"Can you rattle?"
"Nobody can rattle except when they are dying."
"Does it hurt to die?"
"Of course. If not, why should everybody cry when some one is dying?"
"What about getting married?"
"That can't hurt much anyhow. Everybody always looks happy at a wedding. And of course there is a great difference, for when any one dies it is all over for him, whereas you get over being married."
Hänsli was silent a moment, then he began again:
"Are there any animals that smell nice?"
"What a foolish question!" said Gerold, in a severe tone, especially as he didn't know how to answer.
There was a short silence again. Then Hänsli once more: "Why don't we ever see any one's grandfather jump over a stool or climb up on the roofs, nor any one's grandmother hiding in a mash-tun?"
The only reply Gerold made this time was a sleepy grumble. A long, contented silence ensued. And as the contentment lasted the silence did too. Out of doors, near the highway, a fountain splashed with steady and monotonous murmur. Very far away, in the pass, the bass viol at the Lion Inn was hobbling and coughing along in the dance music, heavy footed and clumsy as if an animated beet root were dancing jigs all around the dance hall, its roots on the ground and the tuft of green leaves waving on top. Little by little the noise of the bass viol became all mixed up with the sound of the fountain, so you couldn't tell which was which. The gush of the fountain turned into a hundred lion heads, and all their jaws opened
48
