hill above. In my fright I
never thought of _jodeln_, but I can _jodeln_, and right well too. In
my youth I could utter this peculiar cry louder than anyone. I could be
heard two miles off."

Leegart laid her hand on her cheek, and uttered a shrill, sharp cry,
rising like the sharp point of a mountain, and descending again into
the valley in scattered fragments. She could uplift her voice in the
most marvellous way for her years.

David's wife, who had not hitherto heard one word of the whole story,
started up from the bench beside the stove, and asked--"For Heaven's
sake! what is the matter?" The women present, and Leegart, had great
difficulty in pacifying her, and explaining why Leegart had uttered so
loud a cry. The old woman again sunk down on the bench, muttering--"I
am well rested now. I wish I could lend poor Martina my feet."

The women entreated Leegart to continue her story. She waxed her thread
afresh, and sewed the collar on over and over to the jacket, which had
in fact been finished for some time past; but she was resolved not to
leave off sewing, for nothing is more sure and certain, than that no
mortal man or child can die so long as any one is sewing for their
benefit. Moreover, Leegart's story kept them all awake, and they did
not wish to sleep till their husbands returned home, when they intended
all to go together to the midnight service in church.

After Leegart had quietly blown her nose, she resumed--"So I began to
_jodeln_, and the boy answered me, as if we were doing it for pleasure.
I called out--'Which is the right road?' but his only answer was to
_jodeln_ again. 'Go to the deuce with your _jodeln_,' said I. I felt
afraid when I had said this, but I cannot deny that I did say it. Come,
I see a fresh path leading through the wood. I truly hope and trust it
is not a labyrinth this time; it is wet enough, but among these thick
trees it probably is never dry all the year round. Here is a clear
spring. If I could only be able to drink some water; but all I contrive
to get is wet feet. I followed the path into the wood, and soon it was
as soft as a bed underfoot, and the moss so deep, that since the
beginning of the world I felt sure no single handful of it had ever
been plucked; indeed, who was likely to mount up here to get it? The
path is no longer wet, and down the hill it seems dry enough; but all
trace of a path has disappeared. In a fir wood you cannot see the
traces of footsteps, and