That was the way he gained the best of her, whether it was the bowl of milk or the hazel switch, for afterwards she was as good a wife as ever churned butter; but what did it is a question that you will have to answer for yourself. All the same, she tried no more of her tricks with him, I can tell you. And so this story comes to an end, like everything else in the world. [Illustration] [Illustration] Twelve O’clock· _Hist! Hark!_ [Sidenote: ●] The _Watch-dogs_ bark. The _Fire_ is covered. The _Bricks_ grow cold; In the warmest _Corner’s_ The brown _Kobold_. [Sidenote: ☽] He sits quite still, And his _Eyes_ are bright. The _Clock_ strikes twelve; ’Tis the dead of _Night_. Snuggle down closer [Sidenote: ♓︎ _Look out for frost._] Into your _Bed_, And pull the _Coverlets_ Over your _Head_. [Illustration: The Best that Life has to give.] XXIV. There was a blacksmith who lived near to a great, dark pine forest. He was as poor as charity soup; but dear knows whether that was his fault or not, for he laid his troubles upon the back of ill-luck, as everybody else does in our town. One day the snow lay thick all over the ground, and hunger and cold sat in the blacksmith’s house. “I’ll go out into the forest,” says he, “and see whether I cannot get a bagful of pine-cones to make a fire in the stove.” So off he stumped, but could find no cones, because they were all covered up with white. On into the woods he went, farther and farther and deeper and deeper, until he came to a high hill, all of bare rock. There he found a clear place and more pine-cones scattered over the ground than a body could count. He filled his basket, and it did not take him long to do that. But he was not to get his pine-cones for nothing: click! clack!—a great door opened in the side of the hill, and out stepped a little dwarf, as ugly as ugly could be, for his head was as big as a cabbage, his hair as red as carrots, and his eyes as green as a snake’s. “So,” said he, “you are stealing my pine-cones, are you? And there are none in the world like them. Look your last on the sunlight, for now you shall die.” Down fell the blacksmith on his knees. “Alas!” said he, “I did not know that they were your pine-cones. I will empty them out of my sack and find some elsewhere.” “No,” said the dwarf, “it is too late to do that now. But listen, you might hunt the world over, and find no such pine-cones as these; so we will strike a bit of a bargain between us. You shall go in peace with your pine-cones if you will give me what lies in the bread-trough at home.” “Oh, yes,” said the blacksmith, “I will do that gladly.” “Very well,” said the dwarf, “I will come for my pay at the end of seven days,” and back he went into the hill again, and the door shut to behind him.