THE PRICE OF A SONG LA FONTAINE In one of the great tenement houses in Paris, a cobbler lived in the basement, and just above him, on the first floor, a very rich man. The cobbler was poor but happy. He sang all day as he made or mended shoes. The rich man had much money, and at night he lay awake planning how to invest it so as to make more, and often wondering if it were all quite safe. Usually it was morning when he fell asleep. But the cobbler was up at daylight and began his work and his singing almost as soon as he could see. This troubled the rich man, and he said to a wise friend: "What am I to do? I can't sleep at night for thinking about my money, and I can't sleep in the morning because of that cobbler's singing." Together they formed a plan. Next day the rich man came down to the basement where the cobbler was working and singing as usual. The cobbler was glad when he saw him come in. "Now," thought he, "I shall have an order for a fine pair of boots, and he will pay me well for my work." But the rich man had another purpose in his mind. He carried a small bag in his hand. Out of it he took a purse and gave it to the cobbler, saying: "I have brought you one hundred crowns as present." The astonished cobbler said: "I cannot take the money, sir, I have done nothing to earn it. Why do you give it to me?" "Because you are the happiest man I know, and the most contented." "It is to be all mine, and you will never ask for it again?" "Never." "O, thank you, sir, thank you. You are so very kind."' After the rich man had gone, the delighted cobbler was about to count the money, when he saw a man in the street looking in through the window. He hastily put the purse into his pocket, went into his bed-room, and poured the coins on the bed. He had never seen so much money before, and he began to be anxious as to where he should hide it for safekeeping. The sudden coming of his wife into the room scared him so that he covered the money quickly, and scolded her for the first time in his life. He hid the purse under the pillow, and left the door open so that he could see the spot from his workbench. Then he thought that since he could see it, others might see it. He changed it to the foot of the bed. An hour later he put it under the sheets. His wife asked what was wrong with the bed, and the fretful cobbler told her to mind her own business-as if the care of beds was not her business. He kept moving the purse from place to place, growing more anxious each day. The foolish. man began to suspect even his own wife. He no longer sang as he worked. His friends saw that he left his bench every hour or so. But the rich man was happy. He slept long and soundly each morning. Day after day he rejoiced at the success of his plan. When a week had passed, the cobbler could bear his worry no longer. He told his wife the whole story. That day he carried the purse up to the rich man's office, put it upon the desk and said: "Here is your money, sir. I cannot live without my song." THE THREE GOLDEN APPLES NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE Did you ever hear of the golden apples that grew in the garden of the Hesperides? Ah, those were such apples as would bring a great price by the bushel, if any of them could be found growing in the orchards of nowadays! And even in the old, old, half-forgotten times, before the garden of the Hesperides was overrun with weeds, a great many people doubted whether there could be real trees that bore apples of solid gold upon their branches. All had heard of them, but nobody remembered to have seen any. Children, nevertheless, used to listen open-mouthed to stories of the golden apple-tree, and resolved to discover it, when they should be big enough. Young men, who wished to do a braver thing than any one else, set out in search of this fruit. Many of them returned no more; none of them brought back the apples. No wonder that they found it impossible to gather them! It is said that there was a dragon beneath the tree, with a hundred terrible heads, fifty of which were always on the watch while the other fifty slept. Once this adventure was undertaken by a hero who had enjoyed very little peace or rest since he came into the world. At the time of which I am going to speak, he was wandering through the pleasant land of Italy, with a mighty club in his hand and a bow and quiver slung across his shoulders. He was wrapt in the skin of the biggest and fiercest lion that ever had been seen, and which he himself had killed; and though, on the whole, he was kind and generous and noble, there was a good deal of the lion's fierceness in his heart. As he went on his way he kept asking whether that were the right road to the famous garden. But none of the country people knew anything about the matter, and many looked as if they would have laughed at the question if the stranger had not carried so very big a club. So he journeyed on and on, still making the same inquiry, until at last he came to the brink of a river where some beautiful young women sat twining wreaths of flowers. "Can you tell me, pretty maidens," asked the stranger, "whether this is the right way to the garden of the Hesperides?" "The garden of the Hesperides!" cried one. "We thought mortals were weary of seeking it after so many disappointments. And pray, brave traveler, what do you want there?" "A certain king, who is my cousin," replied he, "has ordered me to get him three of the golden apples.' |