Complete Works of Howard Pyle

by Howard Pyle

  When the blacksmith saw what Babo had done to his mother, he caught him by the collar, and fell to giving him such a dressing down as never man had before.

  “Help!” bawled Babo. “Help! Murder!”

  Such a hubbub had not been heard in that town for many a day. Back came Simon Agricola running, and there he saw, and took it all in in one look.

  “Stop, friend,” said he to the smith, “let the simpleton go; this is not past mending yet.”

  “Very well,” said the smith; “but he must give me back my golden angel, and you must cure my mother, or else I’ll have you both up before the judge.”

  “It shall be done,” said Simon Agricola; so Babo paid back the money, and the doctor dipped the woman in the water. When he brought her out she was as well and strong as ever — but just as old as she had been before.

  “Now be off for a pair of scamps, both of you,” said the blacksmith; “and if you ever come this way again, I’ll set all the dogs in the town upon you.”

  Simon Agricola said nothing until they had come out upon the highway again, and left the town well behind them; then—”’Born a fool, live a fool, die a fool!’” says he.

  Babo said nothing, but he rubbed the places where the smith had dusted his coat.

  The fourth day of their journey they came to a town, and here Simon Agricola was for trying his tricks of magic again. He and Babo took up their stand in the corner of the market-place, and began bawling, “Doctor Knowall! Doctor Knowall! who has come from the other end of Nowhere! He can cure any sickness or pain! He can bring you back from the gates of death! Here is Doctor Knowall! Here is Doctor Knowall!”

  Now there was a very, very rich man in that town, whose daughter lay sick to death; and when the news of this great doctor was brought to his ears, he was for having him try his hand at curing the girl.

  “Very well,” said Simon Agricola, “I will do that, but you must pay me two thousand golden angels.”

  “Two thousand golden angels!” said the rich man; “that is a great deal of money, but you shall have it if only you will cure my daughter.”

  Simon Agricola drew a little vial from his bosom. From it he poured just six drops of yellow liquor upon the girl’s tongue. Then — lo and behold! — up she sat in bed as well and strong as ever, and asked for a boiled chicken and a dumpling, by way of something to eat.

  “Bless you! Bless you!” said the rich man.

  “Yes, yes; blessings are very good, but I would like to have my two thousand golden angels,” said Simon Agricola.

  “Two thousand golden angels! I said nothing about two thousand golden angels,” said the rich man; “two thousand fiddlesticks!” said he. “Pooh! pooh! you must have been dreaming! See, here are two hundred silver pennies, and that is enough and more than enough for six drops of medicine.”

  “I want my two thousand golden angels,” said Simon Agricola.

  “You will get nothing but two hundred pennies,” said the rich man.

  “I won’t touch one of them,” said Simon Agricola, and off he marched in a huff.

  But Babo had kept his eyes open. Simon Agricola had laid down the vial upon the table, and while they were saying this and that back and forth, thinking of nothing else, Babo quietly slipped it into his own pocket, without any one but himself being the wiser.

  Down the stairs stumped the doctor with Babo at his heels. There stood the cook waiting for them.

  “Look,” said he, “my wife is sick in there; won’t you cure her, too?”

  “Pooh!” said Simon Agricola; and out he went, banging the door behind him.

  “Look, friend,” said Babo to the cook; “here I have some of the same medicine. Give me the two hundred pennies that the master would not take, and I’ll cure her for you as sound as a bottle.”

  “Very well,” said the cook, and he counted out the two hundred pennies, and Babo slipped them into his pocket. He bade the woman open her mouth, and when she had done so he poured all the stuff down her throat at once.

  “Ugh!” said she, and therewith rolled up her eyes, and lay as stiff and dumb as a herring in a box.

  When the cook saw what Babo had done, he snatched up the rolling-pin and made at him to pound his head to a jelly. But Babo did not wait for his coming; he jumped out of the window, and away he scampered with the cook at his heels.

  Well, the upshot of the business was that Simon Agricola had to go back and bring life to the woman again, or the cook would thump him and Babo both with the rolling-pin. And, what was more, Babo had to pay back the two hundred pennies that the cook had given him for curing his wife.

  The wise man made a cross upon the woman’s forehead, and up she sat, as well — but no better — as before.

  “And now be off,” said the cook, “or I will call the servants and give you both a drubbing for a pair of scamps.”

  Simon Agricola said never a word until they had gotten out of the town. There his anger boiled over, like water into the fire. “Look,” said he to Babo: “‘Born a fool, live a fool, die a fool.’ I want no more of you. Here are two roads; you take one, and I will take the other.”

  “What!” said Babo, “am I to travel the rest of the way alone? And then, besides, how about the fortune you promised me?”

  “Never mind that,” said Simon Agricola; “I have not made my own fortune yet.”

  “Well, at least pay me something for my wages,” said Babo.

  “How shall I pay you?” said Simon Agricola. “I have not a single groat in the world.”

  “What!” said Babo, “have you nothing to give me?”

  “I can give you a piece of advice.”

  “Well,” said Babo, “that is better than nothing, so let me have it.”

