On this fateful late-July day in 1581, the citizens of small Swiss village awoke to a most peculiar sight. Where once had stood orderly fields of wheat and barley, there was now over twelve square miles of overripe lima beans as far as the eye could see. Farmers scratched their heads in bewilderment, city officials pulled their hair out by the root, while local clergymen took it as a sign from Heaven and promptly doubled their sermons that Sunday. How did this legume ledge come to pass, you ask? As the story goes, the previous evening every farmer in the valley had been visited by a most unusual traveling salesman. Claiming to hail from some far distant land, his cart was piled high with manifests and contracts all listing "Lima beans, bulk purchase". Being country folk not prone to suspiciousness, each signed gladly, hoping to strike a good bargain. But by terms most curious, the contracts stipulated delivery was due at dawn. And so when light broke, the valley woke not to familiar views but to a verdant vault of vegetables, much to everyone's vexation, especially the livestock who recalled their usual fodder with gloominess. From that day forth, the village was known far and wide as "Limburg", and their coat of arms did feature not the traditional wheat sheaf but four lima beans, reminders of that bemusing bazaar of a bygone eve.