When he reached his own home he rapped on the window as usual, to warn his wife, and Catharine rushed out to meet him, and, throwing her arms round his neck, cried, "Oh, Peter, I am so glad you have returned; the good cabbage soup is all ready for you; so come right in and eat it!"

"Eat!" exclaimed Wise Peter, "how can I swallow a mouthful when I am so overwhelmed with misfortune?"

"What! you also!" said Catharine; "alas! what has happened?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: PETER'S RETURN HOME.]

With accents that trembled with rage and grief, Wise Peter told how he had been treated in the village; but he had scarcely made an end before Catharine, bursting into tears, exclaimed, "Oh, what will become of me! Have mercy, Peter, for it was I who poured the wine down the well!"

"Poured wine down the well!" cried Peter, starting in astonishment; "then, for heaven's sake, why did you do that?"

"Because," sobbed his wife, "the water tasted of cabbages!"

"Of cabbages!" repeated the peasant, in greater surprise than ever, "and what made it taste of cabbages?"

"Because I dipped up water in the cabbage pot," cried Silly Catharine.

"And where was the bucket?" asked her husband.

"I burnt it, trying to dip the water out of the chimney, that had been drawn up from the cabbage pot!" gasped Catharine, feeling that everything must now be told, since she had begun.

Wise Peter took two or three strides across the room in silence; then, making a violent effort to speak quietly, he said, "And why, Catharine, since you supposed that water could be drawn up a chimney, did you leave the pot unwatched?"

Almost in a scream, Silly Catharine broke out, "Because I was sewing on the turkeys' heads that I struck off cutting down the bramble bush!!"

"Now, was ever any man tormented with such a fool of a wife!" shouted Peter, almost beside himself with rage. "I could beat you with pleasure for acting so witlessly, but that, alas! would not pay for what you have lost for me this day. A hundred and five guilders of my precious money have I been made to pay for your foolery, besides losing my Tokay wine, my field of wheat, and all my fine young turkeys! at least a hundred guilders more!"

"Oh, and that's not the worst!" cried Catharine.

"What! is there any more to come?" exclaimed Peter, almost out of his senses.

"Yes," stammered Silly Catharine; "the man came here to gather the tax, and I told him, as you said, that you were far too clever to pay it, and that he would get nothing more out of me. Then he said you were a beggarly fellow, not worth five kreutzers, and, of course, I couldn't allow that; so I showed him the guilders in the store room, to prove that he spoke falsely, and he took every one of them! I am so sorry, but never mind, there is excellent cabbage soup for supper!"

At this, Peter could restrain himself no longer, and falling upon Silly Catharine, he trounced her well with his stick, until she cried out for mercy. "There!" he said at last, throwing down the stick, "you have been well punished, though not half enough to pay for the mischief you have done."

Silly Catharine dried her eyes upon her ap.r.o.n, and with a reproachful look exclaimed, "Still you have beaten me, Wise Peter, for what I could not help; for, if the turkeys had not been killed, I should never have stayed away so long; if the water had not flown up chimney, I should not have burnt the bucket; and if the well had not tasted of cabbages, I should not have thrown in the wine. And, above all, dear Peter, if that abominable man spoke ill of you, how could I, your wife, avoid showing him that he lied? Besides, the case is not so bad; we have lost nearly all, it is true; but, thank heaven, we still have delicious cabbages!"

In spite of himself, Wise Peter could not help bursting out laughing.

"After all, Catharine," he exclaimed, "I see you did not intend doing me any harm; if you are a fool, that, certainly, is not your fault; therefore, in future let us never be separated. Come, you pretty goose, let us go and eat cabbage soup."

So saying, Wise Peter kissed his wife's blooming cheek, and led her into the house. They sat down with contented hearts to the nice, smoking soup, and after supper walked out among the spreading cabbages.

THE WONDERFUL LEGEND OF THE GOLD STONE.

IN those far away times when the world was yet in its baby clothes, and people were not as wise as they are nowadays, there dwelt in the good town of London a poor tailor's apprentice named Bartlemy Bowbell. He might be called poor in a double sense; for not only was he such a lazy, idle fellow that he scarcely ever took a st.i.tch, and so seldom had a copper of his own, but he was a miserable workman, and, like an organ-grinder's monkey, or a blind man's dog, obtained more kicks than halfpence.

In the same room with him were several other tailors; who sang together one of two tunes as they st.i.tched. If they were paid for every day's work, be it much or little, they sang, "By the d-a-y! by the d-a-a-y! by the d-a-a-a-y!" and the needles went in and out as slowly as the coaches of a funeral procession; but if they were paid for every garment they finished, then they sang, "By the job! by the job! by the job!" and the needles st.i.tched away like an express train! Bartlemy, however, crossed his legs, put his thimble firmly on, and st.i.tched briskly for five minutes; then his attention would wander, and presently, dropping work, thimble, shears, and needle, he began singing to himself,

"Oh, if I were only possessed of my riches, I never would sew on a pair of old breeches!

