No More Learning

" They had chimed so loudly in the heart of the youngster,
that he had sung them to his companions, and their tones resounded
to the very borders of the country. He was not a free scholar in the
military school, neither was he provided with clothes or food. But
he had his number, and his own peg; for everything here was ordered
like clockwork, which we all know is of the greatest utility--people
get on so much better together when their position and duties are
understood. It is by pressure that a jewel is stamped. The pressure of
regularity and discipline here stamped the jewel, which in the
future the world so well knew.

In the chief town of the province a great festival was being
celebrated. The light streamed forth from thousands of lamps, and
the rockets shot upwards towards the sky, filling the air with showers
of colored fiery sparks. A record of this bright display will live
in the memory of man, for through it the pupil in the military
school was in tears and sorrow. He had dared to attempt to reach
foreign territories unnoticed, and must therefore give up
fatherland, mother, his dearest friends, all, or sink down into the
stream of common life. The old church bell had still some comfort;
it stood in the shelter of the church wall in Marbach, once so
elevated, now quite forgotten. The wind roared around it, and could
have readily related the story of its origin and of its sweet
chimes, and the wind could also tell of him to whom he had brought
fresh air when, in the woods of a neighboring country, he had sunk
down exhausted with fatigue, with no other worldly possessions than
hope for the future, and a written leaf from "Fiesco. " The wind
could have told that his only protector was an artist, who, by reading
each leaf to him, made it plain; and that they amused themselves by
playing at nine-pins together. The wind could also describe the pale
fugitive, who, for weeks and months, lay in a wretched little
road-side inn, where the landlord got drunk and raved, and where the
merry-makers had it all their own way. And he, the pale fugitive, sang
of the ideal.

For many heavy days and dark nights the heart must suffer to
enable it to endure trial and temptation; yet, amidst it all, would
the minstrel sing. Dark days and cold nights also passed over the
old bell, and it noticed them not; but the bell in the man's heart
felt it to be a gloomy time. What would become of this young man,
and what would become of the old bell?

The old bell was, after a time, carried away to a greater distance
than any one, even the warder in the bell tower, ever imagined; and
the bell in the breast of the young man was heard in countries where
his feet had never wandered. The tones went forth over the wide
ocean to every part of the round world.

We will now follow the career of the old bell. It was, as we
have said, carried far away from Marbach and sold as old copper;
then sent to Bavaria to be melted down in a furnace. And then what
happened?

In the royal city of Bavaria, many years after the bell had been
removed from the tower and melted down, some metal was required for
a monument in honor of one of the most celebrated characters which a
German people or a German land could produce. And now we see how
wonderfully things are ordered. Strange things sometimes happen in
this world.

In Denmark, in one of those green islands where the foliage of the
beech-woods rustles in the wind, and where many Huns' graves may be
seen, was another poor boy born. He wore wooden shoes, and when his
father worked in a ship-yard, the boy, wrapped up in an old worn-out
shawl, carried his dinner to him every day. This poor child was now
the pride of his country; for the sculptured marble, the work of his
hands, had astonished the world. [1] To him was offered the honor of
forming from the clay, a model of the figure of him whose name,
"John Christopher Frederick," had been written by his father in the
Bible. The bust was cast in bronze, and part of the metal used for
this purpose was the old church bell, whose tones had died away from
the memory of those at home and elsewhere. The metal, glowing with
heat, flowed into the mould, and formed the head and bust of the
statue which was unveiled in the square in front of the old castle.
The statue represented in living, breathing reality, the form of him
who was born in poverty, the boy from Marbach, the pupil of the
military school, the fugitive who struggled against poverty and
oppression, from the outer world; Germany's great and immortal poet,
who sung of Switzerland's deliverer, William Tell, and of the
heaven-inspired Maid of Orleans.

It was a beautiful sunny day; flags were waving from tower and
roof in royal Stuttgart, and the church bells were ringing a joyous
peal. One bell was silent; but it was illuminated by the bright
sunshine which streamed from the head and bust of the renowned figure,
of which it formed a part. On this day, just one hundred years had
passed since the day on which the chiming of the old church bell at
Marbach had filled the mother's heart with trust and joy--the day on
which her child was born in poverty, and in a humble home; the same
who, in after-years, became rich, became the noble woman-hearted poet,
a blessing to the world--the glorious, the sublime, the immortal bard,
John Christoper Frederick Schiller!


[1] The Danish sculptor Thorwaldsen.




