoicing tjiat no reproach could
hereafter be thrown upon their slender
means, thus honorably acquired.
Their conversation was now interrupted
by the appearance of the person who came
to communicate the message entrusted to
him. Sabine, with maidenly blushes, pre
sented her intended husband to the stran
ger, and the latter replied, “This is well—
-1 have arrived very opportunely ; for if
your betrothed has not brought back a for
tune from the wars, the gift which I am
directed to present to you in the name of
your relations, will be a welcome addition;
indeed, it was the will of the testator, that
you should be remembered in a handsome
way.”
Frederick was too much offended at the
boasting manner in which this communica
tion was made, to testify any joy on the
occasion. But the humble Sabir.e, igno
rant of the mode in which her relatives
had evinced their generosity, received the
communication as an interposition of Pro
vidence, with her head modesty bent down,
while a smile of heartfelt, grateful joy
shone on her countenance. But as soon
as she heard that the Field of Terror was
assigned to her as her portion, and in li
quidation of her just claims, the sordid be
havior of her relations pressed on her
heart with a painful, sickening coldness,
and she felt it impossible to refrain from
shedding tears of disappointed hope.
Her relation, with a smile of half-sup
pressed contempt, expressed his regret that
she should have allowed herself to expect
more than her friends had thought right to
allot her.
“And, indeed,” he observed, “this is a
much larger proportion of the inheritance
than you could fairly hope to receive as a !
matter of right.”
With this speech he was about to retire, i
when Frederick interrupted him, and with 1
that deliberate coolness which attends a j
mind conscious of its own superiority, he
said—
“ Sir, I perceive that you and your fel
lows have been pleased to convert the be
nevolent intentions of the deceased into a
mere piece of mockery, and that it is your
joint determination to withhold every shil
ling of his property from my bride. But
we will, nevertheless, accept your offer, in
full confidence that, under the guidance of
God, this haunted field, in the hands of an
honest and active soldier, will be a more 1
productive bargain than a set of covetous,
envious relations imend it to be.”
The messenger, who felt rather uneasy
at the tone and manner assumed by the
young soldier, did not hazard a reply, and
with an altered countenance hurried out
of the cottage, and made the best of his
way back.
Frederick now kissed away the tears
from Sabine's cheeks, and hastentd to
the priest, to fix an early day for their
marriage.
CHAPTER 11.
After the lapse of a few weeks, Frede
rick and Sabine were married, and entered
upon their slender house-keeping. The
gold and silver pieces he had brought from
the wars, the young soldier chiefly expend
ed in the purchase of a fine yoke of oxen ;
part was invested in seed and in the neces
sary implements of husbandry, and the ar
ticles of household furniture; the rest was
reserved for daily expenditure, to be dealt
out in the most frugal manner, till the har
vest of the succeeding year should replen
ish their stores. But as Frederick took his
departure, with his cattle and plough, for
the field of labor, he looked back and
smiled to his good Sabine, saying, that he
was now going to invest his gold, which
another year would restore to him two-fold.
Sabine could only follow him with her
anxious looks, and wish, in her heart, that
he were once safely returned from the
dreaded “Field of Terror.”
And home, truly, he came, and that
long before the vesper-bell had sounded ;
but far from being so cheerful, as, in the
native confidence of his heart, he had pro
mised himself in the mornieg, when he
went forth singing to his work. He drag
ged laboriously after him the lragments of
l.is shattered plough; before him paced,
with difficulty, one of his oxen, sorely
maimed —and marks of blood were seen on
his own head and shoulder. But still his
soldier-spirit did not fail him, and he bore
up under his misfortunes with a courageous
and even merry heart, consoling, at the
same time, the grief of the weeping Sa
bine.
“Come,” said he, smilingly, “get your
pickling-tubs in order, for this goblin who
reigns in the ‘Field oi Terror.’ has provid
ed us with an abundance of beef. Ihe
beast I brought home with me has so in
jured himself in his frenzy, that he will
not be fit for any farther work; and as for
the other, he ran off into the mountains,
and there 1 saw him plunge from a steep
rock into the torrent below, where 1 fancy
he now lies, and front wltence, I dare say,
he will never again make his appearance.”
