“What have you there?” asked the peasant, starting up at the sound.
“Oh, that is my oracle,” answered the drummer coolly.
“Your oracle! Does he, then, speak to you?”
“Certainly,” answered the drummer. “He speaks to me three times a day.”
“Faith,” said the peasant, “I should very much like to hear him.”
So the drummer picked up his drumsticks and beat a lively tattoo upon the drum, and, aroused by the noise and vibration, the swarm of bees within began to buzz about in great commotion.
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” cried the peasant delightedly, as he listened to the humming. “And do you really understand that language? What does the oracle say?”
“He says,” answered the peasant, “that there is no need for us to drink sour milk, because there is a bottle of wine standing by the wall, just behind the big chest.”
“Ha, ha, ha! that is a good joke!” roared the peasant. “Wine in my house, indeed! I only wish it were true!”