Hill and vale do not come together, but the children of men do, good and bad.
In this way a shoemaker and a tailor once met with each other in their travels.
The tailor was a handsome little fellow who was always merry and full of enjoyment.
He saw the shoemaker coming towards him from the other side, and as he observed by his bag what kind of a trade he plied, he sang a little mocking song to him,
“Sew me the seam,
Draw me the thread,
Spread it over with pitch,
Knock the nail on the head.”
The shoemaker, however, could not endure a joke; he pulled a face as if he had drunk vinegar, and made a gesture as if he were about to seize the tailor by the throat.
But the little fellow began to laugh, reached him his bottle, and said, “No harm was meant, take a drink, and swallow your anger down.”
The shoemaker took a very hearty drink, and the storm on his face began to clear away.
He gave the bottle back to the tailor, and said, “I spoke civilly to you; one speaks well after much drinking, but not after much thirst.
Shall we travel together?” “All right,” answered the tailor, “if only it suits you to go into a big town where there is no lack of work.”
“That is just where I want to go,” answered the shoemaker.
“In a small nest there is nothing to earn, and in the country, people like to go barefoot.”
They travelled therefore onwards together, and always set one foot before the other like a weasel in the snow.
Both of them had time enough, but little to bite and to break.
When they reached a town they went about and paid their respects to the tradesmen, and because the tailor looked so lively and merry, and had such pretty red cheeks, every one gave him work willingly, and when luck was good the master’s daughters gave him a kiss beneath the porch, as well.
When he again fell in with the shoemaker, the tailor had always the most in his bundle.
The ill-tempered shoemaker made a wry face, and thought, “The greater the rascal the more the luck,” but the tailor began to laugh and to sing, and shared all he got with his comrade.
If a couple of pence jingled in his pockets, he ordered good cheer, and thumped the table in his joy till the glasses danced, and it was lightly come, lightly go, with him.
When they had traveled for some time, they came to a great forest through which passed the road to the capital.
Two foot-paths, however, led through it, one of which was a seven days’ journey, and the other only two, but neither of the travellers knew which way was the short one.
They seated themselves beneath an oak-tree, and took counsel together how they should forecast, and for how many days they should provide themselves with bread.
The shoemaker said, “One must look before one leaps, I will take with me bread for a week.”
“What!” said the tailor, “drag bread for seven days on one’s back like a beast of burden, and not be able to look about.
I shall trust in God, and not trouble myself about anything! The money I have in my pocket is as good in summer as in winter, but in hot weather bread gets dry, and mouldy into the bargain; even my coat does not go as far as it might.
Besides, why should we not find the right way? Bread for two days, and that’s enough.”
Each, therefore, bought his own bread, and then they tried their luck in the forest.
It was as quiet there as in a church.
No wind stirred, no brook murmured, no bird sang, and through the thickly-leaved branches no sunbeam forced its way.
The shoemaker spoke never a word, the heavy bread weighed down his back until the perspiration streamed down his cross and gloomy face.
The tailor, however, was quite merry, he jumped about, whistled on a leaf, or sang a song, and thought to himself, “God in heaven must be pleased to see me so happy.”
This lasted two days, but on the third the forest would not come to an end, and the tailor had eaten up all his bread, so after all his heart sank down a yard deeper.
In the meantime he did not lose courage, but relied on God and on his luck.
On the third day he lay down in the evening hungry under a tree, and rose again next morning hungry still; so also passed the fourth day, and when the shoemaker seated himself on a fallen tree and devoured his dinner, the tailor was only a looker-on.
If he begged for a little piece of bread the other laughed mockingly, and said, “Thou hast always been so merry, now thou canst try for once what it is to be sad: the birds which sing too early in the morning are struck by the hawk in the evening,” In short he was pitiless.
But on the fifth morning the poor tailor could no longer stand up, and was hardly able to utter one word for weakness; his cheeks were white, and his eyes red.
Then the shoemaker said to him, “I will give thee a bit of bread to-day, but in return for it, I will put out thy right eye.”
The unhappy tailor who still wished to save his life, could not do it in any other way; he wept once more with both eyes, and then held them out, and the shoemaker, who had a heart of stone, put out his right eye with a sharp knife.
The tailor called to remembrance what his mother had formerly said to him when he had been eating secretly in the pantry.
“Eat what one can, and suffer what one must.”
When he had consumed his dearly-bought bread, he got on his legs again, forgot his misery and comforted himself with the thought that he could always see enough with one eye.
