IT is a cold, wintry day. The Old Year is going to die to-night. All the winds have come to his funeral, and, while waiting, are sky-larking about the country. It is a very improper thing for mourners to do. Here they are in the Black Forest, going on like a parcel of school-boys, waltzing with leaves, singing in tree-tops, whooping, whistling, making all sorts of odd noises. If the Old Year hears them, he must think he has a very queer sort of “procession.”

Max and Thekla are used to the winds, and not afraid of them. They are not afraid of the Forest either, though the country people avoid it, and tell wonderful stories about things seen and heard there. The hut in which they and their Grandfather live is in the heart of the wood. No other house stands within miles of them. In summer-time the wild lilies grow close to the door-step, and the fawns creep shyly out to drink at the spring near by; and sometimes, when the wind blows hard on winter nights, strange barkings can be heard in the distance, and they know that the wolves are out. They do not tremble, though they are but children. Max is eleven, very stout and strong for his age, and able to chop and mark the wood for Grandfather, who for many years has been Woodman. Thekla, who is nine, keeps the house in order, cooks, mends clothes, and knits stockings like a little house-fairy. All their lives they have lived here, and the lonely place is dear to them. The squirrels in the wood are not more free and fearless than these children, and they are so busy and healthy that the days fly fast.

This afternoon, in spite of the cold, they are out gathering wood, of which the Ranger allows them all they need to use. There is a pile at home already, almost as high as the cottage roof: but Thekla is resolved that her fire shall always be bright when Max and the Grandfather come in from out-doors, blue and cold; and she isn’t satisfied yet. For hours they have been at work, and have tied ever so many fagots. The merry winds have been helping in the task, tearing boughs and twigs off overhead, and throwing them down upon the path, so that the bundles have collected rapidly, and wise little Thekla says, “This has been a good day.”

“I’m getting tired, though,” she goes on. “Let’s rest awhile, and take a walk. We never came so far as this before, did we? I want to go up that pretty path, and see where it comes out. Don’t you think we have got wood enough, Max?”

Yes, Max thought they had. So hand in hand the children went along the path. Every thing was new and strange. Into this part of the forest they had never wandered before. The trees were thick. Bushes grew below. Only the little foot-track broke the way. Thekla crept closer to her brother as the walk grew wilder. A great forest is an awful sort of place; most of all in winter, when the birds and squirrels are hushed and the trees can be heard talking to one another. Sweet, curious smells come from you know not where. The wind roars, and the boughs creak back sharply as if the giants and dwarfs were quarreling. All is strange and wonderful.

And now the bushes grow thinner. They were coming upon a little open space fringed about with trees, and suddenly Thekla exclaimed, in an astonished voice,— “Why, Max! Look! There are people in there. I can see them through the bushes!”

“People?” cried Max. “Stealing wood, no doubt. Quiet, Thekla! don’t make any noise: we’ll creep up, and catch them at it. They shall see what the Ranger says to such doings.”

So, like mice, they crept forward, and peeped through the screen of boughs. But there was no sound of chopping, and nobody was meddling with the wood. In fact, there was only one body visible,—an old, old man with snow-white hair. But there was a long row of clay figures in front of him, men and women as large as life; and they looked so natural, it was no wonder Thekla had made the mistake. Some were half-finished; some but just begun: one only seemed perfect,—the figure of a beautiful youth, with a crescent moon on his cap; and, even as they looked, the old man took a pinch of something, molded it with his hand, and stuck it on the side of the head, from which it hung like a graceful plume. Then he seemed satisfied, and began to work on one of the others.

“How lovely! but did you ever see any thing so queer?” whispered Thekla. “If we only dared go nearer!”

“Dared!” cried Max: “this is our wood, and we have a right to go where we like in it. Come on!” and he took Thekla’s hand, and drew her boldly forward.

There were two great jars standing there, which seemed to hold the stuff out of which the figures were made. The children peeped in. One was full of a marvelous kind of water, sparkling and golden and bubbling like wine. The other held sand, or what seemed like sand,—fine, glittering particles,—most beautiful to see. It was wonderful to watch the old man work. His lean fingers would twist and mold the sand and water for a second, and there would be a lovely head, an arm, or a garland of flowers. The forms grew like magic; and the children were so charmed with watching, that they forgot either to speak or to go away.

At last, the old man turned, and saw them. He didn’t smile, nor did he seem angry. He only stood, and fixed his eyes upon them in silence. Thekla began to tremble, but Max bravely addressed him:—

“What curious work this is you are doing!” he said. “Is it very hard?”

“I’m used to it,” was the brief reply.

“You have been doing it a long time perhaps,” said Thekla, shyly.

“Seven thousand years or so,” answered the old man.

“Why, what a story!” cried Max. “That’s impossible, you know: the world wasn’t made as long ago as that.”

“Oh, yes! it was. You were not there at the time, and I was. I got there about as soon as it did, or a little before.”

