sun had disappeared, but the clouds were all aglow. In the east the sky was deep blue. A row of willows stood along the bank, their small, pale leaves thrust motionlessly out into the still air. They looked like exquisite, pale-green lace against the sombre background.
Hark! What was that? It darted and whizzed like a gust of wind cutting a sharp furrow in the face of the water. It came from the dunes – from the grotto in the clouds!
When Johannes looked round, a big, blue dragon-fly sat on the edge of the boat. He had never seen one so large. It rested there, but its wings kept quivering in a wide circle. It seemed to Johannes that the tips of its wings made a luminous ring.
That must be a fire dragon-fly, he thought – a rare thing.
The ring grew larger and larger, and the wings whirled so fast that Johannes could see nothing but a haze. And little by little, from out this haze, he saw the shining of two dark eyes; and a light, frail form in a garment of delicate blue sat in the place of the dragon-fly. A wreath of white wind-flowers rested upon the fair hair, and at the shoulders were gauzy wings which shimmered in a thousand hues, like a soap bubble.
A thrill of happiness coursed through Johannes. This was a miracle!
"Will you be my friend?" he whispered.
That was a queer way of speaking to a stranger. But this was not an every-day case, and he felt as if he had always known this little blue being.
"Yes, Johannes," came the reply, and the voice sounded like the rustling of the reeds in the night wind, or the pattering of rain-drops on the forest leaves.
"What is your name?" asked Johannes.
"I was born in the cup of a wind-flower. Call me Windekind."1
Windekind laughed, and looked in Johannes' eyes so merrily that his heart was blissfully cheered.
"To-day is my birthday," said Windekind. "I was born not far away, of the first rays of the moon and the last rays of the sun. They say the sun is feminine.2 It is not true. The sun is my father."
Johannes determined forthwith to speak of the sun as masculine, the next morning, in school.
"Look! There comes up the round, fair face of my mother. Good evening, Mother! Oh! oh! But she looks both good-natured and distressed!"
He pointed to the eastern horizon. There, in the dusky heavens, behind the willow lace-work which looked black against the silver disk, rose the great shining moon. Her face wore a pained expression.
"Come, come, Mother! Do not be troubled. Indeed, I can trust him!"
The beautiful creature fluttered its gauzy wings frolicsomely and touched Johannes on the cheek with the Iris in its hand.
"She does not like it that I am with you. You are the first one. But I trust you, Johannes. You must never, never speak my name nor talk about me to a human being. Do you promise?"
"Yes, Windekind," said Johannes. It was still so strange to him. He felt inexpressibly happy, yet fearful of losing his happiness. Was he dreaming? Near him, Presto lay calmly sleeping on the seat. The warm breath of his dog put him at rest. The gnats swarmed over the face of the water, and danced in the sultry air, just as usual. Everything was quite clear and plain about him. It must be true! And all the time he felt resting upon him the trustful glance of Windekind. Then again he heard the sweet, quavering voice:
"I have often seen you here, Johannes. Do you know where I was? Sometimes I sat on the sandy bottom of the pond, among the thick water plants, and looked up at you as you leaned over to drink, or to peep at the water beetles, or the newts. But you never saw me. And many times I peeped at you from the thick reeds. I am often there. When it is warm I sleep in an empty reed-bird's nest. And, oh! it is so soft!"
Windekind rocked contentedly on the edge of the boat, and struck at the gnats with his flower.
"I have come now to give you a little society. Your life will be too dreary, otherwise. We shall be good friends, and I will tell you many things – far better things than the school-master palms off upon you. He knows absolutely nothing about them. And when you do not believe me, I shall let you see and hear for yourself. I will take you with me."
"Oh, Windekind! dear Windekind! Can you take me there?" cried Johannes, pointing to the sky, where the crimson light of the setting sun had just been streaming out of the golden cloud-gates. That glorious arch was already melting away in dull, grey mist, yet from the farthest depths a faint, rosy light was still shining.
Windekind gazed at the light which was gilding his delicate features and his fair locks, and he gently shook his head.
"Not yet, Johannes, not yet. You must not ask too much just now. Even I have not yet been at my father's home."
"I am always with my father," said Johannes.
"No! That is not your father. We are brothers, and my father is your father, too. But the earth is your mother, and for that reason we are very different. Besides, you were born in a house, with human beings, and I in a wind-flower. The latter is surely better. But it will be all the same to us."
Then Windekind sprang lightly upon the side of the boat, which did not even stir beneath his weight, and kissed Johannes' forehead.
That was a strange sensation for Johannes. Everything about him was changed.
He saw everything now, he thought, much better and more exactly. The moon looked more friendly, too, and he saw that the water-lilies had faces, and were gazing at him pensively.
Suddenly he understood why the gnats were all the time dancing so merrily around one another, back and forth and up and down, till their long legs touched the water. Once he had thought a good deal about it, but now he understood perfectly.
He knew, also, what the reeds were whispering, and he heard the trees on the bank softly complaining because the sun had set.
"Oh, Windekind, I thank you! This is delightful. Yes, indeed, we will have nice times together!"
"Give me your hand," said Windekind, spreading his many-colored wings. Then he drew Johannes in the boat, over the water, through the lily leaves which were glistening in the moonlight.
Here and there, a frog was sitting on a leaf. But now he did not jump into the water when Johannes came. He only made a little bow, and said: "Quack." Johannes returned the bow politely. Above everything, he did not wish to appear conceited.
Then they came to the rushes. They were wide-spread, and the boat entirely disappeared in them without having touched the shore. But Johannes held fast to his guide, and they scrambled through the high stalks to land.
Johannes thought he had become smaller and lighter, but perhaps that was imagination. Still, he could not remember ever having been able to climb up a grass stalk.
"Now be ready," said Windekind, "you are going to see something funny."
They walked on through the high grass, beneath the dark undergrowth which here and there let through a small, shining moonbeam.
"Did you ever hear the crickets evenings in the dunes? It is just as if they were having a concert. Is it not? But you can never tell where the sound comes from. Now they never sing for the pleasure of it; but the sound comes from the cricket-school where hundreds of little crickets are learning their lessons by heart. Keep still, for we are close to them."
Chirp! Chirp!
The bushes became less dense, and when Windekind pushed apart the grass blades with his flower, Johannes saw a brightly lighted, open spot in the thin, spindling dune-grass, where the crickets were busily learning their lessons.
Chirp! Chirp!
A big fat cricket was teacher, and heard the lessons. One by one the pupils sprang up to him; always with one spring forward, and one spring back again, to their places. The one that made a bad spring was obliged to take his stand upon a toadstool.
"Pay good attention, Johannes. Perhaps you too can learn something," said Windekind.
Johannes