On a bright summer evening the people from Dalfsen were sitting outside their doors having a chat. Some of them strolled along the Koffiestraatje [1] in the sultry air. Here and there, children played with their tops and hoops. People drank a cool pint of lager and ate a local cookie. Then, all of a sudden, a man's voice said in a tranquil fashion, "Fire in the church tower. Fire!"

The inhabitants of Dalfsen were delicate people, not accustomed to nasty events.

They turned their heads towards the tower. Some had a house blocking their view, while others were too sleepy to look, but the rest looked.

"Fire!" the man yelled, and now he pointed his shaking finger in the direction of the tower that rose high and slender above all the other tall buildings. "Fire! In the tower! Can't you see those smoky clouds ... ?! Help!"

A crowd gathered and people bumped into each other. Well, yes ... people saw the narrow cloud of smoke whirling around the tower in a menacing fashion .... It blew about and grew again, it became dark, and then it faded for a while against the vivid blue of the summer evening sky.

Women started to scream, as they should during disasters. The children cheered because they understood they didn't have to go to bed.

The men, the serious dutiful men of Dalfsen, walked to the banks of the river Vecht with swift, distinguished steps.

Two men laid down on their bellies near the lower ends of the bridge and scooped up the water into their hands. Because it was such a hot summer, they had left their hats at home.

Others stood next to them, stalping with haste and sorrow, and many looked up in fearful misery to the narrow cloud so high above the village.

Quickly, extinguish the fire, before the tower crashes into the village! Too many farms were made of wood.

Some people started to panic and call for their children, who had obviously made themselves scarce. Others started to shout for help for themselves, before it would be too late. Some people went to pack their jewels and money in suitcases, in order to escape the village, which they thought was in roaring flames already.

Many fell on their knees in the middle of the street and eagerly prayed to all the powers they could remember from catechism, relics and songs from the fair. At this precious moment, many people realized they had lived a sinful life in this tidy little town, accumulating debts, dancing in the bar, peeping at ladies with hungry looks: The horrific things one is forced to face when such a tower, clouded in doom, is pointing towards heaven like a finger.

Then, still within half an hour, the fire department arrived, in uniform, with polished shoes, wigs, and hats off, with only wet nightcaps on their heads, as prescribed. The firemen filled their buckets with water from the Vecht and passed them on to Gait, who gave them to Jan-Willem, while Jan-Willem gave them to Martijn, and then they went on to Willem, and to Peter, et cetera ... until they were emptied in a large wooden tub. A beautiful, brand-new fire pump was installed in the tub. Four men pumped with swelling muscles, while another four aimed their gurgling fire hoses, like generals with terrifying arms.

It was such a moving sight. The suspense became unbearable. The mayor got stuck in the crowd, his instructions were no longer heard, and he lost his watch. He yelled something about remaining calm and about thieves, but he was misunderstood. Women tried to faint in the arms of handsome men, and children started throwing stones through windows, because everyone would blame it on the fire anyway. Two very old ladies began to cry with long howls in high-pitched voices. It was shocking to see how the community of Dalfsen shook like dice in a mug. Meanwhile, near the waterside, the firemen kept on working, sweaty and with crimson faces: Gait, Jan-Willem, Martijn, Peter, and all the others ....

The church tower stood very still, like an immense piece of fireworks, ready to explode.

"It's moving ... !"

Men and women embraced each other in despair. The water from the fire hoses splattered much too low against the wall.

Now the mayor had lost one of his shoe buckles as well. Surrounded by a screaming crowd, he kept his hand on his wallet and shouted until his face turned purple.

"The tower!" roared a tall fellow who should be able to see best. "He's going down, folks! Clear off, clear off!"

Meanwhile, the firemen kept on handing over the buckets: Gait, Jan-Willem, Martijn, Peter ....

Then – much too calmly – a man showed up at the top of the tower. How could he have passed the fire?

He gesticulated like a minister, solemnly spreading his arms, not the least in a hurry to meet his Maker.

The man in the tower put his hands beside his mouth and called, "There is no fire ... ! There are mosquitoes swarming around the tower!"

Now the jet of water from the fire hose lost its power altogether – the hose gargled.

Mosquitoes?! Swarming mosquitoes on a summer evening?

Thus the fear and curiosity faded away.

And among the inhabitants of Dalfsen there were some outsiders from Zwolle and Hoonhorst. While they tried to keep a straight face, they felt sarcastic mockery coming up.

"Mosquitoes!" "Mosquito sprayers!" the visitors said to each other.

Today you can ask any inhabitant of the province of Overijssel about the Mosquitoes, and his eyes will turn towards Dalfsen. For these kind of stories won't go away ....