THE OLD GRAVE-STONE

In a house, with a large courtyard, in a provincial town, at
that time of the year in which people say the evenings are growing
longer, a family circle were gathered together at their old home. A
lamp burned on the table, although the weather was mild and warm,
and the long curtains hung down before the open windows, and without
the moon shone brightly in the dark-blue sky.

But they were not talking of the moon, but of a large, old stone
that lay below in the courtyard not very far from the kitchen door.
The maids often laid the clean copper saucepans and kitchen vessels on
this stone, that they might dry in the sun, and the children were fond
of playing on it. It was, in fact, an old grave-stone.

"Yes," said the master of the house, "I believe the stone came
from the graveyard of the old church of the convent which was pulled
down, and the pulpit, the monuments, and the grave-stones sold. My
father bought the latter; most of them were cut in two and used for
paving-stones, but that one stone was preserved whole, and laid in the
courtyard. "

"Any one can see that it is a grave-stone," said the eldest of the
children; "the representation of an hour-glass and part of the
figure of an angel can still be traced, but the inscription beneath is
quite worn out, excepting the name 'Preben,' and a large 'S' close
by it, and a little farther down the name of 'Martha' can be easily
read. But nothing more, and even that cannot be seen unless it has
been raining, or when we have washed the stone. "

"Dear me! how singular. Why that must be the grave-stone of Preben
Schwane and his wife. "

The old man who said this looked old enough to be the
grandfather of all present in the room.

"Yes," he continued, "these people were among the last who were
buried in the churchyard of the old convent. They were a very worthy
old couple, I can remember them well in the days of my boyhood.
Every one knew them, and they were esteemed by all. They were the
oldest residents in the town, and people said they possessed a ton
of gold, yet they were always very plainly dressed, in the coarsest
stuff, but with linen of the purest whiteness. Preben and Martha
were a fine old couple, and when they both sat on the bench, at the
top of the steep stone steps, in front of their house, with the
branches of the linden-tree waving above them, and nodded in a gentle,
friendly way to passers by, it really made one feel quite happy.
They were very good to the poor; they fed them and clothed them, and
in their benevolence there was judgment as well as true
Christianity. The old woman died first; that day is still quite
vividly before my eyes. I was a little boy, and had accompanied my
father to the old man's house. Martha had fallen into the sleep of
death just as we arrived there. The corpse lay in a bedroom, near to
the one in which we sat, and the old man was in great distress and
weeping like a child. He spoke to my father, and to a few neighbors
who were there, of how lonely he should feel now she was gone, and how
good and true she, his dead wife, had been during the number of
years that they had passed through life together, and how they had
become acquainted, and learnt to love each other. I was, as I have
said, a boy, and only stood by and listened to what the others said;
but it filled me with a strange emotion to listen to the old man,
and to watch how the color rose in his cheeks as he spoke of the
days of their courtship, of how beautiful she was, and how many little
tricks he had been guilty of, that he might meet her. And then he
talked of his wedding-day; and his eyes brightened, and he seemed to
be carried back, by his words, to that joyful time. And yet there
she was, lying in the next room, dead--an old woman, and he was an old
man, speaking of the days of hope, long passed away. Ah, well, so it
is; then I was but a child, and now I am old, as old as Preben Schwane
then was. Time passes away, and all things changed. I can remember
quite well the day on which she was buried, and how Old Preben
walked close behind the coffin.

"A few years before this time the old couple had had their
grave-stone prepared, with an inscription and their names, but not the
date. In the evening the stone was taken to the churchyard, and laid
on the grave. A year later it was taken up, that Old Preben might be
laid by the side of his wife. They did not leave behind them wealth,
they left behind them far less than people had believed they
possessed; what there was went to families distantly related to
them, of whom, till then, no one had ever heard. The old house, with
its balcony of wickerwork, and the bench at the top of the high steps,
under the lime-tree, was considered, by the road-inspectors, too old
and rotten to be left standing. Afterwards, when the same fate
befell the convent church, and the graveyard was destroyed, the
grave-stone of Preben and Martha, like everything else, was sold to
whoever would buy it. And so it happened that this stone was not cut
in two as many others had been, but now lies in the courtyard below, a
scouring block for the maids, and a playground for the children. The
paved street now passes over the resting place of Old Preben and his
wife; no one thinks of them any more now. "

And the old man who had spoken of all this shook his head
mournfully, and said, "Forgotten! Ah, yes, everything will be
forgotten! " And then the conversation turned on other matters.

