"Bees," answered Cobbler-Petter, who had received his name because
he had once lived in the same house as a shoemaker.

Of course, little by little, they perceived a few people. In the
windows, behind shining panes and white curtains, appeared young,
pretty faces, and they saw children playing on the terraces. But no
noise disturbed the silence. It seemed to them as if the trump of
the Day of Doom itself would not be able to wake this town. What
could they do with themselves in such a town!

They went into a shop and bought some beer. There they asked
several questions of the shopman in a terrible voice. They asked if
the fire-brigade had their engines in order, and wondered if there
were clappers in the church bells, if there should happen to be an
alarm.

They drank their beer in the street and threw the bottles away.
One, two, three, all the bottles at the same corner, thunder and
crash, and the splinters flew about their ears.

They heard steps behind them, real steps; voices, loud, distinct
voices; laughter, much laughter, and, moreover, a rattling as if of
metal. They were appalled, and drew back into a doorway. It sounded
like a whole company.

It was one, too, but of young girls. All the maids of the town were
going out in a body to the pastures to milk.

It made the deepest impression on these city men, these citizens of
the world. The maids of the town with milk-pails! It was almost