Note 3 — THE BRUNNENMACHER

We walked up to the Bährenloch last week. The path is neglected and quite overgrown in places; the cave seems to have lost its popularity since the war. I was glad to see that old yew tree—rather a rare growth hereabouts—still clinging to the rock near its entrance. We went in with candles and saw one bat fluttering about; I felt no great desire to take it home with me. The pets one kept! Guinea-pigs, first of all, Meerschweinle which, in a burst of infantile humor, I used to call Immermehrschweinle, alluding to their miraculous fecundity. Not a bad joke, now I think of it. And the last was a black squirrel, that ended in pitiable fashion. I took it out of its nest and brought it up on the bottle, like a baby. It grew to be my companion all the time, free to come and free to go, and there was nothing I could not do with it; we were really devoted to each other. Afterwards, having to leave the country, I gave it in charge of a certain female relative who also loved it. The cage was placed on the top of one of those enormous stoves of green majolica tiles. Winter came, and the maid lighted the fire, forgetful of the cage above. Then she remembered, and rushed back into the room. Too late! The poor beast had meanwhile been slowly, quite slowly, roasted to death. No more pets after that.