As the kite flew nearer to the mountains Walter could see the well-known
tower of the Feldberg, and the inns kept by the landlords Storm and
Monster; he could see the castle of Cronberg, and the interesting
village of Falkenstein.

But where was the beautiful palace on the Altkoenig? Here was nothing to
be seen but trees, trees, trees. He would have thought it all a dream,
were it not for his wonderful flight through the air. The kite now
dropped gradually, and set Walter on the ground. Then it began to flap
about undecidedly, and behave queerly, like a dog seeking for a trail.
At last it set off again up a narrow path leading straight into the
green woods.

Walter followed, still holding tight by its tail, no longer soaring but
skimming the ground. Once or twice the poor kite was entangled in the
branches, Walter freed it, and off it set again at a fine pace up the
mountain-side.

Walter began to feel hungry; for there is nothing like flying to give
you an appetite, as Mr Euler would surely tell you, but the kite allowed
him no time even to gather a few raspberries on the way. At last they
came to a place where several paths crossed. Here the woods took another
character: dark firs grew in the place of beeches and oaks. These firs
were covered with a silver lichen that looked like hoar frost.

A little hut made of rough logs of woods stood at this crossing. At the
door stood a little old woman. She had neither red eyes nor a hooked
nose; so Walter thought to himself: "She cannot be a wicked old witch
like the one who caught Haensel and Gretel." She had a friendly,
grandmotherly face, and invited Walter to come into her hut.

"You must be so hungry, you poor little man," she said. "Come in, come
in, the coffee is all hot and waiting for you!" Then she turned to the
kite which was turning head over heels, and making grimaces on the
ground. "Be off with you," she said, "we shall not need you any more!"

"Good-bye, good-bye, dear kite," said Walter, "thank you very much for
bringing me here."

The kite grinned and made a funny bow; then he mounted up of his own
accord, and sailed away home over the tree-tops.

On a rough wooden table was spread a delicious repast. Rolls and butter,
coffee and milk, Streuselkuchen and Butterkuchen such as German children
love, and also cakes called Bubenschenkel--or little boy's legs. Walter
did not quite like the name of these cakes; it made him think of witches
again; but they t