In the first winter months, as well as in those of early spring, no spot in the whole country was so beautiful as the Morgenhalde. Old Lenz was quite right; the mornings sun shone on it during half the day, and stoves were not much required. In the small garden behind the house, flowers were still blooming, when everywhere else no more were to be seen; and they sprung up there, too, when every other place was barren. This garden, however, was as much sheltered as a room, and, which is very rare in this country, a sweet-chesnut tree stood here, to which, however, the squirrels and woodpeckers in the neighbouring wood paid many unwelcome visits. The garden was sheltered by the house on one side, without being deprived by it, however, of the sun, after ten o'clock; and the large wood, which clothed the steep hill behind the house, seemed particularly to rejoice in the garden, two of its finest firs standing at the entrance. If there had been many people who liked walking in the cold early winter months, they would certainly have crossed the meadow, gone through the wood, and taken the path to Lenz's house, and then returned by the crest of the mountain. There was, however, only one habitual pedestrian in the village, or rather we may say two, namely, Petrowitsch and his dog Bueble. Every day before dinner, Petrowitsch ensured a good appetite by following the path along the meadow, past the house, and over the hill. Bueble took double and triple exercise, by jumping backwards and forwards over all the little stony channels on the hill side, leading down to the valley from Lenz's house. These channels were at present dry, but in spring and summer they served to carry off the rushing mountain springs to the valley beneath. Petrowitsch was always on the best terms with his dog, and in his fits of good humour he used to call him "my son." Petrowitsch had returned home from foreign parts a wealthy man; of course his riches were estimated in the country at threefold their real value, but what he really did possess made him very independent. That longing which never leaves the Swabians and the sons of the mountains to return to their homes, had also brought Petrowitsch back to his native country, where he lived a very pleasant life in his own fashion. His most stirring time was, however, at Midsummer, when merchants assembled from every part of the world, and in the "Lion" might be heard Spanish, Italian, English, Russian, and Dutch, in fact every European language; and amid all these foreign tongues, good, wholesome, old fashioned German, in the dialect of the Black Forest, spoken by the very same men who could speak every other language. Petrowitsch at such times was much sought after. Though usually leaving the "Lion Inn" at a particular hour, at such times as these he sometimes remained there for days, and even nights; and when the fair was over he was left alone, and occupied himself, especially