But on the sixth day, hunger made itself felt again, and gnawed him almost to the heart.
In the evening he fell down by a tree, and on the seventh morning he could not raise himself up for faintness, and death was close at hand.
Then said the shoemaker, “I will show mercy and give thee bread once more, but thou shalt not have it for nothing, I shall put out thy other eye for it.”
And now the tailor felt how thoughtless his life had been, prayed to God for forgiveness, and said, “Do what thou wilt, I will bear what I must, but remember that our Lord God does not always look on passively, and that an hour will come when the evil deed which thou hast done to me, and which I have not deserved of thee, will be requited.
When times were good with me, I shared what I had with thee.
My trade is of that kind that each stitch must always be exactly like the other.
If I no longer have my eyes and can sew no more I must go a-begging.
At any rate do not leave me here alone when I am blind, or I shall die of hunger.”
The shoemaker, however, who had driven God out of his heart, took the knife and put out his left eye.
Then he gave him a bit of bread to eat, held out a stick to him, and drew him on behind him.
When the sun went down, they got out of the forest, and before them in the open country stood the gallows.
Thither the shoemaker guided the blind tailor, and then left him alone and went his way.
Weariness, pain, and hunger made the wretched man fall asleep, and he slept the whole night.
When day dawned he awoke, but knew not where he lay.
Two poor sinners were hanging on the gallows, and a crow sat on the head of each of them.
Then one of the men who had been hanged began to speak, and said, “Brother, art thou awake?” “Yes, I am awake,” answered the second.
“Then I will tell thee something,” said the first; “the dew which this night has fallen down over us from the gallows, gives every one who washes himself with it his eyes again.
If blind people did but know this, how many would regain their sight who do not believe that to be possible.”
When the tailor heard that, he took his pocket-handkerchief, pressed it on the grass, and when it was moist with dew, washed the sockets of his eyes with it.
Immediately was fulfilled what the man on the gallows had said, and a couple of healthy new eyes filled the sockets.
It was not long before the tailor saw the sun rise behind the mountains; in the plain before him lay the great royal city with its magnificent gates and hundred towers, and the golden balls and crosses which were on the spires began to shine.
He could distinguish every leaf on the trees, saw the birds which flew past, and the midges which danced in the air.
He took a needle out of his pocket, and as he could thread it as well as ever he had done, his heart danced with delight.
He threw himself on his knees, thanked God for the mercy he had shown him, and said his morning prayer.
He did not forget also to pray for the poor sinners who were hanging there swinging against each other in the wind like the pendulums of clocks.
Then he took his bundle on his back and soon forgot the pain of heart he had endured, and went on his way singing and whistling.
The first thing he met was a brown foal running about the fields at large.
He caught it by the mane, and wanted to spring on it and ride into the town.
The foal, however, begged to be set free.
“I am still too young,” it said, “even a light tailor such as thou art would break my back in two let me go till I have grown strong.
A time may perhaps come when I may reward thee for it.”
“Run off,” said the tailor, “I see thou art still a giddy thing.”
He gave it a touch with a switch over its back, whereupon it kicked up its hind legs for joy, leapt over hedges and ditches, and galloped away into the open country.
But the little tailor had eaten nothing since the day before.
“The sun to be sure fills my eyes,” said he, “but the bread does not fill my mouth.
The first thing that comes across me and is even half edible will have to suffer for it.”
In the meantime a stork stepped solemnly over the meadow towards him.
“Halt, halt!” cried the tailor, and seized him by the leg.
“I don’t know if thou art good to eat or not, but my hunger leaves me no great choice.
I must cut thy head off, and roast thee.”
“Don’t do that,” replied the stork; “I am a sacred bird which brings mankind great profit, and no one does me an injury.
Leave me my life, and I may do thee good in some other way.”
“Well, be off, Cousin Longlegs,” said the tailor.
The stork rose up, let its long legs hang down, and flew gently away.
“What’s to be the end of this?” said the tailor to himself at last, “my hunger grows greater and greater, and my stomach more and more empty.
Whatsoever comes in my way now is lost.”
At this moment he saw a couple of young ducks which were on a pond come swimming towards him.
“You come just at the right moment,” said he, and laid hold of one of them and was about to wring its neck.
On this an old duck which was hidden among the reeds, began to scream loudly, and swam to him with open beak, and begged him urgently to spare her dear children.
“Canst thou not imagine,” said she, “how thy mother would mourn if any one wanted to carry thee off, and give thee thy finishing stroke?” “Only be quiet,” said the good-tempered tailor, “thou shalt keep thy children,” and put the prisoner back into the water.
