'Woe is me!' replied Peter with a sigh, 'I shall certainly recollect it. But now that I have had the blows, you will oblige me by telling me plainly what he was singing.' To this they laughed again and mocked him; but the one who had sung repeated the song to him, after which they went away laughing and singing. '"Face,"' then said the poor belaboured Peter as he got up slowly, 'will rhyme with "place"; now, Little Glass Man, I will have another word with you.' He went into the hut, took his hat and long stick, bade farewell to the inmates, and commenced his way back to the Tannenbühl. Being under the necessity of inventing a verse, he proceeded slowly and thoughtfully on his way; at length, when he was already within the precincts of the Tannenbühl, and the trees became higher and closer, he found his verse, and for joy cut a caper in the air. All at once he saw coming from behind the trees a gigantic man dressed like a raftsman, who held in his hand a pole as large as the mast of a ship. Peter Munk's knees almost gave way under him, when he saw him slowly striding by his side, thinking he was no other than the Dutchman Michel. Still the terrible figure kept silence, and Peter cast a side glance at him from time to time. He was full a head taller than the biggest man Peter had even seen; his face expressed neither youth nor old age, but was full of furrows and wrinkles; he wore a jacket of linen, and the enormous boots being drawn above his leather breeches, were well known to Peter from hearsay. 'What are you doing in the Tannenbühl, Peter Munk?' asked the wood king at length, in a deep, roaring voice. 'Good morning, countryman,' replied Peter, wishing to show himself undaunted, but trembling violently all the while. 'Peter Munk,' replied Michel, casting a piercing, terrible glance at him, 'your way does not lie through this grove.' 'True, it does not exactly,' said Peter, 'but being a hot day, I thought it would be cooler here.' 'Do not lie, Peter,' cried Michel, in a thundering voice, 'or I strike you to the ground with this pole; think you I have not seen you begging of the little one?' he added mildly. 'Come, come, confess it was a silly trick, and it is well you did not know the verse; for the little fellow is a skinflint, giving but little; and he to whom he gives is never again cheerful in his life. Peter, you are but a poor fool and I pity you in my soul; you, such a brisk, handsome fellow, surely could do something better in the world than make charcoal. While others lavish big thalers and ducats, you can scarcely spend a few pence; 'tis a wretched life.' 'You are right, it is truly a wretched life.'