THE little blacksmith was seated on a low stool with his elbows on his anvil, a prey to gloomy thoughts.

Indeed, things were going very badly for him. He, who was formerly the merry wag of the village, scarcely dared to go out for fear of meeting his friends and acquaintances, whose indiscreet questions made him blush with shame.

Gone were the days when his anvil rang merrily under the blows of ten workmen from dawn till often far into the night. Gone also the days when the savoury smell of ham and sausages pervaded the house, and his cellar was well stocked with barrels of delightful Brussels beer. The workmen had all left; there was now barely enough work for one. There was dearth in the kitchen, and Smith’s brewer lived at the bottom of a brick well, under the walnut-tree in front of his door.

He had lost all his customers. It was useless to give him work, as he had no money with which to procure the necessary materials. Of iron there were a few rusty scraps in the corners. Of coal there was hardly enough to heat the oven for an hour, and he was unable to buy any more.

Yes! the village urchins spoke true when they sang outside his window in the evening:

Dead! No, he did not wish to die, however miserable he felt, for that would mean the end of all things, and one is dead such a long time!

He loved to live and to let live, and he still retained a grain of faith in the old proverb, “While there is life there is hope.”

When evening fell, Smith, who for obvious reasons had no thoughts of supper, was aroused from his dreams by a gentle knocking at the door.

No, that could not be an urchin playing him a trick, or a customer, as every one in the village knew of his distress. A stranger perhaps?

Smith got up, opened the door, and saw an old man carrying a carpenter’s bag and leading a donkey, on which sat a young woman, feeding her little baby. By force of habit, Smith said, “What can I do for you, my friend?”

“Smith,” replied the old man, “I know it is a late hour to trouble you; but we have come a very long way, and we have still a very long way to travel to-night. My donkey has cast a shoe; I beg you to shoe the beast at once, that we may continue our journey.”

“I would do so with pleasure, my friend,” said the blacksmith, “but I am very much afraid I have not a horseshoe left. You have no doubt noticed how poverty-stricken I am. However, come along.”

He immediately began to search right and left to see if he could discover a small piece of iron.

“Perhaps I shall find enough to shoe your donkey, and then I shall be very pleased to do what you ask.” He then turned to the young woman, who had dismounted, and said, “Rest yourself in the kitchen. If there is bread and milk in the larder, I pray you eat it. I possess very little, but what I have is at your service.”

Smith unearthed an old shoe from a heap of old iron; the donkey was soon tied up to the brake, and the fire was soon blazing with the help of the bellows. The shoe was tried on, put back into the fire, and then on to the anvil to round it with a stroke of the hammer, and everything was in order.

“What do I owe you, Smith?” asked the old man.

The blacksmith, who had noticed the stranger’s poor clothing and downtrodden shoes, shrugged his shoulders, and thought to himself, “Can I ask payment for such a small service from these poor creatures who have a long journey before them? I should be ashamed to do so, although I have not a penny to bless myself with.”

He answered, “You owe me nothing, my friend; I do it for you for pity’s sake.”

The old man’s eyes shone with a strange light, and in a solemn voice he said, “As you have helped me for the love of God, I grant you three wishes. Whatever you may ask of my wife, little child, and I, we will grant you.”

“Three wishes,” thought the smith; “no matter what I wish it will be granted. These poor creatures so miserably clothed have the power to grant them. Who can they be?”

Only half credulous, he wished that any one who sat in his chair should be unable to get up without his consent; that any one who had the audacity to climb up his walnut-tree should not come down unless he wished it; and, lastly, that anything that was in his purse should remain in it unless he wished otherwise.

“You might have wished for Heaven, and you wish for such childish things, but never mind, your wishes are granted. Adieu, and once again thank you for your kindness.”

In the darkening twilight, the trio set forth, and the smith standing at his threshold saw luminous circles shining round their heads. He then shut the door, locked it, and went to the kitchen to rest on the couch he had placed there. He had hardly taken off his coat when—tap, tap, tap—three short but loud knocks sounded at the door.

“Who is there?” asked the smith rather crossly.

No answer, but soon afterwards another knock.

“All right, who is there?” the smith cried louder.

“Rat-tat-tat.” Again the short hard blows rang on the wood, and only after asking “Who is it?” for the third time did Smith receive an answer.