When he turned round, he was standing in front of an old tree which was partly hollow, and saw some wild bees flying in and out of it.
“There I shall at once find the reward of my good deed,” said the tailor, “the honey will refresh me.”
But the Queen-bee came out, threatened him and said, “If thou touchest my people, and destroyest my nest, our stings shall pierce thy skin like ten thousand red-hot needles.
But if thou wilt leave us in peace and go thy way, we will do thee a service for it another time.”
The little tailor saw that here also nothing was to be done.
“Three dishes empty and nothing on the fourth is a bad dinner!” He dragged himself therefore with his starved-out stomach into the town, and as it was just striking twelve, all was ready-cooked for him in the inn, and he was able to sit down at once to dinner.
When he was satisfied he said, “Now I will get to work.”
He went round the town, sought a master, and soon found a good situation.
As however, he had thoroughly learnt his trade, it was not long before he became famous, and every one wanted to have his new coat made by the little tailor, whose importance increased daily.
“I can go no further in skill,” said he, “and yet things improve every day.”
At last the King appointed him court-tailor.
But how things do happen in the world! On the very same day his former comrade the shoemaker also became court-shoemaker.
When the latter caught sight of the tailor, and saw that he had once more two healthy eyes, his conscience troubled him.
“Before he takes revenge on me,” thought he to himself, “I must dig a pit for him.”
He, however, who digs a pit for another, falls into it himself.
In the evening when work was over and it had grown dusk, he stole to the King and said, “Lord King, the tailor is an arrogant fellow and has boasted that he will get the gold crown back again which was lost in ancient times.”
“That would please me very much,” said the King, and he caused the tailor to be brought before him next morning, and ordered him to get the crown back again, or to leave the town for ever.
“Oho!” thought the tailor, “a rogue gives more than he has got.
If the surly King wants me to do what can be done by no one, I will not wait till morning, but will go out of the town at once, to-day.”
He packed up his bundle, therefore, but when he was without the gate he could not help being sorry to give up his good fortune, and turn his back on the town in which all had gone so well with him.
He came to the pond where he had made the acquaintance of the ducks; at that very moment the old one whose young ones he had spared, was sitting there by the shore, pluming herself with her beak.
She knew him again instantly, and asked why he was hanging his head so? “Thou wilt not be surprised when thou hearest what has befallen me,” replied the tailor, and told her his fate.
“If that be all,” said the duck, “we can help thee.
The crown fell into the water, and lies down below at the bottom; we will soon bring it up again for thee.
In the meantime just spread out thy handkerchief on the bank.”
She dived down with her twelve young ones, and in five minutes she was up again and sat with the crown resting on her wings, and the twelve young ones were swimming round about and had put their beaks under it, and were helping to carry it.
They swam to the shore and put the crown on the handkerchief.
No one can imagine how magnificent the crown was; when the sun shone on it, it gleamed like a hundred thousand carbuncles.
The tailor tied his handkerchief together by the four corners, and carried it to the King, who was full of joy, and put a gold chain round the tailor’s neck.
When the shoemaker saw that one stroke had failed, he contrived a second, and went to the King and said, “Lord King, the tailor has become insolent again; he boasts that he will copy in wax the whole of the royal palace, with everything that pertains to it, loose or fast, inside and out.”
The King sent for the tailor and ordered him to copy in wax the whole of the royal palace, with everything that pertained to it, movable or immovable, within and without, and if he did not succeed in doing this, or if so much as one nail on the wall were wanting, he should be imprisoned for his whole life under ground.
The tailor thought, “It gets worse and worse! No one can endure that?” and threw his bundle on his back, and went forth.
When he came to the hollow tree, he sat down and hung his head.
The bees came flying out, and the Queen-bee asked him if he had a stiff neck, since he held his head so awry? “Alas, no,” answered the tailor, “something quite different weighs me down,” and he told her what the King had demanded of him.
The bees began to buzz and hum amongst themselves, and the Queen-bee said, “Just go home again, but come back to-morrow at this time, and bring a large sheet with you, and then all will be well.”
So he turned back again, but the bees flew to the royal palace and straight into it through the open windows, crept round about into every corner, and inspected everything most carefully.
Then they hurried back and modelled the palace in wax with such rapidity that any one looking on would have thought it was growing before his eyes.
