"It was always worth seeing; the arrival of a party of German tourists in 9 Schwartzwald village.
Leaping from Place the coach they would surge round the solitary gendarme. "Where is the postcard shop?" "Toll us—wo hai only two hours—where do we get postcards?" The gendarme, scenting trink-geld, would head them at the double-quick: stout old gentlemen unacoustomed to the double-quick, stouter frauen gathering up their skirts with utter disregard to all propriety, slim fraulein ging to their beloved would run after him.. Nervous pedestrians would fly for safety into doorways,. careless loiterers would be swept into the gutter. In the narrow doorway of the postcard shop trouble would begin, The cries _of suffocated women and trampled children, the curses of strong men, would rend the The German is a peaceful, law-abiding zen, but in the hunt for postcards he was a beast. A women would pounce on a tray of cards, commence selecting, suddenly the tray would be snatched from her. Ske would burst into tears, and hit the person nearest to hor with her umbrella. The cunning and strong would secure the best cards, -the weak and courteous be left with pictures of post-offices and railway stations. Torn and disheveled, the crowd would rash back to the hotel, sweep crockery from the table, and—stokingstumpy peneils—write feverishly. A hurried meal would follow. Than the horses would be put to again, the German tourists would climb back to their places and be driven away, asking of the coachman what the name of the place they had just loft might happen to be.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.