BY JANE HOWARD.
IN a little stone hut among the mountains lived Gredel and her son Peterkin, and this is how they lived: They kept about a dozen goats; and all they had to do was to watch them browse, milk them, and make the butter and cheese, which they partly ate and partly sold down in the village, or, rather, exchanged for bread. They were content with bread, butter, and cheese; and all they thought about was the goats. As for their clothes, it would be impossible to speak of them with patience. They had no ambition, no hope, no thought beyond the day, and no sense of gratitude towards yesterday. So they lived, doing no harm, and effecting little good; careless of the future, and not honestly proud of anything they had done in the past.
But one day Gredel (who was the widow of a shepherd that had dropped over the edge of a cliff) sat slowly churning the previous day’s milk, while Peterkin sat near her, doing nothing at all, thinking nothing at all, because he had nothing to ponder over, and looking at nothing at all, for the goats were an everyday sight, and they took such capital care of themselves that Peterkin always stared away over their heads.
“Heigho!” suddenly exclaimed Gredel, stopping in her churning; and Peterkin dropped his stick, looked at his mother slowly, and obediently repeated, “Heigho!”
“The sun rises,” said Gredel, “and the sun sets; the day comes, and the day goes; and we were yesterday, and we are to-day, and we shall be for some tomorrows; and that is all, all, all.”
Said Peterkin, “Mother, what is there in the world?”
“Men and women,” repeated the wise parent; “goats, and many other things.”
“But is it the end of life to get up, watch goats, eat and drink, and fall asleep again? Sometimes I wonder what is on the other side of the hill.”