Thimbles and thread!

b.u.t.tons and braid!

Oh, who would be bound to this rascally trade?

"If money I had, I'd be free from all care, And what _master_ must _make_, _I_ should have but to _wear!_ Needles and pins!

Shears and cloth ends!

When the work's ended then pleasure begins!"

"What's that you're singing about riches?" cried his master, sharply; "Riches, forsooth! you will die in the poor house, I can tell you, if you don't st.i.tch more diligently! Come, sew away! sew away!" So saying, he gave him a good thwack with his yard stick, to make him continue working.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

All the beatings in the world, however, could not thump out of Bartlemy Bowbell a belief that had got into his head that he should one day become rich and famous, through the agency of a wonderful jewel called the Gold Stone. As I said, people, in those days, were by no means so wise as they are at present, and so it fell out that the most learned philosophers of that olden time believed as firmly as did the tailor's apprentice in the existence of this Gold Stone, the peculiar property of which was, that if it came in contact with any common metal, it changed it, on that instant, into gold. Now, this story had come to the ears of Bartlemy Bowbell, and by one of those odd cranks that not overwise people sometimes take in their heads, he was perfectly persuaded that, sooner or later, he was fated to find the miraculous gem.

Matters soon rose to such a pitch, as may easily be seen, that his master finally turned him out of doors, saying "that he ate more than he would ever earn."

"Very well, master," quoth Bartlemy, "I don't regret your goose and cabbage!" and having said this, he ran away as hard as he could, dropping one of his slipshod shoes as he went along, with his master pursuing after, yard stick in hand, whom, however, he soon contrived to outstrip.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

As he had not earned a penny during the week, he was entirely without money, and n.o.body would lodge a shabby apprentice with only one shoe, for nothing. He wandered on until he was clear of London and in the open fields, begging of those he met on the road, but who always replied to his solicitation, "Why don't you go to work, you lazy 'prentice?" for they knew what he was, because he wore a 'prentice's flat cap. Worst of all, night now came on, and Bartlemy was at last compelled to lie down beneath a tree, where he soon fell asleep. The moon rose high, and still Bartlemy snored, when, all of a sudden, he was roused by a smart blow on the shoulder from what he could have sworn was a yard stick.

"Needles and pins!" cried Bartlemy, sitting up in haste; "what's that?"

"Bartlemy Bowbell," croaked a strange voice, "look at me."

Bartlemy looked round, and to his extreme terror, saw standing beside him a being whom he could only suppose to be a goblin. He was not more than four feet high, with very bow legs, as though from a constant habit of tucking them up on a tailor's shop board; his clothes, fashioned from odd bits of velvet and cloth such as tailors call "cabbage," or, as we should say, the pieces of the customers' stuff left from their coats--were trimmed with thimbles for bell b.u.t.tons; on his head was a tailor's cotton nightcap, with a long ta.s.sel, and hanging at his waist were an immense pair of shears, and a pincushion bristling with needles and pins. In one hand he carried the yard stick with which he had struck the luckless 'prentice, and in the other a tailor's goose, or flat iron.

His face was expressive of the most jovial good humor, though it could not be called handsome, for his nose was flattened as though he were in the habit of trying his iron against the end; his hair seemed composed of long and short threads mingled together, and he had an abominable squint, as though he were always endeavoring to see how a coat set at the front and back, the collar and tail at the same time.

"Bartlemy," said the goblin again, "what's the matter with you?"

"Matter, your worship?" gasped Bartlemy.

"Come to the point," said the goblin, severely, accidentally swinging his pincushion against Bartlemy's legs at the same time, and p.r.i.c.king him most atrociously. "You are everlastingly growling and grumbling, instead of working at your trade like an honest tailor, and richly deserve to be thwacked with the yardstick every morning by way of breakfast; but never mind, I choose to help you; so say what you want, quick."

"A-and who might your worship be?" asked Bartlemy, with a cold shudder; for he felt desperately afraid that he had got hold of Old Boguey or Old Nick--it was not much matter which.

"That's none of your business," said the being; "but if you must know, I am Snippinbitz, the patron of the tailors."

"O lord, your worship, you don't say so!" stammered Bartlemy.

"That's a fact!" returned the goblin. "Come, out with it; what can I do for you?"

Bartlemy scratched his head and took off his cap, looked into it, found no words there, and put it on again; and finally, with a bow that nearly toppled him head over heels, and a kick up of his foot that sent his remaining slipper flying into the nearest mud-puddle, he managed to say: