himself in his father's state-jerkin and new red stockings, donned his
Sunday hat, took his five-foot blackthorn stick in hand, and bade
farewell to his mother. "I must go to the mayoralty in town," he said,
"for we have to draw lots as to who shall serve as soldier, and I will
impress it on the mayor, for once and for all, that you are a widow and
that I am your only son."

His mother having commended his resolution, he made his way to the
Pine-grove. The Pine-grove lies on the highest point of the Black
Forest, for miles around which there lay at that time no village, not
even a hut, for the superstitious people believed that the spot was
haunted. Further, no one cared to fell wood in that quarter, though the
pines there grew tall and stately, for it often happened that when
woodcutters were at work there, their axeheads flew from the hafts and
wounded them in the foot, or the trees fell over without warning,
injuring and even killing the men round about; besides which, even the
finest trees growing there were only used as firewood, for the raftsmen
never took any timber from the Pine-grove, because the saying went that
man and wood would surely come to grief if a tree from the Pine-grove
found itself in a raft. This is the reason why the trees grew so thick
and tall in the Pine-grove, so that even in the brightest sunshine all
was as dark as night. Well might Peter Munk shudder with fear, for he
could hear no sound of of human voice, no ring of axe, and no footfall
save his own; even the very birds appeared to shun this awesome grove.

Having reached the highest point in the Pine-grove, Charcoal-Peter Munk
stood before a pine of huge circumference, one for which any Dutch
ship-builder would have given many hundred guilders on the spot.

"This must be the place," thought Peter, "where the Treasure-guardian
lives." Saying which, he doffed his big Sunday hat, made a deep bow
before the tree, cleared his throat and spoke in a trembling voice: "I
wish you a very good evening. Master Glassmanikin!"

No answer--all was as silent as before.

"Perhaps I had better recite the little verse," thought Peter, and
straightway began to mutter:

"Guardian of gold in the pine-tree wold,
Art many hundred ages old;
Lord of all lands where pine-trees grow."

As he uttered these words he saw to his amazement a tiny, weird figure
peeping forth from behind the great pine tree. He fancied he could see
the little Glas