than I did, and where he hit the mark I missed it by an ell. ’Twas
a pretty scrape 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--”_
[Illustration]
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
booby 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.
One day the weather was cold, and when Babo came home from
gathering rushes he found no fire in the house. So off he went to
his neighbor the wise man. “Will you give me a live coal to start
my fire?” said he.
“Yes, I will do that,” said Simon Agricola; “but how will you carry
the coal home?”
“Oh!” said Babo, “I will just take it in my hand.”
“In your hand?”
“In my hand.”
“Can you carry a live coal in your hand?”
“Oh yes!” said Babo; “I can do that easily enough.”
“Well, I should like to see you do it,” said Simon Agricola.
“Then I will show you,” said Babo. He spread a bed of cold, dead
ashes upon his palm. “Now,” said he, “I will take the ember upon
that.”
[Illustration]
Agricola rolled up his eyes like a duck in a thunder-storm. “Well,”
said he, “I have lived more than seventy years, and have read all
the books in the world; I have practised magic and necromancy, and
know all about algebra and geometry, and yet, wise as I am, I never
thought of this little thing.”
That is the way with your wise man.
“Pooh!” said Babo; “that is nothing. I know how to do many more
tricks than that.”
“Do you?” said Simon Agricola; “then listen: to-morrow I am going
out into the world to make my fortune, for little or nothing is to
be had in this town. If you will go along with me I will make your
fortune also.”
“Very well,” said Babo, and the bargain was struck. So the next
morning bright and early off they started upon their journey, cheek
by jowl, the wise man and the simpleton, to make their fortunes in
the wide world, and the two of them made a pair. On they jogged and
on they jogged, and the way was none too smooth. By-and-by they
came to a great field covered all over with round stones.
“Let us each take one of these,” said Simon Agricola; “they will be
of use by-and-by;” and, as he spoke, he picked up a great stone as
big as his two fists, and dropped it into the pouch that dangled at
his side.
“Not I,” said Babo; “I will carry no stone with me. It is as much
as my two legs can do to carry my body, let alone lugging a great
stone into the bargain.”
“Very well,” said Agricola; “’born a fool, live a fool, die a
fool.’” And on he tramped, with Babo at his heels.
At last they came to a great wide plain, where, far or near,
nothing was to be seen but bare sand, without so much as a pebble
or a single blade of grass, and there night caught up with them.
“Dear, dear, but I am hungry!” said Babo.
“So am I,” said Simon Agricola. “Let’s sit down here and eat.”
So down they sat, and Simon Agricola opened his pouch and drew
forth the stone.
The stone? It was a stone no longer, but a fine loaf of white bread
as big as your two fists. You should have seen Babo goggle and
stare! “Give me a piece of your bread, master,” said he.
“Not I,” said Agricola. “You might have had a dozen of the same
kind, had you chosen to do as I bade you and to fetch them along
with you. ‘Born a fool, live a fool, die a fool,’” said he; and
that was all that Babo got for his supper. As for the wise man,
he finished his loaf of bread to the last crumb, and then went to
sleep with a full stomach and a contented mind.
The next morning off they started again bright and early, and
before long they came to just such another field of stones as they
left behind them the day before.
“Come, master,” said Babo, “let us each take a stone with us. We
may need something more to eat before the day is over.”
“No,” said Simon Agricola; “we will need no stones to-day.”
But Babo had no notion to go hungry the second time, so he hunted
around till he found a stone as big as his head. All day he carried
it, first under one arm and then under the other. The wise man
stepped along briskly enough, but the sweat ran down Babo’s face
like drops on the window in an April shower. At last they came to a
great wide plain, where neither stock nor stone was to be seen, but
only a gallows-tree, upon which one poor wight hung dancing upon
nothing at all, and there night caught them again.
“Aha!” said Babo to himself. “This time I shall have bread and my
master none.”
But listen to what happened. Up stepped the wise man to the
gallows, and gave it a sharp rap with his staff. Then, lo and
behold! the gallows was gone, and in its place stood a fine inn,
with lights in the windows, and a landlord bowing and smiling in
the doorway, and a fire roaring in the kitchen, and the smell of
the good things cooking filling the air all around, so that only to
sniff did one’s heart good.
