by Howard Pyle
“Nothing at all,” snarled his luck.
“Very well,” said Hans, “we will see about that.” So he let him stay where he was for another day. And so the fiddle played; every day Hans Hecklemann went to his luck and asked it what it would give him if he would let it out, and every day his luck said nothing; and so a week or more passed.
“Hans finds his Luck”
At last Hans’s luck gave in.
“See, Hans,” it said one morning; “if you will let me out of this nasty pickle I will give you a thousand thalers.”
“Ah no!” said Hans. “Thalers are only thalers, as my good father used to say. They melt away like snow, and then nothing is left of them. I will trust no such luck as that!”
“I will give you two thousand thalers,” said his luck.
“Hans Hecklemann ploughs for Gold”
“Ah no!” said Hans; “two thousand thalers are only twice one thousand thalers. I will trust no such luck as that, either!”
“Then what will you take to let me out, Hans Hecklemann?” said his luck.
“Look,” said Hans; “yonder stands my old plough. Now, if you will give me to find a golden noble at the end of every furrow that I strike with it I will let you out. If not — why, then, into the soap you go.”
“Done!” said Hans’s luck.
“Done!” said Hans.
Then he opened the mouth of the sack, and — puff! went his luck, like wind out of a bag, and — pop! it slipped into his breeches pocket.
He never saw it again with his mortal eyes, but it stayed near to him, I can tell you. “Ha! ha! ha!” it laughed in his pocket, “you have made an ill bargain, Hans, I can tell you!”
“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 noble, 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 noble, and Hans gathered it as he had done the other one. So he went on all of that day, striking furrows and gathering golden nobles 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 nobles, 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 nobles, 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 nobody 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 noblemen 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!
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 passion,
For he spoke in furious fashion.
“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
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;
Passed 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
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,” q
uoth
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 passed. Once more
Saint Swithin knocked upon the door.
The good man came. He’d grown fat
And lusty, 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
A TALE OF A TUB
1
You may bring to mind I’ve sung you a song,
Of a man of Haarlem town.
I’ll sing of another,— ‘t will not take long — ,
Of equally great renown.
2
“I’ve read,” said he, “there’s a land afar,
O’er the boundless rolling sea,
Where fat little pigs ready roasted are:
Now, that is the land for me.
3
Where tarts may be plucked from the wild tart tree,
And puddings like pumpkins grow,
Where candies, like pebbles, lie by the sea, —
Now, thither I’ll straightway go.”
4
Now, what do you think I’ve heard it said
Was his boat, his oar, his sail?
A tub, a spoon, and a handkerchief red,
For to breast both calm and gale.
5
So he sailed away, for a livelong day;
And the sun was warm and mild,
And the small waves laughed as they seemed to play,
And the sea-gulls clamored wild.
6
So he sailed away, for a livelong day;
Till the wind began to roar,
And the waves rose high, and, to briefly say,
He never was heard of more.
H. PYLE
FARMER GRIGGS’S BOGGART
Did you ever hear of a boggart? No! Then I will tell you. A boggart is a small imp that lives in a man’s house, unseen by any one, doing a little good and much harm. This imp was called a boggart in the old times, now we call such by other names — ill-temper, meanness, uncharitableness, and the like. Even now, they say, you may find a boggart in some houses. There is no placing reliance on a boggart; sometimes he may seem to be of service to his master, but there is no telling when he may do him an ill turn.
Rap! tap! tap! came a knock at the door.
The wind was piping Jack Frost’s, for the time was winter, and it blew from the north. The snow lay all over the ground, like soft feathers, and the hay-ricks looked as though each one wore a dunce-cap, like the dull boy in Dame Week’s school over by the green. The icicles hung down by the thatch, and the little birds crouched shivering in the bare and leafless hedge-rows.
But inside the farm-house all was warm and pleasant; the great logs snapped and crackled and roared in the wide chimney-place, throwing red light up and down the walls, so that the dark night only looked in through the latticed windows. Farmer Griggs sat warming his knees at the blaze, smoking his pipe in great comfort, while his crock of ale, with three roasted crab-apples bobbing about within it, warmed in the hot ashes beside the blazing logs, simmering pleasantly in the ruddy heat.
“Farmer Georgie Griggs”
Dame Griggs’s spinning-wheel went humm-m-m! hum-m-m-m-m! like a whole hiveful of bees, the cat purred in the warmth, the dog basked in the blaze, and little red sparks danced about the dishes standing all along in a row on the dresser.
But, rap! tap! tap! came a knock at the door.
Then Farmer Griggs took his pipe from out his mouth. “Did’ee hear un, dame?” said he. “Zooks now, there be somebody outside the door.”
“Well then, thou gert oaf, why don’t ‘ee let un in?” said Dame Griggs.
“Look’ee now,” said Georgie Griggs to himself, “sure women be of quicker wits than men!” So he opened the door. Whoo! In rushed the wind, and the blaze of the logs made as though it would leap up the chimney for fear.