But the youngest child in the room, a boy, with large, earnest
eyes, mounted upon a chair behind the window curtains, and looked
out into the yard, where the moon was pouring a flood of light on
the old gravestone,--the stone that had always appeared to him so dull
and flat, but which lay there now like a great leaf out of a book of
history. All that the boy had heard of Old Preben and his wife
seemed clearly defined on the stone, and as he gazed on it, and
glanced at the clear, bright moon shining in the pure air, it was as
if the light of God's countenance beamed over His beautiful world.

"Forgotten! Everything will be forgotten! " still echoed through
the room, and in the same moment an invisible spirit whispered to
the heart of the boy, "Preserve carefully the seed that has been
entrusted to thee, that it may grow and thrive. Guard it well. Through
thee, my child, shall the obliterated inscription on the old,
weather-beaten grave-stone go forth to future generations in clear,
golden characters. The old pair shall again wander through the streets
arm-in-arm, or sit with their fresh, healthy cheeks on the bench under
the lime-tree, and smile and nod at rich and poor. The seed of this
hour shall ripen in the course of years into a beautiful poem. The
beautiful and the good are never forgotten, they live always in
story or in song. "




THE OLD HOUSE

A very old house stood once in a street with several that were
quite new and clean. The date of its erection had been carved on one
of the beams, and surrounded by scrolls formed of tulips and
hop-tendrils; by this date it could be seen that the old house was
nearly three hundred years old. Verses too were written over the
windows in old-fashioned letters, and grotesque faces, curiously
carved, grinned at you from under the cornices. One story projected
a long way over the other, and under the roof ran a leaden gutter,
with a dragon's head at the end. The rain was intended to pour out
at the dragon's mouth, but it ran out of his body instead, for there
was a hole in the gutter. The other houses in the street were new
and well built, with large window panes and smooth walls. Any one
could see they had nothing to do with the old house. Perhaps they
thought, "How long will that heap of rubbish remain here to be a
disgrace to the whole street. The parapet projects so far forward that
no one can see out of our windows what is going on in that
direction. The stairs are as broad as the staircase of a castle, and
as steep as if they led to a church-tower. The iron railing looks like
the gate of a cemetery, and there are brass knobs upon it. It is
really too ridiculous. "

Opposite to the old house were more nice new houses, which had
just the same opinion as their neighbors.

At the window of one of them sat a little boy with fresh rosy
cheeks, and clear sparkling eyes, who was very fond of the old
house, in sunshine or in moonlight. He would sit and look at the
wall from which the plaster had in some places fallen off, and fancy
all sorts of scenes which had been in former times. How the street
must have looked when the houses had all gable roofs, open staircases,
and gutters with dragons at the spout. He could even see soldiers
walking about with halberds. Certainly it was a very good house to
look at for amusement.

An old man lived in it, who wore knee-breeches, a coat with
large brass buttons, and a wig, which any one could see was a real
wig. Every morning an old man came to clean the rooms, and to wait
upon him, otherwise the old man in the knee-breeches would have been
quite alone in the house. Sometimes he came to one of the windows
and looked out; then the little boy nodded to him, and the old man
nodded back again, till they became acquainted, and were friends,
although they had never spoken to each other; but that was of no
consequence.

The little boy one day heard his parents say, "The old man
opposite is very well off, but is terribly lonely. " The next Sunday
morning the little boy wrapped something in a piece of paper and
took it to the door of the old house, and said to the attendant who
waited upon the old man, "Will you please give this from me to the
gentleman who lives here; I have two tin soldiers, and this is one
of them, and he shall have it, because I know he is terribly lonely. "

And the old attendant nodded and looked very pleased, and then
he carried the tin soldier into the house.

Afterwards he was sent over to ask the little boy if he would
not like to pay a visit himself. His parents gave him permission,
and so it was that he gained admission to the old house.

The brassy knobs on the railings shone more brightly than ever, as
if they had been polished on account of his visit; and on the door
were carved trumpeters standing in tulips, and it seemed as if they
were blowing with all their might, their cheeks were so puffed out.
"Tanta-ra-ra, the little boy is coming; Tanta-ra-ra, the little boy is
coming. "

Then the door opened. All round the hall hung old portraits of
knights in armor, and ladies in silk gowns; and the armor rattled, and
the silk dresses rustled. Then came a staircase which went up a long
way, and then came down a little way and led to a balcony, which was
in a very ruinous state. There were large holes and long cracks, out
of which grew grass and leaves, indeed the whole balcony, the
courtyard, and the walls were so overgrown with green that they looked
like a garden. In the balcony stood flower-pots, on which were heads
having asses' ears, but the flowers in them grew just as they pleased.
In one pot pinks were growing all over the sides, at least the green
leaves were shooting forth stalk and stem, and saying as plainly as
they could speak, "The air has fanned me, the sun has kissed me, and I
am promised a little flower for next Sunday--really for next Sunday. "

Then they entered a room in which the walls were covered with
leather, and the leather had golden flowers stamped upon it.

