THE PEDDLER OF SWAFFHAM
IN the old days, when London Bridge was lined with shops from one end to the other, and salmon swam under the arches, there lived in the town of Swaffham, about a hundred miles northward from London, a poor peddler. He had much ado to make a living, trudging about with his pack on his back and his dog at his heels, and at the close of each day’s labor he was only too glad to lie down and sleep.
It so happened one night that he dreamed a dream; and in the dream he saw the great bridge of London Town, and a voice seemed to tell him that if he went thither he would have joyful news. He made little account of the dream, but on the following night it came back to him, and likewise on the third night. Then he said within himself, “I must needs find out what truth there is in this matter.”
So off he trudged to London Town. Long was the way, and right glad was he when he stood on the great bridge and saw the tall houses to the right and left of the roadway where the teams and the people went and came, and had glimpses of the river and of the boats and ships moving about on it. All day long he paced to and fro, but he heard nothing to yield him comfort. Again, on the morrow, he stood and he gazed, and he paced afresh the length of London Bridge, but naught did he hear in the way of glad news.
The third day came, and there he was again on the bridge. He was looking about when a shopkeeper, standing at the door of his shop close by, spoke to him, saying: “Friend, this is the third day I have seen you loitering about here. I wonder much what object you have in so doing. Have you wares to sell?”
“No,” quoth the peddler.
“I have not observed you beg for alms,” said the shopkeeper.
“I am not so poor that I would need to do that,” responded the peddler, “and I shall never beg so long as I can provide for myself.”