still on the branches. 
  Hither and yonder a starlie stuck its head
       through the darkness,
  Peekin’ out, as oncertain whether the sun was
       in bed yet,—­
  Whether it mightn’t come, and called to the
       other ones:  “Come now!”
  Then I knowed I was lost, and laid myself
       down,—­I was weary: 
  There, you know, there’s a hut, and I found
       an armful o’ straw in ’t. 
  “Here’s a go!” I thinks to myself, “and I
       wish I was safely
  Cuddled in bed to home,—­or ’t was midnight,
       and some little spirit
  Somewhere popped out, as o’ nights when it’s
       twelve they’re accustomed,
  Passin’ the time with me, friendly, till winds
       that blow early o’ mornin’s
  Blow out the heavenly lights, and I see the
       way back to the village.” 
  Now, as thinkin’ in this like, I felt all over my
       watch-face,—­
  Dark as pitch all around,—­and felt with my
       finger the hour-hand,
  Found it was nigh onto ’leven, and hauled my
       pipe from my pocket,
  Thinkin’:  “Maybe a bit of a smoke’ll keep
       me from snoozin’”: 
  Thunder! all of a sudden beside me was two
       of ’em talkin’,
  Like as they’d business together!  You’d
       better believe that I listened. 
  “Say, a’n’t I late a-comin’?  Because there
       was, over in Mambach,
  Dyin’, a girl with pains in the bones and terrible
       fever: 
  Now, but she’s easy!  I held to her mouth the
       drink o’ departure,
  So that the sufferin’ ceased, and softly lowered
       the eyelids,
  Sayin’:  ’Sleep, and in peace,—­I’ll waken
       thee up when the time comes!’
  Do me the favor, brother:  fetch in the basin o’
       silver
  Water, ever so little:  my scythe, as you see,
       must be whetted.” 
  “Whetted?” says I to myself, “and a spirit?”
       and peeked from the window. 
  Lo and behold, there sat a youngster with
       wings that was golden;
  White was his mantle, white, and his girdle
       the color o’ roses,
  Fair and lovely to see, and beside him two
       lights all a-burnin’. 
  “All the good spirits,” says I, “Mr. Angel,
       God have you in keepin’!”
  “Praise their Master, the Lord,” said the angel;
       “God thank you, as I do!”
  “Take no offence, Mr. Ghost, and by y’r good
       leave and permission,
  Tell me, what have you got for to mow?”
       “Why, the scythe!” was his answer. 
  “Yes,” says I, “for I see it; and that is my
       question exackly,
  What you’re goin’ to do with the scythe.” 
       “Why, to mow!” was his answer. 
  Then I ventur’d to say:  “And that is my question
       exackly,
  What you’re goin’ to mow, supposin’ you’re
       willin’ to tell me.” 
  “Grass!  And what is your business so late up