"Gilding will fade in damp weather,
To endure, there is nothing like leather,"

said the walls. Chairs handsomely carved, with elbows on each side,
and with very high backs, stood in the room, and as they creaked
they seemed to say, "Sit down. Oh dear, how I am creaking. I shall
certainly have the gout like the old cupboard. Gout in my back, ugh. "

And then the little boy entered the room where the old man sat.

"Thank you for the tin soldier my little friend," said the old
man, "and thank you also for coming to see me. "

"Thanks, thanks," or "Creak, creak," said all the furniture.

There was so much that the pieces of furniture stood in each
other's way to get a sight of the little boy.

On the wall near the centre of the room hung the picture of a
beautiful lady, young and gay, dressed in the fashion of the olden
times, with powdered hair, and a full, stiff skirt. She said neither
"thanks" nor "creak," but she looked down upon the little boy with her
mild eyes; and then he said to the old man,

"Where did you get that picture? "

"From the shop opposite," he replied. "Many portraits hang there
that none seem to trouble themselves about. The persons they represent
have been dead and buried long since. But I knew this lady many
years ago, and she has been dead nearly half a century. "

Under a glass beneath the picture hung a nosegay of withered
flowers, which were no doubt half a century old too, at least they
appeared so.

And the pendulum of the old clock went to and fro, and the hands
turned round; and as time passed on, everything in the room grew
older, but no one seemed to notice it.

"They say at home," said the little boy, "that you are very
lonely. "

"Oh," replied the old man, "I have pleasant thoughts of all that
has passed, recalled by memory; and now you are come to visit me,
and that is very pleasant. "

Then he took from the book-case, a book full of pictures
representing long processions of wonderful coaches, such as are
never seen at the present time. Soldiers like the knave of clubs,
and citizens with waving banners. The tailors had a flag with a pair
of scissors supported by two lions, and on the shoemakers' flag
there were not boots, but an eagle with two heads, for the
shoemakers must have everything arranged so that they can say, "This
is a pair. " What a picture-book it was; and then the old man went into
another room to fetch apples and nuts. It was very pleasant,
certainly, to be in that old house.

"I cannot endure it," said the tin soldier, who stood on a
shelf, "it is so lonely and dull here. I have been accustomed to
live in a family, and I cannot get used to this life. I cannot bear
it. The whole day is long enough, but the evening is longer. It is not
here like it was in your house opposite, when your father and mother
talked so cheerfully together, while you and all the dear children
made such a delightful noise. No, it is all lonely in the old man's
house. Do you think he gets any kisses? Do you think he ever has
friendly looks, or a Christmas tree? He will have nothing now but
the grave. Oh, I cannot bear it. "

"You must not look only on the sorrowful side," said the little
boy; "I think everything in this house is beautiful, and all the old
pleasant thoughts come back here to pay visits. "

"Ah, but I never see any, and I don't know them," said the tin
soldier, "and I cannot bear it. "

"You must bear it," said the little boy. Then the old man came
back with a pleasant face; and brought with him beautiful preserved
fruits, as well as apples and nuts; and the little boy thought no more
of the tin soldier. How happy and delighted the little boy was; and
after he returned home, and while days and weeks passed, a great
deal of nodding took place from one house to the other, and then the
little boy went to pay another visit. The carved trumpeters blew
"Tanta-ra-ra. There is the little boy. Tanta-ra-ra. " The swords and
armor on the old knight's pictures rattled. The silk dresses
rustled, the leather repeated its rhyme, and the old chairs had the
gout in their backs, and cried, "Creak;" it was all exactly like the
first time; for in that house, one day and one hour were just like
another. "I cannot bear it any longer," said the tin soldier; "I
have wept tears of tin, it is so melancholy here. Let me go to the
wars, and lose an arm or a leg, that would be some change; I cannot
bear it. Now I know what it is to have visits from one's old
recollections, and all they bring with them. I have had visits from
mine, and you may believe me it is not altogether pleasant. I was very
nearly jumping from the shelf. I saw you all in your house opposite,
as if you were really present. It was Sunday morning, and you children
stood round the table, singing the hymn that you sing every morning.
You were standing quietly, with your hands folded, and your father and
mother. You were standing quietly, with your hands folded, and your
father and mother were looking just as serious, when the door
opened, and your little sister Maria, who is not two years old, was
brought into the room. You know she always dances when she hears music
and singing of any sort; so she began to dance immediately, although
she ought not to have done so, but she could not get into the right
time because the tune was so slow; so she stood first on one leg and
then on the other, and bent her head very low, but it would not suit
the music. You all stood looking very grave, although it was very
difficult to do so, but I laughed so to myself that I fell down from
the table, and got a bruise, which is there still; I know it was not
right to laugh. So all this, and everything else that I have seen,
keeps running in my head, and these must be the old recollections that
bring so many thoughts with them. Tell me whether you still sing on
Sundays, and tell me about your little sister Maria, and how my old
comrade is, the other tin soldier. Ah, really he must be very happy; I
cannot endure this life. "

