And so he succeeded to his father's old bench by the window, the lap-stone and hammer and awl; and as he waxed his thread and stitched away, singing the old songs, the country folks passing by would listen, look at each other, smile and nod approvingly, or say: "Hark to that, friend! One might think auld Jamie back again, with the whack o' the hammer and the blithe song, though the voice ben't so crackit like as th' auld one." "Aye, it's a bit clearer, but no happier. Auld cobbler Jamie was a merry soul," says one. "And the lad'll prove worthy his father, I warrant. Listen to the turn of that song, now; I've heard Jamie singin' it many a day," says another. "Whack! whack! thump-pet-ty crack! In go the shoe-nails with many a smack. Zu! zu! pull the thread through; Soon will the shoe be, done, master, for you! "Nay! nay! there's nothin' to pay, If it is not mended as good as I say. I do my work honestly--that is the thing; Then Jamie the cobbler's as good as the king!" And the folks passed on, or stopped to leave shoes to mend. Jim prospered in the old stall, and they called him "Nimble Jim, the Cobbler," for soon he was fairly installed as cobbler to the whole country-side. He was happy, and his old mother was happy, and proud, too, of the success of her boy, who was the light of her home and the joy of her heart. All day Jim worked away at his bench. Winter evenings he read his few books by the firelight; in the cool of the summer days, or in the early mornings, he busied himself in the little garden. His vegetables were his pride, and for miles around no one had so trim a garden-patch, or so many good things in it, as Nimble Jim. Only one kind of all his plants failed to come to anything,--his melon-vines,--and these always failed. This began to grieve him sorely, for he was fond of melons; and, besides, he thought if he could only raise fine ones, he might sell them for a deal of money, like gruff, rich old Farmer Hummidge. "Oh dear! my melons don't grow like other folkses. They don't come up at all, or if they do they wither or spindle away," he said, losing his temper, and tearing up some of the vines by the roots. Then he went into the cottage, angrily, and began to pound away, driving in big hob-nails. With the twilight, his mother called him to the simple meal, but he was sullen and silent. "What be the matter with ye, my Nimble Jim?" asked the good dame, cheerily. "Matter enough, mother! My melons wont grow; there's somethin' the matter with them. Faith, I believe some imp has cast a spell over 'em. I do, mother," quoth he, thumping the table with his fist until the dishes rattled. "Softly, softly, boy! Where's thy good nature gone?" said Mother Growser, staring at him in wonder.