St. Peter and the Farmer’s Doughnuts.

Country of Origin: Austria
Original Language: German
Published in: Sagen aus Österreich
Published by: Ueberreuter

St. Peter and the Farmer’s Doughnuts.
When our Lord still lived on earth he once wandered through the Muhlviertel (the northern part of the county Upper Austria) with St. Peter on the day of solstice. They had been walking for a long time already and St. Peter was so beset by hunger that he inquired: “Lord, I’m hungry. Don’t you think it’s time now to get something to eat?”
They were just passing a farmstead and so the Lord pointed at the house and said: “Good people live in that house. Go and ask for something to eat, they won’t turn you away.”
St. Peter went to the house and the farmer’s wife gave him three shiny hot doughnuts. He craftily thought: “One for the Lord, one for me and the third I’ll secretly keep for myself and eat it later because for my hungry stomach one donut isn’t enough.”
So they went on and ate the doughnuts. St. Peter stayed a few steps behind the Lord and as they passed through a forest he quickly pulled the third doughnut from his pocket. But each time he took a bite of it, the Lord asked him some question and because he couldn’t answer with his mouth full – as this would have given him away – he had to spit the pieces of doughnut out again. So it went on the whole time and in the end the poor apostle hadn’t eaten a single bit of his doughnut.
As it became evening, they walked the same way back and came through that forest again. To his surprise St. Peter saw, that from the moss at the wayside small yellow mushrooms had sprouted and as he asked the Lord why those mushrooms were suddenly there, the Lord looked at him and smiled.
“They have sprouted wherever you spat out bits of doughnut,” he mildly replied.
Ashamedly St. Peter realised that the Lord had seen through him. From that day on, small yellow mushrooms sprout from mossy ground around summer solstice and in memory of St. Peter’s little swindle that hadn’t remained hidden from the Lord, they have retained their doughnut-yellow colour.
Nowadays, people call them chanterelles.

Der Schürzenjäger-Porsche.

Country of Origin: UK
Original Language: English
Published in: Urban Legends
Published by: Reclam

Der Schürzenjäger-Porsche. Ein Mann in Kalifornien sah eine Anzeige für einen „so gut wie neuen“ Porsche in ausgezeichnetem Zustand – für $50.
Er war sich ganz sicher, dass es sich dabei um einen Druckfehler handle, aber sogar $5000 wäre noch ein Schnäppchen gewesen, also eilte er zur angegebenen Adresse, um sich das Auto anzusehen.
Eine gutaussehende Frau öffnete die Haustür. Ja, es war sie, die die Anzeige aufgegeben hatte und der Preis war tatsächlich $50. „Das Auto ist in der Garage“, sagte sie, „kommen Sie mit und schauen Sie es sich an.“ Der Mann war einfach überwältigt. Es war ein wunderschöner Porsche und, wie die Anzeige versprochen hatte, „so gut wie neu“. Er fragte, ob er ihn denn kurz Probe fahren könne. „Aber natürlich“, sagte die Frau und fuhr mit ihm um den Häuserblock.
Der Porsche fuhr sich wie ein Traum. Etwas verlegen zog der junge Mann 50 Dollar aus dem Portemonnaie und bezahlte. Die Frau gab ihm die Papiere und der Wagen gehörte ihm.
Nun hielt es der frischgebackene Porschebesitzer aber nicht mehr aus. Er musste einfach wissen, warum die Frau ihr Auto für einen so lächerlichen Preis verkauft hatte. Ihre Antwort war einfach: mit einem angedeuteten Lächeln sagte sie: „Vor ein paar Tagen ist mein Mann mit seiner Sekretärin durchgebrannt und hat einen Zettel hinterlassen, auf dem stand, dass ich Haus und Auto verkaufen und ihm das Geld nachschicken solle.“

The Ironclad Trunk.

Country of Origin: Austria
Original Language: German
Published in: Sagen aus Österreich
Published by: Ueberreuter

The Ironclad Trunk. Life’s not easy for an apprentice lad in this world! That’s something little Martin Mux knew too well. Many centuries ago he’d been apprenticed to a capable master locksmith in Vienna. Work started early in the morning and the days inside the workshop seemed endless to Martin. He’d really have liked to sleep late in the morning, to idle and to play with his friends but his master was strict and you can easily guess that not everything went well all the time and that the master locksmith pulled his apprentice by his ear quite ungently from time to time.
One of these days the locksmith sent the boy away with a handcart, to the clay pit outside the city. Martin was just too glad not to have to see the workshop for a few hours and merrily whistling a tune, he sauntered along, pushing his handcart and enjoying the warm sunrays on his back. Outside the city he found some other boys and soon he started fooling around with them and forgot about the handcart, the clay and his master. Time passed by so quickly that he didn’t even notice how the shadows got longer and how it grew dark soon. Only when his mates returned to the city one after another, he remembered his assignment. But now it was to late, he didn’t have the time anymore to fill the handcart with clay because he had to return to the city before they’d close the gates.
Anxiously he took his handcart and trotted back. But as he reached the city gates, panting, it was already closed. The boy didn’t have a single coin in his pockets and couldn’t pay the transit penny, he grew desperate and began to cry. What was he supposed to tell his master the next morning? Where was he supposed to spend the night?
Martin sat on his handcart, sobbed silently for a while and then, thoughtless as children sometimes are, he burst out: “If only I knew what I was supposed to do! If I could get into the city, I’d willingly consign my soul to the devil, I wouldn’t mind!”
Just as he’d finished speaking these words, a little man wearing a red doublet appeared in front of him. On his head he wore a pointed hat with a crimson rooster’s feather attached to it that was nodding up and down.
“Why are you crying, dear boy?” the little man asked in a raspy voice.
Startled, Martin stared at the odd-looking creature. “Oh,” he wailed, “I have to return to the city and I don’t have any money. And, aside from that, I’m sure that I’ll get a beating from my master if I return so late and with no clay”.
The devil – because that’s who the little man was – calmed the boy and said: “You shall get your transit penny and I shall fill your cart with clay. Tonight you won’t get beaten, Martin! And how would you like it if I’d make you one of the best master locksmithes it Vienna to boot? Don’t be afraid, I’ve only got one little condition. Should you ever fail to go to mass on a Sunday, your soul shall be mine. Don’t look so fearfully! What of it! All you have to do is go to mass every Sunday and nothing will happen to you.”
This couldn’t be too dangerous, thought the boy. Going to mass every Sunday? That wasn’t difficult. He certainly wouldn’t be enough of a fool to miss it. So he agreed and gave the little man three drops of blood as a pledge. In exchange he got a shiny new penny and miraculously his cart was filled with the finest clay. Merrily the boy passed through the city gates and as he reached the workshop it wasn’t only that he didn’t get a beating but his master even commended him for being so diligent.
The next morning the little man with the red doublet entered the master locksmith’s workshop and commissioned something quite strange. As a last remain of the large ancient forests of the area there stood the trunk of an old oak tree at the corner of the Graben and the Karntner Strasse. For that trunk the little man wanted a supporting ring made of iron. The ring should also have an extremely complicated lock. Neither the master locksmith nor his assistants dared to take on that strange and difficult assignment.
“What?” the stranger shouted indignantly. “You call yourself a master of your trade and still you’re not able to accomplish something so simple? Your apprentice here could do it easily!”
“If my apprentice manages to make that lock,” the locksmith replied sourly, “then I’ll give him his apprenticeship diploma and he shall be free.”
“I’m in!” the boy shouted perkily as he recalled the little man’s promise from the previous evening. And really, within a few hours he had completed both ring and key and he found the work quite easy, he didn’t know himself why. The little man had been waiting in the workshop and went to the oak tree with the boy, put the ring around the trunk and locked it. Then the stranger took the key and disappeared without leaving a trace. Since that time the trunk, and the place where it stands, is called “The Ironclad Trunk”.
Martin Mux got his apprenticeship diploma from his master and thus he became free. Following the old craftsmen’s tradition he took to the road, worked here and there and one day he also got to Nuremberg. The master locksmith, for whom he started working as an assistant there was smitten with amazement. Elaborate grilles that took his other assistants a week to make, he completed within hours and then he even stretched the anvil to grillwork. The locksmith found that quite a bit appalling and so he got rid again of his new assistant soon.
