The Heart of a Beggar

A VAGRANT, a brother of beggars, a vagabond like himself, whom he met at a turn of the country road as night came, said to him, “If you wish to do a neat trick, walk straight forward, go across the bridge and follow the edge of the wood, and on the right you will find a villa that looks like a castle. There is no outer wall, and there is no moat. There is nobody guarding it — the gentleman and his family have not yet returned, and the gardener is sick abed. And there is no dog, — a little while ago I stroked his snout with this stick. Once in the house you will be highly puzzled to make a choice. If you have a heart in your body,” said the vagabond in conclusion, “don’t fail to use this opportunity. You can turn the neatest kind of a trick there, sure thing!” Uttering not a word of comment, Red Fox, as he was known among his fellows, followed this suggestion promptly. After a night spent in the open air of the fields — it was in July and the sun was glowing upon the earth with scorching heat — he had gone his way at break of day. A fresh breath was caressing the horizon, and a light, transparent blue vapor was rising from the meadows. The expanses where the ears swayed on high stalks seemed to be living carpets, and the river in its sinuous passage through the plain looked like a bright, clear, silvered ribbon.