真正-ymg
The Devoted
Friend|
忠实朋友
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 picking a large nosegay3, or a handful of
sweet herbs4, or filling
his pockets
with plums and cherries5 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
milk
cows,
and
a
large
flock
of
woolly
sheep6;
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
unselfishness7 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
very 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
pe
ople 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
primroses8 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 clergyman9 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 cask10 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
temptations11.
Besides, if Hans came
here, he might ask me to let him have some flour
on credit12, 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 ale13;
“Really I
fe
el quite sleepy.
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
strictly across the table at his little son, who
felt so ashamed of himself that he hung his
head down, and turned red, and began to
cry into his tea.
However, he was so
young that you
must excuse him.
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
windmill14
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
e
ar.
“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-
bye15! ”
“They are
certainly very lovely,” said Hans, “and it is a
most luck
y 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 wheelbarrow16 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 spokes17; but in
spite of
that I will give it to
you.
I know it is very
generous18 of me, and a great many people would
think me extremely foolish for
parting19 with it, but I am not like the rest of
the world.
I think
that
generosity
is
the
essence20
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 ro
und 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 co
rn 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