At the Charcoal Pile
Once upon a time there lived a widow in the Black Forest. Her husband had been a charcoal burner. When he passed away, her son, Peter Munk, had to take on the charcoal burning. Thus Peter, a handsome boy aged only 16, now had to sit all week in front of a fuming pile. Sometimes he would go into town, blackened and sooty from his work, and sell his coals. When he stopped off at the local tavern he would watch the rafters. Some evenings they would gamble away more money than his father had made in an entire year. Of the three men, Peter did not know who to admire the most. One of them was a tall, heavy man: “Fat Ezechiel” was known as the richest of the bunch. “Long Schlurker”, tall and thin, was known for his bravery. And the third, with a delicate stature and dubbed “King of the Dance Floor”, would make the boldest leaps when music was playing.
They all were highly regarded by the local people, but all three of them had a fault: They were feared because they were so cold-hearted, and rumor had it they had dealings with Dutch-Mike. “They have to be truly happy people”, Peter thought when he sat at the pile in the fir forest. “Even when I show up clean, in my good doublet with its silver buttons, people say: ‘It is only Peter, the charcoal-Munk! What a sorry life: a blackened, lonely charcoal burner!’” And the dark trees and the quiet of the forest made his heart weep. “How well respected are the glass makers, the clock crafters and rafters, even the musicians at night.” Peter sighed deeply. He had seen the beautiful Lisbeth many times at the inn, and had been ashamed when she had looked at him. “Damnation!” There had to be a way he could come to money. He thought long and hard but to no avail. Until he remembered the legend of the Little Glass Man, which was said to have made people rich beyond belief in old times. And when, one day, the story was brought up at the inn once again, Peter heard that the good spirit would show itself at the fir hill. But only to a Sunday’s child born between eleven and two. It would grant three wishes if the Sunday’s child would speak the following verse:
“Guardian of the treasure in the fir forest so green,
A many hundred years you have already seen.
All land where firs grow belongs to you…”
Peter was delighted upon hearing that: “I am a Sunday’s child, born at noon!” And although he had not been able to hear the final sentence he decided to take his chance with the Little Glass Man.