But will you not share our repast?"
The fire in the forest was burning cheerily, the morning was fresh; we
all sat down on the grass, and two of the musicians took from the fire
a can in which there was coffee with milk. Then they brought forth
some bread from the pockets of their cloaks, and each dipped it in the
can and drank turn about with such relish that it was a pleasure to
see them. But the cornetist said, "I never could endure the black
slops," and, after handing me a huge slice of bread and butter, he
brought out a bottle of wine, from which he offered me a draught. I
took a good pull at it, but had to put it down in a hurry with my face
all of a pucker, for it tasted like "old Gooseberry." "The wine of
the country," said the cornetist; "but Italy has probably spoilt your
German taste."
Then he rummaged in his wallet, and finally produced from among all
sorts of rubbish an old, tattered map of the country, in the corner
of which the emperor in his royal robes was still to be discerned, a
sceptre in his right hand, the orb in his left. This map he carefully
spread out upon the ground; the others drew nearer, and they all
consulted together as to their route.
"The vacation is nearly over," said one; "let us turn to the left as
soon as we leave Linz, so as to be in Prague in time." "Upon my word!"
exclaimed the cornetist. "Whom do you propose to pipe to on that road?
Nobody there save wood-choppers and charcoal-burners; no culture nor
taste for art--no station where one can spend a night for nothing!"
"Oh, nonsense!" rejoined the other.
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