and more agreeable," the man replied, "for
then we shall escape from the newspapers, and not be tied up by
them, which is just as uncomfortable as for a Will-o'-the-Wisp to
lie in decaying wood, to have to gleam, and not to be able to stir."

"I don't care about it either way," cried the woman. "Let the rest
write, those who can, and those who cannot likewise. I'll grant you an
old bung from my cask that will open the cupboard where poetry's
kept in bottles, and you may take from that whatever may be wanting.
But you, my good man, seem to have blotted your hands sufficiently
with ink, and to have come to that age of satiety that you need not be
running about every year for stories, especially as there are much
more important things to be done. You must have understood what is
going on?"

"The Will-o'-the-Wisp is in town," said the man. "I've heard it,
and I have understood it. But what do you think I ought to do? I
should be thrashed if I were to go to the people and say, 'Look,
yonder goes a Will-o'-the-Wisp in his best clothes!'

"They also go in undress," replied the woman. "The
Will-o'-the-Wisp can assume all kinds of forms, and appear in every
place. He goes into the church, but not for the sake of the service;
and perhaps he may enter into one or other of the priests. He speaks
in the Parliament, not for the benefit of the country, but only for
himself. He's an artist with the color-pot as well as in the
theatre; but when he gets all the power into his own hands, then the
pot's empty! I chatter and chatter, but it must come out, what's
sticking in my throat, to the disadvantage of my own family. But I
must now be the woman that will save a good many people. It is not
done with my good will, or for the sake of a medal. I do the most
insane things I possibly can, and then I tell a poet about it, and
thus the whole town gets to know of it directly."

"The town will not take that to heart," observed the man; "that
will not disturb a single person; for they will all think I'm only
telling them a story if I say, 'The Will-o'-the-Wisp is in the town,
says the Moor-woman. Take care of yourselves!'"

THE STORY OF THE WIND

"Near the shores of the great Belt, which is one of the straits
that connect the Cattegat with the Baltic, stands an old mansion
with thick red walls. I know every stone of it," says the Wind. "I saw
it when it was part of the castle of Marck Stig on the promontory. But
the castle was oblig