his temper, and tearing up some of the vines by the roots. Then he
went into the cottage, angrily, and began to pound away, driving in
big hob-nails. With the twilight, his mother called him to the simple
meal, but he was sullen and silent.

"What be the matter with ye, my Nimble Jim?" asked the good dame,
cheerily.

"Matter enough, mother! My melons wont grow; there's somethin' the
matter with them. Faith, I believe some imp has cast a spell over 'em.
I do, mother," quoth he, thumping the table with his fist until the
dishes rattled.

"Softly, softly, boy! Where's thy good nature gone?" said Mother
Growser, staring at him in wonder.

"It be well enough to say 'Softly, softly,'" said he, "and I don't
want to grieve ye, mother; but it's naught with me but hammer, stitch,
dig,--hammer, stitch, dig,--the day in, the day out, when I might be
raisin' fine melons and sellin' 'em for mints of gold in the great
city. Yea, mother, sellin' 'em e'en to the king and queen and all the
grand lords and ladies at the court, like old Farmer Hummidge."

For almost the first time in his life Jim was unhappy.

"I would you had your wish, Nimble Jim; but then we've a neat bit
garden besides the melons; and the home is snug, and you're a good boy
and the best o' cobblers. Can't you be happy with that, my lad?"

But Nimble Jim shook his head, for the spirit of discontent had taken