“He’s certainly crazy,” whispered Thekla; “let’s run away.” “Run away,” replied her brother, “from that old fellow? Why, he’s ten times as old as Grandfather, and I’ll bet he’s not one quarter so strong. There’s something very queer about it all, though, and I’m bound to find it out. Would you dislike to tell us your name, sir?” he asked politely.

“Oh, no!” answered the old man: “I haven’t the least objection. Most people, however, don’t remember to inquire till they’re about seeing the last of me. They mistake me for my brother, Eternity, I suppose. My name is Old Time. That’s my scythe hanging on the tree. Don’t you see it?”

There it was sure enough, only they had not noticed it before. “And what are these beautiful figures?” asked little Thekla.

“Those are the Months,” replied Time. “I come here every year to renew them. They get quite worn out, and need building up. It’s a nice dry place, and they can stand till they are wanted. This one is January. He’s finished; but I’m a little behind hand with the others.” As he spoke, he turned again to his task.

“And what is this stuff you are making them of?” inquired Max, dipping his finger in the sparkling liquid.

The old man fixed upon him a fiery eye. “Don’t meddle with that, boy!” said he, in a severe tone: “nobody can touch those drops safely but myself. That is water from the stream of Time.”

“And these?” asked Thekla, pointing to the second jar.

“Those are what you know as ‘moments,’” was the reply. “They are really the dust of dead years, though somebody or other has given them the name of ‘sands of Time.’ Pretty things they are, but they won’t keep. Everybody in the world can have one at a time, but nobody can lay up a stock for next day. I’m the only person to whom that is allowed.”

Just then a naughty idea entered into Max’s head. “We’ll see whether that is true,” he muttered; and, watching till the old man’s back was turned, he plunged his fingers into the jar, stole a double handful of the sand, and hid it in the tin can which was slung to his side, and in which his dinner and Thekla’s had been. Old Time was too busy to heed him. Pretty soon after, Max took Thekla’s hand, and, without saying “Good-by,” dragged her away down the narrow path towards home. It was almost nightfall when at last they got there.

It was not till after supper when Grandfather had gone to bed that Max confessed what he had done. Thekla felt dreadfully about it; but he wouldn’t say he was sorry, and was sitting by the fire letting the shining particles drift through his fingers, when suddenly voices were heard out of doors as if a large company was approaching. He had just time to hurry the can into a safe hiding-place when the latch rattled, the door flew open, and in long procession streamed in the very figures they had seen that afternoon in the wood. No longer lifeless however, but angry, noisy, reproachful. “Ah, little thief!” cried January. “Where are the stolen moments?”

“Yes,” shouted March, a blustering fellow with wild hair and eyes. “Where’s the third finger of my left hand? Where are my Brother February’s thumb-nail and right ear-tip?”

“And my roses,” wept June, a fair young woman. “See, I ought to have a whole lap full, and there are only five. Oh, naughty, naughty boy!”

“And my holly sprig?” vociferated December. “Who’s to know which I am without it? Not a child in the world will hang up his stocking at the right time.”

“Didn’t you know,” sobbed April, “that the jar only held just enough to make us complete, and no more? And here all of us but January are ugly, maimed creatures, and the New Year will be so disgusted with us.”

It was too true. Every one lacked something. September had no wheat-ears. May mourned over her want of violets. November raged up and down, declaring that he must have a turkey. “And what do you think,” grumbled March, “the world is going to say, when we all come in docked after this ridiculous fashion? The tides will be wrong and the almanac-makers will tear their hair. The moon will go wandering about like a lunatic. And all because a little boy in the Black Forest couldn’t keep his hands out of what didn’t belong to him. Oh, fie! fie! wait till my turn comes! won’t I blow you about!”

And the Months clustered about poor Max, scolding, threatening, crying, till he didn’t know which way to look. He began to feel dreadfully ashamed of himself, especially as Thekla was sobbing as loudly as April, and imploring him to make amends. But he kept up a bold front.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I think you’re very unreasonable. Time belongs to us all. I never had so much to myself before, and I mean to keep it unless you make it worth my while to give it up.” “What shall we do?” cried July. “Shall we all make you a present? or tell you a story?” said November.

“Or sing you a song?” chanted May.

“No music, thank you,” answered Max. “Little Thekla here sings to me, and that is sweet enough. But if you each will make us a gift, and each tell us a story, I will restore the sand you are making such a fuss about. What do you say? Is it a bargain?”

“I won’t,” said January. “I’ll have nothing to do with it: I am finished, and have no favors to ask of anybody.”

The others, however, all cried, “Yes!” And so the bargain was struck. Each Month was to come in turn on the last night of the month before, tell a story, bring a present, and get his missing moments. With this agreement, they said good-by. April gave Thekla a kiss, and they went away. For a time their voices could be heard growing more and more distant in the forest, then all was silent again. “Isn’t that splendid?” cried Max, exultingly.

“It’s very nice about the presents and stories,” answered Thekla; “but I can’t help wishing you hadn’t taken the moments, Max. It’s dreadful to think of your stealing any thing.”

“Pooh!” said Max: “it isn’t stealing to take time. Everybody does that.”