mean the verse."

"Oh, I don't think the song so stupid as all that, and it has a funny
tune: I like to hear people sing it."

"You must permit me to differ with you."

"What about permitting? If I didn't permit it, you'd do it anyhow. Just
tell me, straight out, why you don't like it."

"What idea, what common sense, is there in a song like this?--

'At Lauterbach my stocking slipp'd off:
Without a stocking I can't go home;
So I'm just going back to Lauterbach
To buy another stocking to my one.'

That is sheer nonsense; and that you call funny? How can a song be
funny when there isn't a single idea in it? Is nonsense fun?"

"Well, that may be as it will: it's funny, anyhow: it just suits you
when you're----" Buchmaier, at a loss for words, snapped his fingers,
and went on:--"I mean to say, when you're a little over the traces. We
have a fellow here, his name's George: you must hear him sing it once:
he thinks just as I do about it. Some joker once told me that it ought
to be 'shoe' instead of 'stocking,' and that it was Lauterbach because
there are so many old shoes lying about in the streets. But what have
we to do with it now? Let's talk of something else. Have you got any
friends here?"

"Not a single acquaintance."

"Well, you'll find 'em: the people hereabouts are a little rough
sometimes; but it isn't that: it only looks so. They're a little fond
of a joke, too, and sometimes it comes out of season; but they don't
mean any harm by it; and you must only pay 'em back, and be quick on
the trigger; and if you manage 'em right you can twist 'em round your
little finger."

"I shall certainly treat them all with gentleness and kindness."

"Oh, I was going to say, don't forget to visit the councilmen and the
committee-members; and go to see the old schoolmaster, who's been out
of office these twenty-five years: he's a fine man, and 'll be glad to
see you. He's one of the old sort, but as good as gold. I went to
school with him myself, and I know mighty little,--that's a fact. The
last schoolmaster made him mad because he didn't go to see him; and if
you want to do him a particular favor, let him play the organ sometimes
of a Sunday. Now I'll show you where you're to live: your things came
yesterday."

With a discontented air, the teacher walked up the village at
Buchmaier's side. The transcendent anticipations with which he had come
were writhing under th