Poor Babo let fall the stone he had carried all day. A stone it
was, and a stone he let it fall.
“‘Born a fool, live a fool, die a fool,’” said Agricola. “But come
in, Babo, come in; here is room enough for two.” So that night Babo
had a good supper and a sound sleep, and that is a cure for most of
a body’s troubles in this world.
The third day of their travelling they came to farms and villages,
and there Simon Agricola began to think of showing some of those
tricks of magic that were to make his fortune and Babo’s into the
bargain.
At last they came to a blacksmith’s shop, and there was the smith
hard at work, dinging and donging, and making sweet music with
hammer and anvil. In walked Simon Agricola and gave him good-day.
He put his fingers into his purse, and brought out all the money
he had in the world; it was one golden angel. “Look, friend,” said
he to the blacksmith; “if you will let me have your forge for one
hour, I will give you this money for the use of it.”
The blacksmith liked the tune of that song very well. “You may have
it,” said he; and he took off his leathern apron without another
word, and Simon Agricola put it on in his stead.
Presently, who should come riding up to the blacksmith’s shop but a
rich old nobleman and three servants. The servants were hale, stout
fellows, but the nobleman was as withered as a winter leaf. “Can
you shoe my horse?” said he to Simon Agricola, for he took him to
be the smith because of his leathern apron.
“No,” says Simon Agricola; “that is not my trade: I only know how
to make old people young.”
“Old people young!” said the old nobleman; “can you make me young
again?”
“Yes,” said Simon Agricola, “I can, but I must have a thousand
golden angels for doing it.”
“Very well,” said the old nobleman; “make me young, and you shall
have them and welcome.”
So Simon Agricola gave the word, and Babo blew the bellows until
the fire blazed and roared. Then the doctor caught the old
nobleman, and laid him upon the forge. He heaped the coals over
him, and turned him this way and that, until he grew red-hot, like
a piece of iron. Then he drew him forth from the fire and dipped
him in the water-tank. Phizz! the water hissed, and the steam rose
up in a cloud; and when Simon Agricola took the old nobleman out,
lo and behold! he was as fresh and blooming and lusty as a lad of
twenty.
But you should have seen how all the people stared and
goggled!--Babo and the blacksmith and the nobleman’s servants. The
nobleman strutted up and down for a while, admiring himself, and
then he got upon his horse again. “But wait,” said Simon Agricola;
“you forgot to pay me my thousand golden angels.”
“Pooh!” said the nobleman, and off he clattered, with his servants
at his heels; and that was all the good that Simon Agricola had of
this trick. But ill-luck was not done with him yet, for when the
smith saw how matters had turned out, he laid hold of the doctor
and would not let him go until he had paid him the golden angel he
had promised for the use of the forge. The doctor pulled a sour
face, but all the same he had to pay the angel. Then the smith let
him go, and off he marched in a huff.
[Illustration]
Outside of the forge was the smith’s mother--a poor old creature,
withered and twisted and bent as a winter twig. Babo had kept his
eyes open, and had not travelled with Simon Agricola for nothing.
He plucked the smith by the sleeve: “Look’ee, friend,” said he,
“how would you like me to make your mother, over yonder, young
again?”
“I should like nothing better,” said the smith.
“Very well,” said Babo; “give me the golden angel that the master
gave you, and I’ll do the job for you.”
Well, the smith paid the money, and Babo bade him blow the bellows.
When the fire roared up good and hot, he caught up the old mother,
and, in spite of her scratching and squalling, he laid her upon the
embers. By-and-by, when he thought the right time had come, he took
her out and dipped her in the tank of water; but instead of turning
young, there she lay, as dumb as a fish and as black as coal.
When the blacksmith saw what Babo had done to his mother, he caught
him by the collar, and fell to giving him such a dressing down as
never man had before.
“Help!” bawled Babo. “Help! Murder!”
Such a hubbub had not been heard in that town for many a day. Back
came Simon Agricola running, and there he saw, and took it all in
in one look.
“Stop, friend,” said he to the smith, “let the simpleton go; this
is not past mending yet.”
“Very well,” said the smith; “but he must give me back my golden
angel, and you must cure my mother, or else I’ll have you both up
before the judge.”
