with fun and frolic.

After a long time, the master came to the kitchen, and said, "Come,
Martin, let us make haste, for the cocks will soon crow." He would have
liked to have run away, but he was too much afraid, so he went with his
master. On the way his master talked a great deal to him about how his
wife had searched everywhere for the treasure which he had hidden before
his death, and what she had done to banish the nightly hauntings, but
everything was useless. "Yes," said Martin, "it must be a great sorcerer
who can lay spectres and discover treasures in the ground. Perhaps she
will never meet with one."

"Ha! ha!" laughed the gentleman, "no great cleverness is needed. If a
living person was to stamp three times on my grave with his left heel,
and say each time, 'Here shall you lie,' I couldn't get out again. But
the money which I hid in my lifetime is under the floor of my bedroom,
near the stove."

Martin was delighted to hear this, and would have shouted for joy, but
he thought it too dangerous. They now came to the churchyard, and the
gentleman asked Martin to show him his grave. But Martin said, "We shall
have another opportunity, I'm afraid the cocks are just about to crow."
The gentleman slipped quickly into his grave, when Martin stamped three
times with his left heel on the mound, and said three times, "Here shall
you lie."

"Oh, you liar and scoundrel!" cried the dead man from the grave; "if I
had known that you were still alive, I should have crushed and mangled
you. Now I can do nothing more to you."

Then Martin returned home full of joy, and told the lady all that he had
seen and heard and done. The lady did not know how to thank him enough.
She took him as her husband, and they lived together happily and
honourably; and if they could have got on as well with Death as with the
nocturnal spectre, they might be living still.

* * * * *

Free-shooters, so well known in Germany, are not unknown in Esthonia. In
the story of the "Hunter's Lost Luck" (Kreutzwald), we find a hunter
whose usual skill had deserted him selling himself to the Devil with
three drops of blood for a magic bullet which should kill the author of
his bad luck. His good luck depended on his not shooting at the leader
of a flock or herd; but one evening, having drunk too much, he fired at
the leader of a troop of foxes, and fell down dead. The villagers took
his body home; but when he was put int