“The night with mist is thick and black; Hark, how the forests roar and crack! The hooting owls affrighted fly. Shivered full the columns tall Of the palaces of pine. See the uniting boughs entwine— The mighty trunks that bend and groan— The hard roots grating on the stone! Mingling confusedly and madly, all Over each other are heaped in the fall, And around the crags, so wet and foul, The winds in fury hiss and howl!” I thought of this ghostly passage and remembered the caution given me by the old herdsman. But no wrinkled hag, coursing on her he-goat the haunted paths of the Brocken interrupted my progress, and the cheerful lights of Elbingerode soon glimmered through the wood. The next day I set out for the Rosstrappe, but again went astray and came to a village on the river Bode, deep down under steep mountains and the abode of miners. The people told me of two noted caves within half an hour’s walk, but the rain had again set in, and I hastened forward toward the Rosstrappe, the greatest wonder of the Hartz. The scenery was no longer so lonely and exciting in its character. Open, upland plains, with occasional forests, skirted the road, and the men and women at work in their scanty fields and gardens saluted me with many a shout of laughter as I trudged along through the wood. Roads branched off in all directions from the main one, and left to my own judgment as to the proper course, I continued on till I reached the river, and saw a little hamlet on its banks. At the only inn—a hut with two rooms—an old grandam told me I had missed the way. The Rosstrappe was two hours distant, and I could not find it without a guide. The men were all away in the woods, but a neighbor of hers would go with me if I would give her a few groschen. To this I willingly consented, and the kind old woman dried my blouse carefully by the fire and brought me a dinner of bread and milk.