Hans had served his master seven years, and at the end of that time he
said to him, “Master, my time is up; now I should like to go home to my
mother, so give me my wages, if you please.”
His master answered, “You have served me faithfully and well, and as
the service has been, so shall the wages be”; and he gave him a lump of
gold as big as his head.
Hans pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket, wrapped the lump in it,
slung it over his shoulder, and set out on the way home.
As he was trudging painstakingly and laboriously along the road a
horseman came in sight, trotting gayly and briskly along on a spirited
horse.
“Ah,” said Hans aloud, “what a fine thing riding is! There you sit as
comfortable as in a chair; you stumble over no stones, you save your
shoes, and you get over the ground you hardly know how.”
The horseman, overhearing him, stopped and said, “Halloo, Hans! Why do
you go on foot then?”
“I can’t help it,” answered Hans, “for I have this bundle to carry
home. It is gold, to be sure, but I cannot hold my head straight for
it, and it hurts my shoulder, too.”
“I will tell you what,” said the horseman, “we will exchange. I will
give you my horse, and you shall give me your lump.”
“With all my heart,” said Hans; “but I tell you beforehand that you are
taking a good heavy load on yourself.”
The horseman got down, took the gold, and helped Hans up, putting the
bridle into his hands, and said, “Now, when you want to go at a really
good pace, you must click your tongue and cry, ‘Gee up! gee up!’”
Hans was delighted when he found himself sitting on a horse and riding
along so freely and easily. After a while it occurred to him that he
might go still faster, and he began to click with his tongue and cry,
“Gee up! gee up!” The horse broke into a gallop, and before Hans knew
what he was about he was thrown off and was lying in a ditch which
separated the fields from the highroad. The horse would have run away
if it had not been stopped by a peasant who was coming along the road
and driving a cow before him. Hans felt himself all over, and picked
himself up; but he was vexed, and said to the peasant: “This riding on
horseback is no joke, I can tell you, especially when a man gets on a
mare like mine, that kicks and throws one off, so that it is a wonder
one’s neck is not broken. Never again will I ride that animal! Now I
like your cow; you can walk quietly along behind her, and you have her
milk, butter, and cheese, every day, into the bargain. What would I not
give for such a cow!”
“Well, now,” said the peasant, “if it would give you as much pleasure
as all that, I don’t mind exchanging the cow for the horse.”
Hans agreed to this with the greatest delight, and the peasant,
swinging himself upon the horse, rode off in a hurry.
Hans drove his cow peacefully before him, and thought over his lucky
bargain. “If I only have a bit of bread—and I ought never to be without
that—I can have butter and cheese with it as often as I like; if I am
thirsty, I have only to milk the cow and I have milk to drink. What
more could heart desire?”
When he came to an inn he made a halt, and ate with great satisfaction
all the bread he had brought with him for dinner and supper, and spent
his last two farthings for a glass of beer to drink with it. Then he
drove his cow along in the direction of his mother’s village. The heat
grew more and more oppressive as the middle of the day drew near, and
Hans found himself on a wide heath which it would take about an hour to
cross. He was very hot and thirsty.
“This is easily remedied,” thought Hans; “I will milk the cow and
refresh myself with the milk.”
He tied her to a tree, and as he had no pail he put his leather cap
underneath her; but try as hard as he could, not a drop of milk came.
He had put himself in a very awkward position, too, and at last the
impatient beast gave him such a kick on the head that he tumbled over
on the ground and was so dazed that for a long time he could not think
where he was.
Fortunately a butcher came along soon, trundling a wheelbarrow in which
lay a young pig.
“What’s the matter here?” he cried, as he helped Hans up.
Hans told him what had happened. The butcher handed him his flask and
said: “There, take a drink; it will do you good. That cow might well
give no milk; she is an old beast, and only fit at best for the plow or
for the butcher.”
“Dear, dear!” said Hans, running his fingers through his hair, “who
would have thought it! It is an idea to kill the beast and have the
meat. But I do not care much for beef,—it is not juicy enough. Now a
young pig like yours,—that is what would taste good; and then there are
the sausages!”
“Take heed, Hans,” said the butcher; “out of love for you I will
exchange and let you have the pig for the cow.”
“May Heaven reward you for your kindness!” cried Hans, handing over the
cow as the butcher untied the pig from the barrow and put into his hand
the string with which it was tied.
Hans went on again, thinking how everything was turning out just as he
wished; if he did meet with any mishap, it was immediately set right.
