“And still another thing I will tell thee--this time about high mountains. The higher the peak the deeper the root. And about large wheels moving slowly but covering great distances. But all this thou wilt in time know, coming to the knowledge in a different way. Oh, you who have discovered how to see things too small to kill, yet not learned how to live! Oh, you with your books and solidly walled houses, with your customs and your manners, with your kings and your doctors! You neither understand how to live nor know how to die. And though you have knowledge, you have no wisdom. You are like overfull barrels. You cannot flow. You ooze. Your brains are clogged; stuffed, leaving you no room for thought.” Sunday. The inn at the market-place. The peasants of the neighborhood are there to buy horses. The plowing done, they are soon to begin to harrow. They use horses for that work. Murdo’s men are out with their brown little ponies, proving their speed, endurance, and pulling strength. Two fiddlers on chairs upon a table are scraping furiously away with their bows. A few of the youngsters are already dancing, though it is far from midday. The village tippler, chronically drunk, stands with his full, white-trousered legs wide apart, holding an enormous earthen pitcher in his outstretched hand, and offers drink to all passers-by. “Drink, for spring is here!” The girls stand in little groups, like field-flowers, and talk among themselves, nod approval or bend in laughter, looking from between long and lowered eyelashes in the direction from which the young men arrive on their way to the inn. They know one another so intimately that they remark the slightest change of detail in apparel. “Oh, look, Stan has put a new ribbon on his hat!” “Oh, did you ever know Dan had a shirt with red-embroidered sleeves?” “No, I know of one embroidered with yellow and another with black. This one with red is a new one.” “Had his mother bought any red wool?” “No, but Fanutza did.” “Then it must be Fanutza! And I had always thought he was to marry Viora!” And among the young men they talked of the girls. “Angelica has added a new silver piece to her necklace. It looks a bit too long; dangles too low.” “Her father resoled his boots the other day and quarreled with the cobbler.” “The innkeeper broke a new pitcher last week. Fell on the stairs coming from the cellar and broke the pitcher.” “Which one?” “The one with blue flowers on a yellow background.” “Innkeepers are so clumsy!” “Clumsy and rich.” “Nae, the musician, snapped three strings in one month. It is a good omen. Never let the Gypsy use the same strings at two weddings. Either you or your wife will be unfaithful within the year.”