the beech woods of Denmark are acknowledgedby every one to be very beautiful， but morebeautiful still in the eyes of old Anthony were thebeech woods in the neighborhood of Wartburg. Moregrand and venerable to him seemed the old oaksaround the proud baronial castle， where thecreeping plants hung over the stony summits of therocks; sweeter was the perfume there of theapple-blossom than in all the land of Denmark. Howvividly were represented to him， in a glittering tearthat rolled down his cheek， two children at play—aboy and a girl. The boy had rosy cheeks， golden ringlets， and clear， blue eyes; he was theson of Anthony， a rich merchant; it was himself. The little girl had brown eyes and blackhair， and was clever and courageous; she was the mayor‘s daughter， Molly. The childrenwere playing with an apple; they shook the apple， and heard the pips rattling in it. Then theycut it in two， and each of them took half. They also divided the pips and ate all but one， whichthe little girl proposed should be placed in the ground.
“You will see what will come out，” she said; “something you don‘t expect. A whole apple-tree will come out， but not directly.” then they got a flower-pot， filled it with earth， and weresoon both very busy and eager about it. The boy made a hole in the earth with his finger， andthe little girl placed the pip in the hole， and then they both covered it over with earth.
“Now you must not take it out to-morrow to see if it has taken root，” said Molly; “no oneever should do that. I did so with my flowers， but only twice; I wanted to see if they weregrowing. I didn‘t know any better then， and the flowers all died.”
Little Anthony kept the flower-pot， and every morning during the whole winter he lookedat it， but there was nothing to be seen but black earth. At last， however， the spring came，and the sun shone warm again， and then two little GREen leaves sprouted forth in the pot.
“they are Molly and me，” said the boy. “How wonderful they are， and so beautiful!”
Very soon a third leaf made its appearance.
“Who does that stand for?” thought he， and then came another and another. Day afterday， and week after week， till the plant became quite a tree. And all this about the twochildren was mirrored to old Anthony in a single tear， which could soon be wiped away anddisappear， but might come again from its source in the heart of the old man.
In the neighborhood of Eisenach stretches a ridge of stony mountains， one of which has arounded outline， and shows itself above the rest without tree， bush， or grass on itsbarren summits. It is called the “Venus Mountain，” and the story goes that the “LadyVenus，” one of the heathen goddesses， keeps house there. She is also called “Lady Halle，”as every child round Eisenach well knows. She it was who enticed the noble knight，Tannhauser， the minstrel， from the circle of singers at Wartburg into her mountain.
Little Molly and Anthony often stood by this mountain， and one day Molly said， “Do youdare to knock and say， ‘Lady Halle， Lady Halle， open the door： Tannhauser is here!’” ButAnthony did not dare. Molly， however， did， though she only said the words， “Lady Halle，Lady Halle，” loudly and distinctly; the rest she muttered so much under her breath thatAnthony felt certain she had really said nothing; and yet she looked quite bold and saucy，just as she did sometimes when she was in the garden with a number of other little girls; theywould all stand round him together， and want to kiss him， because he did not like to bekissed， and pushed them away. Then Molly was the only one who dared to resist him. “I maykiss him，” she would say proudly， as she threw her arms round his neck; she was vain ofher power over Anthony， for he would submit quietly and think nothing of it. Molly was verycharming， but rather bold; and how she did tease!
they said Lady Halle was beautiful， but her beauty was that of a tempting fiend. SaintElizabeth， the tutelar saint of the land， the pious princess of Thuringia， whose good deedshave been immortalized in so many places through stories and legends， had GREater beautyand more real grace. Her picture hung in the chapel， surrounded by silver lamps; but it didnot in the least resemble Molly.
the apple-tree， which the two children had planted， GREw year after year， till it becameso large that it had to be transplanted into the garden， where the dew fell and the sun shonewarmly. And there it increased in strength so much as to be able to withstand the cold ofwinter; and after passing through the severe weather， it seemed to put forth its blossoms inspring for very joy that the cold season had gone. In autumn it produced two apples， one forMolly and one for Anthony; it could not well do less. The tree after this grew very rapidly， andMolly grew with the tree. She was as fresh as an apple-blossom， but Anthony was not tobehold this flower for long. All things change; Molly‘s father left his old home， and Molly wentwith him far away. In our time， it would be only a journey of a few hours， but then it tookmore than a day and a night to travel so far eastward from Eisenbach to a town still calledWeimar， on the borders of Thuringia. And Molly and Anthony both wept， but these tears allflowed together into one tear which had the rosy shimmer of joy. Molly had told him that sheloved him—loved him more than all the splendors of Weimar.
One， two， three years went by， and duringthe whole time he received only two letters. Onecame by the carrier， and the other a travellerbrought. The way was very long and difficult， withmany turnings and windings through towns andvillages. How often had Anthony and Molly heard thestory of Tristan and Isolda， and Anthony hadthought the story applied to him， although Tristanmeans born in sorrow， which Anthony certainly wasnot; nor was it likely he would ever say of Molly asTristan said of Isolda， “She has forgotten me.” Butin truth， Isolda had not forgotten him， her faithful friend; and when both were laid in theirgraves， one， on each side of the church， the linden-trees that GREw by each grave spreadover the roof， and， bending towards each other， mingled their blossoms together. Anthonythought it a very beautiful but mournful story; yet he never feared anything so sad wouldhappen to him and Molly， as he passed the spot， whistling the air of a song， composed bythe minstrel Walter， called the “Willow bird，” beginning—
“Under the linden-trees，Out on the heath.”
One stanza pleased him exceedingly—
“Through the forest， and in the vale，Sweetly warbles the nightingale.