“My poor man, how will you get there, my poor man?” he said.
“Maybe,” says Simon, “I’ll get a lift on my way.”
“You’ll get no lift,” the godly man said, “for it’s a hard and lonely road to travel.”
“My sorrow! And I heard it was a good place to go to!”
“It is a good place, my simple man, but the road to it is difficult and empty and hard. You will get no lift, you will lose your way, you will be taken with a sickness.”
“Ah, and I heard it was a good kind road, and help in the end of it and warmth and a snap of victuals.”
“No doubt, no doubt, but I tell you, don’t be setting yourself up for to judge of it. Go back to your home and be at peace with the world.”
“Mine’s all walk-on,” said Simon, and turning away he looked towards his home. Distant or near there was nothing he could see but trees, not a glint of sea, and little of sky, and nothing of a hill or the roof of a friendly house—just a trap of trees as close as a large hand held before a large face, beeches and beeches, pines and pines. And buried in the middle of it was a tiny hut, sour and broken; in the time of storms the downpour would try to dash it into the ground, and the wind would try to tear it out. Well, he had had his enough of it, so he went to another man, a scholar for learning, and told him his intentions and his wishes.
“To heaven!” said the scholar. “Well, it’s a fair day for that good-looking journey.”
“It is indeed a fine day,” said Simon. As clear as crystal it was, yet soft and mellow as snuff.