him the dark gigantic form of Dutch
Michael, who wrenched open the window and stretched an enormously long
arm into the room, in the hand of which was a purse full of gold
pieces, which he shook so that the money jingled temptingly. Then he
saw the little, friendly Glassmanikin riding round the room on a huge
green bottle, and he seemed again to hear that hoarse chuckle he had
heard in the Pine-grove. Then it was as if someone was murmuring in his
left ear:

"From Holland comes Gold!
Canst have it, if bold.
For payment soon told!
Gold! Gold!"

Then again in his right ear he heard the little rhyme beginning:

"Guardian of gold in the pine tree wold!"

and a soft voice whispered: "Stupid Charcoal-Peter! silly Peter Munk!
cannot you find a rhyme to 'grow,' and yet you were born at noon on a
Sunday! Rhyme, stupid Peter, rhyme!"

[Illustration: Peter's dream in thee woodman's cottage.]

He sighed and groaned in his sleep, he tried hard to find a rhyme; but
as he had never been able to make one when awake, to do so in a dream
was equally beyond him. But when he awoke with the first flush of dawn,
his dream seemed to have been very wonderful; he sat with folded arms
at the table, and thought of the whispered exhortation which still
resounded in his ear: "Rhyme, stupid Charcoal-Peter, rhyme!" he
repeated to himself, pressing his finger to his forehead; but no rhyme
was forthcoming. But while he sat there, staring despondently in front
of him and trying to think of a rhyme to "grow," three lads passed the
house on their way through the forest, and one of them was singing as
he trudged along:

"To the mountains there above,
To the heights where pine-trees grow,
I go to meet my love;
She's true to me, I know."

The words thrilled Peter's senses like a flash of lightning. He leapt
to his feet and rushed out of the house, for he was not sure whether he
had caught the words correctly. He ran after the three lads, and seized
the singer by the arm.

"Stop, my friend!" he cried, "what was it you made to rhyme with
'grow'? For the love of Heaven tell me what you were singing?"

"What ever is the matter with you?" demanded the Black Forester. "I can
sing what I like--and if you don't leave go of my arm, I'll----"

"Not till you tell me what you were singing," screamed Peter, nearly
beside himself, and gripping the other more tightly by the arm.

Seeing which, the two fr