the cock. Again I wandered up hill and down dale, while above me soared
the fair sun, ever lighting up new scenes of beauty. The Spirit of the
Mountain evidently favored me, well knowing that a "poetical character"
has it in his power to say many a fine thing of him, and on this morning
he let me see his Harz as it is not, most assuredly, seen by every one.
But the Harz also saw me as I am seen by few, and there were as costly
pearls on my eyelashes as on the grass of the valley. The morning dew of
love wet my cheeks; the rustling pines understood me; their twigs parted
and waved up and down, as if, like mute mortals, they would express
their joy with gestures of their hands, and from afar I heard beautiful
and mysterious chimes, like the sound of bells belonging to some hidden
forest church. People say that these sounds are caused by the
cattle-bells, which, in the Harz ring with remarkable clearness and
purity.

It was noon, according to the position of the sun, as I chanced upon
such a flock, and its shepherd, a friendly, light-haired young fellow,
told me that the great hill at whose base I stood was the old,
world-renowned Brocken. For many leagues around there is no house, and I
was glad enough when the young man invited me to share his meal. We sat
down to a _déjeûner dînatoire_, consisting of bread and cheese. The
sheep snatched up our crumbs, while pretty glossy heifers jumped around,
ringing their bells roguishly, and laughing at us with great merry eyes.
We made a royal meal, my host appearing to me every inch a king; and as
he is the only monarch who has ever given me bread, I will sing his
praises right royally:

Kingly is the herd-boy's calling,
On the knoll his throne is set,
O'er his hair the sunlight falling