g. "It is a great misfortune
that a man is never asked how he wishes to die, but a still greater
misfortune if he is not asked how he wishes to live. My father destined
me to be a butcher. I learned the whole trade. Then I suddenly grew
tired of all that ox-slaughtering, and cow-skinning. I was always
fascinated by these beautiful brown-backed rolls in the shop-window;
whenever I passed before the confectionery window, the pleasant warm
bread-odors just invited me in:--until at last I deserted my trade, and
joined Father Fromm. At that time my moustache and beard were already
sprouting, but I have never regretted my determination. Whenever I look
at my clean, white shirt, I am delighted at the idea that I have not to
sprinkle it with blood, and wear the blood-stained garment the rest of
the day. Everyone should follow his own bent, should he not, Henrik?"

"True," muttered the youth in a tone of anger. "And yet the butcher's
trade is as far above the councillor's as the weather-cock on St.
Michael's tower is above our own vane. I do not like blood on my hands,
yet at least I could wash it off; but if a drop of ink gets on my finger
from my pen, for three days no pumice stone would induce it to depart.
Yes, it is a glorious thing to be a baker's assistant."

Marton now busied himself in shovelling several dozen loaves of white
bread into the heated oven. Meantime the whole "menage" commenced with
one voice to sing a peculiar air, which I had already heard several
times resounding through the bakers' windows.

It runs as follows:

"Oh, the kneading trough is fine,
Very beautiful and fine.

Straight and crooked, round in form
Thin and long, three-legged too,
Here's a stork, and here's a 'ticker,'
While here's a pair of snuffers too,
Stork and ticker, snuffers too,
Bottles, tipsy Michael with them.
Bottles, tipsy Michael with them,
Stork and ticker, snuffers too,
Thin and long, three-legged too,
Straight and crooked, round in form.

Oh! the kneading trough is fine,
Very beautiful and fine."

They sang this air with such a passionate earnestness that, to this day
I must believe, was caused, not by the beauty of the verses, or the
corresponding melody, but rather by some superstitious feeling that
their chanting would prevent the plague infecting the bread while it was
baking, or perhaps the air served as an hour-glass telling them by its
termination that no