gantic pan of
buckwheat polenta, and when she had set down this dish, intended for
the haymakers' supper, she brought us each, as our pay, a couple of
_krapfen_, which are oblong dough-cakes fried in butter.

Although the haymakers were worn out and weary with a long day's
work of twelve hours, still Rosenkranz sounded in the chapel like the
humming of bees in lime trees. This pious custom duly impressed us,
until on the very next day, as we walked up our village street on the
evening of the festival, our solemn feelings received a great check.
We observed that the prayer-leaders, who knelt at the open windows
of each separate house, followed our every movement with their eyes,
whilst their mouths mechanically repeated sonorous Ave Marias and
Paternosters. Nay, there was our own pious Moidel watching us from the
kitchen window, her Hail Marys mingling with her friendly greetings;
but then Moidel was waiting upon us and our supper whilst her family
were on their knees in the chapel. Still, we soon learnt to perceive
that Rosenkranz was considered quite as efficacious if merely uttered
by the tongue, whilst the mind was far away. This being a festival,
and no one tired with work, the household trooped into the old
pleasaunce after supper. The elders sat together in a row, whilst the
younger members congregated on a second long stone bench and struck up
singing, Moidel and her elder brother beginning with a duet:

Green, green is the clover
On the hills as I go,
And my maiden as fresh is
As spring water's flow.

And the chorus joined in--

As spring water's flow,

winding up with a jodel.

Nanni, the chief maid, next sang in a clear, flexible voice, which
trembled no little when she perceived that the Herrschaft now formed
part of the audience in the balcony--

A WEEK'S SORROW.

On Sunday I cried, for my heart was so sore,
Like a poor little child outside the church door;
On Monday I felt so afeard and alone,
And thought, Were I a swallow, I'd quickly begone:
Woe's me! were I but a swallow, were I but a swallow!

On Tuesday, and nothing could please me all day,
For him that I love best is far, far away;
On Wednesday whatever I did, I did ill,
For when the heart's heavy the hand has no skill;
On Thursday I was weary and sleepy all day;
On Friday, and one of the cows went astray;
On Saturday down poured my tears like the rain,
As though I should never be happy again.