“Open the door, Smith. He who is before your door brings you happiness and riches!”

As soon as the door was opened, the night air wafted in a strong smell of burning phosphorus, and a gentleman dressed in black from head to foot, limping heavily with one foot, came into the kitchen.

The gentleman had strange pointed ears, and a green light shone in his eyes.

“Smith,” began the stranger, “I know that poverty stares you in the face; you, who knew prosperity and plenty, must find life insupportable now that your larder is bare. You deserve a better fate. Solely out of compassion for you I have journeyed a hundred thousand miles. I bring you, if you will accept them at my hands, prosperity, riches, and happiness. Come”—so saying, the sombre man drew a piece of parchment from his pocket—“put your signature to this paper, and for seven years you will have as much iron and coal as you need to employ twenty workmen.”

Smith thought, “You are the Devil himself, or my name’s not Smith. It is not merely for the pleasure of possessing my signature that you will give me a seven years’ supply of iron and coal. You have something up your sleeve.”

In order to find out, he asked to read the document. There he found written in black and white, that after seven years the Devil would be master of Smith’s most treasured possession, his immortal soul.

However, our Smith was not unduly alarmed. “If I accept,” he thought, “I am saved and shall be able to laugh in the face of those who have despised me. If, on the other hand, I refuse, one day I shall kill myself in my despair, and I shall be in the

hands of the little black gentleman. The best thing to do is to sign the agreement. Later on I shall discover a means of saving my soul from Hell.”

Without further hesitation, he put his name to the paper, and even before the Devil departed, the miraculous took place.

His fire lighted itself, and a delicious joint of beef was roasting on the spit. On the table he found a large jug of foaming beer, all kinds of pastries, and, better than all, half a dozen carts drawn up at the door of the forge, from which about twenty workmen were silently unloading coal, wood, iron, lead, zinc, and even copper. They carried everything into the forge.

From early morning the forge again trembled under the strokes of the hammer. They often resounded even after the village slept.

Meanwhile the days flew by, days became weeks, weeks months, and months years. Before Smith had had time to think about it, the seven years had passed, and the Devil came to claim poor Smith’s soul.

“Hallo! Listen to me, Smith Verholen.

Smith was as unperturbed as though he were serving a customer. “Hallo! Good morning,” he cried, laughing. “How are you? You appear to be well fed, for you have a face like a butcher’s, and calves like a groom.”

The fallen angel was visibly impatient at this nonsense, and answered sharply, “You know what you sold to my master seven years ago. No more shuffling, follow me at once to Hell.”

“How should I have forgotten our agreement?” said Smith. “How could you think me guilty of such a thing? I am a man of honour, as I am about to convince you. Only I cannot go with you in my working clothes, and without washing my hands and brushing my hair. A moment’s patience. Rest a while in this chair. I shall be with you directly.”

The Devil, quite unsuspecting, sat down on the chair, and waited. A few minutes later Smith reappeared in his best clothes.

“Hallo! old fellow, have you rested long enough?” he asked. “I am quite ready to start.”

With a broad grin on his face, he watched the Devil’s vain efforts to rise.

“Oh, what has happened?” said the Devil. “It seems to me that black magic is also practised here. I cannot rise from this chair.”

“Yes, my friend,” said Smith, with the most innocent look, “it is a little joke of my own. Do you know what it means? That you will remain there at my pleasure.”

The Devil made frantic efforts to rise, but all in vain; he was at Smith’s mercy, and was as though screwed to the chair. This was hardly to his liking, and when he saw Smith heating an iron bar, and glancing at him significantly from time to time, he decided that his best course was to take it quietly.

“Smith,” he began in pleading tones, “listen to me. I will give you iron, wood, and coal for another seven years, but for the love of God let me get out of this chair.”

“I accept; you are free,” replied the other, rubbing his hands, and the Devil departed.

Now the blacksmith Verholen had as much iron and coal as he could wish. From dawn till evening the anvil shook under the strokes of the hammer. Again the days flew by, became weeks, months, then years, and one fine morning the same Devil came to Smith’s door, and cried in thundering tones, “Hallo! How now! Smith Verholen.

“Ha ha! there you are again,” said our friend, and he immediately took off his leather apron in preparation for a start. “You are a little later than the appointed time. I have such splendid walnuts, I should like to gather a little basketful to nibble on the way. I have heard that devils like nuts. Would you gather me a basketful, as you can climb so well? Come, will you do it?”

