The Devoted Friend

One morning the old Water-rat put
his head out of his hole. He had bright beady eyes and
stiff grey whiskers and his tail was like a long bit of black
india-rubber. The little ducks were swimming about in the
pond, looking just like a lot of yellow canaries, and their
mother, who was pure white with real red legs, was trying to
teach them how to stand on their heads in the water.

“You will never be in the best society unless you can
stand on your heads,” she kept saying to them; and every
now and then she showed them how it was done. But the
little ducks paid no attention to her. They were so young
that they did not know what an advantage it is to be in society
at all.

“What disobedient children!” cried the old
Water-rat; “they really deserve to be drowned.”

“Nothing of the kind,” answered the Duck,
“every one must make a beginning, and parents cannot be too
patient.”

“Ah! I know nothing about the feelings of
parents,” said the Water-rat; “I am not a family
man. In fact, I have never been married, and I never intend
to be. Love is all very well in its way, but friendship is
much higher. Indeed, I know of nothing in the world that is
either nobler or rarer than a devoted friendship.”

“And what, pray, is your idea of the duties of a devoted
friend?” asked a Green Linnet, who was sitting in a
willow-tree hard by, and had overheard the conversation.

“Yes, that is just what I want to know,” said the
Duck; and she swam away to the end of the pond, and stood upon
her head, in order to give her children a good example.

“What a silly question!” cried the
Water-rat. “I should expect my devoted friend to be
devoted to me, of course.”

“And what would you do in return?” said the little
bird, swinging upon a silver spray, and flapping his tiny
wings.

“I don’t understand you,” answered the
Water-rat.

“Let me tell you a story on the subject,” said the
Linnet.

“Is the story about me?” asked the
Water-rat. “If so, I will listen to it, for I am
extremely fond of fiction.”

“It is applicable to you,” answered the Linnet;
and he flew down, and alighting upon the bank, he told the story
of The Devoted Friend.

“Once upon a time,” said the Linnet, “there
was an honest little fellow named Hans.”

“Was he very distinguished?” asked the
Water-rat.

“No,” answered the Linnet, “I don’t
think he was distinguished at all, except for his kind heart, and
his funny round good-humoured face. He lived in a tiny
cottage all by himself, and every day he worked in his
garden. In all the country-side there was no garden so
lovely as his. Sweet-william grew there, and Gilly-flowers,
and Shepherds’-purses, and Fair-maids of France.
There were damask Roses, and yellow Roses, lilac Crocuses, and
gold, purple Violets and white. Columbine and Ladysmock,
Marjoram and Wild Basil, the Cowslip and the Flower-de-luce, the
Daffodil and the Clove-Pink bloomed or blossomed in their proper
order as the months went by, one flower taking another
flower’s place, so that there were always beautiful things
to look at, and pleasant odours to smell.

“Little Hans had a great many friends, but the most
devoted friend of all was big Hugh the Miller. Indeed, so
devoted was the rich Miller to little Hans, that he would never
go by his garden without leaning over the wall and plucking a
large nosegay, or a handful of sweet herbs, or filling his
pockets with plums and cherries if it was the fruit season.

“‘Real friends should have everything in
common,’ the Miller used to say, and little Hans nodded and
smiled, and felt very proud of having a friend with such noble
ideas.

“Sometimes, indeed, the neighbours thought it strange
that the rich Miller never gave little Hans anything in return,
though he had a hundred sacks of flour stored away in his mill,
and six milch cows, and a large flock of woolly sheep; but Hans
never troubled his head about these things, and nothing gave him
greater pleasure than to listen to all the wonderful things the
Miller used to say about the unselfishness of true
friendship.

“So little Hans worked away in his garden. During
the spring, the summer, and the autumn he was very happy, but
when the winter came, and he had no fruit or flowers to bring to
the market, he suffered a good deal from cold and hunger, and
often had to go to bed without any supper but a few dried pears
or some hard nuts. In the winter, also, he was extremely
lonely, as the Miller never came to see him then.

