An old clock which hung by the wall pointed at the same instant to nine, and struck with a hoarse tone, “Cuckoo! cuckoo!”
“What wretched taste is that!” said one of the travelers; “have you sold the handsome clock, and hung this up to plague yourselves the whole year through with its death-note?”
“Yes, yes,” said the host, smiling; “make yourself merry, at your pleasure, over this bird; it brings me in yearly fifty Dutch guilders—a good crop that needs no tillage.”
Four cannon shots were heard at the same moment.
“O heavens!” shrieked Peter Joostens; “the feast has begun. The women take my life with their hunting here and there.”
“But, Peter Joostens,” asked one of the travelers, “what is this that is going on in the village? Is it the wake?—that would be odd on a Thursday—or is the king coming to the village?”
“It is a very extraordinary thing,” replied the host; “it is an unheard-of thing. If you knew the story, you might fill a whole book with it, without any invention. And the old cuckoo here has its place in Blind Rosa’s story.”
“Blind Rosa!” said the younger traveler, astonished; “what a charming title! That would make a fine counterpart to ‘The Sick Youth.’”
“Nay, that wont do,” said the elder; “if we go out together to collect material for stories, we must honorably divide the spoil.”
“Well, we can hereafter draw lots for it,” said the younger, half regretfully.