“Nay! nay! there’s nothin’ to pay,
  If it is not mended as good as I say. 
  I do my work honestly—­that is the thing;
  Then Jamie the cobbler’s as good as the king!”

And the folks passed on, or stopped to leave shoes to mend.

Jim prospered in the old stall, and they called him “Nimble Jim, the Cobbler,” for soon he was fairly installed as cobbler to the whole country-side.  He was happy, and his old mother was happy, and proud, too, of the success of her boy, who was the light of her home and the joy of her heart.

All day Jim worked away at his bench.  Winter evenings he read his few books by the firelight; in the cool of the summer days, or in the early mornings, he busied himself in the little garden.  His vegetables were his pride, and for miles around no one had so trim a garden-patch, or so many good things in it, as Nimble Jim.

Only one kind of all his plants failed to come to anything,—­his melon-vines,—­and these always failed.  This began to grieve him sorely, for he was fond of melons; and, besides, he thought if he could only raise fine ones, he might sell them for a deal of money, like gruff, rich old Farmer Hummidge.

“Oh dear! my melons don’t grow like other folkses.  They don’t come up at all, or if they do they wither or spindle away,” he said, losing his temper, and tearing up some of the vines by the roots.  Then he went into the cottage, angrily, and began to pound away, driving in big hob-nails.  With the twilight, his mother called him to the simple meal, but he was sullen and silent.

“What be the matter with ye, my Nimble Jim?” asked the good dame, cheerily.

“Matter enough, mother!  My melons wont grow; there’s somethin’ the matter with them.  Faith, I believe some imp has cast a spell over ’em.  I do, mother,” quoth he, thumping the table with his fist until the dishes rattled.

“Softly, softly, boy!  Where’s thy good nature gone?” said Mother Growser, staring at him in wonder.

“It be well enough to say ‘Softly, softly,’” said he, “and I don’t want to grieve ye, mother; but it’s naught with me but hammer, stitch, dig,—­hammer, stitch, dig,—­the day in, the day out, when I might be raisin’ fine melons and sellin’ ’em for mints of gold in the great city.  Yea, mother, sellin’ ’em e’en to the king and queen and all the grand lords and ladies at the court, like old Farmer Hummidge.”

For almost the first time in his life Jim was unhappy.

“I would you had your wish, Nimble Jim; but then we’ve a neat bit garden besides the melons; and the home is snug, and you’re a good boy and the best o’ cobblers.  Can’t you be happy with that, my lad?”

But Nimble Jim shook his head, for the spirit of discontent had taken possession of him.

Now, for many days, Nimble Jim neglected his cobbling and let the weeds grow in his garden, while he moodily watched his melons as they withered away.  Soon he came to idle about them in the evening, too, until, one bright moonlight night, as he was grieving over the wretched, scraggy vines, he heard a tiny, silvery voice quite near him cry, tauntingly: