They followed him; and when they saw that there was only one street, and when they saw only flowers, and more flowers the whole length of it, their scorn and their good humor increased. It was perhaps the first time in their lives that they had ever noticed flowers, but here they could not help it, for the clusters of lilac blossoms brushed off their caps and the petals of cherry-blossoms rained down over them. “What kind of people do you suppose live in this town?” said Long-Petter, musingly. “Bees,” answered Cobbler-Petter, who had received his name because he had once lived in the same house as a shoemaker. Of course, little by little, they perceived a few people. In the windows, behind shining panes and white curtains, appeared young, pretty faces, and they saw children playing on the terraces. But no noise disturbed the silence. It seemed to them as if the trump of the Day of Doom itself would not be able to wake this town. What could they do with themselves in such a town! They went into a shop and bought some beer. There they asked several questions of the shopman in a terrible voice. They asked if the fire-brigade had their engines in order, and wondered if there were clappers in the church bells, if there should happen to be an alarm. They drank their beer in the street and threw the bottles away. One, two, three, all the bottles at the same corner, thunder and crash, and the splinters flew about their ears. They heard steps behind them, real steps; voices, loud, distinct voices; laughter, much laughter, and, moreover, a rattling as if of metal. They were appalled, and drew back into a doorway. It sounded like a whole company. It was one, too, but of young girls. All the maids of the town were going out in a body to the pastures to milk. It made the deepest impression on these city men, these citizens of the world. The maids of the town with milk-pails! It was almost touching! They suddenly jumped out of their doorway and cried “Boo!” The whole troop of girls scattered instantly. They screamed and ran. Their skirts fluttered; their head cloths loosened; their milk-pails rolled about the street. And at the same time, along the whole street, was heard a deafening sound of gates and doors slammed to, of hooks and bolts and locks. Farther down the street stood a big linden tree, and under it sat an old woman by a table with candies and cakes. She did not move; she did not look round; she only sat still. She was not asleep either. “She is made of wood,” said Cobbler-Petter. “No, of clay,” said Rulle-Petter. They walked abreast, all three. Just in front of the old woman they began to reel. They staggered against her table. And the old woman began to scold. “Neither of wood nor of clay,” they said,—“venom, only venom.” During all this time Petter Nord had not spoken to them, but now, at last, they were directly in front of Halfvorson’s shop, and there he was waiting for them.