to
the ground."

As Fraeulein Aennchen was standing in the vegetable garden, where there
wasn't the trace of a green blade to be seen, she suddenly felt a sharp
pain in the finger which had on the fateful ring. At the same time a
cry of piercing sorrow sounded from the ground, and the tip of a carrot
peeped out. Guided by her inspiration she quickly took the ring off (it
came quite easily this time), stuck it on to the carrot, and the latter
disappeared, while the cry of sorrow ceased. But, oh, wonder of
wonders! all at once Fraeulein Aennchen was as pretty as ever,
well-proportioned, and as fair and white as a country lady can be
expected to be. She and her father rejoiced greatly, while Amandus
stood puzzled, and not knowing what to make of it all.

Fraeulein Aennchen took the spade from the maid, who had come running
up, and flourished it in the air with a joyful shout of "Now let's set
to work," in doing which she was unfortunate enough to deal Herr
Amandus such a thwack on the head with it (just at the place where the
Sensorium Commune is supposed to be situated) that he fell down as one
dead.

Aennchen threw the murderous weapon far from her, cast herself
down beside her beloved, and broke out into the most despairing
lamentations, whilst the maid poured the contents of a watering pot
over him, and Herr Dapsul quickly ascended the astronomic tower to
consult the stars with as little delay as possible as to whether Herr
Amandus was dead or not. But it was not long before the latter opened
his eyes again, jumped to his legs, clasped Fraeulein Aennchen in his
arms, and cried, with all the rapture of affection, "Now, my best and
dearest Anna, we are one another again."

The very remarkable, scarcely credible effect of this occurrence on the
two lovers very soon made itself perceptible. Fraeulein Aennchen took a
dislike to touching a spade, and she did really reign like a queen over
the vegetable world, inasmuch as, though taking care that her vassals
were properly supervised and attended to, she set no hand to the work
herself, but entrusted it to maids in whom she had confidence.

Herr Amandus, for his part, saw now that everything he had ever written
in the shape of verses was wretched, miserable trash, and, burying
himself in the works of the real poets, both of ancient and modern
times, his being was soon so filled with a beneficent enthusiasm that
no room was left for any consideration of himself. He arrive