The Man In The Moon

(A German Folk-Tale)

In Germany, the story goes, Once lived a thieving peasant, Who pilfered from his neighbor’s stores What to his taste was pleasant. All in a garden, near at hand, Some cabbages were growing, And forth he slipped, one Christmas Eve, No shame, no reverence, knowing, To fill his basket in the dark, When none abroad were going.

He still was pulling, might and main, His greediness unbounded, When on the hard and frosty road A horse’s tramp resounded. White shone the steed, the rider white, His face showed many a wrinkle; Low bent the thief, for silver-bright The stars began to twinkle. “’Tis good Saint Nicholas!” he cried, “I hear his hand-bell tinkle!”

The stately Bishop drew his rein-- He spied the peasant hiding; “’Tis Holy Christmas Eve,” called he, “Thy guilt’s the more abiding! Go stand thou in the frozen moon, And come thou downward never! So long as earth lasts, nothing shall Thee and thy booty sever!”

* * * * *

Still in the moon the culprit dwells, ’Mid cabbages forever!