On the morning he went to see her the sun was blazing in the skies and the road was dusty. His heart was pounding with joy as he left the narrow little streets of the town and struck out in the road that led to the Free House. No serious thought intruded upon his mind at present; he was carefree. The image of the slender girl with the golden locks was dancing before his eyes. He strode along jauntily, joyously, expectantly. The hut loomed up in the distance. He first caught sight of the large elm tree, and there was a fluttering in his breast. Hedwiga! He saw her clinging skirt, her great black eyes, her bare feet, her beautiful throat. What was this? A cart at the door! The two little windows of the hut wide open, and likewise the door; people moving about inside—a hearse! It must be the Witch. There was a pang of sorrow in his heart, but then she was old, and the old must die. He entered the hut. Only three old women and a man; the women with hanging heads stood round a wooden box and the man held a board in his hands. Where was Hedwiga? The man waved the board in the direction of the box. The morning sun cast a strange pallor over the dead face in the coffin. Albert trembled from head to foot and a flood of tears rolled down his wan cheeks. The man looked at the youth without sadness. The three women, too, glanced at him puzzled. Yes, the Witch had died two weeks before and now her niece was dead. They did not know what the girl died of—how could anyone tell what a person died of! The soul left the body and all was ended. There was a grimacing smile on the face of the woman who answered Albert’s questions. Maybe it was the evil spirits—who could tell? He bent over the coffin for some silent moments. He stared blankly at the white shroud, at the waxen face, at the closed eyes . . . Then the man and the three women carried the coffin to the cart outside, and the cart started and moved away slowly, the wheels creaking, crunching the clods of the dry mud . . . A NIGHTINGALE IN A CROW’S NEST. I. “_Es küsst sich so süsse der Busen der Zweiten_ _Als kaum sich der Busen der Ersten geküsst._” Goethe. What youth, what poetic youth, could not say this with equal truth if he would, had he the candor of the great bard of Weimar? Albert Zorn had more than candor; the public was his priest to whom he confessed more than he sinned. He never concealed the fact that to him woman was an antidote to woman. And love was such a wonderful inspiration for melodious verses! At times he could not tell which he loved most, the melodious verses or the woman who inspired them.