“It shall be done,” said Simon Agricola; so Babo paid back the
money, and the doctor dipped the woman in the water. When he
brought her out she was as well and strong as ever--but just as old
as she had been before.
“Now be off for a pair of scamps, both of you,” said the
blacksmith; “and if you ever come this way again, I’ll set all the
dogs in the town upon you.”
Simon Agricola said nothing until they had come out upon the
highway again, and left the town well behind them; then--“‘Born a
fool, live a fool, die a fool!’” says he.
Babo said nothing, but he rubbed the places where the smith had
dusted his coat.
The fourth day of their journey they came to a town, and here
Simon Agricola was for trying his tricks of magic again. He and
Babo took up their stand in the corner of the market-place, and
began bawling, “Doctor Knowall! Doctor Knowall! who has come from
the other end of Nowhere! He can cure any sickness or pain! He can
bring you back from the gates of death! Here is Doctor Knowall!
Here is Doctor Knowall!”
Now there was a very, very rich man in that town, whose daughter
lay sick to death; and when the news of this great doctor was
brought to his ears, he was for having him try his hand at curing
the girl.
“Very well,” said Simon Agricola, “I will do that, but you must pay
me two thousand golden angels.”
“Two thousand golden angels!” said the rich man; “that is a great
deal of money, but you shall have it if only you will cure my
daughter.”
Simon Agricola drew a little vial from his bosom. From it he poured
just six drops of yellow liquor upon the girl’s tongue. Then--lo
and behold!--up she sat in bed as well and strong as ever, and
asked for a boiled chicken and a dumpling, by way of something to
eat.
“Bless you! Bless you!” said the rich man.
“Yes, yes; blessings are very good, but I would like to have my two
thousand golden angels,” said Simon Agricola.
“Two thousand golden angels! I said nothing about two thousand
golden angels,” said the rich man; “two thousand fiddlesticks!”
said he. “Pooh! pooh! you must have been dreaming! See, here are
two hundred silver pennies, and that is enough and more than enough
for six drops of medicine.”
“I want my two thousand golden angels,” said Simon Agricola.
“You will get nothing but two hundred pennies,” said the rich man.
“I won’t touch one of them,” said Simon Agricola, and off he
marched in a huff.
But Babo had kept his eyes open. Simon Agricola had laid down the
vial upon the table, and while they were saying this and that back
and forth, thinking of nothing else, Babo quietly slipped it into
his own pocket, without any one but himself being the wiser.
Down the stairs stumped the doctor with Babo at his heels. There
stood the cook waiting for them.
“Look,” said he, “my wife is sick in there; won’t you cure her,
too?”
“Pooh!” said Simon Agricola; and out he went, banging the door
behind him.
“Look, friend,” said Babo to the cook; “here I have some of the
same medicine. Give me the two hundred pennies that the master
would not take, and I’ll cure her for you as sound as a bottle.”
“Very well,” said the cook, and he counted out the two hundred
pennies, and Babo slipped them into his pocket. He bade the woman
open her mouth, and when she had done so he poured all the stuff
down her throat at once.
“Ugh!” said she, and therewith rolled up her eyes, and lay as stiff
and dumb as a herring in a box.
When the cook saw what Babo had done, he snatched up the
rolling-pin and made at him to pound his head to a jelly. But Babo
did not wait for his coming; he jumped out of the window, and away
he scampered with the cook at his heels.
Well, the upshot of the business was that Simon Agricola had to go
back and bring life to the woman again, or the cook would thump him
and Babo both with the rolling-pin. And, what was more, Babo had to
pay back the two hundred pennies that the cook had given him for
curing his wife.
[Illustration]
The wise man made a cross upon the woman’s forehead, and up she
sat, as well--but no better--as before.
“And now be off,” said the cook, “or I will call the servants and
give you both a drubbing for a pair of scamps.”
Simon Agricola said never a word until they had gotten out of
the town. There his anger boiled over, like water into the fire.
“Look,” said he to Babo: “‘Born a fool, live a fool, die a fool.’ I
want no more of you. Here are two roads; you take one, and I will
take the other.”
“What!” said Babo, “am I to travel the rest of the way alone? And
then, besides, how about the fortune you promised me?”
“Never mind that,” said Simon Agricola; “I have not made my own
fortune yet.”
“Well, at least pay me something for my wages,” said Babo.
