or my
journey."

"Tsch-st-st-st--" with these sounds, resembling the hissing of a pot on
a fire, did the little pitchman receive the gift.

"What does that mean?" asked Walpurga and her mother, in one breath.

"Tsch-st-st-st," answered Peter.

"What's the matter with you? are you crazy?" asked the mother, whose
face had suddenly assumed a serious expression.

"Tsch-st-st-st," replied the little pitchman again.

And now it was Walpurga's turn to become angry and to inquire: "What do
you mean by such capers?"

"Oh, you piece of palace wisdom!" said Peter at last, "don't you know
how it hisses when a drop falls on a hot stone, and, d'ye see? it's
just the same with me and the money."

The mother told him that he was ungrateful, and that the people thought
that Walpurga had now enough money to make every one rich. He ought to
feel very happy, for he had never before had so much at any one time.
But the little pitchman, without making further answer, continued to
repeat the strange, hissing noise. Walpurga went out and soon returned
with another ten florin piece, which she gave to the little pitchman,
who then said:

"There! it's out now; I can pay all my debts and buy me a goat,
besides," and, striking the pieces of money together, he sang:

"What's the best? aye, what's the best?
To be free from debt or care,
And have a little money to spare--
That's the best; aye, that's the best."

The mother was now quite happy again. She resolved to be prudent and
economical in dispensing her gifts. In imagination, she already saw the
people whose want she could now alleviate, and perhaps remove. The
joyful glances of those who were to be gladdened by her bounty seemed
reflected in her calm and happy face.

"Oh you women!" said the little pitchman, as if sermonizing, while he
looked with sparkling eyes at his two pieces of money, "you women can't
know what money is. I shall put small change for a florin in my pocket,
and always keep it with me. Hurrah! what a jolly life I'll lead. What
do you know of such things? You go by a public-house on Sunday, put
your hand in your pocket and there's nothing there. But I'll go in and
won't begrudge myself a treat, and wherever there's an inn, I can make
myself at home. Wine and beer await me, and host, hostess, daughter and
servant treat me kindly, and ask how it goes with me, where I've come
from and where I'm