When Charcoal-Peter Munk heard this he could scarcely contain himself with joy and eagerness to make the adventure. Because he knew a part of the incantation and was born on Sunday, he conjectured that the Glassmanikin would surely show himself. One day, therefore, having sold all his charcoal he kindled no fresh fires in his kilns, but dressed himself in his father's state-jerkin and new red stockings, donned his Sunday hat, took his five-foot blackthorn stick in hand, and bade farewell to his mother. "I must go to the mayoralty in town," he said, "for we have to draw lots as to who shall serve as soldier, and I will impress it on the mayor, for once and for all, that you are a widow and that I am your only son." His mother having commended his resolution, he made his way to the Pine-grove. The Pine-grove lies on the highest point of the Black Forest, for miles around which there lay at that time no village, not even a hut, for the superstitious people believed that the spot was haunted. Further, no one cared to fell wood in that quarter, though the pines there grew tall and stately, for it often happened that when woodcutters were at work there, their axeheads flew from the hafts and wounded them in the foot, or the trees fell over without warning, injuring and even killing the men round about; besides which, even the finest trees growing there were only used as firewood, for the raftsmen never took any timber from the Pine-grove, because the saying went that man and wood would surely come to grief if a tree from the Pine-grove found itself in a raft. This is the reason why the trees grew so thick and tall in the Pine-grove, so that even in the brightest sunshine all was as dark as night. Well might Peter Munk shudder with fear, for he could hear no sound of of human voice, no ring of axe, and no footfall save his own; even the very birds appeared to shun this awesome grove. Having reached the highest point in the Pine-grove, Charcoal-Peter Munk stood before a pine of huge circumference, one for which any Dutch ship-builder would have given many hundred guilders on the spot. "This must be the place," thought Peter, "where the Treasure-guardian lives." Saying which, he doffed his big Sunday hat, made a deep bow before the tree, cleared his throat and spoke in a trembling voice: "I wish you a very good evening, Master Glassmanikin!" No answer--all was as silent as before. "Perhaps I had better recite the little verse," thought Peter, and straightway began to mutter: "Guardian of gold in the pine-tree wold, Art many hundred ages old; Lord of all lands where pine-trees grow."