k a spit right through him, and
then twist him slowly over the fire until he turns nice and brown.

But they little knew the honored son of Eynhofen, Matthew Fottner by
name, if they thought he would have anything to do with that sort of
enterprise.

He now had a fortune of five thousand marks; three thousand from the
Bridge Farmer and two thousand from the special offering. With this
capital he migrated to Switzerland and became a pastor in the Canton of
Graubuenden. In those parts the people speak German as well as in
Eynhofen, and they roast chickens and ducks on the spit, but no
missionaries.

There Fottner spent his days in peace and contentment, and soon weighed
two hundred and fifty, not a pound less.

For the Bridge Farmer, who would have liked to see Matt as a saint,
this was a disappointment.

And for the Hindians too.

For they will never again enjoy the prospect of having a corporal of
the Bavarian Royal Grenadiers come out to them as a missionary.

RUDOLF HANS BARTSCH

* * * * * *

THE STYRIAN WINE-CARTER

TRANSLATED BY BAYARD QUINCY MORGAN, PH.D.
Assistant Professor of German, University of Wisconsin

Aye, any one not familiar with the Styrian-Carinthian highway through
the valley of the Drau does not know what one of the good old
Austrian imperial highroads in the good old days might undertake.
Hop-up-and-down is its behavior, with snake-like humps, like a jumping
polecat. Serpentine windings? Don't exist there. Straight as an arrow
it heedlessly goes over mountain after mountain, down to the Drau and
up again to airy heights, and any motorist who is slightly in a hurry
will make a miniature descent into hell of some 250 feet, say beyond
Voelkermarkt, approaching Lavamuend; the terrified shriek of the ladies
is already resounding at the bottom, but their stomachs would still be
on top of Voelkermarkt Hill, obeying the law of inertia, if they could
have passed up through their mouths. And then immediately after, whee!
up a fresh "mountain."

This is the way we treat the good old times nowadays. Was not that
road, in its day, built to lengthen life? There you could ponder over
your existence, for your little horses, like peripatetic philosophers,
pushed onward with bobbing heads, laboriously and slowly, slowly.

Ah, but it is a beautiful road, beautiful! Beautiful enough to
tarry