On a cold and bleak Christmas Eve there came a poor beggar to a wealthy farmstead and asked for some bread and lodging for the night. He was so tired of his long day’s journey that he could scarcely move.
“God bless you, my good lady, let me warm myself at your hearth, allow me to have a bite,” he begged the mistress of the house.
The rich farmer’s wife, however, was an incredibly close-fisted person who grudged the farm-hands and servants even the food they ate. No wonder she was loath to share her delicious black Christmas pudding with a wretch of a tramp. She flew into a rage and called him a good-for-nothing loafer and idler, and set her dogs at him, driving him out of her yard.
The beggar heaved a sigh and, submissively leaving the rich farm, made for the hut of the poor cotter on the same farm.
“God bless you, my good woman,” he said with a deep bow, “give me shelter for the night, let me warm myself at your hearth, allow me to have a bit of bread off your table... You see, I’m hungry and shivering with cold,“ he said to the cotter’s wife.
“What decent shelter, what bread can you hope for here? I and my children, we can hardly keep body and soul together, and we can never eat our fill. Perhaps you’d better go to the rich farmer, they’ve got enough of everything. You’ll find it more comfortable there, and they’ll feed you better.”
“God bless me, my good woman, if I didn’t try the farm already. Those people haven’t so much kindness as to give a poor wretch like me a flat stone to rest his head on,” the beggar replied sadly.
“Well, if this is the case, and if you don’t mind the way we live here, you might as well stay overnight. We’ll make room for you at the hearth, and you are welcome to sit at our table and share the little to be found in my larder.”
“Thank you, good woman, thank you,” the beggar cheered up.
“No need to thank me... You can’t very well go to any other place with the night falling... And as for bread, I’ve got a whole chunk to feed you and ourselves tonight, on Christmas Eve,” said the cotter’s wife.
When the beggar entered the house and saw the crowd of children he stared, shook his head and asked,
“Well, well... God bless you, good woman, why on earth are your children so terribly dirty and soiled?”
The woman sighed,
“No wonder they are dirty. The reason is easy to see: they have only one shirt each of them, and this shirt has to go a long way without washing. But if kids have soiled things on how can they keep themselves clean and washed inside them?”
“Then why don’t you get one more shirt for each child?” the beggar demanded to know.
“Where could I possibly get them from? I was left a widow several years ago, I don’t have a soul to support me,” the woman answered.
Now the beggar stopped silent. He ate a bit of bread, thanked the cotter’s widow again and lay down to rest in the corner. Lay down and, falling asleep at once, snored peacefully the whole night. In the morning he opened his haversack, fished out a chunk of barley bread and put it on the table saying,
“Well, good woman, I must be off now. Here, take this scone, feed your children, eat yourself and lay a morsel aside in your larder. And whatever job you tackle in the morning shall keep you busy until the evening.”
So saying the beggar took his leave.
The cotter’s widow was left puzzling over the last words of the beggar. Yet she had enough sense to follow his instructions—she fed her children, broke a morsel for herself and laid aside the rest. As she still had in her chest a piece of rough linen cloth in store she thought to herself,
“The beggar’s words were plain enough. Of course, that small piece isn’t enough to make a shirt for each child, but at least one shirt I can sew. One large enough to fit any of them whose shirt happens to be in the wash.”
Deliberating like this the poor woman went to the farm, asked the mistress of the house to lend her the ellstick and then made for the outbuilding where she kept her chest with the last piece of cloth she had to her soul. And—wonder of wonders—the outbuilding was full of rolls of cloth, piled up to the ceiling. Rolls upon rolls of woollen cloth and cotton cloth, print and linen, plain fabric and twilled. The cotter’s widow wasted no time. She began measuring the cloth at once; she measured and measured all through the day until evening came. She got ready with the last roll only when the upper edge of the sun’s disk sank below the horizon. And only then did she grasp the full meaning of the old man’s words.
When on the next day the cotter’s widow went to return the ellstick to its owner she couldn’t keep from telling the stingy woman how for a mere one night’s lodging and a bit of bread the beggar had thanked her with such a heap of good cloth she needed so badly. Enough to last her large household for years to come!
Hearing that miraculous story the farmer’s wife grew very sad; envy gnawed at her so that more than once she had to retire into the darkness of her larder where she shed tears of anger. As soon as the cotter’s widow was gone she invited the most faithful of her farm-hands to her back room and said to him,
“Now, Martin, my man, harness the best of our stallions, fill the best of our sleighs with the softest of cushions and blankets and search all the roads and paths, driving as fast as you can. And if you come upon a lame beggar with a matted beard, bring him to our place—you see, it’s our duty to help the poor and feeble!”
The farm-hand did as he was told: he harnessed the best of the stallions, piled up the softest of the cushions and blankets in the sleigh, searched all the roads and paths. Searched all the roads and paths and found the beggar at last. The poor wretch was squatting in the shelter of a juniper bush. He was resting his legs tired of walking knee-deep in the snow and trying to warm his numb fingers with his breath.
The farm-hand took the old man in his arms and seated him in the sleigh between the cushions and blankets, and took him to the farm. The mistress of the house met the beggar with a sweet smile at the gate and carried him into the house on her back. She gave him plum-cake to eat and sweet mead to drink. In the evening she put the beggar to sleep in her own bed, on soft eiderdown pillows, between two snow-white sheepskin coats. From that day on the beggar enjoyed every minute of his life: he ate of the most delicious food, drank of the sweetest drinks, and had himself whisked with the softest whisks in sauna.