"You are given away," said the little boy; "you must stay. Don't
you see that? " Then the old man came in, with a box containing many
curious things to show him. Rouge-pots, scent-boxes, and old cards, so
large and so richly gilded, that none are ever seen like them in these
days. And there were smaller boxes to look at, and the piano was
opened, and inside the lid were painted landscapes. But when the old
man played, the piano sounded quite out of tune. Then he looked at the
picture he had bought at the broker's, and his eyes sparkled
brightly as he nodded at it, and said, "Ah, she could sing that tune. "

"I will go to the wars! I will go to the wars! " cried the tin
soldier as loud as he could, and threw himself down on the floor.
Where could he have fallen? The old man searched, and the little boy
searched, but he was gone, and could not be found. "I shall find him
again," said the old man, but he did not find him. The boards of the
floor were open and full of holes. The tin soldier had fallen
through a crack between the boards, and lay there now in an open
grave. The day went by, and the little boy returned home; the week
passed, and many more weeks. It was winter, and the windows were quite
frozen, so the little boy was obliged to breathe on the panes, and rub
a hole to peep through at the old house. Snow drifts were lying in all
the scrolls and on the inscriptions, and the steps were covered with
snow as if no one were at home. And indeed nobody was home, for the
old man was dead. In the evening, a hearse stopped at the door, and
the old man in his coffin was placed in it.
He was to be taken to
the country to be buried there in his own grave; so they carried him
away; no one followed him, for all his friends were dead; and the
little boy kissed his hand to the coffin as the hearse moved away with
it. A few days after, there was an auction at the old house, and
from his window the little boy saw the people carrying away the
pictures of old knights and ladies, the flower-pots with the long
ears, the old chairs, and the cup-boards. Some were taken one way,
some another. Her portrait, which had been bought at the picture
dealer's, went back again to his shop, and there it remained, for no
one seemed to know her, or to care for the old picture. In the spring;
they began to pull the house itself down; people called it complete
rubbish. From the street could be seen the room in which the walls
were covered with leather, ragged and torn, and the green in the
balcony hung straggling over the beams; they pulled it down quickly,
for it looked ready to fall, and at last it was cleared away
altogether. "What a good riddance," said the neighbors' houses. Very
shortly, a fine new house was built farther back from the road; it had
lofty windows and smooth walls, but in front, on the spot where the
old house really stood, a little garden was planted, and wild vines
grew up over the neighboring walls; in front of the garden were
large iron railings and a great gate, which looked very stately.
People used to stop and peep through the railings. The sparrows
assembled in dozens upon the wild vines, and chattered all together as
loud as they could, but not about the old house; none of them could
remember it, for many years had passed by, so many indeed, that the
little boy was now a man, and a really good man too, and his parents
were very proud of him. He was just married, and had come, with his
young wife, to reside in the new house with the garden in front of it,
and now he stood there by her side while she planted a field flower
that she thought very pretty. She was planting it herself with her
little hands, and pressing down the earth with her fingers. "Oh
dear, what was that? " she exclaimed, as something pricked her. Out
of the soft earth something was sticking up. It was--only think! --it
was really the tin soldier, the very same which had been lost up in
the old man's room, and had been hidden among old wood and rubbish for
a long time, till it sunk into the earth, where it must have been
for many years. And the young wife wiped the soldier, first with a
green leaf, and then with her fine pocket-handkerchief, that smelt
of such beautiful perfume. And the tin soldier felt as if he was
recovering from a fainting fit. "Let me see him," said the young
man, and then he smiled and shook his head, and said, "It can scarcely
be the same, but it reminds me of something that happened to one of my
tin soldiers when I was a little boy. " And then he told his wife about
the old house and the old man, and of the tin soldier which he had
sent across, because he thought the old man was lonely; and he related
the story so clearly that tears came into the eyes of the young wife
for the old house and the old man. "It is very likely that this is
really the same soldier," said she, "and I will take care of him, and
always remember what you have told me; but some day you must show me
the old man's grave. "

"I don't know where it is," he replied; "no one knows. All his
friends are dead; no one took care of him, and I was only a little
boy. "

"Oh, how dreadfully lonely he must have been," said she.

