"See, Hans," it said one morning; "if you will let me out of this nasty pickle I will give you a thousand thalers."
"Ah no!" said Hans. "Thalers are only thalers, as my good father used to say. They melt away like snow, and then nothing is left of them. I will trust no such luck as that!"
"I will give you two thousand thalers," said his luck.
"Hans Hecklemann ploughs for Gold"
"Ah no!" said Hans; "two thousand thalers are only twice one thousand thalers. I will trust no such luck as that, either!"
"Then what will you take to let me out, Hans Hecklemann?" said his luck.
"Look," said Hans; "yonder stands my old plough. Now, if you will give me to find a golden noble at the end of every furrow that I strike with it I will let you out. If not—why, then, into the soap you go."