By the evening all was ready, and when the tailor came next morning, the whole of the splendid building was there, and not one nail in the wall or tile of the roof was wanting, and it was delicate withal, and white as snow, and smelt sweet as honey.
The tailor wrapped it carefully in his cloth and took it to the King, who could not admire it enough, placed it in his largest hall, and in return for it presented the tailor with a large stone house.
The shoemaker, however, did not give up, but went for the third time to the King and said, “Lord King, it has come to the tailor’s ears that no water will spring up in the court-yard of the castle, and he has boasted that it shall rise up in the midst of the court-yard to a man’s height and be clear as crystal.”
Then the King ordered the tailor to be brought before him and said, “If a stream of water does not rise in my court-yard by to-morrow as thou hast promised, the executioner shall in that very place make thee shorter by the head.”
The poor tailor did not take long to think about it, but hurried out to the gate, and because this time it was a matter of life and death to him, tears rolled down his face.
Whilst he was thus going forth full of sorrow, the foal to which he had formerly given its liberty, and which had now become a beautiful chestnut horse, came leaping towards him.
“The time has come,” it said to the tailor, “when I can repay thee for thy good deed.
I know already what is needful to thee, but thou shalt soon have help; get on me, my back can carry two such as thou.”
The tailor’s courage came back to him; he jumped up in one bound, and the horse went full speed into the town, and right up to the court-yard of the castle.
It galloped as quick as lightning thrice round it, and at the third time it fell violently down.
At the same instant, however, there was a terrific clap of thunder, a fragment of earth in the middle of the court-yard sprang like a cannon-ball into the air, and over the castle, and directly after it a jet of water rose as high as a man on horseback, and the water was as pure as crystal, and the sunbeams began to dance on it.
When the King saw that he arose in amazement, and went and embraced the tailor in the sight of all men.
But good fortune did not last long.
The King had daughters in plenty, one still prettier than the other, but he had no son.
So the malicious shoemaker betook himself for the fourth time to the King, and said, “Lord King, the tailor has not given up his arrogance.
He has now boasted that if he liked, he could cause a son to be brought to the Lord king through the air.”
The King commanded the tailor to be summoned, and said, “If thou causest a son to be brought to me within nine days, thou shalt have my eldest daughter to wife.”
“The reward is indeed great,” thought the little tailor; “one would willingly do something for it, but the cherries grow too high for me, if I climb for them, the bough will break beneath me, and I shall fall.”
He went home, seated himself cross-legged on his work-table, and thought over what was to be done.
“It can’t be managed,” cried he at last, “I will go away; after all I can’t live in peace here.”
He tied up his bundle and hurried away to the gate.
When he got to the meadow, he perceived his old friend the stork, who was walking backwards and forwards like a philosopher.
Sometimes he stood still, took a frog into close consideration, and at length swallowed it down.
The stork came to him and greeted him.
“I see,” he began, “that thou hast thy pack on thy back.
Why art thou leaving the town?” The tailor told him what the King had required of him, and how he could not perform it, and lamented his misfortune.
“Don’t let thy hair grow grey about that,” said the stork, “I will help thee out of thy difficulty.
For a long time now, I have carried the children in swaddling-clothes into the town, so for once in a way I can fetch a little prince out of the well.
Go home and be easy.
In nine days from this time repair to the royal palace, and there will I come.”
The little tailor went home, and at the appointed time was at the castle.
It was not long before the stork came flying thither and tapped at the window.
The tailor opened it, and cousin Longlegs came carefully in, and walked with solemn steps over the smooth marble pavement.
He had, moreover, a baby in his beak that was as lovely as an angel, and stretched out its little hands to the Queen.
The stork laid it in her lap, and she caressed it and kissed it, and was beside herself with delight.
Before the stork flew away, he took his travelling bag off his back and handed it over to the Queen.
In it there were little paper parcels with colored sweetmeats, and they were divided amongst the little princesses.
The eldest, however, had none of them, but got the merry tailor for a husband.
“It seems to me,” said he, “just as if I had won the highest prize.
My mother was if right after all, she always said that whoever trusts in God and only has good luck, can never fail.”
The shoemaker had to make the shoes in which the little tailor danced at the wedding festival, after which he was commanded to quit the town for ever.
The road to the forest led him to the gallows.
Worn out with anger, rage, and the heat of the day, he threw himself down.
When he had closed his eyes and was about to sleep, the two crows flew down from the heads of the men who were hanging there, and pecked his eyes out.
In his madness he ran into the forest and must have died there of hunger, for no one has ever either seen him again or heard of him.