en as they whirr past
occasionally on the high road.

Such a village is Elhalten; it lies in a green valley, rich with many
flowers; a lovely little brook runs through it, disappearing suddenly
under houses to reappear again triumphant farther down the road. This
brook is called the Silber Bach or Silver Brook, on account of the
clearness of its water. On either side of the valley rise up steep
mountain-slopes with wild woods and rough pathways. One good road joins
the village with Vockenhausen, and so with the well-known town of
Eppstein.

On the farther side of the Kueppel (the steep peak that rises behind
Elhalten) is a forester's cottage, a lonely and deserted-looking
dwelling in the middle of the forest. There I once nursed a huge
friendly cat who was so delighted to see a stranger that she quite
persecuted me with her affection.

On the top of the Kueppel is an airy tower; anyone who wishes to try what
flying is like, and cannot afford to go in the Zeppelin airship, can
form an idea of it here. There is a most expansive view of the Taunus
Range, and very little underneath the feet.

In the forester's hut lived a little boy named Hugo. He was the son of
the forester, a fine little fellow of nearly six years. Hugo had few
story-books; but he did not need them; for he lived in the forest, and
the forest tells its own tales to the children who live there. The birds
would chatter to him, and tell him their family histories; the silent,
sweet-eyed deer came to the forestry to be fed in the cold winter, and
so he learnt to know their ways. The little flowers would whisper tales
of the strange sights they had seen in the forest, when they had by
chance forgotten to close their petals for the night.

Hugo had seen much for a five year's old boy; but he longed to see more.
He had heard stories of wood-goblins, of fairies and nixies, and of the
busy dwarfs who live underground. He thirsted for adventure.

Now I must tell you that just about this time the news had come from
Elhalten that a child had been lost from the village, a dear little
girl of four years. She had strayed by herself in the woods of the
Kueppel, and though her parents and Hugo's father, indeed all the
villagers had sought for her, no trace could they find, save strips of
her little blue pinafore, and a hair ribbon on the brambles in a remote
spot near an old quarry. You can imagine what a stir this made in the
quiet life of the neighbourhood.

Som