“‘There is no good in my going to see little Hans
as long as the snow lasts,’ the Miller used to say to his
wife, ‘for when people are in trouble they should be left
alone, and not be bothered by visitors. That at least is my
idea about friendship, and I am sure I am right. So I shall
wait till the spring comes, and then I shall pay him a visit, and
he will be able to give me a large basket of primroses and that
will make him so happy.’

“‘You are certainly very thoughtful about
others,’ answered the Wife, as she sat in her comfortable
armchair by the big pinewood fire; ‘very thoughtful
indeed. It is quite a treat to hear you talk about
friendship. I am sure the clergyman himself could not say
such beautiful things as you do, though he does live in a
three-storied house, and wear a gold ring on his little
finger.’

“‘But could we not ask little Hans up here?’
said the Miller’s youngest son. ‘If poor Hans
is in trouble I will give him half my porridge, and show him my
white rabbits.’

“‘What a silly boy you are!’ cried the
Miller; ‘I really don’t know what is the use of
sending you to school. You seem not to learn
anything. Why, if little Hans came up here, and saw our
warm fire, and our good supper, and our great cask of red wine,
he might get envious, and envy is a most terrible thing, and
would spoil anybody’s nature. I certainly will not
allow Hans’ nature to be spoiled. I am his best
friend, and I will always watch over him, and see that he is not
led into any temptations. Besides, if Hans came here, he
might ask me to let him have some flour on credit, and that I
could not do. Flour is one thing, and friendship is
another, and they should not be confused. Why, the words
are spelt differently, and mean quite different things.
Everybody can see that.’

“‘How well you talk!’ said the
Miller’s Wife, pouring herself out a large glass of warm
ale; ‘really I feel quite drowsy. It is just like
being in church.’

“‘Lots of people act well,’ answered the
Miller; ‘but very few people talk well, which shows that
talking is much the more difficult thing of the two, and much the
finer thing also’; and he looked sternly across the table
at his little son, who felt so ashamed of himself that he hung
his head down, and grew quite scarlet, and began to cry into his
tea. However, he was so young that you must excuse
him.”

“Is that the end of the story?” asked the
Water-rat.

“Certainly not,” answered the Linnet, “that
is the beginning.”

“Then you are quite behind the age,” said the
Water-rat. “Every good story-teller nowadays starts
with the end, and then goes on to the beginning, and concludes
with the middle. That is the new method. I heard all
about it the other day from a critic who was walking round the
pond with a young man. He spoke of the matter at great
length, and I am sure he must have been right, for he had blue
spectacles and a bald head, and whenever the young man made any
remark, he always answered ‘Pooh!’ But pray go
on with your story. I like the Miller immensely. I
have all kinds of beautiful sentiments myself, so there is a
great sympathy between us.”

“Well,” said the Linnet, hopping now on one leg
and now on the other, “as soon as the winter was over, and
the primroses began to open their pale yellow stars, the Miller
said to his wife that he would go down and see little Hans.

“‘Why, what a good heart you have!’ cried
his Wife; ‘you are always thinking of others. And
mind you take the big basket with you for the flowers.’

“So the Miller tied the sails of the windmill together
with a strong iron chain, and went down the hill with the basket
on his arm.

“‘Good morning, little Hans,’ said the
Miller.

“‘Good morning,’ said Hans, leaning on his
spade, and smiling from ear to ear.

“‘And how have you been all the winter?’
said the Miller.

“‘Well, really,’ cried Hans, ‘it is
very good of you to ask, very good indeed. I am afraid I
had rather a hard time of it, but now the spring has come, and I
am quite happy, and all my flowers are doing well.’

“‘We often talked of you during the winter,
Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘and wondered how you were
getting on.’

“‘That was kind of you,’ said Hans; ‘I
was half afraid you had forgotten me.’

“‘Hans, I am surprised at you,’ said the
Miller; ‘friendship never forgets. That is the
wonderful thing about it, but I am afraid you don’t
understand the poetry of life. How lovely your primroses
are looking, by-the-bye!”

“‘They are certainly very lovely,’ said
Hans, ‘and it is a most lucky thing for me that I have so
many. I am going to bring them into the market and sell
them to the Burgomaster’s daughter, and buy back my
wheelbarrow with the money.’

