The peasant, however, expected that
they would make music and sing when he went in also, but all remained
quite quiet; he was received with great affection, it is true, and the
angels came to meet him, but no one sang. Then the peasant asked Saint
Peter how it was that they did not sing for him as they had done when
the rich man went in, and said that it seemed to him that there in
heaven things were done with just as much partiality as on earth. Then
said Saint Peter, “By no means, thou art just as dear to us as any one
else, and wilt enjoy every heavenly delight that the rich man enjoys,
but poor fellows like thee come to heaven every day, but a rich man
like this does not come more than once in a hundred years!”



168 Lean Lisa

Lean Lisa was of a very different way of thinking from lazy Harry and
fat Trina, who never let anything disturb their peace. She scoured
everything with ashes, from morning till evening, and burdened her
husband, Long Laurence, with so much work that he had heavier weights
to carry than an ass with three sacks. It was, however, all to no
purpose, they had nothing and came to nothing. One night as she lay in
bed, and could hardly move one limb for weariness, she still did not
allow her thoughts to go to sleep. She thrust her elbows into her
husband’s side, and said, “Listen, Lenz, to what I have been thinking:
if I were to find one florin and one was given to me, I would borrow
another to put to them, and thou too shouldst give me another, and then
as soon as I had got the four florins together, I would buy a young
cow.” This pleased the husband right well. “It is true,” said he, “that
I do not know where I am to get the florin which thou wantest as a gift
from me; but, if thou canst get the money together, and canst buy a cow
with it, thou wilt do well to carry out thy project. I shall be glad,”
he added, “if the cow has a calf, and then I shall often get a drink of
milk to refresh me.” “The milk is not for thee,” said the woman, “we
must let the calf suck that it may become big and fat, and we may be
able to sell it well.” “Certainly,” replied the man, “but still we will
take a little milk; that will do no harm.” “Who has taught thee to
manage cows?” said the woman; “Whether it does harm or not, I will not
allow it, and even if thou wert to stand on thy head for it, thou
shouldst not have a drop of the milk! Dost thou think, because there is
no satisfying thee, Long Laurence, that thou art to eat up what I earn
with so much difficulty?” “Wife,” said the man, “be quiet, or I will
give thee a blow on thy mouth!” “What!” cried she, “thou threatenest
me, thou glutton, thou rascal, thou lazy Harry!” She was just laying
hold of his hair, but long Laurence got up, seized both Lean Lisa’s
withered arms in one hand, and with the other he pressed down her head
into the pillow, let her scold, and held her until she fell asleep for
very weariness. Whether she continued to wrangle when she awoke next
morning, or whether she went out to look for the florin which she
wanted to find, that I know not. 169 The Hut in the Forest

A poor wood-cutter lived with his wife and three daughters in a little
hut on the edge of a lonely forest. One morning as he was about to go
to his work, he said to his wife, “Let my dinner be brought into the
forest to me by my eldest daughter, or I shall never get my work done,
and in order that she may not miss her way,” he added, “I will take a
bag of millet with me and strew the seeds on the path.” When,
therefore, the sun was just above the center of the forest, the girl
set out on her way with a bowl of soup, but the field-sparrows, and
wood-sparrows, larks and finches, blackbirds and siskins had picked up
the millet long before, and the girl could not find the track. Then
trusting to chance, she went on and on, until the sun sank and night
began to fall. The trees rustled in the darkness, the owls hooted, and
she began to be afraid. Then in the distance she perceived a light
which glimmered between the trees. “There ought to be some people
living there, who can take me in for the night,” thought she, and went
up to the light. It was not long before she came to a house the windows
of which were all lighted up. She knocked, and a rough voice from
inside cried, “Come in.” The girl stepped into the dark entrance, and
knocked at the door of the room. “Just come in,” cried the voice, and
when she opened the door, an old gray-haired man was sitting at the
table, supporting his face with both hands, and his white beard fell
down over the table almost as far as the ground. By the stove lay three
animals, a hen, a cock, and a brindled cow. The girl told her story to
the old man, and begged for shelter for the night. The man said,

“Pretty little hen,
Pretty little cock,
And pretty brindled cow,
What say ye to that?”


“Duks,” answered the animals, and that must have meant, “We are
willing,” for the old man said, “Here you shall have shelter and food,
go to the fire, and cook us our supper.” The girl found in the kitchen
abundance of everything, and cooked a good supper, but had no thought
of the animals. She carried the full dishes to the table, seated
herself by the gray-haired man, ate and satisfied her hunger. When she
had had enough, she said, “But now I am tired, where is there a bed in
which I can lie down, and sleep?” The animals replied,

“Thou hast eaten with him,
Thou hast drunk with him,
Thou hast had no thought for us,
So find out for thyself where thou canst pass the night.”


Then said the old man, “Just go upstairs, and thou wilt find a room
with two beds, shake them up, and put white linen on them, and then I,
too, will come and lie down to sleep.” The girl went up, and when she
had shaken the beds and put clean sheets on, she lay down in one of
them without waiting any longer for the old man. After some time,
however, the gray-haired man came, took his candle, looked at the girl
and shook his head. When he saw that she had fallen into a sound sleep,
he opened a trap-door, and let her down into the cellar. Late at night the wood-cutter came home, and reproached his wife for
leaving him to hunger all day. “It is not my fault,” she replied, “the
girl went out with your dinner, and must have lost herself, but she is
sure to come back to-morrow.” The wood-cutter, however, arose before
dawn to go into the forest, and requested that the second daughter
should take him his dinner that day. “I will take a bag with lentils,”
said he; “the seeds are larger than millet, the girl will see them
better, and can’t lose her way.” At dinner-time, therefore, the girl
took out the food, but the lentils had disappeared. The birds of the
forest had picked them up as they had done the day before, and had left
none. The girl wandered about in the forest until night, and then she
too reached the house of the old man, was told to go in, and begged for
food and a bed.