Identifier: humourofgermany00mlrich (find matches)
Title: The humour of Germany;
Year: 1909 (1900s)
Authors: Müller-Casenov, Hans Brock, C. E. (Charles Edmund), 1870-1938
Subjects: German wit and humor
Publisher: London, The Walter Scott publishing co., ltd New York, C. Scribner's sons
Contributing Library: University of California Libraries
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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and God bless you;here, this way, sir, not around that corner; this is the wayout of the cellar. Here, come, do not run against thosecasks ; I will hold the candle. No, indeed, old chap, I said; the joke is only justbeginning. All this was but a foretaste. Bring me two orthree bottles of your choicest of 22 in the large roomyonder. He stood there with eyes wide open, the poor fool. Sir, he said solemnly, put it out of your mind. I willnot stay with you for love or money. Who told you to stay with me ? Put the wine where Itell you, and, in Gods name, go along with you. But I cannot leave you alone in the cellar, he replied. I know, begging your pardon, that you wouldnt steal any-thing, but it is against my orders. Well, then, lock the door behind me; put a padlockon, as ponderous as you please, and to-morrow morning atsix come and wake me and get your fee. He tried to remonstrate, but it was in vain. At last heput down three bottles and nine candles before me, wiped 112 GERMAN HUMOUR.
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3^ ^ TWO MF.N WITH CEREMONIOUS POLITENESS URGING PRECEDENCE UPON EACH OTHER. A NIGHT IN THE RATHSKELLER. II3 out the beaker, and bade me good-night with a heavj^ heartas it seemed. He locked the door, and out of tendersoUcitude for me, as it would seem, more than for thesafety of his cellar, hung on a padlock. Just then theclock struck twelve. I heard him mutter a prayer andhasten away. The sound of his steps died away in thevault, and when he shut the outside door of the cellar itreverberated like a peal of thunder through the passages. So I am alone with thee, my soul, far down in the wombof the earth. Up on the earth they are all asleep andadream, and down here, round about, they slumber intheir coffins, the spirits of wine. Do they dream, I wonder,of their short childhood, of the distant hills where theywere bred, and of their old father Rhine who murmureda gentle ditty by their cradle ? Hark ! Was not that the sound of a door ? Certainlyvery queer; if I were not alone down here,

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