110 



THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



As we looked over the rims of our 

 coffee-cups at the delightful sky-line 

 made by those curving, leaping gables, as 

 we puzzled over the quaint text of the 

 mottoes beneath them, we became aware 

 that other eyes were looking over other 

 cups toward our own. Miinster, like us, 

 was taking its morning coffee, and a little 

 later Miinster began, in spite of promised 

 rain, to water its flowers. 



I^IvOWER-BOXES AT EVERY WINDOW 



All German towns can boast charming 

 window gardens, but none — and saying 

 it I recall very well the magnificent cacti 

 of Rotenburg, Braunschweig's luxuriant 

 geraniums (although that is not what she 

 calls them), Quedlinburg's roses — are so 

 lovely, so rich in bloom, as those of 

 ]\Iunster. 



Fancy a high, narrow facade of smooth, 

 cool gray stucco dripping with purple 

 blossoms from attic window to arched 

 ground floor. The vine is apparently our 

 large-flowered purple clematis ; at least, 

 seen from our window, color and flower 

 shape are the same. Every window is 

 massed with it, the long tendrils swing- 

 ing and swaying in the light wind, the 

 greenery almost hidden by the mass of 

 bloom. Beside it a gayer building, gleam- 

 ing with new paint and "restorations," 

 finds its fresh colors rivaled by the pink 

 blossoms in its window gardens, and be- 

 yond it a structure of dark gray stone 

 makes a delightful background for a 

 wealth of scarlet flowers. 



And here and there behind each flow- 

 ery screen one catches a glimpse of mov- 

 ing hands, of shining watering-cans, and 

 sharp pruning-shears, sometimes of a 

 friendly face. Usually the face is mas- 

 culine ; the master cultivates the flowers 

 while the mistress is busy in the kitchen. 

 Sunday dinner is too important to be left 

 in a maid's incompetent hands. 



Here and there are little blond childish 

 heads bobbing behind the flower screen, 

 and as the morning grows there are more 

 and more of them peering down at the 

 street, now filling with a gay throng. 

 Does not every city have its "church 

 promenade?" New York still throngs 

 Fifth avenue after service, and Phila- 

 delphia once walked sedately to and fro 

 upon Walnut street between Holy Trinity 



and the Philadelphia Club; Miinster 

 crowds the short space of its Prinzipal 

 J\Iarkt of a Sunday morn, exchanging 

 greetings and salutations. 



READY FOR THE PARADE 



But upon this Sunday of our story 

 something more exciting was in prospect 

 than the ordinary "church promenade." 

 In spite of frequent vicious showers 

 throughout the morning, carriages con- 

 taining remarkably costumed young men 

 rolled past our door, too swiftly for more 

 than a glimpse of a white feather or the 

 flash of gold lace, but frequently enough 

 to keep our curiosity very high. Long 

 before service was over people began to 

 gather in the shelter of the arcades — 

 people with arm-loads of flowers, who 

 stood patiently, but persistently, holding 

 their vantage ground in the front ranks, 

 in spite of the increasing crush behind 

 them. 



Then bands of young students com- 

 menced to pass up and down the market^ 

 each group wearing its own peculiar 

 miltse, signifying to the initiated the 

 wearer's school and class. Miiutzen are 

 military-looking caps of odd shape, black 

 visored, most of them ; but the cloth 

 crowns of every conceivable color — pale 

 blue, scarlet, sea-green, yellow ; or, when 

 dark, with a vivid band. Each class 

 of a g3aTinasium (secondary or higher 

 school and each university student or- 

 ganization) has its peculiar cap. In a 

 university town, where also are several 

 gymnasia or preparatory schools, the 

 rainbow scarcely furnishes enough va- 

 riety of shades for all the caps, and where 

 a group gathers together the bobbing 

 heads look like grotesque flowers. 



OUT OF THE CHURCH INTO THE RAIN 



When the church doors opened after 

 the last mass — Miinster is devoutly Ro- 

 man Catholic, her harrowing experience 

 under John of Leyden having given her 

 apparently more than enough of Protes- 

 tantism — and the congregations poured 

 out from the cathedral and St. Lam- 

 bertus into the already crowded street, 

 every vestige of pavement was lost from 

 sight in the swaying sea of heads. Up 

 and down the laughing, chattering crowd 



