The simple folks laughed at him. "Hoot! toot! lad," said they; "ye
canna mend shoes!"
But he answered bravely: "Am I not fifteen years old, and e'en a'most
a mon? Haven't I all father's tools? Haven't I seen him do it day
after day ever since I was a wee boy? It's time I was doing something
besides jobbin' and runnin' and pretendin' to work! I may take to th'
auld bench, and e'en get my father's place among ye in time, so I be
good enough. Mother canna allus be a-spinnin', spinnin', spinnin'. The
poor old eyes are growing dim a'ready,"--and Jim gently stroked her
thin gray hair.
"Ye're a brave darlin', and my own handy Nimble Jim," said the fond
mother, smilingly.
"Ah, well, boy," the neighbors said, "be about it if ye will, for
there's no cobbler hereabout now, and the shoes must be mended. But
ye'll do the work fairly, mind, or we'll no' pay ye a penny!"
"I'll try my best, and bide your good favor, neighbors," was Jim's
cheery answer.
And so he succeeded to his father's old bench by the window, the
lap-stone and hammer and awl; and as he waxed his thread and stitched
away, singing the old songs, the country folks passing by would
listen, look at each other, smile and nod approvingly, or say:
"Hark to that, friend! One might think auld Jamie back again, with the
whack o' the hammer and the blithe song, though the voice ben't so
crackit like as th' auld one."
"Aye, it's a bit clearer, but no happier. Auld cobbler Jamie was a
merry soul," says one.
"And the lad'll prove worthy his father, I warrant. Listen to the
turn of that song, now; I've heard Jamie singin' it many a day," says
another.
"Whack! whack! thump-pet-ty crack!
In go the shoe-nails with many a smack.
Zu! zu! pull the thread through;
Soon will the shoe be, done, master, for you!
"Nay! nay! there's nothin' to pay,
If it is not mended as good as I say.
I do my work honestly--that is the thing;
Then Jamie the cobbler's as good as the king!"
And the folks passed on, or stopped to leave shoes to mend.
Jim prospered in the old stall, and they called him "Nimble Jim, the
Cobbler," for soon he was fairly installed as cobbler to the whole
country-side. He was happy, and his old mother was happy, and proud,
too, of the success of her boy, who was the light of her home and the
joy of her heart.
All day Jim worked away at his bench. Winter evenings he read his few
books by the firelight; in the cool of the summer days, or in the
early mornings, he busied himself in the little garden. His
vegetables were his pride, and for miles around no one had so trim a
garden-patch, or so many good things in it, as Nimble Jim.
Only one kind of all his plants failed to come to anything,--his
melon-vines,--and these always failed. This began to grieve him
sorely, for he was fond of melons; and, besides, he thought if he
could only raise fine ones, he might sell them for a deal of money,
like gruff, rich old Farmer Hummidge.
"Oh dear! my melons don't grow like other folkses. They don't come up
at all, or if they do they wither or spindle away," he said, losing
his temper, and tearing up some of the vines by the roots. Then he
went into the cottage, angrily, and began to pound away, driving in
big hob-nails. With the twilight, his mother called him to the simple
meal, but he was sullen and silent.
"What be the matter with ye, my Nimble Jim?" asked the good dame,
cheerily.
"Matter enough, mother! My melons wont grow; there's somethin' the
matter with them. Faith, I believe some imp has cast a spell over 'em.
I do, mother," quoth he, thumping the table with his fist until the
dishes rattled.
"Softly, softly, boy! Where's thy good nature gone?" said Mother
Growser, staring at him in wonder.
"It be well enough to say 'Softly, softly,'" said he, "and I don't
want to grieve ye, mother; but it's naught with me but hammer, stitch,
dig,--hammer, stitch, dig,--the day in, the day out, when I might be
raisin' fine melons and sellin' 'em for mints of gold in the great
city. Yea, mother, sellin' 'em e'en to the king and queen and all the
grand lords and ladies at the court, like old Farmer Hummidge."
For almost the first time in his life Jim was unhappy.
"I would you had your wish, Nimble Jim; but then we've a neat bit
garden besides the melons; and the home is snug, and you're a good boy
and the best o' cobblers. Can't you be happy with that, my lad?"
But Nimble Jim shook his head, for the spirit of discontent had taken
possession of him.
Now, for many days, Nimble Jim neglected his cobbling and let the
weeds grow in his garden, while he moodily watched his melons as they
withered away. Soon he came to idle about them in the evening, too,
until, one bright moonlight night, as he was grieving over the
wretched, scraggy vines, he heard a tiny, silvery voice quite near him
cry, tauntingly:
"Hello, Nimble Jim! How are your melons?"
Jim would have been very angry at such a question could he have seen
anybody to be angry with; but, though he looked and looked with all
his eyes, not a soul could he see.
"Hello, Nimble Jim! How are your melons? Ha, ha, ha! Melons! melons!
Ha, ha, ha!" And the sweet little voice sang, in a merry, mocking
strain:
"Nice sweet melons!
Round ripe melons!
Nimble Jim likes them, I know.
Mean sour melons,
Crooked green melons,
Nimble Jim only can grow!