For in these hot afternoon hours the forest assuredly does slumber. The green ocean of leaves no longer moves in swelling waves; quiet and immovable it drinks in the heat of the sun. Scarcely a leaf rustles here and there in one of the trees. Perhaps the little noise awakens another sleeping neighbor, and they whisper and tell the disturber of their peace that this is not the hour for chatting, and then they fall to dreaming again. The birds are hid in the thickest foliage and await the cool of the evening. The tiny mothers doze on their nest over their half-fledged young, and papa sits near by on a branch, his little head snugly ensconced under his wing, and sleeps, tired as he is with his early rising, his indefatigable singing all day long, and his busy hunting after worms and midges. They know that now is the good time for them, and dance merrily in the red rays of the sun, which slip stealthily through the branches, or they creep and hurry, and hasten through the warm, soft moss. Deep silence! But suddenly there arises a hoarse peculiar cry, in short, rapidly uttered notes, which sound like the voice of anger. That is the hawk, the robber of the forest. He is a wicked fellow, whom his bad conscience rarely allows to sleep, and that is the reason why his cry is so sharp and hoarse, as he is drawing high up in the blue air, proudly and lonely, his wide mysterious circle above his realm, the peaceful sea of leaves. A curly-headed boy, who was watching his geese near the edge of the forest, had told Oswald that the road to Berkow was only about half an hour long, and could not well be missed. Of course he had taken it for granted, in giving his information, that the traveller would mind his way and not go astray. But as Oswald had not attended to the road, but, as was his habit, rather to everything else, as he had preferred leaping the ditches on either side every now and then, and rushing into the sacred halls of the beautiful forest, with their mighty pillars and lofty domes, he had long since lost his way. He had, indeed, for some time followed a narrow footpath, which led nowhere in particular, and only tempted him to penetrate deeper and deeper into the forest. Oswald stopped and listened; he thought he might hear the voice of a human being, or the blows of an axe; but he heard nothing but the cry of the hawk and the beating of his own heart. He called out merrily: "Which is the way to Berkow, O hawk?" and the echo answered as merrily: Hawk! At last it became lighter between the trees. He fancied he saw the end of the forest. But instead of that he only stepped out upon a clearing, which was almost entirely occupied by a small lake, covered with reeds and rushes. Walking along the edge, he frightened a loving couple of summer ducks, who rose from the reeds and flew with wild haste across the morass towards the wood. Then again deep silence!