For twelve nights now the witches, rejoicing and full of high spirits, had danced away all the moon-beams that had fallen
on the leaves and the grass of the forest, so that the play of lights and shadows could unfold more freely. In the dancing mountain-forest streaks of fog rushed through the trees; sent by the sea-storms, hail-showers rattled up the mountain with noisy steps.

Fire-spitting dragons flew howling through the wild and agitated night, dispelling the fog and driving it away; in gigantic witch-kettles they hauled in the cosmic winds, which to Sol appeared like lively diversity, to Mani however only like confusing chaos.

As the moon began drawing the waters of the fog up towards herself, her shield began to rotate faster and faster; the rising flows bounced back from it like from the scoops of a mill-wheel and scattered into all the winds, cooling them refreshingly.
After this silvery oblation these fine droplets trickled down again into the witch-kettle of the unbridled joy of life, which now had extended over all the mountain-forest.