FIFTENTH EVENING
"I was gliding over the Lüneborg Heath，"the Moon said."A lonely hut stood by the wayside，a few scanty bushes grew near it，and a nightingale who had lost his way sang sweetly.He died in the coldness of the night：it was his farewell song that I heard.
"The dawn came glimmering red.I saw a caravan of emigrant peasant families who were bound to Bremen or Hamburg，there to take ship for America，where fancied prosperity would bloom for them.The mothers carried their little children at their backs，the elder ones skipped by their sides，and a poor starved horse tugged at a cart that bore their scanty effects.The cold wind whistled，and therefore the little girl nestled closer to the mother，who， looking up at my decreasing disk，thought of the bitter want at home，and spoke of the heavy taxes they had not been able to raise.The whole caravan thought of the same thing;
therefore the rising dawn seemed to them a message from the sun，of fortune that was to gleam brightly upon them.
They heard the dying nightingale sing：it was no false prophet，but a harbinger of fortune.The wind whistled， therefore they did not understand that the nightingale sang， 'Far away over the sea!Thou hast paid the long passage with all that was thine，and poor and helpless shalt thou enter Canaan.Thou must sell thyself，thy wife，and thy children.But your griefs shall not last long.Behind the broad fragrant leaves lurks the goddess of death，and her welcome kiss shall breathe fever into thy blood.Fare away， fare away，over the heaving billows.'And the caravan lis- tened well pleased to the song of the nightingale，which seemed to promise good fortune.Day broke through the light clouds;country people went across the heath to church：the black-gowned women with their white head- dresses looked like ghosts that had stepped forth from the church pictures.All around lay a wide dead plain，covered with faded brown heath，and black charred spaces between the white sand-hills.The women carried hymn books，and walked into the church.Oh，pray，pray for those who are wandering to find graves beyond the foaming billows."
SIXTEENTH EVENING
"I know a Punchinello，"the Moon told me."The pubic applaud vociferously directly they see him.Every one of his movements is comic，and is sure to throw the house into convulsions off laughter;and yet there is no art in it all—it is complete nature.When he was yet a little boy，playing about with other boys，he was already Punch.Nature had intended him for it，and had provided him with a hump on his back，and another on his breast;but his in- ward man，his mind，on the contrary，was richly fur- nished.No one could surpass him in depth of feeling or in readiness of intellect.The theatre was his ideal world.If he had possessed a slender well-shapea figure，he might have been the first tragedian on any stage;the heroic，the great，filled his soul;and yet he had to become a Punchinello.His very sorrow and melancholy did but in- crease the comic dryness of his sharply-cut features，and increased the laugher of the audience，who showered plau- dits on their favourite.The lovely Columbine was indeed kind and cordial to him;but she preferred to marry the Harlequin.It would have been too ridiculous if beauty and the beast had in reality paired together.
"When Punchinello was in very bad spirits，she was the only one who could force a smile or even a hearty burst of laughter from him：first she would be melancholy with him，then quieter，and at last quite cheerful and hap- py.'I know very well what is the matter with you，'she said;'yes，you're in love!'And he could not help laughing.'I in love!'he cried，'that would have an absurd look.How the public would shout!''Certainly， you are in love，'she continued;and added with a com- ic pathos，'and I am the person you are in love with.'
You see，such a thing may be said when it is quite out of the question—and indeed，Punchinello burst out laughing，and gave a leap into the air，and his melan- choly was forgotten.
"And yet she had only spoken the truth.He did love her，love her adoringly，as he loved what was great and lofty in art.At her wedding he was the merriest among the guests，but in the stillness of night he wept：
if the public had seen his distorted face then，they would have applauded rapturously.
"And a few days ago，Columbine died.On the day of the funeral，Harlequin was not required to show him- self on the boards，for he was a disconsolate widower.The director had to give a very merry piece，that the public might not too painfully miss the pretty Columbine and the agile Harlequin.Therefore Punchinello had to be more boisterous and extravagant than ever;and he danced and capered，with despair in his heart;and the audience yelled，and shouted，'Bravo!Bravissimo!'Punchinello was called before the curtain.He was pro- nounced inimitable.
"But last night the hideous little fellow went out of the town，quite alone，to the deserted churchyard.The wreath of flowers on Columbine's grave was already fad- ed，and he sat down there.It was a study for a painter.As he sat with his chin on his hands，his eyes turned up towards me，he looked like a grotesque monument—a Punch on a grave—peculiar and whimsical!If the people could have seen their favourite，they would have cried as usual，'Bravo，Punchinello!Bravo， Bravissimo!'"
SEVENTEENTH EVENING
Hear what the Moon told me."I have seen the cadet who had just been made an officer put on his handsome uniform for the first time;I have seen the young girl in her ball-dress，and the Prince's young wife happy in her gorgeous robes;but never have I seen a felicity equal to that of a little girl of four years old，whom I watched this evening.She had received a new blue dress and a new pink hat;the splendid attire had just been put on，and all were calling for a candle，for my rays，shining in through the windows of the room，were not bright enough for the occasion，and further illumination was required.
There stood the little maid，stiff and upright as a doll， her arms stretched painfully straight out away from the dress，and her fingers apart;and，oh，what happiness beamed from her eyes and from her whole countenance!
'Tomorrow you shall go out in your new clothes，'said her mother;and the little one looked up at her hat and down at her frock，and smiled brightly.'Mother，'she cried，'what will the little dogs think when they see me in these splendid new things?'"