“Women,” said the watchman with an air of superior knowledge, standing still and leaning upon his long staff, “women are the most peculiar among God’s creatures. The first human being did sorry credit to his creator, as is apt to be the case when you’re a new hand at making things. It turned out a plain wooden man. But the second human being--the second, you see, was much more of a success. It turned out to be something very different from the man, much finer, so much finer. The truth is, man is the job of an apprentice; woman shows the touch of a master. I understand women; ah, I understand them! An old watchman like me, who has his eyes open every hour of the night, knows a thing or two, good friend. If you cannot win them with dainties and fine manners, remember that it isn’t every bird that can be caught with sugar. Try some other way; do something to offend her. Not in any faint-hearted, playful way, but seriously and thoroughly; do something to her that will make her think of you, and that will give her pain when she thinks of you. Soon she will stop teasing you and looking upon you with disdainful indifference. Perhaps she will hate you; but, my friend, you must know that hatred is a good deal nearer to love than indifference is. There is many a tale I could tell you of how love began with anger and pain. That’s what I meant about loosening the stone. There is nothing like the harsh, reckless deed of a man to make an impression. Try it; you can’t lose anything.” Blindschleicher went his way and made extensive preparations to think out this new idea. For hours he walked by the side of the brook, but how can we catch hold of an idea when the water is making so much noise! He stole across the fields, but there the crickets disturbed him, or a dark, mysterious figure would rise up in front of him which, for all he knew, might be a ghost. To be sure the schoolmaster had said to him, “Blindschleicher, I pledge you my word, you are safe from ghosts!” But then, who knows! It seems wicked enough to be thinking out something in the silent night wherewith to offend one’s beloved. “Wicked or not wicked, if I could but make her have me!” It was not until he was pulling off his boots in his own room that various more or less attractive devices occurred to him by means of which he might offend her. When he was in bed he discarded them one by one. He thought he could hurt her most deeply by going up to her and saying, “Liese, you do not love me; farewell for ever, I go to die!” He was quite stupefied by the power of this thought. It gave the poor fellow a headache, and the next morning when he got up, and the sun shone brightly upon the flowers of the garden, he felt that this would not do, and he said to himself, “Best say nothing about dying.”