At the end of seven days the king called upon the rich man again, and this time he came in his own guise as a real king. “Well,” said he, “is the poor man the richer for his money?” “No,” said the rich man, “he is not;” and then he told the whole story from beginning to end just as I have told it. “Your father was right,” said the king; “and what he said was very true--Much shall have more and little shall have less.’ Keep the bag of money for yourself, for there Heaven means it to stay.” And maybe there is as much truth as poetry in this story. And now it was the turn of the Blacksmith who had made Death sit in his pear-tree until the cold wind whistled through the ribs of man’s enemy. He was a big, burly man, with a bullet head, and a great thick neck, and a voice like a bull’s. “Do you mind,” said he, “about how I clapped a man in the fire and cooked him to a crisp that day that St. Peter came travelling my way?” There was a little space of silence, and then the Soldier who had cheated the Devil spoke up. “Why yes, friend,” said he, “I know your story very well.” “I am not so fortunate,” said old Bidpai. “I do not know your story. Tell me, friend, did you really bake a man to a crisp? And how was it then?” “Why,” said the Blacksmith, “I was trying to do what a better man than I did, and where he hit the mark I missed it by an ell. Twas a pretty scrape I was in that day.” “But how did it happen?” said Bidpai. “It happened,” said the Blacksmith, “just as it is going to happen in the story I am about to tell.” “And what is your story about?” said Fortunatus. “It is,” said the Blacksmith, “about--” Wisdom’s Wages and Folly’s Pay Once upon a time there was a wise man of wise men, and a great magician to boot, and his name was Doctor Simon Agricola. Once upon a time there was a simpleton of simpletons, and a great booby to boot, and his name was Babo. Simon Agricola had read all the books written by man, and could do more magic than any conjurer that ever lived. But, nevertheless, he was none too well off in the world; his clothes were patched, and his shoes gaped, and that is the way with many another wise man of whom I have heard tell. Babo gathered rushes for a chair-maker, and he also had too few of the good things to make life easy. But it is nothing out of the way for a simpleton to be in that case. The two of them lived neighbor to neighbor, the one in the next house to the other, and so far as the world could see there was not a pin to choose between them--only that one was called a wise man and the other a simpleton. One day the weather was cold, and when Babo came home from gathering rushes he found no fire in the house. So off he went to his neighbor the wise man. “Will you give me a live coal to start my fire?” said he. “Yes, I will do that,” said Simon Agricola; “But how will you carry the coal home?” “Oh!” said Babo, “I will just take it in my hand.” “In your hand?” “In my hand.”