Amid such thoughts, or rather soliloquies, since he often murmurs his thoughts quite loudly to himself, he finally stumped into Winterthur and his little dog was trotting ahead of him. Whose dog is that? growled the gatekeeper. Mine, mine, said he. Then you've lost it, said the watchman. For during the Dog Days

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one may not let any dog run free in the city. The Poor Man, who had known nothing of this, trembled for his dear little dog, called to it, and in spite of his weariness ran after it in all haste, caught it and carried it under his arm to the first inn he came to, The Wild Man he thinks it was. There it was his first concern to buy a lead to tie on the dog. But the poor animal submitted with very little patience. He found a kind obliging landlord, but wanted to go on early the next morning, the 22nd of July, so as to reach Zürich in good time. But nevertheless he felt inclined to see the famous engraver Herr Schellenberg. With his dog on the lead he tramped through the alley-ways and enquired after Herr Schellenberg's residence. He found him and conversed with him for half an hour about the engravings for his book, then journeyed on his way through Bassersdorf to Zürich.

He thought to be in Zürich by midday, where he heartily longed to be. But on both sides of the road there were so many sights to see, that the traveller, so full of feelings of curiosity, had enough to gaze on and admire, a ripe harvest, trees everywhere heavily laden with fruit, farmers ploughing in their ancient Swiss costume of Pomphosen

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, etc. Towards Bassersdorf his feet began again to tingle and burn horribly, so that he almost doubted whether he should reach Zürich that day. He stopped in Bassersdorf and found an inn with a pretty and kind landlady, but also a troop of beggars at the door. Hm, he muttered between his teeth, I thought there were no beggars in this canton, something unusual must be happening. He asked mine hostess the cause and what manner of beggars these were. Ah, said she, it's just the harvest, they're not strangers, just from this neighbourhood, come for the gleaning. They've got to live somehow. They can't eat the corn, then they come in crowds to our door and get cider and bread or bread and water, for as a rule water takes the place of the cider. But many of them come just to beg, without picking up a single ear of corn. All the same we give something here and no questions asked, as one should. Bad times these, low wages and dear food. But, said he, before harvest and after harvest, what do they do then? Ah, said mine hostess, then they must live poorly enough. But we don't let anyone die of hunger, we give them something. Now is their harvest time too, now they live better than many farmers do, etc.

The friendly landlady told him so much more about the worthy institutions set up by a wise government for the care of the poor

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, that he could not take it all in, and meanwhile she prepared a dainty midday meal for him, for a low price. He asked her for a little tallow to grease his feet. That too she gave him, for nothing. He greased his feet, stockings and shoes liberally, and then once more went on his way refreshed and cheerful. At first he slipped on the tallow in his shoes, but he did not feel the slightest burning again in his feet. Probatum est, said he to