It was in times when the spirit of the Hussite Wars still hovered over the roofs of old Prague, and yet a new hope was dawning under the scepter of King George of Poděbrady. On Old Town Square, in the heart of all Prague’s happenings, the Church of Our Lady before Týn proudly stood, its two towers reaching for the heavens like a prayer in stone. And precisely on its gable, between the battlements and Gothic finials, shone something that was the pride of all Utraquists – a huge, gilded chalice, a symbol of communion in both kinds, and beneath it a statue of King George himself, the only one who ever sat on the Czech throne without needing confirmation from the Pope. On the chalice, the words “Veritas vincit” – Truth prevails, shone in gold, and for the people of Prague, this was more than just an inscription; it was a confession, a banner for which they were willing to lay down their lives.

The square below the church bustled with its usual activity. In the morning, it filled with the voices of market vendors setting up their stalls with fresh goods, spices fragrant from distant lands, and coarse linens from rural workshops. Horse-drawn carts rattled over the cobblestones, the scent of malt wafted from pubs, and warm bread from bakeries. People hurried about their business, buying, selling, bargaining, and occasionally stopping to look up at the Týn Church, at that shining chalice, visible from afar, reminding them that their faith was strong and their king just. In the church itself, the renowned Jan Rokycana, a man of great learning and piety, the elected archbishop of communion in both kinds, though his office was never confirmed by Rome, celebrated mass. His words from the pulpit resonated with such power that not only simple craftsmen but also noble lords, who crowded the church pews, were captivated by them.

Not long after King George’s coronation, when the joy of the new monarch still echoed through the streets and toasts were drunk to his health in taverns, something happened that at first brought smiles, but later rather fears and disgust. One spring morning, as the sun rose over Prague and gilded the roofs, the people of Prague noticed that two storks had settled on the very gable of the Týn Church, directly on that gilded chalice. They were large, majestic birds with long red legs and beaks, and with loud clattering, they began to build a nest. At first, people in the square stopped, pointed, and admired the sight. “Look, even storks have settled on our chalice,” they said with a smile, perhaps seeing it as a good omen for the Czech kingdom.

Time passed, and soon chirping was heard from the nest. Before long, stork chicks hatched, and with them, something began to happen that disturbed the peace of the people of Prague. To feed their hungry offspring, the parents brought an endless supply of food to the nest. These were frogs they caught in the wetlands outside the city, lizards they climbed off warm walls, and even slimy snakes and newts from the Vltava banks. The storks patiently carried them to the nest, but as the chicks grew, their appetite seemed endless. The chalice, though enormous, began to fill to the brim. And then it happened.

One hot summer day, when the square was teeming with crowds of people, and the noon hour was just striking from the towers, that disgusting vermin began to pour out of the chalice. First, it was just one small frog, which landed with a quiet splat on the paving of the square. Then a second, a third. People at first looked on in confusion, but soon the stream of animals increased. Frogs, lizards, even small snakes began to roll down the steep roof and fall. Some landed directly on the heads of unsuspecting market vendors, others crawled across the cobblestones, terrifying women with shopping baskets and laughing children. Cries of surprise mingled with shouts of disgust. The air, which a moment ago smelled of bread and spices, suddenly seemed heavy and unpleasant.

More and more vermin fell from above. The chalice on the gable of the Týn Church became a kind of repulsive well, from which living and dead creatures overflowed. The people of Prague began to avoid places directly under the church, but the frogs also rolled into adjacent streets, into Celetná, into Železná, and even as far as Malé náměstí. Some interpreted it as a bad omen, others as divine punishment for pride. Whispers spread through the city like a plague: “What does this mean? Is it a harbinger of misfortune? Why is this happening to us?”

The Utraquists, who gathered in the church under the leadership of Jan Rokycana, found themselves in a difficult situation. The chalice was a sacred symbol for them, the embodiment of their faith and victory. To remove it, even for a moment, would mean giving their Catholic opponents an excuse for mockery. “Look, even their own symbol has been defiled!” they would hear mocking voices from the other side. Rokycana and other leading men of the city consulted on what to do about this unusual calamity. No one wanted to be the one to desecrate the sacred chalice.

Ultimately, however, common sense and, above all, necessity prevailed. People were afraid to walk in the square, the market was declining, and Prague’s reputation spread as a city where frogs fell from the sky. After long deliberations and with heavy hearts, a decision was made. The stork’s nest had to go. With the utmost care, so as not to damage the symbol of faith, brave men climbed to the church’s gable. The nest with the stork chicks was carefully removed and transferred to a safer place, far from the bustling square. The chalice was then thoroughly cleaned, shining like new again, and to prevent a similar unpleasantness from recurring, it was fitted with a sturdy lid.

The square slowly breathed a sigh of relief, and life returned to its old ways. The chalice remained on the gable of the Týn Church, proudly shining over Prague. It even survived times when Lutheran faith was preached in the Týn Church, and it still recalled the ancient times of King George and his courage. For many years thereafter, the people of Prague looked up to it with reverence, and only occasionally did old people recount, with a slight smile but also a touch of horror, the time when frogs fell from it onto Old Town Square.

However, the fate of the chalice on the Týn Church was not eternal. After the Battle of White Mountain, which brought dark times and a change of faith to the Czech lands, when Prague’s churches reverted to Catholic administration, its end came. In 1620, with ruthless consistency, students of the Jesuit seminary were sent to the Týn Church. Under the supervision of their superiors, regardless of historical monument and symbolism, they brought down from on high not only the gilded chalice but also the statue of the Hussite King George of Poděbrady. In their place, a statue of the Virgin Mary then stood on the church’s gable, and with it, a chapter of Prague’s history closed, and with it, the fate of the chalice that once terrified all of Prague with falling frogs. Its story, however, remained in the memory of the people, as one of the many mysterious legends of Prague’s Old Town.