“Oh, these relations ! these wicked re
lations !” sobbed the disconsolate Sabine.
“My hurt is of no consequence,” said
Frederick; “it was but the oxen that
crushed me between them when they ran
mad, and I endeavored to stop them ; but it
matters not grieving, and in the morning l
will start afresh.”
Sabine was now sr terrified at what had
happened, that she ued every means in her
power to dissuade aer husband from any
farther attempt at cultivating the unlucky
field ; but he only leplied by saying, “ that
so long as he coull move an arm or a leg,
the field should hsve no rest. Land which
we cannot plougl, we must delve ; and 1
am no timid heart of labor, but a good and
steady soldier, ever whom a goblin can
have no power.’
He now slaugltered the wounded ox, and
cut it up; and oi the next morning, while
Sabine was busial in preparing it forpickle.
Frederick pursued his road to the haunted
field, with his pekaxe and spade, with al
most as good a Heart as on the day before,
when he set out with his fine yoke of oxen
and his handsome new plough.
This time, he returned rather late in the
evening, somevhat pale and exhausted,
but in high spirits, and ready to tranquil
ize his anxious wife.
“ This is ratker hard work,” said he,
laughing, “forthere comes a sort of gob
lin-fellow, who stands first on this side—
then on that —sometimes in one form—
sometimes in aiother—and mocks me with
his foolish talk ind tricks; but he seems
to feel no small surprise that 1 give so lit
tle heed to his pranks; and from this I be
gin to take fresh courage. Besides, why
should an honest man, who goes straight
forward, and minds his work, care for such
beings
The same kind of thing continued for
many days together. The brave Frederick
pursued, without interruption, his daily la
bor of digging, sowing, and destroying the
weeds and useless plants which had over
spread the field. It is true, the slow pro
cess of the spade enabled him to cultivate
only a small portion of the whole ground,
but this served to make him all the more
zealous and industrious in his labors; and
he was at length rewarded by seeing a
crop spring up, which promised, and event
ually produced, a sufficient, if not an abun
dant harvest. Even the toil of reaping,
and transporting it from the field to the
barn, was thrown entirely upon his own
shoulders; for the laborers in the vicinity
would not have engaged, for any conside
ration, to spend a day upon the dreaded
“Field of Terror;” and he would, on no
account, permit Sabine to lend her assist
ance.
A child was born, and in three years
two more ; and so things went on, without
any remarkable occurrence. By hard stri
ving and industry, Frederick compelled the
Haunted Field to yield him one crop after
another; and thus, like an honest man,
redeemed his word to Sabine, that he
would find sufficient to support her.
It happened, one evening in autumn, as
the shades of night began to draw on, and
Frederick was still busied with his spade,
that a tall, robust man, of unusual size of
limb, black and sooty asacharcoal-burner,
and holding a huge furnace-iron in his
hand, appeared suddenly before him, and
said—
“ Are there no cattle to be had in this
part of the country, that you thus labor
away with your two hands 1 One would
suppose, by the extent of your land-marks,
that you were a wealthy farmer.”
Frederick was perfectly aware of who it
was that addressed him, and treated him in
the same cool way with which he usually
received the goblin in the field. He held
his tongue, endeavored to withdraw his at
tention from the figure before him to his
work, and to labor on with redoubled ar
dor. But his swarthy visitor, instead of
disappearing, as is the usual practice of
these goblins, to present himself again in
a more frightful and hideous form, remain
ed where he stood, and in a friendly tone
continued —
“My good fellow, you are doing both
yourself and me injustice by this conduct
of yours. Give me now an honest and
candid answer, and perhaps 1 may be able
to find a remedy for your misfortunes.”
“Well, then,” rejoined Frederick, “in
God’s name be it so. If you are but ca
joling me with these friendly words, the
fault be at your door, and not at mine.”
