In old Paris, very rich people and quite poor people used to live close by each other. Up one stair might be found a very rich man; up two stairs a man not quite so rich; up three stairs a man who had not very much money. On the very lowest floor, a little below the street, were to be found the poorest folks of all. It was on this low floor that a cobbler used to live and mend shoes and sing songs. For he was a very happy cobbler, and went on singing all day, and keeping time with his hammer or his needle.

Up one stair, or on what is called the first floor, lived a very rich man, so rich that he did not know how rich he was—so rich that he could not sleep at nights for trying to find out how much money he had, and if it were quite safe.

Everybody knows that it is easier to sleep in the morning than at night. So nobody will wonder when I say that this rich man lay awake all night and always fell asleep in the morning. But no sooner did he fall asleep than he was wakened again. It was not his money that wakened him this time—it was the cobbler. Every morning, just as the rich man fell asleep the cobbler awoke, and in almost no time was sitting at his door, sewing away and singing like a lark.

The rich man went to a friend and said, ”I can’t sleep at night for thinking of my money, and I can’t sleep in the morning for listening to that cobbler’s singing. What am I to do?” This friend was a wise man, and told him of a plan.

Next forenoon, while the cobbler was singing away as usual, the rich man came down the four steps that led from the pavement to the cobbler’s door.

“Now here’s a fine job,” thought the happy cobbler. “He’s going to get me to make a grand pair of boots, and won’t he pay me well!”

But the rich man did not want boots or anything. He had come to give, not to get. In his hand he had a leather bag filled with something that jingled. “Here, cobbler,” said the rich man, “I have brought you a present of a hundred crowns.”

“A hundred crowns!” cried the cobbler; “but I’ve done nothing. Why do you give me this money?”

“Oh, it’s because you’re always so happy.”

“And you’ll never ask it back?”

“Never.”

“Nor bring lawyers about it and put me in prison?”

“No, no. Why should I?”

“Well, then, I’ll take the money, and I thank you very, very much.”

When the rich man had gone the cobbler opened the bag, and was just about to pour out the money into his leather apron to count how much it was, when he saw a man in the street looking at him. This would never do, so he went into the darkest part of his house and counted the hundred crowns. He had never seen so much money in his life before, but somehow he did not feel so happy as he felt he should.

Just then his wife came in quietly, and gave the poor cobbler such a fright that he lost his temper and scolded her, a thing he had never done in his life.

Next he hid the bag below the pillow of the bed, because he could see that place from the door where he worked. But by and by he began to think that if he could see it from the door so could other people. So he went in and changed the bag to the bottom of the bed. Two or three times every hour he went in to see that the bag was all right. His wife wanted to know what was the matter with the bed, but he told her to mind her own business. The next time she was not looking he slipped the bag into the bottom of an old box, and from that time he kept changing it about from place to place whenever he got a chance. If he had told his wife it would not have been so bad, but he was afraid even of her.

Next morning the rich man fell asleep as usual, and was not disturbed by the cobbler’s song. The next morning was the same, and the next, and the next. Everybody noticed what a change had come over the cobbler. He no longer sang. He did little work, for he was always running out and in to see if his money was all right; and he was very unhappy.

On the sixth day he made up his mind what to do. I think he talked it over with his wife at last, but I am not sure. Anyway, he went up his four steps, and then up the one stair that led to the rich man’s room. When he had entered, he went up to the table and laid down the bag, and said, “Sir, here are your hundred crowns; give me back my song.”

Next morning things were as bad as ever for the poor rich man, who had to remove, they say, to another part of Paris where the cobblers are not so happy.

—From the French of Jean de la Fontaine.