“How shall I pay you?” said Simon Agricola. “I have not a single
groat in the world.”
“What!” said Babo, “have you nothing to give me?”
“I can give you a piece of advice.”
“Well,” said Babo, “that is better than nothing, so let me have it.”
“Here it is,” said Simon Agricola: “‘Think well! think
well!--before you do what you are about to do, think well!’”
“Thank you!” said Babo; and then the one went one way, and the
other the other.
(_You may go with the wise man if you choose, but I shall jog along
with the simpleton._)
After Babo had travelled for a while, he knew not whither, night
caught him, and he lay down under a hedge to sleep. There he lay,
and snored away like a saw-mill, for he was wearied with his long
journeying.
Now it chanced that that same night two thieves had broken into a
miser’s house, and had stolen an iron pot full of gold money. Day
broke before they reached home, so down they sat to consider the
matter; and the place where they seated themselves was on the other
side of the hedge where Babo lay. The older thief was for carrying
the money home under his coat; the younger was for burying it until
night had come again. They squabbled and bickered and argued till
the noise they made wakened Babo, and he sat up. The first thing he
thought of was the advice that the doctor had given him the evening
before.
“‘Think well!’” he bawled out; “‘think well! before you do what
you are about to do, think well!’”
[Illustration]
When the two thieves heard Babo’s piece of advice, they thought
that the judge’s officers were after them for sure and certain.
Down they dropped the pot of money, and away they scampered as fast
as their legs could carry them.
Babo heard them running, and poked his head through the hedge, and
there lay the pot of gold. “Look now,” said he: “this has come from
the advice that was given me; no one ever gave me advice that was
worth so much before.” So he picked up the pot of gold, and off he
marched with it.
He had not gone far before he met two of the king’s officers,
and you may guess how they opened their eyes when they saw him
travelling along the highway with a pot full of gold money.
“Where are you going with that money?” said they.
“I don’t know,” said Babo.
“How did you get it?” said they.
“I got it for a piece of advice,” said Babo.
For a piece of advice! No, no--the king’s officers knew butter from
lard, and truth from t’other thing. It was just the same in that
country as it is in our town--there was nothing in the world so
cheap as advice. Whoever heard of anybody giving a pot of gold and
silver money for it? Without another word they marched Babo and his
pot of money off to the king.
“Come,” said the king, “tell me truly; where did you get the pot of
money?”
Poor Babo began to whimper. “I got it for a piece of advice,” said
he.
“Really and truly?” said the king.
“Yes,” said Babo; “really and truly.”
“Humph!” said the king. “I should like to have advice that is worth
as much as that. Now, how much will you sell your advice to me for?”
“How much will you give?” said Babo.
“Well,” said the king, “let me have it for a day on trial, and at
the end of that time I will pay you what it is worth.”
“Very well,” said Babo, “that is a bargain;” and so he lent the
king his piece of advice for one day on trial.
Now the chief councillor and some others had laid a plot against
the king’s life, and that morning it had been settled that when the
barber shaved him he was to cut his throat with a razor. So after
the barber had lathered his face he began to whet the razor, and to
whet the razor.
Just at that moment the king remembered Babo’s piece of advice.
“‘Think well!’ said he; ‘think well! before you do what you are
about to do, think well!’”
When the barber heard the words that the king said, he thought that
all had been discovered. Down he fell upon his knees, and confessed
everything.
That is how Babo’s advice saved the king’s life--you can guess
whether the king thought it was worth much or little. When Babo
came the next morning the king gave him ten chests full of money,
and that made the simpleton richer than anybody in all that land.
He built himself a fine house, and by-and-by married the daughter
of the new councillor that came after the other one’s head had been
chopped off for conspiring against the king’s life. Besides that,
he came and went about the king’s castle as he pleased, and the
king made much of him. Everybody bowed to him, and all were glad to
stop and chat awhile with him when they met him in the street.
[Illustration]
One morning Babo looked out of the window, and who should he see
come travelling along the road but Simon Agricola himself, and he
was just as poor and dusty and travel-stained as ever.
“Come in, come in!” said Babo; and you can guess how the wise man
stared when he saw the simpleton living in such a fine way. But he
opened his eyes wider than ever when he heard that all these good
things came from the piece of advice he had given Babo that day
they had parted at the cross roads.