Martin decided to move back to his hometown and after a few months he reached Vienna. And of course he didn’t fail a single time to go to mass on Sunday! He wasn’t afraid of the devil and he was determined to cheat the little guy in the red doublet. In Vienna he heard that the magistrate was looking for a locksmith who could make a key that would fit into the lock of the oak trunk at the Graben. The one who would be able to make that key would be declared a master craftsman and an honourable citizen of Vienna. Many had tried it already but no one had been able to make a key that would fit.
As soon as Martin Mux had heard about that he started working. The little man that had disappeared with the key, however, didn’t like that too much. He made himself invisible and sat at the flue and whenever Martin held his key into the fire, he turned the key bit around. Martin Mux soon understood what the matter was, he smiled shrewdly and joined the bit to the key the other way round before he held it into the fire. So he outsmarted the guy with the red doublet who, blind with rage, had turned the key bit again. Laughing at the little man, Martin ran out of the workshop and the devil shot angrily up and out of the chimney.
All the masters and honourable people of the city had gathered as Martin Mux inserted his key into the lock and opened it. Solemnly Martin was declared master craftsman and honourable citizen of Vienna and filled with elation he threw the key high into the air; but – what a miracle! – it never fell down again.
Now Martin was a master locksmith in Vienna and the good reputation of his craftsmanship soon brought him many customers. The years went by. He lived quietly and happily and never failed to go to mass on Sundays. Now he regretted that he’d made a deal with the devil when he’d still been a boy.
The guy with the red doublet didn’t find it to his liking that his partner was living such an decent lifestyle – because the devil never wants to lose a soul unnecessarily. He spent years waiting for a chance – but master Mux was working diligently on weekdays and always went to church on Sundays.
Martin Mux became richer and richer and soon he was one of the wealthiest citizens of Vienna. What the master craftsman didn’t know, however, was that the guy in the red doublet had had a hand in this. The devil was trying to corrupt his partner with wealth and to make him careless and before long Martin took to gambling and drinking.
One Sunday morning Martin sat with his companions in the tavern called “Zum steinernen Kleeblatt”. As the clock stroke ten, he set down the dice-box and wanted to get up and go to church.
“You’ve still got time!” his friends called. “Do you already want to leave us? You can still go to the 11 o’clock mass.”
Martin Mux was easily persuaded to stay and so he continued drinking and throwing the dices and as the clock stroke eleven, he and his friends were so engrossed in the game that they didn’t even want to think about stopping. “The last mass is only at half eleven”, they shouted merrily, “you’ve still got time!” Once again Martin stayed and continued with the game. Suddenly the clock stroke half eleven. His face turned deathly pale with shock, he dashed up the stairs and ran to the church. In front of the Stephansdom, the cathedral of St. Stephen, he didn’t see anyone, the square was absolutly empty. There was only an old hag leaning on a gravestone, a witch that had been sent there by the devil.
“By God,” he called, out of his breath, “is the last mass over already?”
“The last mass?” the old woman asked wonderingly. “The last mass is long over. It’s almost one o’clock.” Martin Mux didn’t hear the old witch’s snickering anymore – it wasn’t even noon yet – and desperately he ran back to the tavern where he tore the silver buttons off his doublet and gave them to his friends so that they wouldn’t forget him and that his fate would be a warning to them. Only now the bells of the city began to strike noon. As soon as the sound of the bells had died away the little man with the red doublet stood in the entranceway of the tavern. “Hey, master Mux,” he called in his raspy voice, “don’t miss the mass! Don’t you hear the bells striking twelve?”
Desparately Martin Mux ran up the stairs again and to the Stephansdom. The little man followed him upon his heels and grew bigger and bigger. As they reached St. Stephen’s cemetary it was a huge, fire-spitting creature that stood behind the poor craftsman while inside the church the priest was issuing the final blessings. It was the end of the mass.
And it was also the end of master Martin Mux. The fiery beast grabbed him, flew high up into the air and disappeared. In the evening the citizens of Vienna found Martin Mux lying dead on Mt. Rabenstein.
From that time on, every locksmith in his travel years who came through Vienna hammered, in rememberance of the unfortunate master, a nail into the oak trunk in the centre of the city which soon actually became an ‘ironclad trunk’.