The Evil Spirit, seeing no cause for suspicion, climbed up the tree like a cat.

When Smith returned, he cried in jeering tones, “Hallo! are you coming down? Have you not gathered enough nuts? I am quite ready to start, you know.”

The little black gentleman, in spite of all his efforts, could not climb down from the branches. They closed round him as though they had taken root. Smith summoned his workmen and ordered them to burn the Devil’s feet with hot irons. When the martyrdom had continued some minutes, the Devil shouted to Smith:

“I implore you to make them stop. I will give you iron and coal for yet another seven years, if only you will let me climb down from this tree. Ooh! Ooh! my poor toes.”

“You are free as air,” answered Smith; and the Devil fled away as though pursued by a devil himself.

The years soon sped away, and this time Lucifer, accompanied by many other devils, came to fetch Smith’s soul. He was dressed in deep black, as though in mourning for his mother.

Smith greeted this important person very humbly, and exclaimed, “Bravo! bravo! I am very pleased at the prospective honour of travelling with such an august person. I am extremely sensible of this great favour.”

“Come, be quick; I have no time to waste in idle words,” the Devil replied. “You are awaited in my kingdom, where you will be treated with the honour you deserve! Ahem! If you think you can trick me as you did the other devil, you are very mistaken. Up you get, forward march!”

“Sire,” replied Smith very quietly, “I have heard say that you possess the power to make yourself as big as you like. I should like to know if it is true, as I never believe such foolish tales.”

“I most assuredly can,” said Satan with great dignity, “and to prove my words I will make myself as tall as the tower of the village church.”

He immediately grew so tall that he went through the roof, sparks darting from his eyes, and lighting up the countryside: houses, gardens, fields, and pasture land.

“I must admit it is truly marvellous, but could you make yourself small enough to go into my purse?”

“I can easily do that,” replied Satan, and in a trice he was in the little purse, the little enchanted purse, which was immediately shut and placed on the anvil.

“Ha ha! You did not bargain for that, did you, my friend?” said Smith. “Now you will receive a few gentle blows with the hammer.” Hearing this, all the devils flew away in disorder.

He summoned all his workmen, and each in turn pounded Lucifer with their hammer, so gently, so very gently, until the prisoner promised never to torment Smith again. On the other hand, he promised that he should always receive his supplies of coal, iron, and wood from Hell.

With a red-hot nail Smith burnt a little hole in the purse. “Sssst” it hissed, and the Devil made his escape and disappeared.

Again days became weeks, months, and years, and one day it was not a messenger from Hell who came to the forge, but Death, who is no respecter of persons, and Smith left the earth.

He was now in a strange land, the land up above. He found himself before a forked road. On the left he saw a wide, well-kept road with an avenue of trees and flowering shrubs. To the right a rough and narrow path overgrown with brambles and thorns. The wide road descended, and the narrow path seemed to ascend a mountain side in the direction of Heaven. Smith chose the wide road, and presently arrived before a high and gloomy gateway, on which was written in letters of fire, “Hell.”

“I am curious to see what it is like in there,” thought Smith, and he deliberately pulled the bell.

“Who is there?” said a voice from behind the door.

“Only a poor blacksmith who has just died.”

“What is your name?”

“John James Francis Lewis William Verholen.”

He had hardly uttered the word Verholen, when the door-keeper began to scream so loudly that all the devils, including Lucifer himself, ran to see what was the matter. All he could say was, “Smith Verholen is there; the terrible Smith Verholen.”

Then hundreds of evil spirits trembled and shivered so violently that the door creaked on its rusty hinges, and the windows of Hell rattled.

“If that is the state of things, I shall never succeed in getting inside,” said Smith, and he decided to retrace his steps, and to take the narrow path.

After walking some hours, he arrived before a splendid castle surmounted with high pointed turrets, and surrounded by a high wall, in which was a white carved doorway, on which was written in luminous letters, “This is the Gate of Paradise. Here enter the good and wise.”

Without hesitation, Smith decided to try his luck with the inhabitants of Heaven. He very carefully wiped his hands on his leather apron, and then knocked at the door. After a few minutes the grill in the door was opened, and an old man’s bearded face appeared. He asked in a pleasant but severe voice, “Your name?”

