and a soft voice whispered: "Stupid Charcoal-Peter! silly Peter Munk! cannot you find a rhyme to 'grow,' and yet you were born at noon on a Sunday! Rhyme, stupid Peter, rhyme!" [Illustration: Peter's dream in the woodman's cottage.] He sighed and groaned in his sleep, he tried hard to find a rhyme; but as he had never been able to make one when awake, to do so in a dream was equally beyond him. But when he awoke with the first flush of dawn, his dream seemed to have been very wonderful; he sat with folded arms at the table, and thought of the whispered exhortation which still resounded in his ear: "Rhyme, stupid Charcoal-Peter, rhyme!" he repeated to himself, pressing his finger to his forehead; but no rhyme was forthcoming. But while he sat there, staring despondently in front of him and trying to think of a rhyme to "grow," three lads passed the house on their way through the forest, and one of them was singing as he trudged along: "To the mountains there above, To the heights where pine-trees grow, I go to meet my love; She's true to me, I know." The words thrilled Peter's senses like a flash of lightning. He leapt to his feet and rushed out of the house, for he was not sure whether he had caught the words correctly. He ran after the three lads, and seized the singer by the arm. "Stop, my friend!" he cried, "what was it you made to rhyme with 'grow'? For the love of Heaven tell me what you were singing?" "What ever is the matter with you?" demanded the Black Forester. "I can sing what I like--and if you don't leave go of my arm, I'll----" "Not till you tell me what you were singing," screamed Peter, nearly beside himself, and gripping the other more tightly by the arm. Seeing which, the two friends of the singer lost all patience, and started punching the wretched Peter with all their might until the pain he suffered forced him to loose his hold and to sink to his knees. "Have you had enough?" they asked him, while laughing at him. "Take care, you foolish fellow, that in future you do not molest people on the public highway." "Ah, I will be careful enough as to that," replied Charcoal-Peter, dismally. "But now that you have beaten me, be so good as to repeat slowly and distinctly what that friend of yours was singing." At which all three once more burst out laughing, making game of him; but the singer repeated the words of his song for him, and, laughing and singing, they went their way. "Then _know_ is the word," said Peter Munk, getting once more on to his legs. "_Know_ rhymes with _grow_--and now Master Glassmanikin we will have another little chat together." [Illustration: "Have you had enough?" they asked him.]