"Yes, terribly lonely," cried the tin soldier; "still it is
delightful not to be forgotten. "

"Delightful indeed," cried a voice quite near to them; no one
but the tin soldier saw that it came from a rag of the leather which
hung in tatters; it had lost all its gilding, and looked like wet
earth, but it had an opinion, and it spoke it thus:--

"Gilding will fade in damp weather,
To endure, there is nothing like leather. "


But the tin soldier did not believe any such thing.




WHAT THE OLD MAN DOES IS ALWAYS RIGHT

I will tell you a story that was told me when I was a little
boy. Every time I thought of this story, it seemed to me more and more
charming; for it is with stories as it is with many people--they
become better as they grow older.

I have no doubt that you have been in the country, and seen a very
old farmhouse, with a thatched roof, and mosses and small plants
growing wild upon it. There is a stork's nest on the ridge of the
gable, for we cannot do without the stork. The walls of the house
are sloping, and the windows are low, and only one of the latter is
made to open. The baking-oven sticks out of the wall like a great
knob. An elder-tree hangs over the palings; and beneath its
branches, at the foot of the paling, is a pool of water, in which a
few ducks are disporting themselves. There is a yard-dog too, who
barks at all corners. Just such a farmhouse as this stood in a country
lane; and in it dwelt an old couple, a peasant and his wife. Small
as their possessions were, they had one article they could not do
without, and that was a horse, which contrived to live upon the
grass which it found by the side of the high road. The old peasant
rode into the town upon this horse, and his neighbors often borrowed
it of him, and paid for the loan of it by rendering some service to
the old couple. After a time they thought it would be as well to
sell the horse, or exchange it for something which might be more
useful to them. But what might this something be?

"You'll know best, old man," said the wife. "It is fair-day
to-day; so ride into town, and get rid of the horse for money, or make
a good exchange; whichever you do will be right to me, so ride to the
fair. "

And she fastened his neckerchief for him; for she could do that
better than he could, and she could also tie it very prettily in a
double bow. She also smoothed his hat round and round with the palm of
her hand, and gave him a kiss. Then he rode away upon the horse that
was to be sold or bartered for something else. Yes, the old man knew
what he was about. The sun shone with great heat, and not a cloud
was to be seen in the sky. The road was very dusty; for a number of
people, all going to the fair, were driving, riding, or walking upon
it. There was no shelter anywhere from the hot sunshine. Among the
rest a man came trudging along, and driving a cow to the fair. The cow
was as beautiful a creature as any cow could be.

"She gives good milk, I am certain," said the peasant to
himself. "That would be a very good exchange: the cow for the horse.
Hallo there! you with the cow," he said. "I tell you what; I dare
say a horse is of more value than a cow; but I don't care for that,--a
cow will be more useful to me; so, if you like, we'll exchange. "

"To be sure I will," said the man.

Accordingly the exchange was made; and as the matter was
settled, the peasant might have turned back; for he had done the
business he came to do. But, having made up his mind to go to the
fair, he determined to do so, if only to have a look at it; so on he
went to the town with his cow. Leading the animal, he strode on
sturdily, and, after a short time, overtook a man who was driving a
sheep. It was a good fat sheep, with a fine fleece on its back.

"I should like to have that fellow," said the peasant to
himself. "There is plenty of grass for him by our palings, and in
the winter we could keep him in the room with us. Perhaps it would
be more profitable to have a sheep than a cow. Shall I exchange? "
The man with the sheep was quite ready, and the bargain was
quickly made. And then our peasant continued his way on the
high-road with his sheep. Soon after this, he overtook another man,
who had come into the road from a field, and was carrying a large
goose under his arm.

"What a heavy creature you have there! " said the peasant; "it
has plenty of feathers and plenty of fat, and would look well tied
to a string, or paddling in the water at our place. That would be very
useful to my old woman; she could make all sorts of profits out of it.
How often she has said, 'If now we only had a goose! ' Now here is an
opportunity, and, if possible, I will get it for her. Shall we
exchange? I will give you my sheep for your goose, and thanks into the
bargain. "