With this, he began to relate the whole
story of his adventures since he had taken
possession of the field He gave an undis
guised recital of his first distress, a faithful
representation of his just and honest indig
nation against the goblin who haunted his
property, and detailed the difficulty he
found, under such continual interruption
and provocation, in supporting; his family
by the mere application of his hoe and
sjiade.
The stranger gave an attentive ear to the
narrative, seemed lost in thought for a few
minutes, and then broke forth in the fol
lowing address:
“It would seem, friend, that you know
who I am ; and I look upon it as a proof of
your frank and manly disposition, that you
have made no concealment, but that you
have spoken out boldly of the displeasure
you entertain towards me. To say the
truth, you have certainly had sufficient
cause; but in thus putting your courage to
the test, 1 will make a proposal which will,
I hope, indemnify you for a good deal of
what is past. You must know, then, that
I have had my till of wild and fantastic
tricks through wood, and field, and moun
tain, and 1 begin to fancy I should like to
attach myself to some quiet family, that I
may live for some half a year or so a
peaceful, orderly life. What do you say
to taking me for six months as your ser
vant ?”
“ It is not right of people of your sort.”
said Frederick, “thus to pass your jokes
upon an honest man, who repose* confi
dence in you.”
“No, no,” replied the other, “there is
no joke in it. I tell you it is my serious
intention. You will find in me a sturdy,
active servant; and as long as I live with
you, not a single spirit or goblin will ven
ture to shew himself on the ‘ Field of Ter
ror,’ so that you may admit whole herds
of cattle to browse upon it.”
“1 should like the thing well enough,”
rejoined Frederick, “if 1 were but sure
that you would keep your word, and,
moreover, that I were doing right in deal
ing with you at all
•‘That must be your own affair,” said
the stranger; “but I have never broken
my word since these Riesenburg mountains
have stood ; and a mere creature of evil
and malice 1 certainly am not. A little
merry, and w and, and tricky, sometimes, 1
own —but that is all!”
“ Why, th n,” said Frederick, “I be
lieve that yo . are the celebrated Rube
zahl.”
“Harkee!” cried the stranger, interrupt
ing him, with a frown, “if that be your
opinion, I would also have you to know,
that the mighty spirit of the mountains
will not permit that name, and that he
chooses to call himself the Monarch of the
Hills.”
“ That would be an odd sort of a ser
vant, whom 1 must call the Monarch of
the Hills,” said Frederick, in a tone of
raillery.
“You may call me Waldmann, then,”
rejoined his companion.
Frederick looked awhile towards the
ground, pondering upon the course he
should adopt, and at length exclaimed
“Well, so be it! I think 1 can hardly
do amiss in accepting your services. I
have often seen irrational animals drilled
into domestic use—carrying parcels, turn
ing spits, and other household duties—
why not a goblin ?”
His new servant burst into a hearty
laugh at this observation, and said —
“ I must acknowledge, such an estimate
was never made of any of my kind before.
But that I heed not —'tis my humor, and
so ’tis a bargain, my honored master!”
Frederick, however, made it a condition
that his new servant should, on no account
whatever, discover to Sabine or the chil
dren that he had lived in the Haunted
Field, or in the old caverns of the Riesen
berg, nor at any time play any goblin tricks
about the house or farm. Waldmann
pledged his word to all this ; so the matter
was concluded, and home they both went
together, in a very friendly mood.
CHAPTER 111.
Sabine was not a little surprised at this
addition to their household, and could
scarcely look upon the swarthy, gigantic
servant, without fear. The children were
at first so much alarmed, that they would
not venture out of doors when he was at
work in the garden or in the yard; but his
quiet, and good-natured, and friendly be
havior soon reconciled all the household
to his presence; and if he now and then
had a frolicksome fit, and chased the dog
and the fowls, they thought it only sport
iveness and good humor, and a single look
from the master was at any time sufficient
to bring him within proper bounds.
In full reliance upon the promises of the
Mountain-Lord, Frederick applied the slen
der savings of many years to the purchase
of oxen; and with his newly mended plough
drove to the field in the highest glee. Sa-
bine looked after him with an anxious sor
rowful countenance, and with an equally
anxious mind awaited his return in the
evening, fearing a renewal of the same dis
asters and the same disappointed hopes, or
that his personal injuries this time might
be more dangerous and alarming than be
fore. But with the sound of the vesper-bell
Frederick came home singing through the
village, driving his sleek, well-fed oxen be
fore him, kissed his wife and children in
the fulness of his joy, and shook his ser
vant cordially by the hand.
