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 fields and meadows to Suchdol. Goodness knows why it was ever called so! For dale there is none, but a plain as flat as a floor, and in the village there is nothing particularly dry, except perhaps the chimney-pots.

The rich verdure of the orchards is dotted with countless blossoms, and through the verdure and bloom the venerable thatched roofs of the cottages peep forth like mushrooms from among the moss, while the red tiles of the priest’s residence and schoolhouse, and here and there of a more recently built farmhouse, look like the red toadstools in a wood.

Nothing ventures to show itself higher up towards the blue sky, except the church with its very corpulent belfry and a small tower. The footpath from Záluz̓í goes close by the wooden railing of the last farmhouse. Here, in the shade of a blooming rowan, a man of about fifty years of age is standing, leaning upon a hawthorn stick and looking at random over the fields. You may see at once that he is the parish priest. His brown eyes are full of kindness, but are clouded over now with melancholy. The expression is not peevish, but sad and touching. No doubt cares are gnawing at his heart, else why should he stand in the midst of vernal rejoicing, of merriment and pleasure, like a thirsty musician? It is the Rev. Father Václav Cvok, the priest of Záluz̓í. He is a diligent labourer in the Lord’s vineyard, but does not partake at much wine himself—that is plain. All his exterior shows it; even his very boots! One of them has a patch on the right side, the other on the left. And his hat: There was a time when it was black; but now it is changing into a greenish brown, and shows that it has never had the habit of being sheltered by an umbrella.