Days passed—one day, two days, three days, four days...and again the stingy mistress of the house had reason to retire to her larder to shed tears of anger in the dark solitude, this time because the beggar gobbled up so much of her good stuff.
It was only after several months, a little before St. John’s day, that the old man made ready to leave. One evening he said,
“Well, I’ve had a real nice rest, I have. Now, there’s nothing for it, got to be going again...”
The heart of the farmer’s wife gave a leap with joy, but she put on a sad face and exclaimed with affected surprise,
“Oh, dear me, oh, dear me, you mean you are leaving so soon? What a pity you don’t want to stay longer. But what can I do? Can’t be helped! Can’t be helped!” And frisking with joyous anticipation she saw the old man to the gate.
Seeing the beggar turn to go his way without so much as saying good-bye, the woman called after him,
“Wait, wait, stop a moment, good man, you’re such a good man, a wise man, can’t you advise me what work I should tackle to last the whole day?”
“How do I know, dear lady? I don’t know indeed. All I can say is that whatever you start must really be carried on until the evening,” answered the beggar and was soon lost to sight.
The farmer’s wife clapped her hands with joy. She slammed the gate to and rushed into the house to fetch her ellstick to go to the outbuilding to measure her rolls of cloth.
But then suddenly her stomach began rumbling and there followed a sharp pain. So instead of really going and fetching her ellstick she started moaning and groaning in a loud voice and sat down on the grass. And the stingy mistress kept sitting and groaning on the grass until night fell. She entered the house only when the upper edge of the sun’s disk had sunk below the horizon.
That bit of ill fortune embittered the stingy farmer’s wife so much that in the course of seven days and seven nights she did not exchange even seven words with the members of her household. Hadn’t she fed the beggar for several months? Hadn’t she quenched his thirst with her delicious mead, hadn’t he slept in her bed on downy feather pillows, between two snow-white sheepskin coats? And all she had got for it was a bad stomachache!
When the story got about the villagers laughed and said,
“Serves her right, the niggard, the skinflint!”
And one cannot but agree that it did serve her right.
One half of the village lay on low and flat terrain, the other half spread on the gravelly slopes of drumlin landscape.
The plain was rich and fertile, the meagre soil of the drumlin country grew puny crops: rye was barely knee-high to a herdboy, oats and barley hardly tall enough to shelter a bigger sort of frog from the scorching sun. The villagers, like their fields and crops, differed from each other—the lowlanders were stuck-up and noisy, the highlanders spoke little and wore a constant troubled look.
One summer on a fine Sunday afternoon, the lowland farmers were sitting in the local inn drinking whiskey and biting delicious sausage to it, laughing and talking nineteen to the dozen. And they had every reason for feasting: there was a promise of a good harvest that year!
Boasting of their riches, the farmers were all in high spirits. There entered an old man dressed in tatters and asked the innkeeper whether he could give him shelter for the night. As the landlord was doing good business he, too, turned up his nose and snapped haughtily over his shoulder,
“No, I can’t.”
“Right, no shelter for a tramp like this!” the chorus of the rich farmers joined in.
“Do let me stay overnight! You can see I’m old and tired, where could I go at this late hour?” the tattered old man begged.
“No, I can’t,” the landlord repeated even more firmly.
And the rich farmers clamoured,
“No! No shelter, no shakedown for him!” “Don’t put him up for the night!”
“Kick the scamp out!”
“Out with him!”
The tattered old man turned resignedly and made for the door, looked back on the threshold and, wagging his finger, said in a threatening tone,
“Just you wait, you niggards! You’ll have reason to remember Jack Frost.”
So saying the man left the inn and went straight across the plain to that part of the village which was situated on the slopes of the gravelly hills. The first door he knocked at was hospitably opened to him. The farmer received him kindly, fed him and brought in a straw mattress for him to sleep on comfortably.
Taking his leave in the morning the tattered old man said gratefully,
“Best thanks, brother! And best thanks to your neighbours, too. I bet they would have given me a shakedown and fed me the same as you.”
“Sure enough. Because they’re no stone-hearted robbers any of them,” the farmer rejoined.
“Well, eh... And may your crops grow thick and tall, taller than the tallest man!” the old man called back from the gate and soon disappeared behind the stunted birch grove.
The lowland farmers continued their feast in the inn until small hours when the next day broke. But the moment the first rays of the sun penetrated through the window it grew bitterly cold in the room.
At first the innkeeper alone began to shiver, while the conceited farmers laughed and mocked at him ruthlessly. By and by, however, even the greatest mockers desisted—all of a sudden they, too, were seized by a violent fit of shivering. Shivering like aspen leaves—first the very rich men, then the rich and rather rich men, and at last the not so rich men. There was nothing for it but to run home as fast as their legs would carry them, and seek warmth under heaps of sheepskin coats.
Of course, the haughty farmers finally stopped shivering with cold, but they had to brace themselves for an even greater shock. The thing was that the unforeseen late frost had killed all the crops on the fields of the plain, all to the last blade and shoot. And the wealthy farmers could do nothing but stare and scratch their heads: all their grain had gone to the granaries of Jack Frost, while the crops of the highland farmers looked a lot thicker and taller than before!
So after all the haughty flat-land farmers came to understand that in this world one did not fare well with evil and envy.
