The lover of a healthy and intelligent people must needs feel himself at home and stimulated in the Jackelland. When, on a Sunday, he sits among the peasants in the Tafés, or inns run by the church, he will not be bored; he will rather be soon inclined to join in the conversation. But the stranger--if he think for a moment that he is ruling the talk--must be on his guard lest he be made a butt of! They have at their command an exceedingly witty and subtle form of ridicule, which often is understood only by the natives themselves. Many a townsman who has tried to preach wisdom to the Jacklers has been delightfully hoaxed by them and ultimately laughed out of court. Place-hunting, party-hatred, pessimism and such-like flowers of our time have not yet blossomed in the Jackelland. The people there are people in whom hard bodily labour rouses no complaint, in whom pleasure is not marred by a subsequent reaction, people whose life, usually a long one, is spent peacefully, rich in great toils and small sins. Thanks to their moderation and contentment, they are free lords, who can easily make fun of others who have fettered themselves in the chains of worldly advancement. The only sinister inhabitants are the civil engineers, who for years have been exploring the length and breadth of the little land, in the hope of sooner or later turning the iron horse to graze in those green pastures. FOOTNOTE: [16] _Dreikönigsnacht_, the German name for Twelfth Night.--_Translator's Note._ XV The Schoolmaster It was getting dark; the autumn mists were sinking over the wooded mountains. The herdsman was trudging his way home to the tinkling bells of his cattle. For some time longer the farm-hand was heard beating the oat-stalks over a beam that lay on the threshing-floor, until the last grain was separated. The barn door closed at last; and the little houseful of people gathered in the parlour to eat their rye soup and potato mash. Then they betook themselves to their straw beds. The children were soon asleep. A rushlight burnt in the room, and the farmer's wife kept putting it straight on its spike. Peter wound up the smoke-browned clock on the wall. Just as husband and wife were about to get into bed, the watch-dog in the yard began to bark. There came a light tapping at the window-pane. "Who's that?" cried the farmer. And his wife added crossly: "There's no peace for us to-day!" "It's someone begging for a night's shelter," said a hoarse voice outside. "I expect it's a poor man," said the farmer's wife. "That's quite a different thing. Go and unbolt the door, Peter." Soon after a man stumbled into the room, weary and bent, grasping a long stick in his right hand and carrying a little bundle in his left. A wide-brimmed, discoloured, crushed felt hat was on his head, and under the brim hung snow-white strands of hair. Peter took the rush in his hand and threw a light upon the stranger's face. Then he exclaimed: