THE SKILLFUL HUNTSMAN
 ONCE upon a time there was a lad named Jacob Boehm, who was a practical huntsman.
One day Jacob said to his mother, "Mother, I would like to marry Gretchen—the nice, pretty little
daughter of the Herr Mayor."
Jacob's mother thought that he was crazy. "Marry the daughter of the Herr Mayor, indeed! You want to marry the
daughter of the Herr Mayor? Listen; many a man wants and wants, and nothing comes of it!"
That was what Jacob Boehm's mother said to him.
But Jacob was deaf in that ear; nothing would do but his mother must go to the Herr Mayor, and ask for leave
for him to marry Gretchen. And Jacob begged and begged so prettily that at last his mother promised to go and
do as he wished. So off she went, though doubt was heavy in her shoes, for she did not know how the Herr Mayor
would take it.
"So Jacob wants to marry Gretchen, does he?" said the Herr Mayor.
Yes; that was what Jacob wanted.
 "And is he a practical huntsman?" said the Herr Mayor.
Oh yes, he was that.
"So good," said the Herr Mayor. "Then tell Jacob that when he is such a clever huntsman as to be able to shoot
the whiskers off from a running hare without touching the skin, then he can have Gretchen."
Then Jacob's mother went back home again. "Now," said she, "Jacob will, at least, be satisfied."
 "Yes," said Jacob, when she had told him all that the Herr Mayor had said to her, "that is a hard thing to do;
but what one man has done, another man can." So he shouldered his gun, and started away into the world to
learn to be as clever a huntsman as the Herr Mayor had said.
He plodded on and on until at last he fell in with a tall stranger dressed all in red.
"Where are you going, Jacob?" said the tall stranger, calling him by his name, just as if he had eaten pottage
out of the same dish with him.
"I am going," said Jacob, "to learn to be so clever a huntsman that I can shoot the whiskers off from a
running hare without touching the skin."
"That is a hard thing to learn," said the tall stranger.
Yes; Jacob knew that it was a hard thing; but what one man had done another man could do.
"What will you give me if I teach you to be as clever a huntsman as that?" said the tall stranger.
"What will you take to teach me?" said Jacob; for he saw that the stranger had a horse's hoof instead of a
foot, and he did not like his looks, I can tell you.
"Oh, it is nothing much that I want," said the tall man; "only just sign your name to this paper—that is
But what was in the paper? Yes; Jacob had to know what was in the paper before he would set so much as a
finger to it.
Oh, there was nothing in the paper, only this: that when the red one should come for Jacob at the end of ten
years' time, Jacob should promise to go along with him whithersoever he should take him.
 At this Jacob hemmed and hawed and scratched his head, for he did not know about that. "All the same," said
he, "I will sign the paper, but on one condition."
At this the red one screwed up his face as though he had sour beer in his mouth, for he did not like the sound
of the word "condition." "Well," said he, "what is the condition?"
"It is only this," said Jacob: "that you shall be my servant for the ten years, and if, in all that
time, I should
 chance to ask you a question that you cannot answer, then I am to be my own man again."
Oh, if that was all, the red man was quite willing for that.
Then he took Jacob's gun, and blew down into the barrel of it. "Now," said he, "you are as skillful a huntsman
as you asked to be."
"That I must try," said Jacob. So Jacob and the red one went around hunting here and hunting there until they
scared up a hare. "Shoot!" said the red one; and Jacob shot. Clip! off flew the whiskers of the hare as neatly
as one could cut them off with the barber's shears.
"Yes, good!" said Jacob, "now I am a skillful huntsman."
Then the stranger in red gave Jacob a little bone whistle, and told him to blow in it whenever he should want
him. After that Jacob signed the paper, and the stranger went one way and he went home again.
Well, Jacob brushed the straws off from his coat, and put a fine shine on his boots, and then he set off to
the Herr Mayor's house.
"How do you find yourself, Jacob?" said the Herr Mayor.
"So good," said Jacob.
"And are you a skillful huntsman now?" said the Herr Mayor.
Oh yes, Jacob was a skillful huntsman now.
Yes, good! But the Herr Mayor must have proof of that. Now, could Jacob shoot a feather out of the tail of the
magpie flying over the trees yonder?
Oh yes! nothing easier than that. So Jacob raised
 the gun to his cheek. Bang! went the gun, and down fell a feather from the tail of the magpie. At this the
Herr Mayor stared and stared, for he had never seen such shooting.
"And now may I marry Gretchen?" said Jacob.
At this the Herr Mayor scratched his head, and hemmed and hawed. No; Jacob could not marry Gretchen yet, for
he had always said and sworn that the man who should marry Gretchen should bring with him a plough that could
go of itself, and plough three furrows at once. If Jacob would show him such a plough as
 that, then he might marry Gretchen and welcome. That was what the Herr Mayor said.
Jacob did not know how about that; perhaps he could get such a plough, perhaps he could not. If such a plough
was to be had, though, he would have it. So off he went home again, and the Herr Mayor thought that he was rid
of him now for sure and certain.