Presently a lad overtook him who was carrying a fine white goose under
his arm. They said “Good morning” to each other, and then Hans began at
once to tell of his good luck and how he always made such good
bargains. The lad told him that he was taking the goose to a
christening feast.
“Just lift it,” said he to Hans, holding it up by the wings, “and feel
how heavy it is; it has been fattened up for the last eight weeks.
Whoever gets a taste of it when it is roasted will get a rare bit.”
“Yes,” said Hans, weighing it in one hand, “it is a good weight, but my
pig is no trifle either.”
Meanwhile the lad kept looking suspiciously from one side to the other
and shook his head.
“Look here,” he began, “I’m not so sure it’s all right with your pig.
In the village through which I passed, the mayor himself had just had
one stolen from his sty. I fear—I fear you have got hold of it there in
your hand. They have sent out people to look for it, and it would be a
bad business for you if you were found with it; at the very least, you
would be shut up in the dark hole.”
Honest Hans was very much frightened.
“Alas!” he said, “help me out of this trouble! You are more at home in
these parts than I; take my pig and let me have your goose.”
“I shall run some risk if I do,” answered the lad, “but I will not be
the cause of your getting into trouble.”
So he took the cord in his hand and drove the pig quickly away by a
side path.
Honest Hans, relieved of his anxiety, plodded along towards home with
the goose under his arm. “When I really come to think it over,” he said
to himself, “I have even gained by this exchange: first, there is the
good roast; then the quantity of fat that will drip out of it in
roasting and will keep us in goose fat to eat on our bread for a
quarter of a year; and last of all there are the fine white feathers,
with which I will stuff my pillow, and then I warrant I shall sleep
like a top. How delighted my mother will be!”
As he was going through the last village he came to a knife grinder
with his cart, singing, as his wheel whirred busily around,
“Scissors and knives I quickly grind,
While my coat flies out in the wind behind.”
Hans stopped to watch him; at last he spoke to him and said, “You
appear to have a good business, if I may judge by your merry song.”
“Yes,” answered the knife grinder, “this business has a golden bottom.
A good grinder finds money in his pocket whenever he puts his hand in
it. But where did you buy that fine goose?”
“I did not buy it, but took it in exchange for my pig.”
“And the pig?”
“That I got for a cow.”
“And the cow?”
“I took that for a horse.”
“And the horse?”
“For that I gave a lump of gold as big as my head.”
“And the gold?”
“Oh, that was my wages for seven years’ service!”
“You have certainly known how to look after yourself each time,” said
the grinder. “If you can only get on so far as to hear the money jingle
in your pockets whenever you stand up, you will indeed have made your
fortune.”
“How shall I manage that?” said Hans.
“You must become a grinder, like me; nothing in particular is needed
for it but a grindstone,—everything else will come of itself. I have
one of those here; to be sure it is a little worn, but you need not
give me anything for it but your goose. Will you do it?”
“How can you ask?” said Hans. “Why, I shall be the luckiest man in the
world. If I have money every time I put my hand into my pocket, what
more can I have to trouble about?”
So he handed him the goose and took the grindstone in exchange.
“Now,” said the grinder, picking up an ordinary big stone that lay by
the road, “here is another good stone into the bargain. You can hammer
out all your old nails on it and straighten them. Take it with you and
keep it carefully.”
Hans shouldered the stones and walked on with a light heart, his eyes
shining with joy. “I must have been born under a lucky star,” he
exclaimed; “everything happens to me just as I want it.”
Meanwhile, as he had been on his legs since daybreak, he began to feel
tired. He was hungry, too, for in his joy at the bargain by which he
got his cow he had eaten up all his store of food at once, and had had
none since. At last he felt quite unable to go farther, and was forced
to rest every minute or two. Besides, the stones weighed him down
dreadfully. He could not help thinking how nice it would be if he did
not have to carry them any farther.
He dragged himself slowly over to a well in the field, meaning to rest
and refresh himself with a draft of cool water. To keep the stones from
hurting him while he knelt to drink, he laid them carefully on the edge
of the well. Then he sat down, and was about to stoop and drink, but
made a slip which gave the stones a little push, and both of them
rolled off into the water. When Hans saw them sinking to the bottom he
jumped for joy, and knelt down and thanked God, with tears in his eyes,
for having shown him this further favor, and relieved him of the heavy
stones (which were the only things that troubled him) without his
having anything to reproach himself with.
“There is no man under the sun so lucky as I,” he cried out. Then with
a light heart, and free from every burden, he ran on until he reached
his mother’s home.