Sperver making indiscriminate attacks upon the kid, the fowls, and the
fish, murmured with his mouth full--

"The woods, the lakes and rivers, and the heathery hills are full of good
things!"

Then he leaned over the back of his chair, and laying his hand on the
first bottle that came to hand, he added--

"And we have hills green in spring, purple in autumn when the grapes
ripen. Your health, Fritz!"

"Yours, Gideon!"

We were a wonder to behold. We reciprocally admired each other.

The fire crackled, the forks rattled, teeth were in full activity,
bottles gurgled, glasses jingled, while outside the wintry blast, the
high moaning mountain winds, were mournfully chanting the dirge of the
year, that strange wailing hymn with which they accompany the shock of
the tempest and the swift rush of the grey clouds charged with snow and
hail, while the pale moon lights up the grim and ghastly battle scene.

But we were snug under cover, and our appetite was fading away into
history. Sperver had filled the "wieder komm," the "come again," with old
wine of Brumberg; the sparkling froth fringed its ample borders; he
presented it to me, saying--

"Drink the health of Yeri-Hans, lord of Nideck. Drink to the last drop,