“‘Buy back your wheelbarrow? You don’t
mean to say you have sold it? What a very stupid thing to
do!’

“‘Well, the fact is,’ said Hans, ‘that
I was obliged to. You see the winter was a very bad time
for me, and I really had no money at all to buy bread with.
So I first sold the silver buttons off my Sunday coat, and then I
sold my silver chain, and then I sold my big pipe, and at last I
sold my wheelbarrow. But I am going to buy them all back
again now.’

“‘Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘I will give
you my wheelbarrow. It is not in very good repair; indeed,
one side is gone, and there is something wrong with the
wheel-spokes; but in spite of that I will give it to you. I
know it is very generous of me, and a great many people would
think me extremely foolish for parting with it, but I am not like
the rest of the world. I think that generosity is the
essence of friendship, and, besides, I have got a new wheelbarrow
for myself. Yes, you may set your mind at ease, I will give
you my wheelbarrow.’

“‘Well, really, that is generous of you,’
said little Hans, and his funny round face glowed all over with
pleasure. ‘I can easily put it in repair, as I have a
plank of wood in the house.’

“‘A plank of wood!’ said the Miller;
‘why, that is just what I want for the roof of my
barn. There is a very large hole in it, and the corn will
all get damp if I don’t stop it up. How lucky you
mentioned it! It is quite remarkable how one good action
always breeds another. I have given you my wheelbarrow, and
now you are going to give me your plank. Of course, the
wheelbarrow is worth far more than the plank, but true,
friendship never notices things like that. Pray get it at
once, and I will set to work at my barn this very day.’

“‘Certainly,’ cried little Hans, and he ran
into the shed and dragged the plank out.

“‘It is not a very big plank,’ said the
Miller, looking at it, ‘and I am afraid that after I have
mended my barn-roof there won’t be any left for you to mend
the wheelbarrow with; but, of course, that is not my fault.
And now, as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I am sure you would
like to give me some flowers in return. Here is the basket,
and mind you fill it quite full.’

“‘Quite full?’ said little Hans, rather
sorrowfully, for it was really a very big basket, and he knew
that if he filled it he would have no flowers left for the market
and he was very anxious to get his silver buttons back.

“‘Well, really,’ answered the Miller,
‘as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I don’t think
that it is much to ask you for a few flowers. I may be
wrong, but I should have thought that friendship, true
friendship, was quite free from selfishness of any
kind.’

“‘My dear friend, my best friend,’ cried
little Hans, ‘you are welcome to all the flowers in my
garden. I would much sooner have your good opinion than my
silver buttons, any day’; and he ran and plucked all his
pretty primroses, and filled the Miller’s basket.

“‘Good-bye, little Hans,’ said the Miller,
as he went up the hill with the plank on his shoulder, and the
big basket in his hand.

“‘Good-bye,’ said little Hans, and he began
to dig away quite merrily, he was so pleased about the
wheelbarrow.

“The next day he was nailing up some honeysuckle against
the porch, when he heard the Miller’s voice calling to him
from the road. So he jumped off the ladder, and ran down
the garden, and looked over the wall.

“There was the Miller with a large sack of flour on his
back.

“‘Dear little Hans,’ said the Miller,
‘would you mind carrying this sack of flour for me to
market?’

“‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ said Hans, ‘but
I am really very busy to-day. I have got all my creepers to
nail up, and all my flowers to water, and all my grass to
roll.’

“‘Well, really,’ said the Miller, ‘I
think that, considering that I am going to give you my
wheelbarrow, it is rather unfriendly of you to refuse.’

“‘Oh, don’t say that,’ cried little
Hans, ‘I wouldn’t be unfriendly for the whole
world’; and he ran in for his cap, and trudged off with the
big sack on his shoulders.

“It was a very hot day, and the road was terribly dusty,
and before Hans had reached the sixth milestone he was so tired
that he had to sit down and rest. However, he went on
bravely, and as last he reached the market. After he had
waited there some time, he sold the sack of flour for a very good
price, and then he returned home at once, for he was afraid that
if he stopped too late he might meet some robbers on the way.

“‘It has certainly been a hard day,’ said
little Hans to himself as he was going to bed, ‘but I am
glad I did not refuse the Miller, for he is my best friend, and,
besides, he is going to give me his wheelbarrow.’

“Early the next morning the Miller came down to get the
money for his sack of flour, but little Hans was so tired that he
was still in bed.

“‘Upon my word,’ said the Miller, ‘you
are very lazy. Really, considering that I am going to give
you my wheelbarrow, I think you might work harder. Idleness
is a great sin, and I certainly don’t like any of my
friends to be idle or sluggish. You must not mind my
speaking quite plainly to you. Of course I should not dream
of doing so if I were not your friend. But what is the good
of friendship if one cannot say exactly what one means?
Anybody can say charming things and try to please and to flatter,
but a true friend always says unpleasant things, and does not
mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he
prefers it, for he knows that then he is doing good.’

“‘I am very sorry,’ said little Hans,
rubbing his eyes and pulling off his night-cap, ‘but I was
so tired that I thought I would lie in bed for a little time, and
listen to the birds singing. Do you know that I always work
better after hearing the birds sing?’

“‘Well, I am glad of that,’ said the Miller,
clapping little Hans on the back, ‘for I want you to come
up to the mill as soon as you are dressed, and mend my barn-roof
for me.’

“Poor little Hans was very anxious to go and work in his
garden, for his flowers had not been watered for two days, but he
did not like to refuse the Miller, as he was such a good friend
to him.

“‘Do you think it would be unfriendly of me if I
said I was busy?’ he inquired in a shy and timid voice.

“‘Well, really,’ answered the Miller,
‘I do not think it is much to ask of you, considering that
I am going to give you my wheelbarrow; but of course if you
refuse I will go and do it myself.’

“‘Oh! on no account,’ cried little Hans and
he jumped out of bed, and dressed himself, and went up to the
barn.

“He worked there all day long, till sunset, and at
sunset the Miller came to see how he was getting on.

“‘Have you mended the hole in the roof yet, little
Hans?’ cried the Miller in a cheery voice.

“‘It is quite mended,’ answered little Hans,
coming down the ladder.

“‘Ah!’ said the Miller, ‘there is no
work so delightful as the work one does for others.’

“‘It is certainly a great privilege to hear you
talk,’ answered little Hans, sitting down, and wiping his
forehead, ‘a very great privilege. But I am afraid I
shall never have such beautiful ideas as you have.’

“‘Oh! they will come to you,’ said the
Miller, ‘but you must take more pains. At present you
have only the practice of friendship; some day you will have the
theory also.’

“‘Do you really think I shall?’ asked little
Hans.

“‘I have no doubt of it,’ answered the
Miller, ‘but now that you have mended the roof, you had
better go home and rest, for I want you to drive my sheep to the
mountain to-morrow.’

“Poor little Hans was afraid to say anything to this,
and early the next morning the Miller brought his sheep round to
the cottage, and Hans started off with them to the
mountain. It took him the whole day to get there and back;
and when he returned he was so tired that he went off to sleep in
his chair, and did not wake up till it was broad daylight.

“‘What a delightful time I shall have in my
garden,’ he said, and he went to work at once.

“But somehow he was never able to look after his flowers
at all, for his friend the Miller was always coming round and
sending him off on long errands, or getting him to help at the
mill. Little Hans was very much distressed at times, as he
was afraid his flowers would think he had forgotten them, but he
consoled himself by the reflection that the Miller was his best
friend. ‘Besides,’ he used to say, ‘he is
going to give me his wheelbarrow, and that is an act of pure
generosity.’

“So little Hans worked away for the Miller, and the
Miller said all kinds of beautiful things about friendship, which
Hans took down in a note-book, and used to read over at night,
for he was a very good scholar.

“Now it happened that one evening little Hans was
sitting by his fireside when a loud rap came at the door.
It was a very wild night, and the wind was blowing and roaring
round the house so terribly that at first he thought it was
merely the storm. But a second rap came, and then a third,
louder than any of the others.

“‘It is some poor traveller,’ said little
Hans to himself, and he ran to the door.

“There stood the Miller with a lantern in one hand and a
big stick in the other.

“‘Dear little Hans,’ cried the Miller,
‘I am in great trouble. My little boy has fallen off
a ladder and hurt himself, and I am going for the Doctor.
But he lives so far away, and it is such a bad night, that it has
just occurred to me that it would be much better if you went
instead of me. You know I am going to give you my
wheelbarrow, and so, it is only fair that you should do something
for me in return.’

“‘Certainly,’ cried little Hans, ‘I
take it quite as a compliment your coming to me, and I will start
off at once. But you must lend me your lantern, as the
night is so dark that I am afraid I might fall into the
ditch.’

“‘I am very sorry,’ answered the Miller,
‘but it is my new lantern, and it would be a great loss to
me if anything happened to it.’

“‘Well, never mind, I will do without it,’
cried little Hans, and he took down his great fur coat, and his
warm scarlet cap, and tied a muffler round his throat, and
started off.

“What a dreadful storm it was! The night was so
black that little Hans could hardly see, and the wind was so
strong that he could scarcely stand. However, he was very
courageous, and after he had been walking about three hours, he
arrived at the Doctor’s house, and knocked at the door.

“‘Who is there?’ cried the Doctor, putting
his head out of his bedroom window.

“‘Little Hans, Doctor.’

“’What do you want, little Hans?’

“‘The Miller’s son has fallen from a ladder,
and has hurt himself, and the Miller wants you to come at
once.’

“‘All right!’ said the Doctor; and he
ordered his horse, and his big boots, and his lantern, and came
downstairs, and rode off in the direction of the Miller’s
house, little Hans trudging behind him.

“But the storm grew worse and worse, and the rain fell
in torrents, and little Hans could not see where he was going, or
keep up with the horse. At last he lost his way, and
wandered off on the moor, which was a very dangerous place, as it
was full of deep holes, and there poor little Hans was
drowned. His body was found the next day by some goatherds,
floating in a great pool of water, and was brought back by them
to the cottage.

“Everybody went to little Hans’ funeral, as he was
so popular, and the Miller was the chief mourner.

“‘As I was his best friend,’ said the
Miller, ‘it is only fair that I should have the best
place’; so he walked at the head of the procession in a
long black cloak, and every now and then he wiped his eyes with a
big pocket-handkerchief.

“‘Little Hans is certainly a great loss to every
one,’ said the Blacksmith, when the funeral was over, and
they were all seated comfortably in the inn, drinking spiced wine
and eating sweet cakes.

“‘A great loss to me at any rate,’ answered
the Miller; ‘why, I had as good as given him my
wheelbarrow, and now I really don’t know what to do with
it. It is very much in my way at home, and it is in such
bad repair that I could not get anything for it if I sold
it. I will certainly take care not to give away anything
again. One always suffers for being
generous.’”

“Well?” said the Water-rat, after a long
pause.

“Well, that is the end,” said the Linnet.

“But what became of the Miller?” asked the
Water-rat.

“Oh! I really don’t know,” replied the
Linnet; “and I am sure that I don’t care.”

“It is quite evident then that you have no sympathy in
your nature,” said the Water-rat.

“I am afraid you don’t quite see the moral of the
story,” remarked the Linnet.

“The what?” screamed the Water-rat.

“The moral.”

“Do you mean to say that the story has a
moral?”

“Certainly,” said the Linnet.

“Well, really,” said the Water-rat, in a very
angry manner, “I think you should have told me that before
you began. If you had done so, I certainly would not have
listened to you; in fact, I should have said ‘Pooh,’
like the critic. However, I can say it now”; so he
shouted out “Pooh” at the top of his voice, gave a
whisk with his tail, and went back into his hole.

“And how do you like the Water-rat?” asked the
Duck, who came paddling up some minutes afterwards.
“He has a great many good points, but for my own part I
have a mother’s feelings, and I can never look at a
confirmed bachelor without the tears coming into my
eyes.”

“I am rather afraid that I have annoyed him,”
answered the Linnet. “The fact is, that I told him a
story with a moral.”

“Ah! that is always a very dangerous thing to do,”
said the Duck.

And I quite agree with her.