Twilight Land Part 25

"A dead branch."

"Off of the willow tree!!"

"Off of the willow tree."

The first beggar could hardly breathe.

"And what did you do with the dead branch after that?"

"I threw it away into the water, and it floated down the river."

The beggar to whom the money had been given ran out of the house howling, and down to the river-side, thumping his head with his knuckles like one possessed. For he knew that the branch his brother had broken off of the tree and had thrown into the water, was the very one in which he had hidden the bag of money.

Yes; and so it was.

The next morning, as the rich man took a walk down by the river, he saw a dead branch that had been washed up by the tide. "Halloo!" says he, "this will do to kindle the fire with."

So he brought it to the house, and, taking down his axe, began to split it up for kindling. The very first blow he gave, out tumbled the bag of money.

But the beggar--well, by-and-by his grieving got better of its first smart, and then he started off down the river to see if he could not find his money again. He hunted up and he hunted down, but never a whit of it did he see, and at last he stopped at the rich man's house and begged for a bite to eat and lodgings for the night. There he told all his story--how he had hidden the money that had been given him from his brother, how his brother had broken off the branch and had thrown it away, and how he had spent the whole live-long day searching for it. And to all the rich man listened and said never a word. But though he said nothing, he thought to himself, "Maybe, after all, it is not the will of Heaven that this man shall have the money. Nevertheless, I will give him another trial."

So he told the poor beggar to come in and stay for the night; and, whilst the beggar was snoring away in his bed in the garret, the rich man had his wife make two great pies, each with a fine brown crust. In the first pie he put the little bag of money; the second he filled full of rusty nails and sc.r.a.ps of iron.

The next morning he called the beggar to him. "My friend," said he, "I grieve sadly for the story you told me last night. But maybe, after all, your luck is not all gone. And now, if you will choose as you should choose, you shall not go away from here comfortless. In the pantry yonder are two great pies--one is for you and one for me. Go in and take whichever one you please."

"A pie!" thought the beggar to himself; "does the man think that a big pie will comfort me for the loss of three hundred pieces of money?"

Nevertheless, as it was the best thing to be had, into the pantry the beggar went and there began to feel and weigh the pies, and the one filled with the rusty nails and sc.r.a.ps of iron was ever so much the fatter and the heavier.

"This is the one that I shall take," said he to the rich man, "and you may have the other." And, tucking it under his arm, off he tramped.

Well, before he got back to the town he grew hungry, and sat down by the roadside to eat his pie; and if there was ever an angry man in the world before, he was one that day--for there was his pie full of nothing but rusty nails and bits of iron. "This is the way the rich always treat the poor," said he.

So back he went in a fume. "What did you give me a pie full of old nails for?" said he.

"You took the pie of your own choice," said the rich man; "nevertheless, I meant you no harm. Lodge with me here one night, and in the morning I will give you something better worth while, maybe."

So that night the rich man had his wife bake two loaves of bread, in one of which she hid the bag with the three hundred pieces of gold money.

"Go to the pantry," said the rich man to the beggar in the morning, "and there you will find two loaves of bread--one is for you and one for me; take whichever one you choose."

So in went the beggar, and the first loaf of bread he laid his hand upon was the one in which the money was hidden, and off he marched with it under his arm, without so much as saying thank you.

"I wonder," said he to himself, after he had jogged along awhile--"I wonder whether the rich man is up to another trick such as he played upon me yesterday?" He put the loaf of bread to his ear and shook it and shook it, and what should he hear but the c.h.i.n.k of the money within. "Ah ha!" said he, "he has filled it with rusty nails and bits of iron again, but I will get the better of him this time."

By-and-by he met a poor woman coming home from market. "Would you like to buy a fine fresh loaf of bread?" said the beggar.

"Yes, I would," said the woman.

"Well, here is one you may have for two pennies," said the beggar.

That was cheap enough, so the woman paid him his price and off she went with the loaf of bread under her arm, and never stopped until she had come to her home.

Now it happened that the day before this very woman had borrowed just such a loaf of bread from the rich man's wife; and so, as there was plenty in the house without it, she wrapped this loaf up in a napkin, and sent her husband back with it to where it had started from first of all.

"Well," said the rich man to his wife, "the way of Heaven is not to be changed." And so he laid the money on the shelf until he who had given it to him should come again, and thought no more of giving it to the beggar.

At the end of seven days the king called upon the rich man again, and this time he came in his own guise as a real king. "Well," said he, "is the poor man the richer for his money?"

"No," said the rich man, "he is not;" and then he told the whole story from beginning to end just as I have told it.

"Your father was right," said the king; "and what he said was very true--Much shall have more and little shall have less.' Keep the bag of money for yourself, for there Heaven means it to stay."

And maybe there is as much truth as poetry in this story.

And now it was the turn of the Blacksmith who had made Death sit in his pear-tree until the cold wind whistled through the ribs of man's enemy.

He was a big, burly man, with a bullet head, and a great thick neck, and a voice like a bull's.

"Do you mind," said he, "about how I clapped a man in the fire and cooked him to a crisp that day that St. Peter came travelling my way?"

There was a little s.p.a.ce of silence, and then the Soldier who had cheated the Devil spoke up. "Why yes, friend," said he, "I know your story very well."

"I am not so fortunate," said old Bidpai. "I do not know your story.

Tell me, friend, did you really bake a man to a crisp? And how was it then?"

"Why," said the Blacksmith, "I was trying to do what a better man than I did, and where he hit the mark I missed it by an ell. Twas a pretty sc.r.a.pe I was in that day."

"But how did it happen?" said Bidpai.

"It happened," said the Blacksmith, "just as it is going to happen in the story I am about to tell."

"And what is your story about?" said Fortunatus.

"It is," said the Blacksmith, "about--"

Wisdom's Wages and Folly's Pay

Once upon a time there was a wise man of wise men, and a great magician to boot, and his name was Doctor Simon Agricola.

Once upon a time there was a simpleton of simpletons, and a great b.o.o.by to boot, and his name was Babo.

Simon Agricola had read all the books written by man, and could do more magic than any conjurer that ever lived. But, nevertheless, he was none too well off in the world; his clothes were patched, and his shoes gaped, and that is the way with many another wise man of whom I have heard tell.

Babo gathered rushes for a chair-maker, and he also had too few of the good things to make life easy. But it is nothing out of the way for a simpleton to be in that case.

The two of them lived neighbor to neighbor, the one in the next house to the other, and so far as the world could see there was not a pin to choose between them--only that one was called a wise man and the other a simpleton.