"And have you never heard of Frau Hütte, my boy?" asked the host. "No, sir," replied the boy. "You know I live in Vienna." "Well, everybody knows her," replied the inn-keeper; "but then, you are a little young yet, so I will tell you." "Very long ago, in the time of giants and fairies,-- But then you don't believe in fairies, do you?" and the fellow's eyes sparkled keenly. "Oh, yes, I do," exclaimed the boy hastily, for fear if he denied the existence of such beings, he should miss a good story. "Well, then, there was a queen over the giants who was called Frau Hütte." "Oh," interrupted the lad, "then she isn't a real person?" "Oh, yes, she was; but that was long ago," continued the story teller. "Well, Frau Hütte had a young son who was very much like any other little child; he wanted whatever he wanted, and he wanted it badly. One day, this giant child took a notion he should like to have a hobby horse. Without saying a word to any one, he ran off to the edge of the forest and chopped himself a fine large tree. But evidently the child did not know much about felling trees, for this one fell over and knocked him into the mud. With loud cries, he ran home to his mother. Instead of punishing him, she bade the nurse wipe off the mud with a piece of white bread. No one but the very richest could afford the luxury of white bread, black bread being considered quite good enough for ordinary consumption, so no wonder the mountain began to shake and the lightning to flash, just as soon as the maid started to obey her mistress' command. "Frau Hütte was so frightened at this unexpected storm that she picked up her son in her arms and made for the mountain peak some distance from her palace. No sooner had she left the palace than it disappeared from view, even to the garden, and nothing was ever seen of it again. But even in her retreat the wasteful queen was not secure. When she had seated herself upon the rock, she became a stone image, holding her child in her arms. And there she sits to this day. When the clouds hover about her head then we know there will be a storm, but when Frau Hütte does not wear her night-cap," and the Wirthe's eyes sparkled, "then we are certain of clear weather." "Ever since then, the Tyrolese have made Frau Hütte the theme of a proverb 'Spart eure Brosamen fur die Armen, damit es euch nicht ergehe wie der Frau Hütte,' which really means 'Spare your crumbs for the poor, so that you do not fare like Frau Hütte,' a lesson to the extravagant." There were endless more stories, all of which delighted the boys immensely, but we could not begin to relate them all, for Tyrol is so overladen with the spirit of the past, and with the charm of legend, that the very air itself breathes of fairies and giants, and days of yore, so that in invading its territory one feels he is no longer in this work-a-day world, but in some enchanted spot.