cried Oswald the Reeve. "I am a carpenter. Beware how you tell your
jibing tales of my craft." But the Miller could not be silenced and
began his tale.

Kind reader, if you do not like the tale please excuse me and turn to
another and harmless one. I am merely the chronicler of this journey
and must tell the truth.



THE MILLER'S TALE OF A CARPENTER OUTWITTED

There was a rich carpenter who lived at Oxford and took in students
to board with him. Among them was one named Nicholas, as proper a man
as one could wish to see. He kept his room all strewed with sweet
herbs. At his bed's head, neatly arranged on shelves, were his books
and calculating pebbles, for he studied astrology and could foretell
the weather. A red cloth covered his press and on the wall hung his
little harp. He was a gay fellow and loved merry-making, yet looked
as gentle and dainty as a maiden. The carpenter was an old man, and
had just married a wife of eighteen, named Alisoun. She was as pretty
a woman as you could find in the whole country-side. Dressed up in
all her finery she was as gay as a bird. Her girdle was silk and her
apron as white as snow. Her smock was white and broidered with black
silk, and her brooch as large as the base of a shield. The ribbon of
her cap matched her embroidery, and her eyebrows were black and
arched. But the most tempting thing about her was the way she looked
at one. A very primrose she was, on my faith; as fair as an apple
tree in blossom. Nicholas loved her well enough, and others too; but
her husband would let her go nowhere but to church and never allowed