Tedje and I take in the Hamburg Dom. From the rows of booths come promises of unparalleled sights. The sights we see in strange lands don't interest us, but at carnivals ashore it is different.
"Step in, step in," a barker howls, "and see what nobody ever saw or ate."
"What is it?" Tedje demands cautiously.
"Step in, and you will hear a canary bird talking Plattdeutsch, Low German. Five hundred marks reward if the bird does not talk Plattdeutsch."
We have never heard a canary bird talking any language, least of all Plattdeutsch. We join the crowd going in.
A canary bird in a cage is brought on to the platform. An elegantly dressed gentleman announces:
"Permit me to introduce this bird to you. His name is Hans."
"Never mind," shouts a sailor, "we want to hear him talk Deutsch."
"You will hear him, gentlemen. Hans—" and now he speaks in the Plattdeutsch dialect—"Hans, tell me what I should smoke, a cigar or a pipe." He pronounces the word pipe as "peep," in Plattdeutsch fashion.
In response the canary bird twitters: