their mouths.” “Yes,” answered Hans, weighing it in his hand, “she has her weight; but my pig is none so bad, I think, for fat.”
His companion looked cautiously round, and shook his head. “Mark me,” said he at length, “as to your pig, I suspect every thing is not as it should be; depend upon it, all is not right. In the village through which I have just passed, there has been a pig stolen out of the mayor’s stye. I fear—very much I fear—you have now got that very pig by the leg; and it would be an awkward business, if it were found in your possession. The least that could happen to you would be to be sent to prison.”
Poor Hans was in a sad taking now. “For God’s sake,” quoth he, “help me out of this mishap. You are better known hereabouts, than I am; take the pig, and let me have your goose.”
“I shall run some risk,” answered the man, “but I should not like to see you get into trouble.”
So saying, he took hold of the string, drove the pig along a by-road, and was soon out of sight; the worthy Hans, meanwhile, with his goose under his arm, and his fright at an end, pursuing the road to his own home.
“If I am not very much mistaken,” quoth he to himself, “I am on the right side even in this exchange; for first, I shall have a beautiful roast; then a quantity of fat which will drip from it; lastly, the fine white feathers: these, I can put into my pillow; and I shall sleep without rocking. How delighted my poor mother will be!”
As he passed through the last village he saw a knife-grinder with his wheel, singing at his noisy work:
Hans stood still, and watched him. At length he spoke to him. Things go on well with you, friend, since you sing so merrily over your grinding.”
“Ay,” answered the knife-grinder, “there is no trade so bad, but a man may live by it. A good knife-grinder never need put his hand into his pocket without finding some money there. But where did you buy that fine goose?”
“I did not buy it—I exchanged a pig for it,” quoth Hans.
“And the pig?” said the knife-grinder.
“I got that for a cow,” quoth Hans.
“And the cow?”
“That I had for a horse,” quoth Hans.
“And the horse?”
“I gave a lump of gold as big as my head, for the horse,” quoth Hans.
“And the lump of gold?”
“Oh—that was my wages for seven years’ service,” quoth Hans.
“You know how to take care of yourself, I see,” said the knife-grinder. “Could you but manage it now, that you should always hear money rattle in your pocket, your fortune would be made.”
“How am I to do that?” quoth Hans.
“You must become a knife-grinder, like myself; and for that purpose you want nothing but a whetstone; all the rest will come of itself. Here is one a little the worse for wear, and therefore if you have a mind, you shall give me nothing but your goose for it. What say you?”
“Need you ask me?” quoth Hans. “It would make me the happiest of men. Only let me feel money in my pocket whenever I put my hand there, and what have I to care for?”
With these words he gave the goose to the knife-grinder, who lifted up a huge heavy stone, that lay beside him, and cautioned Hans to take great care of it.
Hans took charge of the stone, and continued his journey with a joyful heart. His eyes sparkled with rapture as he exclaimed to himself, “Every thing I wish, happens just as if I had been born with a silver spoon in my mouth!” Meanwhile, as he had been upon the foot ever since daybreak, he began to grow weary and hungry, lamenting, at the same time, that he had eaten up all his provisions at a single meal, when he was so delighted at having got his cow. At length he became so tired, he could not get on; and the stone punished him with its weight, severely. He began to reflect how convenient it would be just then if he were not obliged to carry it. Crawling like a snail, he reached a well. He resolved to rest, and refresh himself with a cool draught from the spring. Lest he should damage the stone, however, in sitting down, he laid it carefully on the brink, by his side. He then turned round to get some of the water;
