Little Apples

SOOTHSAYER AND SOOTHSAYERESS

Nanny is reading the old quartermaster’s fortune.

“I see a road.”

“Where to?

Nanny waves her hand northward. The quartermaster’s face turns white.

“You will be traveling with a money sack on your knees,” the old woman adds.

Bliss floods the quartermaster’s face.

A civil servant is sitting with two lit candles, looking into the mirror. He wants to divine the height, complexion, and temperament of his new superior, whom he has not yet met. He gazes into the mirror for an hour, two, three. Tremors flit over his eyes, little sticks fly past, feathers flutter about—but no superior of any kind. He sees nothing: no superiors, no inferiors. A fourth hour passes, a fifth . . . He has had enough of waiting for the new superior. He stands up, waves his hand dismissively, and sighs.

“I see the position will remain unfilled,” he says. “That is not good at all. Anarchy will reign!”

A young lady is standing by the gate in her yard waiting for someone to walk by. She has decided that the first passerby’s name will be that of her future betrothed.

Someone is approaching.

She quickly opens the gate and calls out, “May I ask your name, sir?”

The answer to her question is a loud moo, and through the half-open gate she sees a large dark head. Upon this head is a pair of horns.

“So that’s what his name will be,” the young lady thinks to herself. “I hope his face will be different, though.”

The editor of a daily newspaper is trying to read the fortune of his offspring in some coffee grounds.

“Give it up,” his deputy editor tells him. “This is pointless. Give it up, I tell you!”

The editor is not listening, and continues to stare into the coffee grounds.

“I see many images,” he says. “The devil knows what they are. I see some gloves! Ah, a hedgehog! And here’s a nose . . . it’s the spitting image of my son Makar’s nose! And here’s a baby calf . . . I have no idea what any of this means.

The doctor’s wife is looking into the future with the help of a mirror and sees . . . coffins.

“That can only mean somebody will die,” she thinks. “Or . . . that my husband’s practice will flourish this year.”