Setting Free the Bears

'Go do it, then,' said Siggy.

'I could!' the grandfather said.

'Do it, then,' said Siggy. 'Ring the piss out of them! Get the whole town rolling in the street, holding their ears!'

'I can't climb all those stairs,' said the grandfather. 'I'd get winded halfway up.'

'We'll carry you up,' said Siggy.

'Who are you anyway?' the grandfather said. And he whispered to me, 'I saw him. He took the saltshaker off the table - Frau Ertl's shaker - and he stuffed it in that funny pocket.'

'Oh, why don't they bolt, Graff?' said Siggy. And a brat had the leg of one now; it bleated and kicked, but it was slipping down the steps.

'You think you know so much about goats,' said the grandfather. 'You let them out, didn't you? You're just that sort of madman.'

Then they had the one goat down.

'Let's go, Graff,' said Siggy.

'I'm going to tell,' the grandfather said, and he blushed. 'Widow Ertl thinks I'm just an old duffer who doesn't know anything.'

'She'll think he's more of a duffer if he tells - won't she, Graff?'

'Oh,' said the grandfather, 'I'll let you get away before I tell.'

'Ah, Graff,' said Siggy, 'the terrible chances old duffers will take!'

And when we were started, they had a second goat down. The first goat was on its feet, but a fat girl had it in a headlock and its beard was rattily plucked.

Its pink mouth was open for bleating, but we couldn't hear it calling us over the motorcycle.

As the notebook has it:

Goats won't bolt! But they aren't wild animals.

Take heart, you wild animals!

Fairies All Around

WHEN WE CAME into St Leonhard, the bell ringer was still at it; he was trembling the church.

'What a racket!' said Siggy. 'Bong! Bong! Bong!' he shouted at the belfry.

And a thin little girl with a licorice stick saw him shout. She looked up to the church as if she expected the clapper to break loose from the bell and fly at us.

'Bong!' Siggy said to her, and we went into a Gasthof.

Mass had been over some time, and the Gasthof was almost empty. A natty, quick-moving man stood staring out the window at our motorcycle. Every time he raised his beer he looked like he was going to toss it over his shoulder; he stood with one foot on top of the other, suddenly losing his balance and regaining it with a hop and two-step.

The tired bartender, the Wirt, was reading a newspaper spread on the counter. We bought two bottles of cold beer, a loaf of bread and a two-schilling butter pat.

And the tired Wirt asked, 'All in one bag?'

'Oh, sure,' I said.

'I'll have to give you two bags,' he said. 'I haven't a bag big enough for the whole works.'

And the frisky man at the window turned round so suddenly he made us jump.