It was the eve before Christmas Eve—­no, stop!  I am lying—­it was the eve before that, come to think of it, that there was a knitting-bee going on at the schoolmaster’s, Kristen Kornstrup’s,—­you know him?  There were plenty that knew him, for in the winter he was schoolmaster, and in the summer he was mason, and he was alike clever at both.  And he could do more than that, for he could stop the flow of blood, and discover stolen goods, and make the wind turn, and read prayers over felons, and much more too.  But at this exorcising he was not so good as the parson, for he had not been through the black school.

So we had gathered there from the whole town,—­oh, well, Lysgaard town is not so mighty big:  there are only six farms and some houses, but then they were there too from Katballe and Testrup, and I think the lads from Knakkeborg had drifted over too—­but that doesn’t matter.  We had got it measured off at last, and all of us had got our yarn over the hook in the ceiling above the table, and had begun to let the five needles work.  Then the schoolmaster says, “Isn’t there one of you that will sing something or tell something? then it will go so nicely with the work here.”  Then she began to speak, Kirsten Pedersdatter from Paps,—­for she is always forward about speaking:—­“I could sing you a little ditty if you cared to hear it—­” “That we do,” said I, “rattle it off!”—­And she sang a ditty—­I had never heard it before, but I remember it well enough, and it ran this way:—­

* * * * *

But now I will tell you a story about a Poorman [gipsy] and what happened to him.

“If,” said he—­Mads Ur—­“if you have been in Herning or thereabout, you know that there is a great marsh south of it.  That same marsh is not so very nice to cross for those that don’t know it well.

“It was the summer I was working for Kristens that a cow sank down out there, and it was one of those I was watching.  I took her by the horns and I took her by the tail, but she would not help herself at all, and when one won’t do a little bit, what is going to become of one?  As I stand there pulling at that same refractory cow, up comes a Poorman from over at Rind, one of those they call knackers.  ‘I’ll have to help you,’ said he:  ‘you take hold of the horns, and I’ll lift the tail.’  That worked, for he pricked her under the tail with his pikestaff, and she was of a mind to help herself too.  ‘What do you give me for that now?’ said he.  ‘I have nothing to give you,’ said I, ‘nothing but thanks.’  ’I won’t have them,’ answered he, ’but if ever I should sink down on one road or another, will you lend me a hand if you are near by?’ ’That I will do, indeed,’ answered I; and then he tramped up to town, and that was all.