Fish, fish, listen to me."

And there in the morning sunlight was the golden fish, looking at him
with its wise eyes.

"I beg your pardon," says the old man, "but could you, just to oblige
my wife, give us some sort of trough to put the bread in?"

"Go home," says the fish; and down it goes into the blue sea.

The old man went home, and there, outside the hut, was the old woman,
looking at the handsomest bread trough that ever was seen on earth.
Painted it was, with little flowers, in three colours, and there were
strips of gilding about its handles.

"Look at this," grumbled the old woman. "This is far too fine a trough
for a tumbledown hut like ours. Why, there is scarcely a place in the
roof where the rain does not come through. If we were to keep this
trough in such a hut, it would be spoiled in a month. You must go back
to your fish and ask it for a new hut."

"I hardly like to do that," says the old man.

"Get along with you," says his wife. "If the fish can make a trough
like this, a hut will be no trouble to him. And, after all, you must
not forget he owes his life to you."

"I suppose that is true," says the old man; but he went back to the
shore with a heavy heart. He stood on the edge of the sea and called
out, doubtfully,--