here in the night-time?”
  “Nothin’ special,” I answered; “I’m burnin’
       a little tobacco. 
  Lost my way, or most likely I’d be at the
       Eagle, in Todtnau. 
  But to come to the subject, supposin’ it isn’t
       a secret,
  Tell me, what do you make o’ the grass?”
       And he answered me:  “Fodder!”
  “Don’t understand it,” says I; “for the Lord
       has no cows up in heaven.” 
  “Not precisely a cow,” he remarked, “but
       heifers and asses. 
  Seest, up yonder, the star?” and he pointed
       one out with his finger. 
  “There’s the ass o’ the Christmas-Child, and
       Fridolin’s heifers,[D]
  Breathin’ the starry air, and waitin’ for grass
       that I bring ’em: 
  Grass doesn’t grow there,—­nothin’ grows but
       the heavenly raisins,
  Milk and honey a-runnin’ in rivers, plenty as
       water: 
  But they’re particular cattle,—­grass they
       must have every mornin’,
  Mouthfuls o’ hay, and drink from earthly
       fountains they’re used to. 
  So for them I’m a-whettin’ my scythe, and
       soon must be mowin’: 
  Wouldn’t it be worth while, if politely you’d
       offer to help me?”
  So the angel he talked, and this way I answered
       the angel: 
  “Hark ye, this it is, just:  and I’ll go wi’ the
       greatest o’ pleasure. 
  Folks from the town know nothin’ about it: 
       we write and we cipher,
  Reckon up money,—­that we can do!—­and
       measure and weigh out,
  Unload, and on-load, and eat and drink without
       any trouble. 
  All that we want for the belly, in kitchen,
       pantry, and cellar,
  Comes in lots through every gate, in baskets
       and boxes,
  Runs in every street, and cries at every
       corner: 
  ‘Buy my cherries!’ and ‘Buy my butter!’
       and ‘Look at my salad!’
  ‘Buy my onions!’ and ‘Here’s your carrots!’
       and ‘Spinage and parsley!’
  ‘Lucifer matches!  Lucifer matches!’ ’Cabbage
       and turnips!’
  ‘Here’s your umbrellas!’ ’Caraway-seed and
       juniper-berries! 
  Cheap for cash, and all to be traded for sugar
       and coffee!’
  Say, Mr. Angel, didst ever drink coffee?
       how do you like it?”
  “Stop with y’r nonsense!” then he said, but
       he couldn’t help laughin’;
  “No, we drink but the heavenly air, and eat
       nothin’ but raisins,
  Four on a day o’ the week, and afterwards five
       on a Sunday. 
  Come, if you want to go with me, now, for
       I’m off to my mowin’,
  Back o’ Todtnau, there on the grassy holt by
       the highway.” 
  “Yes, Mr. Angel, that will I truly, seein’
       you’re willin’: 
  Seems to me that it’s cooler:  give me y’r
       scythe for to carry: 
  Here’s a pipe and a pouch,—­you’re welcome
       to smoke,