Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/191

Homeward went the granddame sadly,
Thinking of that naughty maid,
Then she eat her dinner gladly,
Wondering where the maiden stayed;
Sat her down and began nodding,
Murmuring, “She is now afraid.”

Soon the neighbors came in horror.
“Petronella’s turned to stone!
Come and see her to thy sorrow,
Standing on the hill alone;
Grown like a mighty mountain,
With her basket turned to stone.”

Pale with horror went the granddame,
Gazed upon the far-off hill,
Then calling loud the Virgin’s name,
She fell in a death-cramp chill.
The neighbors bore her to her grave,
And the mound they show you still.

By Tetschen is the mountain sere,
And the peasants love to tell
To naughty maids who will not fear,
The trouble that once befell
A girl who laughed at good St. John,
And her grandmother as well.