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Puck Himself. 15
“Nothing easier than that. The north wind is
my sturdiest steed, and we will ride on it to-night.
Take this cap, and you also will become invisible,
and small, and lithesome as a feather.”
The visitor put the cap on the poet’s brow, and
all at once they were both carried by the night wind
aloft over the roofs of the houses. Below them they
only heard the steps of the night watchman, and
above them glimmered the stars in boundless space.
“There a light is burning,” said Puck, and pointed
to a window which gave a faint glimmer. “ Here
we will enter!”
The next moment they were both seated in a
room where a man, downcast and musing, sat leaning
against an open piano. A lamp burned dimly on
the table, where sheets of partly-written music were
strewn pell-mell. Puck glanced at the notes, and
said, “The composer seeks for beauty in the spheres
of harmony. But he has lost his way, and cannot
get out of the maze. I will try and direct him on
the right path.”
Puck jumped up on the music-stand, and raised
his wand over the keys, which in a moment
seemed to become endowed with life and became
transformed, The white ones became little seraphims
with fluttering wings, and the black resembled the
white, but were covered with thin black veils, ex-
pressive of grief. They all began to fly, sometimes
in narrow, sometimes in wider circles. Sometimes
they would whirl around as in a capricious storm,
and the next moment float dreamily past each other
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