Hush! bread and plate, and crums, and knife and fork, Were vanished clean; only--just for a sign For ever of the truth--lay on the ridge The white, nice-woven, pretty table-cloth. ROSY. O mother! mother! what? the glittering plate And real? and the cloth with their own hands Spun by the generous Dwarfs? No, I can ne'er Believe it!--Was the thread then, real drawn And twisted thread, set in it evenly? And was there too a flower, a pretty figure, Nicely wrought in with warp and crossing woof? Did there a handsome border go all round. Enclosing all the figures?--Sure your great- Great-grandfather, if really he was The owner of the curious little cloth, He would have left it carefully unto His son and grandson for a legacy, That, for a lasting witness of the meal Given by the Dwarfs, it might to distant years, The praise and wonder of our vale remain. GERTRUDE. Odds me! how wise the child is! what a loss And pity 'tis that in old times the folk Were not so thoughtful and so over-knowing! Ah! our poor simple fathers should rise up Out of their graves, and come to get advice And comfort from the brooders that are now,-- As if they knew not what was right and fit! Have but a little patience, girl, and spin What's on your rock; to-morrow when 'tis day I'll let you see the Dwarfs' flowered table-cloth, Which, in the chest laid safe, inherited From mother down to daughter, I have long Kept treasured under lock and key, for fear Some little girl, like some one that you know, Might out of curiosity, and not Acquainted with its worth, set it astray. ROSY. Ah, that is kind, dear mother; and see now How broad awake I am, and how so smart I'm finishing my work since you relate These pretty tales; but I will call you up Out of your bed to-morrow in the morning So early! Oh, I wish now it were day Already, for I'm sure I shall not get One wink of sleep for thinking of the cloth.[307] _The Chamois-Hunter._