A peasant of Svalings, in the parish of Gothem, by the name of Hans, was, one spring day, employed in mending a fence which divided two meadows. It chanced he required a few more willow twigs for bands, whereupon he sprang over the fence to cut them in a neighbor’s grove. Entering the thicket, what was his surprise at seeing an old man sitting upon a stump, bowed forward, his face buried in his hands. His astonishment uncontrollable, Hans broke out:

“Who are you?”

“A wanderer,” replied the old man without lifting his head.

“How long have you been a wanderer?” inquired the peasant.

“Three hundred years!” answered the old man.

Still more astonished, the peasant again asked:

“Is it not hard to travel thus?”

“It has never been so hard to me,” replied the old man, “for I love the woods.”

“Very well, go on then,” said Hans.

Hardly were the words uttered than the peasant heard a sound like that from a wild bird startled to wing, and the old man had vanished so suddenly that Hans could not say whether he had sunk into the earth or gone into the air. [78]