Generation after generation passed by, as the trees blossom, bear fruit, and wither; but faithful remained the old housemaid, always the servant of the last heir. But one morning--hear what happened. All the people came to table, and lo! there was nothing to eat, for our good old Mistress Potato had not been able to rise from her bed. She felt sharp pains creeping through her poor old bones. No wonder she was worn out at last! She had not in all her life dared take a day's rest, lest so the poor should starve. Indeed, it is wonderful that her good will should have kept her up so long. She must have had a great constitution to begin with. The guests had to go away without breakfast. They were a little troubled, but hoped to make up for it at dinner time. But dinner time came, and the table was empty; and then, indeed, they began to inquire about the welfare of Cookmaid Potato. And up into her dark chamber, where she lay on her poor bed, came great and little, young and old, to ask after the good creature. "What can be done for her?" "Bring warm clothes, medicine, a better bed." "Lay aside your work to help her." "If she dies we shall never again be able to fill the table;" and now, indeed, they sang her praises. O, what a fuss about the sick bed in that moist and mouldy chamber! and out doors it was just the same--priests with their masses, processions, and prayers, and all the world ready to walk to penance, if Mistress Potato could but be saved. And the doctors in their wigs, and counsellors in masks of gravity, sat there to devise some remedy to avert this terrible ill. As when a most illustrious dame is recovering from birth of a son, so now bulletins inform the world of the health of Mistress Potato, and, not content with what they thus learn, couriers and lackeys besiege the door; nay, the king's coach is stopping there. Yes! yes! the humble poor maid, 'tis about her they are all so frightened! Who would ever have believed it in days when the table was nicely covered? The gentlemen of pens and books, priests, kings, lords, and ministers, all have senses to scent our famine. Natheless Mistress Potato gets no better. May God help her for the sake, not of such people, but of the poor. For the great it is a token they should note, that all must crumble and fall to ruin, if they will work and weary to death the poor maid who cooks in the kitchen. She lived for you in the dirt and ashes, provided daily for poor and rich; you ought to humble yourselves for her sake. Ah, could we hope that you would take a hint, and _next time_ pay some heed to the housemaid before she is worn and wearied to death! * * * * *