Waldmann now frequently went to the
field alone, while his master remained be
hind engaged about the yard or garden. A
considerable portion of the Field of Terror
was cleared and cultivated; and to the
great astonishment of the village neigh
bours, and the equal discontent and envy
of Sabine’s selfish relations, every thingas
sumed an air of prosperity and comfort.—
It is true, Frederick, when alone, often re
flected that all this might lie but of short
duration ; “ and I know not how l shall
manage with the harvest,” he exclaimed,
“ for Waldmann’s time will then be out,
and the goblin of the field may choose to
appear with redoubled power.” But he
considered that the gathering-in of the crop
was a labour which of itself gave addition
al vigour to the workman’s arm and heart;
and it was possible that Waldmann, for old
acquintance-sake, might keep the land free
from such guests—as in fact, at times of
cheerful relaxation, he almost seemed to
intimate.
In the course of time the needful labours
of the field were completed. Winter ai
rived, and Frederick daily drove to the for
est for a stock of fuel and wood. On one
of these days it so chanced that Sabine was
entreated to visit a poor widow in the vil
lage, who lay dangerously ill, and whom,
as far as their increasing means admitted,
Frederick and his wife had been accustom
ed to relieve. She was at a loss how to
dispose of the children during her absence;
but Waldmann offered his services, with
whose stories the children were always de
lighted, and with whom they were ever
pleased to remain ; and she proceeded on
her charitable errand without further hes
itation.
About an hour after her departure,
Frederick returned from the forest; and
having disposed of his wagon iu the out
house, and put up his cattle in the stall,
he proceeded towards the house to revive
his numbed and frozen limbs by the blaze
of a cheerful fire’ On approaching the
door, a cry of painful distress from his
ctiiidren met his ear. He rushed into the
house, and on entering ihe room found the
children creeping behind the stove, and
crying aloud for help, while Waldmann
was wildly jumping about the room with
shouts of violent laughter, making the most
hideous faces, and with a crown of sparks
and rays of flame playing about his head.
“What is all this?” said Frederick, in
a tone of indignant anger; and the fiery
decorations of Waldinaun’s head disappear
ed, his fantastic mernmeul instantly ceased,
and, standing in a humble posture, he be
gan to excuse himself by saying that he
was only trying to amuse the children.—
But the children ran towards then father,
crying and complaining that Waldmann
had first of all told them a number of most
horrific stories, and that then he had as
sumed a variety of frightful disguises, some
times appearing with the head ol a ram,
sometimes with that of a dog.
“Enough! enough!” exclaimed Frede
rick. “ Away, sirrah ! you and Ino longer
remain uuder the same roof.”
With this he seized Waldman by the
arm, and pushed him violently out of the
house, desiring the children to remain quiet
ly in the room, and to dismiss their fears,
as their father was now come, and they
werp quite safe.
Waldmann suffered all this without utter
ing a word of expostulation ; but as soon as
he found himself alone with Frederick in
the open court, he said, with a smiling coun
tenance ;
“ Hear, master; suppose we hush this
matter up, and make a fresh bargain. 1
know l have done a very foolish thing; but,
1 assure you, it shall never happen again.
Somehow or other my old humor came
upon me, and I forgot myself for the time.”
“ For that very reason, because you can
forget yourself,” rejoined Frederick, “we
part. You might terrify my children into
a paroxysm of madness; and, as I have
said, our contract is at an end.”
“My half-year has not expired,” said
Waldmann, in a dogged tone; “I will go
back into the house.”
“Not a step further, at your peril; you
shall not again touch my threshold!” cried
Frederick. “ You have broken the agree
ment by your accursed goblin-pranks, and
all that l can Jo is to pay you your full
wages. Here, take it and be off with you.”
