In Kalbsbraten, as in every other German town, there are a vast number of literary characters, of whom our young friend quickly became the chief. They set up a literary journal, which appeared once a week, upon light-blue or primrose paper, and which, in compliment to the lovely Ottilia's maternal name, was called the Kartoffelnkranz. Here are a couple of her ballads extracted from the Kranz, and by far the most cheerful specimen of her style. For in her songs she never would willingly let off the heroines without a suicide or a consumption. She never would hear of such a thing as a happy marriage, and had an appetite for grief quite amazing in so young a person. As for her dying and desiring to be buried under the willow-tree, of which the first ballad is the subject, though I believed the story then, I have at present some doubts about it. For, since the publication of my Memoirs, I have been thrown much into the society of literary persons (who admire my style hugely), and egad! though some of them are dismal enough in their works, I find them in their persons the least sentimental class that ever a gentleman fell in with. “THE WILLOW-TREE. “Know ye the willow-tree Whose gray leaves quiver, Whispering gloomily To yon pale river? Lady, at even-tide Wander not near it, They say its branches hide A sad, lost spirit! “Once to the willow-tree A maid came fearful, Pale seemed her cheek to be, Her blue eye tearful; Soon as she saw the tree, Her step moved fleeter, No one was there--ah me! No one to meet her! “Quick beat her heart to hear The far bell's chime Toll from the chapel-tower The trysting time: But the red sun went down In golden flame, And though she looked round, Yet no one came! “Presently came the night, Sadly to greet her,-- Moon in her silver light, Stars in their glitter. Then sank the moon away Under the billow, Still wept the maid alone-- There by the willow! “Through the long darkness, By the stream rolling, Hour after hour went on Tolling and tolling. Long was the darkness, Lonely and stilly; Shrill came the night-wind, Piercing and chilly. “Shrill blew the morning breeze, Biting and cold, Bleak peers the gray dawn Over the wold. Bleak over moor and stream Looks the grey dawn, Gray, with dishevelled hair, Still stands the willow there-- THE MAID IS GONE! “Domine, Domine! Sing we a litany,-- Sing for poor maiden-hearts broken and weary; Domine, Domine! Sing we a litany, Wail we and weep we a wild Miserere!”