  “Here it is,” said Simon Agricola: “‘Think well! think well! — before you do what you are about to do, think well!’”

  “Thank you!” said Babo; and then the one went one way, and the other the other.

  (You may go with the wise man if you choose, but I shall jog along with the simpleton.)

  After Babo had travelled for a while, he knew not whither, night caught him, and he lay down under a hedge to sleep. There he lay, and snored away like a saw-mill, for he was wearied with his long journeying.

  Now it chanced that that same night two thieves had broken into a miser’s house, and had stolen an iron pot full of gold money. Day broke before they reached home, so down they sat to consider the matter; and the place where they seated themselves was on the other side of the hedge where Babo lay. The older thief was for carrying the money home under his coat; the younger was for burying it until night had come again. They squabbled and bickered and argued till the noise they made wakened Babo, and he sat up. The first thing he thought of was the advice that the doctor had given him the evening before.

  “‘Think well!’” he bawled out; “‘think well! before you do what you are about to do, think well!’”

  When the two thieves heard Babo’s piece of advice, they thought that the judge’s officers were after them for sure and certain. Down they dropped the pot of money, and away they scampered as fast as their legs could carry them.

  Babo heard them running, and poked his head through the hedge, and there lay the pot of gold. “Look now,” said he: “this has come from the advice that was given me; no one ever gave me advice that was worth so much before.” So he picked up the pot of gold, and off he marched with it.

  He had not gone far before he met two of the king’s officers, and you may guess how they opened their eyes when they saw him travelling along the highway with a pot full of gold money.

  “Where are you going with that money?” said they.

  “I don’t know,” said Babo.

  “How did you get it?” said they.

  “I got it for a piece of advice,” said Babo.

  For a piece of advice! No, no — the king’s officers knew butter from lard, and truth from t’other thing. It was just the same in that country
as it is in our town — there was nothing in the world so cheap as advice. Whoever heard of anybody giving a pot of gold and silver money for it? Without another word they marched Babo and his pot of money off to the king.

  “Come,” said the king, “tell me truly; where did you get the pot of money?”

  Poor Babo began to whimper. “I got it for a piece of advice,” said he.

  “Really and truly?” said the king.

  “Yes,” said Babo; “really and truly.”

  “Humph!” said the king. “I should like to have advice that is worth as much as that. Now, how much will you sell your advice to me for?”

  “How much will you give?” said Babo.

  “Well,” said the king, “let me have it for a day on trial, and at the end of that time I will pay you what it is worth.”

  “Very well,” said Babo, “that is a bargain;” and so he lent the king his piece of advice for one day on trial.

  Now the chief councillor and some others had laid a plot against the king’s life, and that morning it had been settled that when the barber shaved him he was to cut his throat with a razor. So after the barber had lathered his face he began to whet the razor, and to whet the razor.

  Just at that moment the king remembered Babo’s piece of advice. “‘Think well!’ said he; ‘think well! before you do what you are about to do, think well!’”

  When the barber heard the words that the king said, he thought that all had been discovered. Down he fell upon his knees, and confessed everything.

  That is how Babo’s advice saved the king’s life — you can guess whether the king thought it was worth much or little. When Babo came the next morning the king gave him ten chests full of money, and that made the simpleton richer than anybody in all that land.

  He built himself a fine house, and by-and-by married the daughter of the new councillor that came after the other one’s head had been chopped off for conspiring against the king’s life. Besides that, he came and went about the king’s castle as he pleased, and the king made much of him. Everybody bowed to him, and all were glad to stop and chat awhile with him when they met him in the street.

  One morning Babo looked out of the window, and who should he see come travelling along the road but Simon Agricola himself, and he was just as poor and dusty and travel-stained as ever.

  “Come in, come in!” said Babo; and you can guess how the wise man stared when he saw the simpleton living in such a fine way. But he opened his eyes wider than ever when he heard that all these good things came from the piece of advice he had given Babo that day they had parted at the cross roads.

  “Aye, aye!” said he, “the luck is with you for sure and certain. But if you will pay me a thousand golden angels, I will give you something better than a piece of advice. I will teach you all the magic that is to be learned from the books.”

  “No,” said Babo, “I am satisfied with the advice.”

  “Very well,” said Simon Agricola, “‘Born a fool, live a fool, die a fool’”; and off he went in a huff.

  That is all of this tale except the tip end of it, and that I will give you now.

  I have heard tell that one day the king dropped in the street the piece of advice that he had bought from Babo, and that before he found it again it had been trampled into the mud and dirt. I cannot say for certain that this is the truth, but it must have been spoiled in some way or other, for I have never heard of anybody in these days who would give even so much as a bad penny for it; and yet it is worth just as much now as it was when Babo sold it to the king.

  I had sat listening to these jolly folk for all this time, and I had not heard old Sindbad say a word, and yet I knew very well he was full of a story, for every now and then I could see his lips move, and he would smile, and anon he would stroke his long white beard and smile again.

