I would say here that there must have been infamous rascals in the past century, who, not content with wantonly causing great excitement to honest people of these modern times, steal away their time, which they might have spent in writing a tolerable fairy-tale. Is there any one that can tell me why in the world one of those ancient fellows should have put the key of his street-door into a secret drawer? I wish it were the key to paradise which he had forgotten! The vicious old sinner might roast in purgatory so long as I lived, for of course I left the rusty key, together with my two kreuzers in the secret drawer, adding my curse. Every sympathetic Christian soul will understand that after this heavy disappointment I was not in the mood to spin out the graceful fairy-tale I promised. Indeed the holidays were quite spoiled for me that year! _Eduard Pötzl._ _THE CASE OF MINCKWITZ._ IN the course of the past month I have been called upon to bear the most acute sorrow, dear friend, of which a fine-strung soul like mine is capable. Indeed, my friend, terrible things have occurred! I am _misunderstood_! And misunderstood by whom? You will scarce believe me when I tell you, but it is even so: misunderstood by Professor Johannes Minckwitz,[8] of Leipsic, the great epic poet and literary connoisseur, for whom I feel the deepest reverence and the most tender affection. Hear the sad news. One morning as I was innocently turning the leaves of my “Neuhochdeutschen Parnass,”[9] my thoughts naturally enough wandering somewhat, my faithful maid-of-all-work stepped over the threshold of my door with weeping eyes. “What in the world has happened to you?” I asked in great consternation. “Has your lover proved faithless, Thrine?” “I shall have to leave this place, sir,” sobbed the honest creature. “I don’t understand you, Thrine; express yourself more explicitly.” “You are dishonoured! And sooner will I starve than serve a dishonoured master, for folks do say that ‘a servant is no better than his master,’ and I am a respectable woman. Here is the paper, you’d better read and see for yourself!” Thrine sobbed bitterly, and handed me a number of the Leipsic local paper, containing an article heavily marked with a red pencil, and thereby recommending itself specially to my attention. No sooner had I glanced over the first lines of the terrible article than I grew dizzy, and therewith began to tremble convulsively. Thrine fainted away. Picture the scene to yourself, dear friend. Without raged the storm. Ah, the situation was dramatic. From the paper I gathered that Professor Johannes Minckwitz, in just indignation over the last of my harmless letters, had sued the editor of the _Salon_ for misuse of his name, and for literary forgery, and had entrusted Dr. Coccius, a lawyer in Leipsic, with the impeachment. [Illustration: “I GLANCED OVER THE FIRST LINES OF THE TERRIBLE ARTICLE.”]