Seite - 60 - in The Forest Farm - Tales of the Austrian Tyrol

corn-wraith who blackens the oats when she cries at midnight in the fields, and eats nothing but the grey beards of old charcoal burners, my Heitzerl began to bleat so violently that the other three joined in until at last my brother and sisters burst into wild peals of laughter and I was shamefully obliged to hold my tongue like a convicted boaster. For a long time after that, I told my sleeping-companions no more stories and I resolved never to speak another word to Heitzerl so long as I lived. Then came Ascension Day, on which day mother made us the usual egg- cake, my favourite dish in all the world. That year, however, the hawks had taken our best laying-hens; the egg-basket would not fill; and, when the cake appeared on Ascension Day, it was only a tiny little loaf. I gave a woe-begone look at the wooden dish. My little five-year-old sister peeped up at me; and, as though noticing my longing, she suddenly cried: “I say, Peterle, look here! If you will tell us a short story every night for a whole year long, I will give you my share of the cake.” Strange to say, the others all chimed in and echoed this noble renunciation on the little one’s part; they clapped their hands; and—I entered into the bargain. So, suddenly, had I attained the object of my desire. I tucked my cake under my jacket and went with it to the dairy, where no one could see or disturb me. I bolted the door, sat down on an overturned tub and allowed my ten fingers and the well-ordered host of my teeth to work their will on the poor cake. But now came this anxiety. There could not be a doubt that my brother and sisters would insist strictly on their due. When I went out a-herding, I begged a story of every pitch-maker, every charcoal-burner, every keeper and every knowing little woman that I met in the wood and on the fields. They were productive sources, and I was able to meet my liabilities every evening. Meanwhile, of course, it was a daily misery until I hit upon something fresh; and, after a time, it happened not seldom that little sister would interrupt me and call out from her manger: “Look here, we know that one! You have told it us before!” I could see that I must think of new ways and I therefore struggled to improve my reading, so as to draw treasures from the many story-books which lay idling on the sooty shelves in our little house in the forest. Now I had new sources: the story of the Countess-palatine (Jakoberle always said, “The Countess-Gelatine”) Genovefa; the four sons of Aymon; the Fair Melusina; Wendelin von Höllenstein: wonderful things by the dozen. And my