Max and Moritz
Page 1
For my own (usually) much
better behaved Max—and his
“saintly” siblings, Kurt and Anya!
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
First Prank
Second Prank
Third Prank
Fourth Prank
Fifth Prank
Sixth Prank
Final Prank
Conclusion
Max und Moritz
Translator’s Note
About the Publisher
Copyright
Introduction
Many stories have been told
Of children who were good as gold,
But these two boys played darker games:
Max and Moritz were their names.
Instead of trying to be good
(As all young children really should),
They laughed at those who stuck to rules,
Giggling like two cackling fools:
“Playing tricks on everyone,
That’s the way to make life fun!
Catching people unawares,
Stealing apples, plums and pears.
That’s the way we spend our time,
With clever pranks and daring crime.
We can’t see much point at all
In wasting time at church or school!”
But, oh, dear readers, it’s too late
To steer them to a better fate.
You’ll see the way our story ends
Is not so nice for these foul friends.
Their nasty acts, their final plight,
It’s all set down in black and white.
First Prank
Of all the animals that there are,
Birds must be the best by far…
Whether chicken, duck or goose,
There’s first the eggs that they produce,
And then, unlike a dog or horse,
You can cook a bird of course!
Even when no longer living,
They’re the gifts that keep on giving—
Their feather bedding keeps us tight
And warm and cosy through the night.
Look, here comes old Widow Palmer,
A kind and gentle lady farmer.
In her yard, four feathered friends—
A cockerel and three well-fed hens.
Their peaceful life looks set to last,
Till Max and Moritz wander past!
Each, with evil in his head,
Reaches out and grabs some bread.
Four small morsels are soon found
Looking harmless on the ground.
But Max and Moritz, oh so rotten,
Have tied the pieces up with cotton.
Spread out cross-like on the floor,
The trap awaits our feathered four.
Sure enough, the cockerel goes
And takes a peek, then proudly crows:
“Cock-a-doodle, doodle-dee!”
The chickens follow, one, two, three…
Greedily they scoff the bread,
Swallowed down with all the thread.
When they’re finished, they discover
There’s no escape from one another!
Strung together, tied up hard—
Panic spreads throughout the yard…
All aflutter, in despair,
See them fly up in the air!
See them caught up on the tree,
Squawking out so desperately.
Hear their cries grow strong and stronger,
As their necks stretch long and longer…
Each chick lays just one last egg,
Then falls lifeless, noiseless, dead.
Widow Palmer, as you see,
Wakes to this cacophony.
Wracked with dread and filled with fright,
She stumbles on the grisly sight.
Soon she’s lost to bitter tears:
“All my hope for future years,
All I had to live upon,
Hangs before me—dead and gone!”
Deeply shaken, this good wife
Reaches for her kitchen knife;
Cuts the chickens from the bough,
And wonders what she can do now.
Grey and silent as a mouse,
She trudges back inside the house.
And so the first mean prank is done,
But watch out—here’s a second one!
Second Prank
Though still reeling from the shock,
Widow Palmer soon took stock.
Turned things over in her mind,
To see what comfort she could find.
What last tribute could she pay
To such dear creatures snatched away?
Eventually, she formed a plan
To stick them in the frying pan.
But, still, it was a sorry sight,
To see them laid out, pale and white,
Plucked and waiting on the stove,
These four birds who’d loved to rove
Through the yard, around the farm,
Blissful, carefree, safe from harm.
All alone with her dog Ben,
Widow Palmer sobs again.
Hearing this sad sound of weeping,
Max and Moritz soon come creeping.
When they smell it’s dinner time,
On the roof they quickly climb.
Down the chimney they go looking,
Spot the chickens gently cooking.
Widow Palmer, unawares,
Heads off down the cellar stairs—
One thing she can’t live without
Is her homemade sauerkraut.
What a feast it’s bound to make,
Warmed up with her chicken bake!
But she cannot guess the truth
Of what is happ’ning on her roof.
Planning well ahead of time,
Max has brought his fishing line…
In a flash the cheeky crook
Has snared the first bird on his hook.
Shortly after, number two,
Then the third is lifted too.
The rooster flies up last of all,
And Max and Moritz have their haul!
Ben the dog, who sees all this,
Barks and barks to warn his miss.
But it comes too late to matter:
The boys have scarpered down the ladder.
Huffing up the other way,
What will Widow Palmer say?
See her rooted to the spot,
As she spies the empty pot.
When she screams her poor dog’s name,
It’s obvious who will get the blame.
“Ben!” she squawks, “You filthy sinner!
I’ll teach you not to eat my dinner!”
Swinging wildly with her spoon,
She chases him around the room.
Hear him yelping loud and long,
This poor young pup who’s done no wrong!
Snoring soundly in the hay,
Max and Moritz hide away.
Of their mean and nasty theft,
A chicken leg is all that’s left.
And so the second prank is done,
But watch out—here’s another one!
Third Prank
Every village-dweller knows
Of the man who fixes clothes.
Casual dresses, Sunday best,
Trousers, waistcoats, pants or vest,
Fur-trimmed coats and three-piece suits,
Slippers, moccasins and boots,
Silken scarf or threadbare sock,
Take them all to Mister Bock.
Any item for repair,
He’ll accept with loving care.
&n
bsp; Small jobs, too, get his heart racing
—even buttons, for replacing.
Taking up or letting down,
Back or front or all around,
Working clothes or heights of fashion,
Mending them is Bock’s life’s passion.
A master of the thread and needle,
He’s loved by all the village people.
But Max and Moritz had a plan
To ridicule this gentle man.
Just outside old Bock’s front door,
See the fast, cold river roar.
A plank leads to the other side,
’Tis three feet long and two feet wide.
