On went the horse maddened with pain; at last he reached the hut of his master, the miller, and dashed in with his burdens through the open door. No one was within, but a fire of logs burned brightly on the hearth; plunging and striking with his hoofs, the horse scattered the burning logs about the house; the flames caught the building, and soon surrounded the poor animal. Unable to move from the terror of the flames, there died the poor horse and the unlucky sheep, amid the ruins of the miller’s hut.
“My son,” said the tutor, when from afar he saw the end of the accident, “you have seen the beginning, the middle, and the end of this incident; when you return to your study, make me some verses upon it, and show me wherefore the house was burned. If you fail, beware of the punishment.”
It was all in vain that Celestinus tried to coin a verse or two on such a curious subject. He felt more than usually unpoetical; and as for assigning a cause for the fire, he so puzzled himself with his own arguments, as at last to begin to doubt whether there was any cause at all. At length he left his room, and tried what a walk would do towards making him able to poetize.
“My son,” said a venerable-looking man that met him on his solitary ramble, “what makes you so sorrowful?”
“Pray do not trouble yourself,” replied the youth; “it is quite useless to tell you of my trouble; you cannot help me.”
“Nay, but my son—how can we decide until we hear the cause?”
“Well, then, good father, I have got to make some verses on a mangy horse and two sheep, and I do not know how.”
“And to decide wherefore the hut, the horse, and the sheep were burnt.”
“Why, father, how do you know that?” exclaimed Celestinus.
“Though human to look at, I am not of this world,” replied the old man; “come, make a contract with me, henceforth to serve me, and care not for your master; and I will make you such a copy of verses as never were yet seen. Come, choose; you know the alternative—the philosopher flogs sharply.”