Die missglückte Flucht.

Country of Origin: UK
Original Language: English
Published in: Urban Legends
Published by: Reclam

Die missglückte Flucht. Neulich hat sich mein bester Freund einen brandneuen weißen Rover gekauft und um das zu feiern, ging er mit mir und ein paar anderen Kumpels aus.
Er hatte ein paar Bierchen zuviel getrunken und als er dann im Nebel auf der Autobahn nach Hause fuhr, überholte ihn ein Polizeiauto und er wurde aufgefordert, anzuhalten. Der Polizist wies meinen Freund an, auszusteigen und als er ihn gerade auffordern wollte, ‚doch bitte hier hinein zu blasen’, hörten sie einen lauten Kracher und dann noch einen weiteren – in der Nähe hatte es eine Massenkarambolage gegeben.
Der Polizist wies meinen Freund an, sich nicht vom Fleck zu rühren, und machte sich in Richtung des Geräusches davon. Nach kurzem Zögern aber sprang mein Freund ins Auto und fuhr nach Hause. Als er dort ankam, sperrte er das Auto in die Garage und trug seiner Frau auf, zu antworten, sollte jemand fragen wo er sei, dass er in den letzten vierundzwanzig Stunden krank im Bett gelegen hatte.
Am nächsten Morgen bekamen sie einen Anruf von der Polizei. Die Mann am Apparat wollte wissen, wo sich mein Freund denn aufhielt. „Es tut mir leid“, sagte seine Frau, „mein Mann hat eine Grippe und liegt im Bett.“ „Könnten wir wohl einen Blick auf sein Auto werfen?“ „Aber sicher“, antwortete sie. Als die Polizei aber dann kam und sie die Garagentür öffneten, sah sie zu ihrem Erstaunen, dass in der Garage nicht der weiße Rover ihres Mannes stand, sondern einer mit roten und blauen Streifen an der Seite und mit Blaulicht am Dach.

Her Brother's Mum.

Country of Origin: Japan
Original Language: Japanese
Published in: Japanese Reading Program with Basic 997 Words
Published by: Hokuseido Press

Her Brother's Mum. Like me, my friend Kawamura is a 17-year-old high school student. Her little brother is ten and goes to primary school. He once caught a cold, ran a fever and couldn’t go to school for a week. The day his cold got better and he could go to school again, his sister was worried and so she walked him to school. As he got home again he apparently told her: “You know what, my classmates were talking today about how young my mother looked.” “I’m not the mother of my seven-year-younger brother!” she replied angrily.

Smart Alec.

Country of Origin: Japan
Original Language: Japanese
Published in: Japanese Reading Program with Basic 997 Words
Published by: Hokuseido Press

Smart Alec. A man with a pile of luggage once called the station porter and asked him: “How much is it to have you carry my bags?”
“The first bag is 500 Yen, any further bag will be 200 Yen each.”
“Well then,” said the man. “I’ll carry the first one myself. You take the rest.”

The Foundation of Kremsmunster Abbey.

Country of Origin: Austria
Original Language: German
Published in: Sagen aus Österreich
Published by: Ueberreuter

The Foundation of Kremsmunster Abbey. It’s more than an eon ago that the Bavarian Duke Tassilo ruled the area around the valley of River Krems, where Kremsmunster Abbey stands today.
Back then, the hills surrounding the abbey were covered by wide, almost impenetrable forests that were home to bears, wolves, stags and boars.
One day, as the Duke had gone away to Lorch, his son Gunter was hunting in the nearby forests. In his enthusiasm he left his entourage far behind and went on, advancing deeper and deeper into the forest, until he reached the valley of River Krems. There he found a huge boar and attacked it with his hunting spear. He wounded the animal seriously but the spear broke and the wounded boar turned against Gunter and tore a deep wound into his leg. Alone and helpless young Gunter lay in the moss under the old trees and bled to his death. It was the exact same place where Gunter’s Pond can be found today.
The young man’s faithful dog led the entourage to its master. The men found Gunter dead, next to the dead boar; they couldn’t help him anymore and the only thing left to do was to inform the Duke of his son’s death. Tassilo instantly left Lorch and hurried to the valley of River Krems where he sat next to his son, mourning until late at night.
Suddenly a white stag appeared out or the thicket and approached the Duke. Between its antlers flickered a light in the form of a crucifix. The stag stopped, stood in front of Tassilo and then it disappeared into the darkness of the night again – it had been St. Hubertus’ stag.
Mesmerised, Duke Tassilo had been staring at the phantom and as he came to his right senses again he decided to raise a monument for his son.
Soon he had a wooden chapel built at the place where Gunter had bled to death. Later on a cloister was founded at the same place and soon the small chapel was replaced by a splendid church. Since the cloister’s founding in 777, monks of the Order of St. Benedict have been working in Kremsmunster and in remembrance of the occasion of its foundation, the abbey still bears the boar in its crest.