More beautiful still than these are the eternal signs with which Mother Nature, the only real teacher of all true artists, invites the weary pilgrim to rest: the moon, the gentle shining stars, and the blossoming trees under whose perfumed branches we sleep so sweetly. This is the oldest inn; the Germans call it “Bei Mutter Grün,” and the French speak similarly of “loger à l’enseigne de la lune”; “coucher à l’enseigne de la belle étoile.” Nobody has sung the charms of this natural inn more sweetly than the Swabian poet Uhland in his song, “Bei einem Wirte wundermild,” which we beg permission to quote in W. W. Skeat’s happy translation:-- “A kind and gentle host was he With whom I stayed but now; His sign a golden apple was That dangled from a bough. “Yea! ’t was a goodly apple-tree With whom I late did rest; With pleasant food and juices fresh My parching mouth he blest. “There entered in his house so green Full many a light-winged guest; They gaily frisked and feasted well And blithely sang their best. “I found a couch for sweet repose Of yielding verdure made; The host himself, he o’er me spread His cool and grateful shade. “Then asked I what I had to pay, Whereat his head he shook; O blest be he for evermore From root to topmost nook!” CHAPTER VIII THE SIGN IN POETRY [Illustration: Zum Goldnen Hirsch Leonberg, Württemberg] CHAPTER VIII THE SIGN IN POETRY “Er ging nicht in den Krug, Er wohnte gar darinnen.” JOACHIM RACHEL.