on which, as the priest tells us, it is wicked to work at all; and worse
still he keeps on finding some new saint or other to give weight to his
sermons. If it were not for that, cobbling would be a fine paying game."

At this the wealthy man laughed. "Look here, my friend, to-day I'll lift
you to the seats of the mighty! Here is a hundred pounds. Guard them and
use them with care."

When the cobbler held the bag of money in his hand he imagined that it
must be as much as would be coined in a hundred years.

Returning home he buried the cash in his cellar. Alas! he buried his joy
with it, for there were no more songs. From the moment he came into
possession of this wealth, the love of which is the root of all evil,
his voice left him, and not only his voice, but his sleep also. And in
place of these came anxiety, suspicion, and alarms; guests which abode
with him constantly. All day he kept his eye on the cellar door. Did a
cat make a noise in the night, then for a certainty that cat was after
his money.

At last, in despair, the wretched cobbler ran to the financier whom he
now no longer kept awake. "Oh, give me back my joy in life, my songs, my
sleep; and take your hundred pounds again."




XVI

THE POWER OF FABLE