“John James Francis Lewis William Verholen,” our pilgrim replied, as he had done at the Gate of Hell.

“Smith Verholen,” cried St. Peter indignantly, “you are reckless boldness personified. How dare you come here? You sold your soul to the Devil. Your place is in the nethermost Hell.”

“That was my own idea, but they refused me admission. As I have come such a long way, I beseech you, good St. Peter, let me at least look through a crack in the door to catch a glimpse of the Divine radiance.”

“You shall never enter here,” said St. Peter, and he was about to close the grill, when a voice behind him said, “Little Peter, let that good fellow have a glimpse of Heaven.... I know him, he is very good-hearted. He gave shelter to Mary and me when we were fleeing into Egypt.”

St. Peter did not altogether approve, but dared not oppose St. Joseph’s wishes. He half opened the door, and Verholen put his head through the crack and looked in. As quick as thought our pilgrim threw his leather apron inside, and uttered all kinds of strange cries, such as “Ooh! boo! ooh! my poor head, you are crushing it. Ooh! ooh! my ear, my neck, my nose.” He pushed the door with his shoulder, and before St. Peter could stop him, he was seated on his leather apron, and cried, “Here I am, sitting on my own property, my friend. No one can turn me out.”

St. Joseph laughed heartily, and St. Peter himself was forced to acknowledge that Smith had played his part well.

So Smith remained in Heaven and had as much work to do as on earth. He had to repair the swords, breastplates, helmets, and shields which the archangels wore when they amused themselves by punishing the devils who became too bold.

This work was a pleasant pastime for Smith. In his spare moments he chatted a little with old friends he met in Paradise,

humble and simple folk like himself, such as the Girl without Hands, Hop-o’-my-Thumb, Little Red Riding Hood, the Babes in the Wood, Snowdrop, and Puss in Boots.

There was one thing which very much displeased Smith. He enjoyed the rice pudding with plenty of sugar, which was served in golden plates and eaten with silver spoons, and the heavenly scones with butter spread thickly. But he never had a drop to drink, never a hand at “whist” or “bridge.” He found that dull, so dull that sometimes he secretly wished himself back on earth, among his friends and acquaintances in his own village in Brabant.

It was Easter Eve, the bells of Heaven were ringing for the great feast. St. Peter came to Smith, and said to him, “As you are aware, Smith, to-morrow we fÊte the Lord’s Resurrection. On this occasion, the heavenly host goes forth in procession. All the saints and all the elect take part. I know you are very strong. Will you carry the large flag and walk at the head of the procession? You will go out by the principal gate, mount the fortifications, and continue straight ahead to the end of the Milk-and-Honey Avenue. Directly you hear the sound of the cannon, you will turn round. Every one in the procession will do the same, and, retracing their steps, re-enter Heaven.”

“Dear me,” thought Smith, “that may be my opportunity for returning to earth.” He placed himself in St. Peter’s hands and promised to do his best.

Easter dawned, High Mass was over, and the procession set forth. Right in front walked our Smith bearing the flag, then followed a countless host of cherubim, seraphim, and other angels led by St. Michael, seated on the flaming horse which drew Elisha’s chariot; then dressed in glittering armour, all mounted on flaming chargers, St. Martin, St. George, St. Victor, St. Maurice, St. Sebastian. All these had been warriors on earth. Then came the martyrs, confessors, hermits, and pilgrims—more than tongue could number; then followed the Blessed Virgin surrounded by seraphim; and, lastly, Our Lord Himself clothed in papal robes, under a golden canopy.

Smith did exactly as he was told; he went out by the Great Gate, mounted the fortifications of Heaven. He walked with great dignity and with measured tread until he reached the Milk-and-Honey Avenue. Then suddenly, “boom” the canon sounded, and was answered by all the echoes of Heaven. Smith turned round, all the procession did likewise and re-entered Paradise. When our standard-bearer found he was the last before the gate, he signed to an angel in front of him and begged him to hold the flag for a moment; he then turned round and disappeared to the left.

In a few hours he found himself on earth once more before the door of his smithy.

No one in Heaven grieved at his departure. Smith recommenced his happy life on earth, and from the words of the song which is still sung by Flemish children, one may conclude he is still alive.