ONCE upon a time there lived an old woman whose name was Misery.

Her one and only possession was an apple-tree, and even this caused her more pain than pleasure. When the apples were ripe, the village urchins came and stole them off the tree.

This went on year after year, when one day an old man, with a long white beard, knocked at Misery’s door. “Old woman,” he begged, “give me a crust of bread.”

“You, too, are a poor miserable creature,” said Misery, who, although she had nothing herself, was full of compassion for others. “Here is half a loaf, take it; it is all I have, eat it in peace, and may it refresh you.”

“As you have been so kind,” said the old fellow, “I will grant you a wish.”

“Oh!” sighed the old woman, “I have only one desire, that is, that any one who touches my apple-tree may stick to it until I set them free. The way my apples are stolen from me is past all bearing.”

“Your wish is granted,” said the old fellow, and he went away.

Two days later Misery went to look at her tree; she found hanging and sticking to the branches a crowd of children, servants, mothers who had come to rescue their children, fathers who had tried to save their wives, two parrots who had escaped from their cage, a cock, a goose, an owl, and other birds, not to mention a goat. When she saw this extraordinary sight, she burst out laughing, and rubbed her hands with delight. She let them all remain hanging on the tree some time before she released them.

The thieves had learnt their lesson, and never stole the apples again.

Some time passed by, when one day some one again knocked at old Misery’s door.

“Come in,” she cried.

“Guess who I am,” said a voice. “I am old Father Death himself. Listen, little mother,” he continued. “I think that you and your old dog have lived long enough; I have come to fetch you both.”

“You are all-powerful,” said Misery. “I do not oppose your will, but before I pack up, grant me one favour. On the tree yonder there grow the most delicious apples you have ever tasted. Don’t you think it would be a pity to leave them, without gathering one?”

“As you ask me so graciously, I will take one,” said Death, whose mouth was watering as he walked towards the tree. He climbed up to the topmost branches to gather a large rosy apple, but directly he touched it, the wretch remained glued to the tree by his long bony hand. Nothing could tear him off, in spite of his struggles.

“There you are, old tyrant, hanging high and dry,” said Misery.

As a result of Death hanging on the tree, no one died. If persons fell into the water they were not drowned; if a cart ran over them they did not even notice it; they did not die even if their heads were cut off.

After Death had hung, winter and summer, for ten long years on the tree, through all weathers, the old woman had pity on him, and allowed him to come down on condition that she should live as long as she liked.

This, Father Death agreed to, and that is why men live longer than the sparrows, and why Misery is always to be found in the world, and will doubtless remain until the end of time.