The other had not the least objection, and accordingly the
exchange was made, and our peasant became possessor of the goose. By
this time he had arrived very near the town. The crowd on the high
road had been gradually increasing, and there was quite a rush of
men and cattle. The cattle walked on the path and by the palings,
and at the turnpike-gate they even walked into the toll-keeper's
potato-field, where one fowl was strutting about with a string tied to
its leg, for fear it should take fright at the crowd, and run away and
get lost. The tail-feathers of the fowl were very short, and it winked
with both its eyes, and looked very cunning, as it said "Cluck,
cluck. " What were the thoughts of the fowl as it said this I cannot
tell you; but directly our good man saw it, he thought, "Why that's
the finest fowl I ever saw in my life; it's finer than our parson's
brood hen, upon my word. I should like to have that fowl. Fowls can
always pick up a few grains that lie about, and almost keep
themselves. I think it would be a good exchange if I could get it
for my goose. Shall we exchange? " he asked the toll-keeper.

"Exchange," repeated the man; "well, it would not be a bad thing. "

And so they made an exchange,--the toll-keeper at the
turnpike-gate kept the goose, and the peasant carried off the fowl.
Now he had really done a great deal of business on his way to the
fair, and he was hot and tired. He wanted something to eat, and a
glass of ale to refresh himself; so he turned his steps to an inn.
He was just about to enter when the ostler came out, and they met at
the door. The ostler was carrying a sack. "What have you in that
sack? " asked the peasant.

"Rotten apples," answered the ostler; "a whole sackful of them.
They will do to feed the pigs with. "

"Why that will be terrible waste," he replied; "I should like to
take them home to my old woman. Last year the old apple-tree by the
grass-plot only bore one apple, and we kept it in the cupboard till it
was quite withered and rotten. It was always property, my old woman
said; and here she would see a great deal of property--a whole
sackful; I should like to show them to her. "

"What will you give me for the sackful? " asked the ostler.

"What will I give? Well, I will give you my fowl in exchange. "

So he gave up the fowl, and received the apples, which he
carried into the inn parlor. He leaned the sack carefully against
the stove, and then went to the table. But the stove was hot, and he
had not thought of that. Many guests were present--horse dealers,
cattle drovers, and two Englishmen. The Englishmen were so rich that
their pockets quite bulged out and seemed ready to burst; and they
could bet too, as you shall hear. "Hiss-s-s, hiss-s-s. " What could
that be by the stove? The apples were beginning to roast. "What is
that? " asked one.

"Why, do you know"--said our peasant. And then he told them the
whole story of the horse, which he had exchanged for a cow, and all
the rest of it, down to the apples.

"Well, your old woman will give it you well when you get home,"
said one of the Englishmen. "Won't there be a noise? "

"What! Give me what? " said the peasant. "Why, she will kiss me,
and say, 'what the old man does is always right. '"

"Let us lay a wager on it," said the Englishmen. "We'll wager
you a ton of coined gold, a hundred pounds to the hundred-weight. "

"No; a bushel will be enough," replied the peasant. "I can only
set a bushel of apples against it, and I'll throw myself and my old
woman into the bargain; that will pile up the measure, I fancy. "

"Done! taken! " and so the bet was made.

Then the landlord's coach came to the door, and the two Englishmen
and the peasant got in, and away they drove, and soon arrived and
stopped at the peasant's hut. "Good evening, old woman. " "Good
evening, old man. " "I've made the exchange. "

"Ah, well, you understand what you're about," said the woman. Then
she embraced him, and paid no attention to the strangers, nor did
she notice the sack.

"I got a cow in exchange for the horse. "

"Thank Heaven," said she. "Now we shall have plenty of milk, and
butter, and cheese on the table. That was a capital exchange. "

"Yes, but I changed the cow for a sheep. "

"Ah, better still! " cried the wife. "You always think of
everything; we have just enough pasture for a sheep. Ewe's milk and
cheese, woollen jackets and stockings! The cow could not give all
these, and her hair only falls off. How you think of everything! "

"But I changed away the sheep for a goose. "

"Then we shall have roast goose to eat this year. You dear old
man, you are always thinking of something to please me. This is
delightful. We can let the goose walk about with a string tied to
her leg, so she will be fatter still before we roast her. "

"But I gave away the goose for a fowl. "

"A fowl! Well, that was a good exchange," replied the woman.
"The fowl will lay eggs and hatch them, and we shall have chickens; we
shall soon have a poultry-yard. Oh, this is just what I was wishing
for. "

"Yes, but I exchanged the fowl for a sack of shrivelled apples. "

"What! I really must give you a kiss for that! " exclaimed the
wife. "My dear, good husband, now I'll tell you something. Do you
know, almost as soon as you left me this morning, I began to think
of what I could give you nice for supper this evening, and then I
thought of fried eggs and bacon, with sweet herbs; I had eggs and
bacon, but I wanted the herbs; so I went over to the schoolmaster's: I
knew they had plenty of herbs, but the schoolmistress is very mean,
although she can smile so sweetly. I begged her to lend me a handful
of herbs. 'Lend! ' she exclaimed, 'I have nothing to lend; nothing at
all grows in our garden, not even a shrivelled apple; I could not even
lend you a shrivelled apple, my dear woman. But now I can lend her
ten, or a whole sackful, which I'm very glad of; it makes me laugh
to think about it;" and then she gave him a hearty kiss.