  Everybody clapped their hands and rattled their canicans after the Blacksmith had ended his story, and methought they liked it better than almost anything that had been told. Then there was a pause, and everybody was still, and as nobody else spoke I myself ventured to break the silence. “I would like,” said I (and my voice sounded thin in my own ears, as one’s voice always does sound in Twilight Land), “I would like to hear our friend Sindbad the Sailor tell a story. Methinks one is fermenting in his mind.”

  Old Sindbad smiled until his cheeks crinkled into wrinkles.

  “Aye,” said every one, “will you not tell a story?”

  “To be sure I will,” said Sindbad. “I will tell you a good story,” said he, “and it is about—”

  The Enchanted Island.

  BUT IT IS not always the lucky one that carries away the plums; sometimes he only shakes the tree, and the wise man pockets the fruit.

  Once upon a long, long time ago, and in a country far, far away, there lived two men in the same town and both were named Selim; one was Selim the Baker and one was Selim the Fisherman.

  Selim the Baker was well off in the world, but Selim the Fisherman was only so-so. Selim the Baker always had plenty to eat and a warm corner in cold weather, but many and many a time Selim the Fisherman’s stomach went empty and his teeth went chattering.

  Once it happened that for time after time Selim the Fisherman caught nothing but bad luck in his nets, and not so much as a single sprat, and he was very hungry. “Come,” said he to himself, “those who have some should surely give to those who have none,” and so he went to Selim the Baker. “Let me have a loaf of bread,” said he, “and I will pay you for it to-morrow.”

  “Very well,” said Selim the Baker; “I will let you have a loaf of bread, if you will give me all that you catch in your nets to-morrow.”

  “So be it,” said Selim the Fisherman, for need drives one to hard bargains sometimes; and therewith he got his loaf of bread.

  So the next day Selim the Fisherman fished and fished and fished and fished, and still he caught no more than the day before; until just at sunset he cast his net for the last time for the day, and, lo and behold! there was something heavy in it. So he dragged it ashore, and what should it be but a leaden box, sealed as tight as wax, and covered with all manner of strange letters and figures. “Here,” said he, “is something to pay for my bread of yesterday, at any rate;” and as he was an honest man, off he marched with it to Selim the Baker.

  They opened the box in the baker’s shop, and within they found two rolls of yellow linen. In each of the rolls of linen was another little leaden box: in one was a finger-ring of gold set with a red stone, in the other was a finger-ring of iron set with nothing at all.

  That was all the box held; nevertheless, that was the greatest catch that ever any fisherman made in the world; for, though Selim the one or Selim the other knew no more of the matter than the cat under the stove, the gold ring was the Ring of Luck and the iron ring was the Ring of Wisdom.

  Inside of the gold ring were carved these letters: “Whosoever wears me, shall have that which all men seek — for so it is with good-luck in this world.”

  Inside of the iron ring were written these words: “Whosoever wears me, shall have that which few men care for — and that is the way it is with wisdom in our town.”

  “Well,” said Selim the Baker, and he slipped the gold ring of good-luck on his finger, “I have driven a good bargain, and you have paid for your loaf of bread.”

  “But what will you do with the other ring?” said Selim the Fisherman.

  “Oh, you may have that,” said Selim the Baker.

  Well, that evening, as Selim the Baker sat in front of his shop in the twilight smoking a pipe of tobacco, the ring he wore began to work. Up came a little old man with a white beard, and he was dressed all in gray from top to toe, and he wore a black velvet cap, and he carried a long staff in his hand. He stopped in front of Selim the Baker, and stood looking at him a long, long time. At last— “Is your name Selim?” said he.

  “Yes,” said Selim the Baker, “it is.”

  “And do you wear a gold rin
g with a red stone on your finger?”

  “Yes,” said Selim, “I do.”

  “Then come with me,” said the little old man, “and I will show you the wonder of the world.”

  “Well,” said Selim the Baker, “that will be worth the seeing, at any rate.” So he emptied out his pipe of tobacco, and put on his hat and followed the way the old man led.

  Up one street they went, and down another, and here and there through alleys and byways where Selim had never been before. At last they came to where a high wall ran along the narrow street, with a garden behind it, and by-and-by to an iron gate. The old man rapped upon the gate three times with his knuckles, and cried in a loud voice, “Open to Selim, who wears the Ring of Luck!”

  Then instantly the gate swung open, and Selim the Baker followed the old man into the garden.

  Bang! shut the gate behind him, and there he was.

  There he was! And such a place he had never seen before. Such fruit! such flowers! such fountains! such summer-houses!

  “This is nothing,” said the old man; “this is only the beginning of wonder. Come with me.”

  He led the way down a long pathway between the trees, and Selim followed. By-and-by, far away, they saw the light of torches; and when they came to what they saw, lo and behold! there was the sea-shore, and a boat with four-and-twenty oarsmen, each dressed in cloth of gold and silver more splendidly than a prince. And there were four-and-twenty black slaves, carrying each a torch of spice-wood, so that all the air was filled with sweet smells. The old man led the way, and Selim, following, entered the boat; and there was a seat for him made soft with satin cushions embroidered with gold and precious stones and stuffed with down, and Selim wondered whether he was not dreaming.

  The oarsmen pushed off from the shore and away they rowed.

  On they rowed and on they rowed for all that livelong night.