d he would pass them on to
the Pope, who would then summon Walter and appoint him "Court-robber."

And thus he dreamed and threw his straws into the stream. They
moved away slowly and disappeared between the moss-covered
timbers. Involuntarily his fancy had transmuted them into the
characters of his world of romance. There went the countess with
her long train, which got caught in the moss and held the countess
fast. The virtuous Amalia met with no better luck; she got tangled
up in the water lentils. And now came Walter himself. He approached
Amalia, in her green robes, and was just about to rescue her, when
he was swallowed by a duck. This was most unkind of the duck, for
it was Walter's last stalk of grass; and now in the rattling and
buzzing of the sawmills below he could hear Amalia repeating in a
reproachful voice:

"Warre, warre, warre, we;
Where is warre, warre, wall--
Walter, who will rescue me?"

This annoyed him, and he could not resist the temptation to throw
a rock at the duck whose greediness had caused Amalia to doubt his
chivalry.

The duck chose the better part, and retired after she had done Walter
all the damage she could. But the sawmills paid no attention to these
happenings and continued to rattle away.

Walter heard now in the noisy clatter of the mills all kinds of songs
and stories, and, listening to these, he soon forgot Amalia and the
Pope. That the reader may not get a wrong impression of these mills,
I hasten to say that there was really nothing extraordinary about
them. They buzzed and rattled just like other sawmills.

It often happens that we think we perceive something which comes from
the external world, when in fact it is only a subjective product in
ourselves. Similarly, we may think we have just imagined something,
when really it came to us from the world of the senses.

This is a kind of ventriloquism that often gives cause for annoyance
and enmity.

I wonder which turns the faster?--Walter listened to the mills. Now--I
think--no, begin together. Good! No, the Eagle was ahead! Once
more--now!

Which will get there first? No, that won't do. Once more together. Look
sharp, Morning Hour,--out again! I can't hold my eye on it--what a
whirling and buzzing!

You are tired, are you? I believe it.

If I might only sit on such a big wing, wouldn't I hold on tight? And
wouldn't the sawyer look?

Why are you called "Morning Hour"? Have