"Well, I like all this," said both the Englishmen; "always going
down the hill, and yet always merry; it's worth the money to see
it. " So they paid a hundred-weight of gold to the peasant, who,
whatever he did, was not scolded but kissed.

Yes, it always pays best when the wife sees and maintains that her
husband knows best, and whatever he does is right.

That is a story which I heard when I was a child; and now you have
heard it too, and know that "What the old man does is always right. "




THE OLD STREET LAMP

Did you ever hear the story of the old street lamp? It is not
remarkably interesting, but for once in a way you may as well listen
to it. It was a most respectable old lamp, which had seen many, many
years of service, and now was to retire with a pension. It was this
evening at its post for the last time, giving light to the street. His
feelings were something like those of an old dancer at the theatre,
who is dancing for the last time, and knows that on the morrow she
will be in her garret, alone and forgotten. The lamp had very great
anxiety about the next day, for he knew that he had to appear for
the first time at the town hall, to be inspected by the mayor and
the council, who were to decide if he were fit for further service
or not;--whether the lamp was good enough to be used to light the
inhabitants of one of the suburbs, or in the country, at some factory;
and if not, it would be sent at once to an iron foundry, to be
melted down. In this latter case it might be turned into anything, and
he wondered very much whether he would then be able to remember that
he had once been a street lamp, and it troubled him exceedingly.
Whatever might happen, one thing seemed certain, that he would be
separated from the watchman and his wife, whose family he looked
upon as his own. The lamp had first been hung up on that very
evening that the watchman, then a robust young man, had entered upon
the duties of his office. Ah, well, it was a very long time since
one became a lamp and the other a watchman. His wife had a little
pride in those days; she seldom condescended to glance at the lamp,
excepting when she passed by in the evening, never in the daytime. But
in later years, when all these,--the watchman, the wife, and the
lamp--had grown old, she had attended to it, cleaned it, and supplied it
with oil. The old people were thoroughly honest, they had never
cheated the lamp of a single drop of the oil provided for it.

This was the lamp's last night in the street, and to-morrow he
must go to the town-hall,--two very dark things to think of. No wonder
he did not burn brightly. Many other thoughts also passed through
his mind. How many persons he had lighted on their way, and how much
he had seen; as much, very likely, as the mayor and corporation
themselves! None of these thoughts were uttered aloud, however; for he
was a good, honorable old lamp, who would not willingly do harm to any
one, especially to those in authority. As many things were recalled to
his mind, the light would flash up with sudden brightness; he had,
at such moments, a conviction that he would be remembered. "There
was a handsome young man once," thought he; "it is certainly a long
while ago, but I remember he had a little note, written on pink
paper with a gold edge; the writing was elegant, evidently a lady's
hand: twice he read it through, and kissed it, and then looked up at
me, with eyes that said quite plainly, 'I am the happiest of men! '
Only he and I know what was written on this his first letter from
his lady-love. Ah, yes, and there was another pair of eyes that I
remember,--it is really wonderful how the thoughts jump from one thing
to another! A funeral passed through the street; a young and beautiful
woman lay on a bier, decked with garlands of flowers, and attended
by torches, which quite overpowered my light. All along the street
stood the people from the houses, in crowds, ready to join the
procession. But when the torches had passed from before me, and I
could look round, I saw one person alone, standing, leaning against my
post, and weeping. Never shall I forget the sorrowful eyes that looked
up at me. " These and similar reflections occupied the old street lamp,
on this the last time that his light would shine. The sentry, when
he is relieved from his post, knows at least who will succeed him, and
may whisper a few words to him, but the lamp did not know his
successor, or he could have given him a few hints respecting rain,
or mist, and could have informed him how far the moon's rays would
rest on the pavement, and from which side the wind generally blew, and
so on.

On the bridge over the canal stood three persons, who wished to
recommend themselves to the lamp, for they thought he could give the
office to whomsoever he chose. The first was a herring's head, which
could emit light in the darkness. He remarked that it would be a great
saving of oil if they placed him on the lamp-post.