In the tower above the arcades of Loreto Church is an old glockenspiel which was acquired by a Prague draper Ebrhard from Gloukov in the year 1694. The clock is a work of clock-maker Peter Neumann, the bells were cast by Klaudius Fromm in Amsterdam for fifteen thousand golden coins. In the old times they didn't sound the touching and sad melody as they do today, but only tolled the time of day: the bigger ones tolled at full hour, the smaller ones at quarter of an hour.

At that time there lived in New World a poor widow. She worked from dawn long until sunset, so that she would be able to provide a livelihood for all her children, and they were a blessed number - just as many as there were bells on the Loreto Church spire. The widow thus called her children Loreto Bells; when she was in good mood, she declared gaily that with her little bells it is just like with the real ones - the bigger ones are able to wait, but those smaller ones announce themselves every little while, and from morning till evening they always want something. There was one more treasure the poor widow had: a string of silver coins. She received them once long time ago from a rich godmother and she hid them as a rare prize in the laundry drawer, so that when the children grow up she would be able to give them each a coin as a token of remembrance.

Time came and it happened that in Prague a bad and infectious disease broke out. It raged most amongst the poor, as if it had specialised in the low shabby little houses in the suburbs and in the twisted little streets, full of dust or mud. And it chose from among the poor so cruelly that in the end they started to believe that the rich people are mixing a mysterious poison into their water, so that they could get rid of them.

It didn't last long and the infection got into the streets of New World and didn't avoid the family of the poor widow either. One day, the oldest boy began to moan, the mother was desperate, she couldn't pay the doctor, and even if she gave him the very roof over her head, hardly would any dare to venture to those needy little streets. The illness progressed quickly; barely two hours had passed and the mother saw that the boy's soul was starting to leave him. She opened up the laundry drawer, took the string with silver coins, pulled off the biggest one and went with it to the Loreto Church, so that she would pay him at least for the last journey, when she couldn't pay for his medicine. Soon thereafter the biggest of the Loreto Church bells sounded above the roofs of the New World, to announce with the voice of the passing-bell that the boy breathed out his last breath.

The next day the poor widow walked after the funeral wagon so she could take the final farewell from her son and also so she would know in which shaft of the poor he will be buried. When she returned home, she found another one of her children drowning in fever: it was a tender blond-haired little girl and by then she was barely able to recognise her mother. With a heavy heart the poor widow took another one of the silver coins and again she set out to Loreto Church.

So it went day by day: on the string there were fewer and fewer coins, day by day the unhappy widow walked after the hearse and from the Loreto Church spire a smaller and smaller bell had tolled, until in the end the smallest one of all had sounded: that was when the last child of the poor widow, a little baby, has died.

The mother accompanied her last child to the cemetery. On the way back she felt a terrible bitterness in her face, she realised that the illness didn't avoid even her family and only with a great effort was she able to limp back home. She lay on the bed in the empty room and with sorrow had thought that she now has no one who would do so much as just hand her a glass of water. One and only one thought helped to relieve her grief: that she won't live long without her children, whom she loved more than anything else in the world. The fever was burning her face, and still her whole body shuddered as in ague; she lay motionless with closed eyes and waited for her last moment. Even in the last flash of consciousness she didn't stop thinking about her children though, and from her cracked lips a barely audible sigh rendered:

"Children, my dear children! I had served you all, but nobody is here to serve me anymore. I even gave the passing-bell to toll for you all, but who will take care of me, to get the bell to toll for me on my last journey?"

At that moment, high above the rooftops, the Loreto Church bells began to toll. They tolled all at once and their voices merged into melody so indescribably beautiful that the people in the streets stopped and listened with tears in their eyes: the voices of the bells were intertwining, they sang together and accompanied each other mutually, and their voice sounded like a song, full of gratitude.

The widow opened her eyes, for a while she listened, then she slowly closed them again and on her pale face a happy, contented smile appeared.

From that time on the Loreto Church bells don't toll, but they sing.

Our century, those beautiful night lights, which kindle desire, increase the sensuous beauty of Prague. But if it wasn't for legends and beings from times past, to which we are bound by love, it might seem that the new sensuous beauty of Prague is somewhat dispossessing us of the eternal one, the one distinct from all the cities of the world. No, as long as the fairy-tale power of love doesn't become extinct, there is no need to worry that anything of beauty could disappear from the world. Love is a magical power, which resurrects things dead, things which appeared to be dead, things which appear as if they were no more.

- by Czech writer V�tĕzslav Nezval (1900 - 1958)