elf
like a child who has been given a grand Christmas present.

And indeed it seemed as though the carrot-children underground were
taking part in Aennchen's gladness, for some extremely delicate
laughter, which just made itself heard, was undoubtedly proceeding from
the carrot-bed. Aennchen didn't, however, pay much heed to it, but ran
to meet one of the farm-men who was coming, holding up a letter, and
calling out to her, "For you, Fraeulein Aennchen. Gottlieb brought it
from the town."

Aennchen saw immediately, from the hand writing, that it was from none
other than young Herr Amandus von Nebelstern, the son of a neighbouring
proprietor, now at the university. During the time when he was living
at home, and in the habit of running over to Dapsulheim every day,
Amandus had arrived at the conviction that in all his life he never
could love anybody except Aennchen. Similarly, Aennchen was perfectly
certain that she could never really care the least bit about anybody
else but this brown-locked Amandus. Thus both Aennchen and Amandus had
come to the conclusion and arrangement that they were to be married as
soon as ever they could--the sooner the better--and be the very
happiest married couple in the wide world.

Amandus had at one time been a bright, natural sort of lad enough, but
at the university he had got into the hands of God knows who, and had
been induced to fancy himself a marvellous poetical genius, as also to
betake himself to an extreme amount of absurd extravagance in
expression of ideas. He carried this so far that he soon soared far
away beyond everything which prosaic idiots term Sense and Reason
(maintaining at the same time, as they do, that both are perfectly
co-existent with the utmost liveliness of imagination).

It was from this young Amandus that the letter came which Aennchen
opened and read, as follows:--

"HEAVENLY MAIDEN,--

"Dost thou see, dost thou feel, dost thou not image and figure to
thyself, thy Amandus, how, circumambiated by the orange-flower-laden
breath of the dewy evening, he is lying on his back in the grass,
gazing heavenward with eyes filled with the holiest love and the
most longing adoration? The thyme and the lavender, the rose
and the gilliflower, as also the yellow-eyed narcissus and the
shamefaced violet--he weaveth into garlands. And the flowers are
love-thoughts--thoughts of thee, oh, Anna! But doth feeble prose beseem
inspired lips? Listen! oh, listen how I can