Full of cunning like before,
Max comes running with a saw.
On the bridge he soon sets to it—
Quickly saws a crack half through it.
Once they’re done, these nasty boys,
Start to make a hideous noise:
“Tailor Bock, you weird old man,
Na, na! Catch us—if you can!”
A gentle soul of quite some age,
Bock would seldom suffer rage,
But when he hears this rude refrain,
Something snaps inside his brain.
Leaping ’cross his doorstep quick,
Bock comes running with his stick.
Twelve more steps, eleven, ten…
“Na, na, na!” they call again.
Suddenly a giant crack—
As tailor Bock lands in the trap!
“Na, na, na!” the two boys scream,
As—splash!—he tumbles in the stream!
Max and Moritz run off fast,
But luckily two geese swim past.
Close to drowning, near defeat,
Bock grabs wildly at their feet.
Taking one bird in each hand,
He makes it back to solid land.
Still alive, at any rate,
Bock is feeling far from great…
See him suffer, poor old wretch—
Soaked and frozen, muscles stretched.
Fortunately, Mrs Bock
Has her iron nice and hot.
Presses down with all her might,
Until her husband feels all right.
Now that Bock is on the mend,
Perhaps there’ll be a happy end?
But that was just prank number three,
The fourth is coming rapidly!
Fourth Prank
One thing we all know—or ought to—
Is that children must be taught to.
But to climb the social tree
Takes much more than ABC.
Proper folk of proper breeding,
Need to know much more than reading…
Adding up and multiplying
Are just fine—but really trying
To improve your social station
Needs grace and sophistication.
Mister Lampel led the class
In making sure this came to pass.
Max and Moritz, no great shock,
Hate him even more than Bock.
Clearly, two such wicked creatures
Don’t have any time for teachers.
Lampel hated luxury,
But did have one vice, as you’ll see:
At the setting of the sun,
When his working day was done,
Lampel loved to light his pipe
And puff tobacco through the night.
Max and Moritz, quite obsessed
With shattering the poor man’s rest,
Decide to cause a massive fright
The moment that his pipe’s alight.
One dark Sunday, evening-time,
They embark upon their crime…
While old Lampel’s on his perch,
Playing organ in the church,
Max and Moritz quietly glide
Up to his house and sneak inside.
It doesn’t take them long at all
To spot his pipe against the wall.
Keen to make our story louder,
Moritz fills it with gunpowder;
Urged on by an evil motive,
He’s made Lampel’s pipe explosive!
Suddenly Max gives a shout:
“Hurry up! He’s coming out!”
Luckily they’re not too late—
Lampel has to lock the gate.
Music tucked under his arm,
See this man of grace and charm…
…heading home without a care,
Without a clue who’s just been there!
Desperate now to rest his feet,
Lampel lights his smoky treat.
“Ahh,” he sighs, “There’s nothing ever
Pleases more than simple pleasure!”
BOOM! Those two malicious twits
Succeed in blowing “Sir” to bits!
Coffee pot and jar and kettle,
Shattered glass and twisted metal.
Oven, table, comfy chair—
All gets blasted in the air.
Slowly, as the black smoke clears,
A chargrilled figure now appears.
Surely, Lampel must be charmed—
He’s still alive! (Though not unharmed.)
Ear to ear and head to foot,
His skin is scorched, as black as soot.
Where his hair hung, long and full,
There’s nothing left but smouldering skull.
Who will teach the children now,
Show them how to scrape and bow?
“And,” the village council asks,
“Who’ll perform all Lampel’s tasks?”
And how is Lampel going to smoke,
Now his precious pipe is broke?
Time heals all, or so they say.
(The pipe might not quite feel that way.)
And so we’re done with mean prank four,
But rest assured, there’s plenty more!
Fifth Prank
It’s not always easy, is it,
When your grandpa comes to visit?
If he is the grumpy type
You will have to be polite.
Say “Good morning!” nice and clear,
Tell him what he wants to hear,
Bring him all the stuff he needs,
Lighter, pipe and things to read.
Or perhaps his back is sore?
Needing rubbing, nothing more?
You’ll of course do anything
To ease your grandpa’s suffering.
If he’s had a sneezing fit,
That’s shaken him a little bit,
You’ll say, “Bless you, Grandpa dear,”
And hold his hand to soothe his fear.
If he comes round yours to stay,
You’ll help him fold his clothes away,
Fetch a nightcap for his head,
Put warm blankets on his bed.
Basically, do all you can
To take care of this poor old man.
Max and Moritz, as you’ll see,
Saw things slightly differently…
Grandpa Fritz (a frail old guy)
Would be such fun to terrify!
This was at the time of year
When May bugs start to reappear,
Buzzing round in all the trees,
Biting, scratching all they please.
Max and Moritz, full of glee,
Shake the bugs down from the tree.
Cackling Moritz, giggling Max,
Wrap them up in paper bags;
Take the nasty little “treats”
And stuff them in their grandpa’s sheets!
Pulling on his sleeping cap,
Fritz is ready for a nap.
Eyes clamped shut and breathing deep,
Soon enough he’s fast asleep.
Snick-snick-snack… The insect horde
Come looking for some flesh to gorge!
Soon the leading May bug goes
And grabs hold of the old man’s nose.
And pulls a May bug from his ear.
Nightmare visions in his head,
Grandpa Fritz leaps out of bed.
“Ouch!” A bite, and yet one more,
As Grandpa Fritz skips round the floor!
All around, each way he turns,
It itches, scratches, bites and burns.
Barely stopping to draw breath,
He splats and crunches them to death.
His work is finally complete
When all lie squished beneath his feet.
One huge yawn, three big sighs,