But when Jacob had come home, he went back of the woodpile and blew a turn or two on the little bone whistle
that the red stranger had given him. No sooner had he done this than the other stood before him as suddenly as
though he had just stepped out of the door of nowheres.
"What do you want, Jacob?" said he.
"I would like," said Jacob, "to have a plough that can go by itself and plough three furrows at once."
"That you shall have," said the red one. Then he thrust his hand into his breeches pocket, and drew forth the
prettiest little plough that you ever saw. He stood it on the ground before Jacob, and it grew large as you
see it in the picture. "Plough away," said he, and then he went back again whither he had come.
So Jacob laid his hands to the plough and—whisk!—away it went like John Stormwetter's colt, with
Jacob behind it. Out of the farm-yard they went, and down the road, and so to the Herr Mayor's house, and
behind them lay three fine brown furrows, smoking in the sun.
When the Herr Mayor saw them coming he opened his eyes, you may be sure, for he had never seen such a plough
as that in all of his life before.
 "And now," said Jacob, "I should like to marry Gretchen, if you please."
At this the Herr Mayor hemmed and hawed and scratched his head again. No; Jacob could not marry Gretchen yet,
for the Herr Mayor had always said and sworn that the man who married Gretchen should bring with him a purse
that always had two pennies in it and could never be emptied, no matter how much was taken out of it.
Jacob did not know how about that; perhaps he could get it and perhaps he could not. If such a thing was to be
had, though, he would have it, as sure as the Mecklenburg folks brew sour beer. So off he went home again, and
the Herr Mayor thought that now he was rid of him for certain.
But Jacob went back of the woodpile and blew on his bone whistle again, and once more the red one came at his
"What will you have now?" said he to Jacob.
 "I should like," said Jacob, "to have a purse which shall always have two pennies in it, no matter how much I
take out of it."
"That you shall have," said the red one; whereupon he thrust his hand into his pocket, and fetched out a
beautiful silken purse with two pennies in it. He gave the purse to Jacob, and then he went away again as
quickly as he had come.
After he had gone, Jacob began taking pennies out of his purse and pennies out of his purse, until he had more
than a hatful—hui! I would like to have such a purse as that.
Then he marched off to the Herr Mayor's house with his chin up, for he might hold his head as high as any, now
that he had such a purse as that in his pocket. As for the Herr Mayor, he thought that it was a nice, pretty
little purse; but could it do this and that as he had said?
Jacob would show him that; so he began taking pennies and pennies out of it, until he had filled all the pots
and pans in the house with them. And now might he marry Gretchen?
Yes; that he might! So said the Herr Mayor; for who would not like to have a lad for a son-in-law who always
had two pennies more in his purse than he could spend.
So Jacob married his Gretchen, and, between his plough and his purse, he was busy enough, I can tell you.
So the days went on and on and on until the ten
 years had gone by and the time had come for the red one to fetch Jacob away with him. As for Jacob, he was in
a sorry state of dumps, as you may well believe.
At last Gretchen spoke to him. "See, Jacob," said she, "what makes you so down in the mouth?"
"Oh! nothing at all," said Jacob.
But this did not satisfy Gretchen, for she could see that there was more to be told than Jacob had spoken. So
she teased and teased, until at last Jacob told her all, and that the red one was to come the next day and
take him off as his servant, unless he could ask him a question which he could not answer.
"Prut!" said Gretchen, "and is that all? Then there is no stuffing to that sausage, for I can help you out of
your trouble easily enough." Then she told Jacob that when the next day should come he should do thus and so,
and she would do this and that, and between them they might cheat the red one after all.
So, when the next day came, Gretchen went into the pantry and smeared herself all over with honey. Then she
ripped open a bed and rolled herself in the feathers.
By-and-by came the red one. Rap! tap! tap! he knocked at the door.
"Are you ready to go with me now, Jacob?" said he.
Yes; Jacob was quite ready to go, only he would like to have one favor granted him first.
"What is it that you want?" said the red one.
"Only this," said Jacob: "I would like to shoot one more shot out of my old gun before I go with you."
 Oh, if that was all, he might do that and welcome. So Jacob took down his gun, and he and the red one went out
together, walking side by side, for all the world as though they were born brothers.
By-and-by they saw a wren. "Shoot at that," said the red one.
"Oh no," said Jacob, "that is too small."
So they went on a little farther.
By-and-by they saw a raven. "Shoot at that, then," said the red one.
"Oh no," said Jacob, "that is too black."
 So they went on a little farther.
By-and-by they came to a ploughed field, and there was something skipping over the furrows that looked for all
the world like a great bird. That was Gretchen; for the feathers stuck to the honey and all over her, so that
she looked just like a great bird.
"Shoot at that! shoot at that!" said the red one, clapping his hands together.
"Oh yes," said Jacob, "I will shoot at that." So he raised his gun and took aim. Then he lowered his gun
again. "But what is it?" said he.
