al verses."

"What, you have seen him, the wicked Cobold?" Fraeulein Aennchen broke
out in the deepest amazement. "And he has----"

But at that moment in came the little gnomish King himself, and said,
in the tenderest accents, "Oh, my sweet, darling _fiancee_! Idol of my
heart! Do not suppose for a moment that I am in the least degree
annoyed with the little piece of rather unseemly conduct which Herr
Dapsul von Zabelthau was guilty of. Oh, no--and indeed it has led to
the more rapid fulfilment of my hopes; so that the solemn ceremony of
our marriage will actually be celebrated to-morrow. You will be pleased
to find that I have appointed Herr Amandus von Nebelstern our Poet
Laureate, and I should wish him at once to favour us with a specimen of
his talents, and recite one of his poems. But let us go out under the
trees, for I love the open air: and I will lie in your lap, while you,
my most beloved bride elect, may scratch my head a little while he is
singing--for I am fond of having my head scratched in such
circumstances."

Fraeulein Aennschen, turned to stone with horror and alarm, made no
resistance to this proposal. Daucus Carota, out under the trees,
laid himself in her lap, she scratched his head, and Herr Amandus,
accompanying himself on the guitar, began the first of twelve dozen
songs which he had composed and written out in a thick book.

It is matter of regret that in the Chronicle of Dapsulheim (from which
all this history is taken), these songs have not been inserted, it
being merely stated that the country folk who were passing, stopped on
their way, and anxiously inquired who could be in such terrible pain in
Herr Dapsul's wood, that he was crying and screaming out in such a
style.

Daucus Carota, in Aennschen's lap, twisted and writhed, and groaned and
whined more and more lamentably, as if he had a violent pain in his
stomach. Moreover, Fraeulein Aennchen fancied she observed, to her great
amazement, that Cordovanspitz was growing smaller and smaller as the
song went on. At last Herr Amandus sung the following sublime effusion
(which is preserved in the Chronicle):--

"Gladly sings the Bard, enraptured,
Breath of blossoms, bright dream-visions,
Moving thro' roseate spaces in Heaven,
Blessed and beautiful, whither away?
'Whither away?' oh, question of questions--
Towards that 'Whither,' the Bard is borne onward,