The very guard at the fire-house that was there to rush out and toot and present arms whenever one of the red-coated royal drivers came into view on the box of a coach, lost its bearings and turned out to salute a scarlet-clad letter-carrier in the twilight. That the bugler discovered his mistake, choked off his tune in the middle, and so took the whole town into the joke, was as it should be. We were in it, all of us, and, as young America remarked, “up to the neck!” All except the cows. They had been warned off the streets during the King’s stay by police ordinance. Ordinarily they have the right of way, being taken back and forth twice a day, to and from the pasture. But now they must keep away three whole days. The police force of Ribe put the case to me convincingly: “’Tain’t only for the sake of the streets,” he said; “we don’t mind they’re dirty; but s’pposin’ they came up against the Bishop and the parsons paradin’--them cows is lawless beasts--they wouldn’t let them pass, no more they wouldn’t.” Hence their banishment and the singular pageant of numberless led cows, in charge of little boys, that paraded through the streets on the last day of their freedom. They wanted to see as much of the show as they could while they had the chance. And see it they did--greens, flags, flowers, and all. Into the very yard of our hotel I found one youngster leading his cow to see the tent they were putting up there for the overflow, and also the flag that Hans Petersen, or Peter Hansen, or somebody, had hoisted in his back yard, where no one could see it but he himself. But then, was he nobody? It was his chance to show his loyal good-will, and he took it, as did all the rest of us.