At this the red one screwed up his eyes, and looked and looked, but for the life of him he could not tell what
"No matter what it is," said he, "only shoot and be done with it, for I must be going."
"Yes, good! But what is it?" said Jacob.
Then the red one looked and looked again, but he could tell no better this time than he could before. "It may
be this and it may be that," said he. "Only shoot and be done with it, for they are waiting for me at home."
"Yes, my friend," said Jacob, "that is all very good; only tell me what it is and I will shoot."
"Thunder and lightning!" bawled the red one, "I do not know what it is!"
"Then be off with you!" said Jacob, "for, since you cannot answer my question, all is over between us two."
At this the red one had to leave Jacob, so he fled away over hill and dale, bellowing like a bull.
 As for Jacob and Gretchen, they went back home together, very well pleased with each other and themselves.
And the meaning of all this is, that many another man
beside Jacob Boehm would find himself in a
pretty scrape only for his wife.
(Ye first opinion)
A noisy chattering Magpie once
A talking gabbling hair-brained dunce
Came by where a sign-post stood.
He nodded his head with a modish air
And said "good day" for he wasn't aware
That the sign-post pointing its finger there
Was only a block of wood.
Quoth he, "An exceedingly sultry day.
T'is more like June than the first of May."
The post said never a word.
"I've just dropped over from Lincolnshire.
My home is in the Cathedral Spire—
The air is cooler and purer the higher
You get—as you've doubtless heard."
So on he chattered with never a stop,
And on and on till you'd think he would drop.
(The post was dumb as your hat.)
But so as the pie could say his say
He didn't care whether it spoke all day;
For thus he observed as he walked away—
"An intelligent creature that."
(Ye second opinion)
Now once when the sky was pouring rain,
The Magpie chanced to come by again—
And there stood the post in the wet.
"Helloa." said the Magpie. "What you here
Pray tell me I beg is there sheltering near—
A terrible day for this time of the year.
T'would make a Saint Anthony fret."
"I beg your pardon—I didn't quite hear."
(Then louder) "I say is there sheltering near"
But the post was as dumb as Death.
"What can't you answer a question pray
You will not—No—Then I'll say good-day."
And flirting his tail he walked away.
"You're a fool." (this under his breath.)
The moral that this story traces
Is—Circumstances alter cases.
YE SONG OF YE FOOLISH OLD WOMAN.
I saw an old woman go up a steep hill,
And she chuckled and laughed, as she went, with a will.
And yet, as she went,
Her body was bent,
With a load as heavy as sins in Lent.
"Oh! why do you chuckle, old woman;" says I,
"As you climb up the hill-side so steep and so high?"
"Because, don't you see,
I'll presently be,
At the top of the hill. He! he!" says she.
I saw the old woman go downward again;
And she easily travelled, with never a pain;
Yet she loudly cried,
And gustily sighed,
And groaned, though the road was level and wide.
"Oh! why, my old woman," says I, "do you weep,
When you laughed, as you climbed up the hill-side so steep?"
"High-ho! I am vexed,
Because I expects,"
Says she, "I shall ache in climbing the next."
A NEWSPAPER PUFF
Twelve geese In a row
(So these always go).
Down-hill they meander,
Tail to bill; first the gander.
So they stalked, bold as brass
As they walked to the grass.
Suddenly stopped the throng;
Plain to see something's wrong
Yes; there is something white!
No quiz; clear to sight.
('Twill amuse when you're told
'Twas a news-paper old.)
Gander spoke. Braver bird
Never broke egg, I've heard:
"Stand here Steadily,
Never fear, Wait for me."
Forth he went, cautious, slow,
Body bent, head low.
All the rest stood fast,
Waiting for what passed.
Wind came with a caper,
Caught same daily paper.
Up it sailed in the air;
Courage failed then and there.
Scared well out of wits;
Nearly fell into fits.
Off they sped, Helter-skelter,
'Till they'd fled under shelter.
Poor geese! Never mind;
Other geese one can find,
Cut the same foolish caper
At empty wind in a paper.
A merry young shoemaker,
And a tailor, and a baker,
Went to seek their fortunes, for they had been told,
Where a rainbow touched the ground,
(If it only could be found,)
Was a purse that should be always full of gold.
So they traveled day by day,
In a jolly, jocund way
Till the shoemaker a pretty lass espied;
When quoth he, "It seems to me,
There can never, never be,
Better luck than this in all the world beside."
So the others said good-bye,
And went on, till by-and-by
They espied a shady inn beside the way;
Where the Hostess fair,—a widow—
In a lone seclusion hid; "Oh,
Here is luck!" the tailor said, "and here I'll stay."
So the baker jogged along,
All alone, with ne'er a song,
Or a jest; and nothing tempted him to stay.
But he went from bad to worse,
For he never found the purse,
And for all I know he is wandering to this day.
It is better, on the whole,
For an ordinary soul,
(So I gather from this song I've tried to sing,)
For to take the luck that may
Chance to fall within his way,
Than to toil for an imaginary thing.