"Never mind," said Hans, "I am contented."

Hans Hecklemann did not tarry long in trying the new luck of his old plough, as you may easily guess. Off he went like the wind and borrowed Fritz Friedleburg's old gray horse. Then he fastened the horse to the plough and struck the first furrow. When he had come to the end of it--pop! up shot a golden n.o.ble, as though some one had spun it up from the ground with his finger and thumb. Hans picked it up, and looked at it and looked at it as though he would swallow it with his eyes. Then he seized the handle of the plough and struck another furrow--pop! up went another golden n.o.ble, and Hans gathered it as he had done the other one.

So he went on all of that day, striking furrows and gathering golden n.o.bles until all of his pockets were as full as they could hold. When it was too dark to see to plough any more he took Fritz Friedleburg's horse back home again, and then he went home himself.

All of his neighbors thought that he was crazy, for it was nothing but plough, plough, plough, morning and noon and night, spring and summer and autumn. Frost and darkness alone kept him from his labor. His stable was full of fine horses, and he worked them until they dropped in the furrows that he was always ploughing.

"Yes; Hans is crazy," they all said; but when Hans heard them talk in this way he only winked to himself and went on with his ploughing, for he felt that he knew this from that.

But ill luck danced in his pocket with the golden n.o.bles, and from the day that he closed his bargain with it he was an unhappy man. He had no comfort of living, for it was nothing but work, work, work. He was up and away at his ploughing at the first dawn of day, and he never came home till night had fallen; so, though he ploughed golden n.o.bles, he did not turn up happiness in the furrows along with them. After he had eaten his supper he would sit silently behind the stove, warming his fingers and thinking of some quicker way of doing his ploughing. For it seemed to him that the gold-pieces came in very slowly, and he blamed himself that he had not asked his luck to let him turn up three at a time instead of only one at the end of each furrow; so he had no comfort in his gathering wealth. As day followed day he grew thin and haggard and worn, but seven boxes of bright new gold-pieces lay hidden in the cellar, of which n.o.body knew but himself. He told no one how rich he was growing, and all of his neighbors wondered why he did not starve to death.

So you see the ill luck in his breeches pocket had the best of the bargain, after all.

After Hans had gone the way of all men, his heirs found the chests full of gold in the cellar, and therewith they bought fat lands and became n.o.blemen and gentlemen; but that made Hans's luck none the better.

From all this I gather:

That few folks can turn ill luck into good luck.

That the best thing for one to do is to let well enough alone.

That one cannot get happiness as one does cabbages--with money.

That happiness is the only good luck, after all!

[Ill.u.s.tration: Ye Song of ye Rajah & ye Fly. This ill.u.s.trated poem depicts the Rajah in the various stages of the poem.]

YE SONG OF YE RAJAH & YE FLY

Great and rich beyond comparing Was the Rajah Rhama Jaring, As he went to take an airing With his Court one summer day.

All were gay with green and yellow; And a little darky fellow Bore a monstrous fun umbrella, For to shade him on the way.

Now a certain fly, unwitting Of this grandeur, came a-flitting To the Royal nose, and sitting Twirled his legs upon the same.

Then the Rajah's eyes blazed fire At the insult, and the ire In his heart boiled high and higher.

Slap! he struck, but missed his aim.

Then all trembled at this pa.s.sion, For he spoke in furious fas.h.i.+on.

"Saw ye how yon fly did dash on To our august nose!" he said.

"Now let all within our nation Wage a war without cessation War of b-lood, ex-ter-mi-nation, Until every fly is dead!!!!"

Now the while this war was raging, That the rajah was a-waging, Things that should have been engaging His attention went to pot.

So he came at last to begging, Though the flies continued plaguing.

For it's not so easy pegging Out vexation thus, I wot.

From this you may see what all have to expect, Who, fighting small troubles, great duties neglect.

H. Pyle

[Ill.u.s.tration: Pride in Distress. This full page ill.u.s.trated poem shows the mistress walking along with others watching, until she steps into a small pool and scares some geese aloft.]

PRIDE IN DISTRESS

Mistress Polly Poppenjay Went to take a walk one day.

On that morning she was dressed In her very Sunday best; Feathers, frills and ribbons gay,-- Proud was Mistress Poppenjay.

Mistress Polly Poppenjay Spoke to no one on her way; Pa.s.sed acquaintances aside; Held her head aloft with pride; Did not see a puddle lay In front of Mistress Poppenjay.

Mistress Polly Poppenjay Harked to naught the folk could say.

Loud they cried, "Beware the puddle!"

_Plump!_ She stepped into the middle.

And a pretty plight straightway Was poor Mistress Poppenjay.

Mistress Polly Poppenjay; From your pickle others may Learn to curb their pride a little;-- Learn to exercise their wit, till They are sure no puddles may Lie in front, Miss Poppenjay.

Howard Pyle.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Profession & Practice. This full page poem has the saint at the door of a thin man with empty purse, then at the door with the man well fed and full purse, and finally the saint alone scratching his head.]

PROFESSION & PRACTICE

Once, when Saint Swithin chanced to be A-wandering in Hungary, He, being hungered, cast around To see if something might be found To stay his stomach.

Near by stood A little house, beside a wood, Where dwelt a worthy man, but poor.

Thither he went, knocked at the door.

The good man came. Saint Swithin said, "I prithee give a crust of bread To ease my hunger."

"Brother," quoth The good man, "I am sadly loath To say" (here tears stood on his cheeks) "I've had no bread for weeks and weeks, Save what I've begged. Had I one bit, I'd gladly give thee half of it."

"How," said the Saint, "can one so good Go lacking of his daily food, Go lacking means to aid the poor, Yet weep to turn them from his door?

Here--take this purse. Mark what I say: Thou'lt find within it every day Two golden coins."

Years pa.s.sed. Once more Saint Swithin knocked upon the door.

The good man came. He'd grown fat And l.u.s.ty, like a well-fed cat.

Thereat the Saint was pleased. Quoth he, "Give me a crust for charity."

"A crust, thou say'st? Hut, tut! How now?

Wouldst come a-begging here? I trow, Thou lazy rascal, thou couldst find Enough of work hadst thou a mind!

'Tis thine own fault if thou art poor.

Begone, sir!" _Bang!_--he shut the door.

Saint Swithin slowly scratched his head.

"Well, I _am_--humph!--just so," he said.

"How very different the fact is 'Twixt the profession and the practice!"

HP