“Will you let me in out of the cold, Georgie Griggs?” piped a small voice. Farmer Griggs looked down and saw a little wight no taller than his knee standing in the snow on the door-step. His face was as brown as a berry, and he looked up at the farmer with great eyes as bright as those of a toad. The red light of the fire shone on him, and Georgie Griggs saw that his feet were bare and that he wore no coat.
“Who be ‘ee, little man?” said Farmer Griggs.
“I’m a boggart, at your service.”
“Na, na,” said Farmer Griggs, “thee’s at na sarvice o’mine. I’ll give na room in my house to the likes o’ thee”; and he made as though he would have shut the door in the face of the little urchin.
“But listen, Georgie Griggs,” said the boggart; “I will do you a good service.”
Then Farmer Griggs did listen. “What sarvice will’ee do me, then?” said he.
“Dame Mally Griggs”
“I’ll tend your fires,” said the manikin, “I’ll bake your bread, I’ll wash your dishes, I’ll scour your pans, I’ll scrub your floors, I’ll brew your beer, I’ll roast your meat, I’ll boil your water, I’ll stuff your sausages, I’ll skim your milk, I’ll make your butter, I’ll press your cheese, I’ll pluck your geese, I’ll spin your thread, I’ll knit your stockings, I’ll mend your clothes, I’ll patch your shoes — I’ll be everywhere and do all of the work in your house, so that you will not have to give so much as a groat for wages to cook, scullion, or serving wench!”
“Farmer Griggs and the Boggart.”
Then Farmer Griggs listened a little longer without shutting the door, and so did Dame Griggs. “What’s thy name, boggart?” said he.
“Hardfist,” said the boggart; and he came a little farther in at the door, for he saw that Farmer Griggs had a mind to let him in all of the way.
“I don’t know,” said Georgie Griggs, scratching his head doubtfully; “it’s an ill thing, lettin’ mischief intull the house! Thee’s better outside, I doubt.”
“Shut the door, Georgie!” called out Dame Griggs; “thou’rt lettin’ th’ cold air intull th’ room.”
Then Farmer Griggs shut the door, but the boggart was on the inside.
This is the way in which the boggart came into Farmer Griggs’s house, and there he was to stay, for it is no such easy matter getting rid of the likes of him when we once let him in, I can tell you.
The boggart came straightway over to the warm fire, and the dog growled— “chur-r-r-r!” — and showed his teeth, and the cat spit anger and jumped up on the dresser, with her back arched and her tail on end. But the boggart cared never a whit for this, but laid himself comfortably down among the warm ashes.
Now imps, like this boggart, can only be seen as the frost is seen — when it is cold. So as he grew warmer and warmer, he grew thin, like a jelly-fish, and at last, when he had become thoroughly warmed through, Farmer Griggs and the dame could see him no more than though he was thin air. But he was in the house, and he st
ayed there, I can tell you. For a time everything went as smooth as cream; all of the work of the house was done as though by magic, for the boggart did all that he had promised; he made the fires, he baked the bread, he washed the dishes, he scoured the pans, he scrubbed the floors, he brewed the beer, he roasted the meat, he stuffed the sausages, he skimmed the milk, he made the butter, he pressed the cheese, he plucked the geese, he spun the thread, he knit the stockings, he mended the clothes, he patched the shoes — he was everywhere and did all of the work of the house. When Farmer Griggs saw these things done, and so deftly, he rubbed his hands and chuckled to himself. He sent cook and scullion and serving maid a-packing, there being nothing for them to do, for, as I said, all of these things were done as smooth as cream. But after a time, and when the boggart’s place had become easy to him, like an old shoe, mischief began to play the pipes and he began to show his pranks. The first thing that he did was to scrape the farmer’s butter, so that it was light of weight, and all of the people of the market town hooted at him for giving less than he sold. Then he skimmed the children’s milk, so that they had nothing but poor watery stuff to pour over their pottage of a morning. He took the milk from the cat, so that it was like to starve; he even pilfered the bones and scrapings of the dishes from the poor house-dog, as though he was a very magpie. He blew out the rush-lights, so that they were all in the dark after sunset; he made the fires burn cold, and played a hundred and forty other impish tricks of the like kind. As for the poor little children, they were always crying and complaining that the boggart did this and the boggart did that; that he scraped the butter from their bread and pulled the coverlids off of them at night.
Still the boggart did his work well, and so Farmer Griggs put up with his evil ways as long as he could. At last the time came when he could bear it no longer. “Look’ee, now, Mally,” said he to his dame, “it’s all along o’ thee that this trouble’s coome intull th’ house. I’d never let the boggart in with my own good-will!” So spoke Farmer Griggs, for even nowadays there are men here and there who will now and then lay their own bundle of faults on their wives’ shoulders.