“My full wages'?” said the Mountain
spirit, with a contemptuous sneer; “ have
you never seen my stores of gold in the
caverns of yonder hills'?”
“ I do this more on my own account than
yours,” said Fiederick ; “no manshallcall
me his debtor.” And with that he forced
the money into Waldmann’s pocket.
“ And what is to be done w ith the Field
of Terror?” inquired VValdmann, in a grave
but almost angry tone.
“ Whatever God wills,” rejoined Frede
rick. “ Twenty Fields of Terror are of no
importance to me in comparison with the
safety of a single hair of my poor children’s
heads. Take yourself away,or I shall serve
you in a way you may not like, or soon
forget.”
“ Softly !” cried the Mountain-spirit,
“ softly, my friend. When such as I con
descend to assume a human form, we choose
one of rather stern materials. You might
chance to come by the worst in this fray,
and then, God be merciful unto you!”
“ That He has ever been,” said Frederick,
“ and has also given me a good strength of
arm, as thou shalt find. Back to your
mountains, you odious being! I warn you
for the last time.”
Excited by this reproach to a pitch of vio
lent fury, Waldmann sprung upon Frede
rick, and an obstinate fight ensued. They
struggled about the yard for a considerable
time, each using every means in his power
to overthrow his adversary, without victo
ry declaring itself on either side; till at
length Frederick, by his superior skill in
wrestling, managed to bring his opponent
to the earth, and having placed his knee
upon the chest of his fallen loe, began to
beat him most lustily, exclaiming, “I will
teach you to attack your master, my pre
cious Lord of the Hills!”
The Lord of the Hills, however, laughed
so heartily at this address, that Frederick,
conceiving his manly efforts to be the sub
ject of derision, only laid on with redoubled
vigour, till at length the former exclaimed,
“Mercy! enough! hold! 1 am not laugh
ing at you, I am laughing at myself, and 1
humbly beg your pardon !”
“ That is another affair,” said Frederick,
as he rose up and assisted his conquered
adversary to regain his legs.
“ I have now learnt what human life is,
from the very foundation upwards,’’said the
latter, still continuing his noisy laughter ;
“ I doubt if any of my kindred have ever
pursued the study so profoundly. But
harkee, my good friend, you must admit
that 1 carried on the war in an honourable
way ; for, as you will see yourself, I might
with ease have called in half a dozen moun
tain-spirits to my assistance, though, amidst
all this laughter, I know not how [ should
have set about it.”
Frederick, with a serious air, now looked
at the still laughing Rubezahl, and said,
“You will, I suppose, entertain a grudge
against me ; and this will not only be re
paid me at the Field of Terror, but in many
an evil chance elsewhere. Still I cannot
repent of what I have done. I have only
exercised my just authority in protecting
my children; and were the thing to do
over again, 1 should treat you just in the
same way.”
“No, no!” said Rubezahl, laughingly,
“don't make yourself uneasy. I have had
quite enough for once. Cultivate the Field
of Terror from year to year, at your own
will and pleasure; and I here promise yon
that no fearful phantom shall be seen upon
it from this day forwards, as long as the
Riesenberg stands. And so farewell, say
honest, strong-handed master!”
With this he gave a friendly nod,and dis
appeared ; nor was he ever more seen by-
Frederick. But he kept his word to the
full, and even more. An unheard-of de
gree of prosperity attended all the labours
of his former master, and Frederick soon be
came the richest farmer in the village. And
when his children were permitted to play
in the Field of Terror—a spot which both
they and Sabine now visited without the
smallest fear—they would relate in the
evening how Watldmann had appeared to
them and told them humorous tales, and
how they found choice confectionaries, or
beautiful carved toys, or golden ducats, in
their pockets on their return home.
Exported and Transported Defined.
—A gentleman recently married, was en
joying with his fair one, an evening walk
along ‘.he beach. “Pray, my dear,” said
the lady, “ what is the difference between
exported and transported V’ At that mo
ment a vessel left the harbor, bound for a
foreign port. “ Were you, my love,” re
turned the gentleman, “aboard that vessel,
you would be exported and I would be
transported