y’r trail
       as a blood-hound;
  Creep like a shadow, be whispers:  ’Good! we
       had best take it easy’;
  Kneels at y’r side in the church, and sets at
       y’r side in the tavern. 
  Go wherever you will, there’s ghosts a-hoverin’
       round you. 
  Shut your eyes in y’r bed, they mutter: 
       ’There ‘s no need o’ hurry;
  By-and-by you can sleep, but listen! we’ve
       somethin’ to tell you: 
  Have you forgot how you stoled? and how
       you cheated the orphans? 
  Secretly sinned?’—­and this, and t’other;
       and when they have finished,
  Say it over ag’in, and you get little good o’
       your slumber.” 
  So the angel he talked, and, like iron under
       the hammer,
  Sparked and spirited the Poohoo.  “Surely,”
       I says to the angel,
  “Born on a Sunday was I, and friendly with
       many a preacher,
  Yet the Father protect me from these!” Says
       he to me, smilin’: 
  “Keep y’r conscience pure; it is better than
       crossin’ and blessin’. 
  Here we must part, for y’r way turns off and
       down to the village. 
  Take the Poohoo along, but mind! put him
       out, in the meadow,
  Lest he should run in the village, settin’ fire
       to the stables. 
  God be with you and keep you!” And then
       says I:  “Mr. Angel,
  God, the Father, protect you!  Be sure, when
       you come to the city,
  Christmas evenin’, call, and I’ll hold it an
       honor to see you: 
  Raisins I’ll have at your service, and hippocras,
       if you like it. 
  Chilly ‘s the air, o’ evenin’s, especially down
       by the river.” 
  Day was breakin’ by this, and right there was
       Todtnau before me! 
  Past, and onward to Basle I wandered, i’ the
       shade and the coolness. 
  When into Mambach I came, they bore a dead
       girl to the grave-yard,
  After the Holy Cross, and the faded banner o’
       Heaven,
  With the funeral garlands upon her, with sobbin’
       and weepin’. 
  Ah, but she ’d heard what he said! he’ll
       waken her up when the time comes. 
  Afterwards, Tuesday it was, I got safely back
       to my cousin;
  But it turned out as he said,—­I’d somewhere
       forgotten my snuff-box!

[Footnote C:  Dengle-Geist, literally, “Whetting-Spirit.”  The exact meaning of dengeln is to sharpen a scythe by hammering the edge of the blade, which was practised before whetstones came in use.]

[Footnote D:  According to an old legend, Fridolin (a favorite saint with the Catholic population of the Black Forest) harnessed two young heifers to a mighty fir-tree, and hauled it into the Rhine near Saeckingen, thereby damming the river and forcing it to take a new course, on the other side of the town.]