“Aye, aye!” said he, “the luck is with you for sure and certain.
But if you will pay me a thousand golden angels, I will give you
something better than a piece of advice. I will teach you all the
magic that is to be learned from the books.”
“No,” said Babo, “I am satisfied with the advice.”
“Very well,” said Simon Agricola, “‘Born a fool, live a fool, die a
fool’”; and off he went in a huff.
* * * * *
That is all of this tale except the tip end of it, and that I will
give you now.
I have heard tell that one day the king dropped in the street the
piece of advice that he had bought from Babo, and that before he
found it again it had been trampled into the mud and dirt. I cannot
say for certain that this is the truth, but it must have been
spoiled in some way or other, for I have never heard of anybody in
these days who would give even so much as a bad penny for it; and
yet it is worth just as much now as it was when Babo sold it to the
king.
[Illustration]
* * * * *
_I had sat listening to these jolly folk for all this time, and I
had not heard old Sindbad say a word, and yet I knew very well he
was full of a story, for every now and then I could see his lips
move, and he would smile, and anon he would stroke his long white
beard and smile again._
_Everybody clapped their hands and rattled their canicans after the
Blacksmith had ended his story, and methought they liked it better
than almost anything that had been told. Then there was a pause,
and everybody was still, and as nobody else spoke I myself ventured
to break the silence. “I would like,” said I (and my voice sounded
thin in my own ears, as one’s voice always does sound in Twilight
Land), “I would like to hear our friend Sindbad the Sailor tell a
story. Methinks one is fermenting in his mind.”_
_Old Sindbad smiled until his cheeks crinkled into wrinkles._
_“Aye,” said every one, “will you not tell a story?”_
_“To be sure I will,” said Sindbad. “I will tell you a good story,”
said he, “and it is about--”_
[Illustration]
The Enchanted Island.
_But it is not always the lucky one that carries away the plums;
sometimes he only shakes the tree, and the wise man pockets the
fruit._
Once upon a long, long time ago, and in a country far, far away,
there lived two men in the same town and both were named Selim; one
was Selim the Baker and one was Selim the Fisherman.
Selim the Baker was well off in the world, but Selim the Fisherman
was only so-so. Selim the Baker always had plenty to eat and a
warm corner in cold weather, but many and many a time Selim the
Fisherman’s stomach went empty and his teeth went chattering.
Once it happened that for time after time Selim the Fisherman
caught nothing but bad luck in his nets, and not so much as a
single sprat, and he was very hungry. “Come,” said he to himself,
“those who have some should surely give to those who have none,”
and so he went to Selim the Baker. “Let me have a loaf of bread,”
said he, “and I will pay you for it to-morrow.”
“Very well,” said Selim the Baker; “I will let you have a loaf
of bread, if you will give me all that you catch in your nets
to-morrow.”
“So be it,” said Selim the Fisherman, for need drives one to hard
bargains sometimes; and therewith he got his loaf of bread.
So the next day Selim the Fisherman fished and fished and fished
and fished, and still he caught no more than the day before; until
just at sunset he cast his net for the last time for the day, and,
lo and behold! there was something heavy in it. So he dragged it
ashore, and what should it be but a leaden box, sealed as tight as
wax, and covered with all manner of strange letters and figures.
“Here,” said he, “is something to pay for my bread of yesterday, at
any rate;” and as he was an honest man, off he marched with it to
Selim the Baker.
They opened the box in the baker’s shop, and within they found
two rolls of yellow linen. In each of the rolls of linen was
another little leaden box: in one was a finger-ring of gold set
with a red stone, in the other was a finger-ring of iron set with
nothing at all.
[Illustration]
That was all the box held; nevertheless, that was the greatest
catch that ever any fisherman made in the world; for, though Selim
the one or Selim the other knew no more of the matter than the cat
under the stove, the gold ring was the Ring of Luck and the iron
ring was the Ring of Wisdom.
Inside of the gold ring were carved these letters: “Whosoever wears
me, shall have that which all men seek--for so it is with good-luck
in this world.”
Inside of the iron ring were written these words: “Whosoever wears
me, shall have that which few men care for--and that is the way it
is with wisdom in our town.”