them shyly; the skirt of the great wood was
indeed all that she at first dared touch. The
demon Vanity had long since swam away in
the tears of repentance which she shed while
flying from the Brocken; and of his departure
she knew no more than she had known
of his coming. But she was conscious of a
new kind of freedom when she fairly got
under the forest shades. The farther she
ran from the Brocken the freer she felt.
She became a happy docile child, and
the great forest took pleasure in the little
wanderer, to whom it had given its protection.
For the large and small stones, indeed,
who lay dreaming on the earth, wrapped in
their soft mossy cloaks, all quiet contemplation
was quite over since the little Ilse had
come dancing over them; nevertheless they
were good friends with her. When one of
the largest and most unwieldy, clumsily
stuck himself in her way, and would not let
her pass, she would stroke the old fellow's
rough cheeks with her soft little hands, and
murmur sweet petitions. If all was of no
avail, she would grow angry, stamp at him
impatiently, and push against him; then, if
the clumsy thing began to waver, and if only
he moved so as to leave the smallest cranny
through which she might pass if she could,
the little Ilse dashed into it with all her
might, forced the rude gentleman aside, and
rushed away from him at swiftest speed.
Where the ravine was steep and rugged,
it was a charming thing for the trees and
shrubs, to see the little princess jump from
rock to rock. She did it coyly, too, putting
on always for the occasion, a cap daintily
crimped, and a soft white robe of foam that
covered all her limbs.

The very youngest rivulets, who had
scarcely yet learned how to run, were not so
contemplative as the little pines; who did
nothing but look at Ilse. When they heard her
singing as she went, and splashing water
playfully into the eyes of the grave little trees
who crowded round her, they came oozing
out of the fissures in the rock, and glided
silently along under the moss, ever nearer
and nearer to their merry cousin. She
distinctly heard their gentle purling, saw them
and beckoned them to come to her. When
they—who were very weak-minded little
streams—saw how the princess sprang over the
stones far beneath, and timidly stood still, not
daring to jump down to her, and yet unable to
reach her without jumping,—Ilse would sing
them a brave song, to give them courage,
and place for them footstools of stone,
thickly padded with the softest moss, by
which they might get down without a bruise.
When she received them, as they jumped
awkwardly enough into her lap, she took
them by the hand, and said, "Come now, my
baby cousins, you shall run with me; you
have only to do as I do, spring when I spring,
—I will take care to hold you so that you
shall not be hurt." The streamlets did as
they were told, and hopped over the great
stones, holding the hand, of little Ilse.

The spirit of the Brockenberg was angry at
the flight of Ilse. He knew well that such
pure streamlets were properly no prey for him,
and that the demon of Vanity had left her;
how then was he to entrap the child again?
Remembering her fear of the storm, he called
the Northwind to him, and ordered it to rage
through the valley straight in the face of
little Ilse. "That" he thought, "if anything,
will drive her back." The Northwind did
what he could. He roared and howled, shook
the trees, hurled broken boughs down upon
Ilse, flung a young pine across her path, and
laid hold of her fluttering veil, as if he hoped
to carry her away with him. But the princess
tore herself loose, not caring how much of
her veil remained in the grasp of the Northwind.
She was no longer a little maiden
thinking only of herself, and she feared
nothing for herself: she took to heart only
the sufferings of her dear friends, the trees,
and would willingly have helped them to tight
out the storm, had she been able. She went
down weeping to the fallen pine, threw
herself over him, flooded him with her tears, and
compassionately washed his wounds. The
small green branches of the oak and beech
which the Northwind had rained upon her,
she held tenderly in her soft arms, kissing
the drooping leaves, and bearing them along
until she saw where she could gently lay
them down beside her in a mossy bed.

The wicked spirit standing on the Brocken
gnashed his teeth when he saw how vain
were all the efforts of the North wind.

"Revenge!" he muttered; "I will send the
Winter out; he shall arrest her, and lay her
up in chains. Ho, below there! Thou Northwind,
bestir thyself, and lay down the dead
leaves upon the path of Winter."

The Northwind obeyed; the tops of the
oaks became red with cold; and at last there
was no tree left green except the ancient
pine. The young stream at his feet was
puzzled by all these proceedings. "Stupid
trees," she said, "what are you thinking of?
Why are you throwing all the dead leaves in
my face? Do you no longer love the little
Ilse, that you try to scratch out her eyes
with brown acorns and hard beechmast?"
She sprang away in anger, shaking the dry
leaves out of her ringlets.

Winter, meanwhile, had arrived at the
Brocken. At first, he was not an unwelcome
visitor; he came with kingly presents in his
hands. He put jackets upon the naked trees
and brambles, glittering with diamonds, and
the snow-flakes that he scattered broadcast,
were at first sweet sugar-plums for little
Ilse, who thought that the clouds
themselves were about to visit her in her own
valley, and renew the acquaintanceship that
was begun upon the Alpine peak. But
Winter soon began to look less liberal and
Gracious; his rule became severe. Ilse's