life. He sewed faster and better than he had ever done before, and
found, to his joy, that the goblin's promises had begun to be fulfilled
in reality. But bad habits are not to be conquered as one would pull up
weeds: though both must be torn up by the roots, one might weed three
gardens in the time it takes to destroy one fault; and so, without
really meaning it, Bartlemy at last began to ply his needle less
briskly; his thoughts wandered; he took a stitch that was three times
too long, then another in a wrong place, a third and fourth all askew,
and finally the work came to a dead stand-still. But, thimbles and
thread! what happened? The instant his hand stopped, a long yellow
yardstick came flying through the window, with no one holding it, hit
him such a thwack on the shins that he roared again with the pain, and
instantly vanished.

"Why, what's the matter?" asked the other tailors, startled, as they
well might be.

"Matter!" cried Bartlemy. "Why, didn't you see that--that horrible
yardstick coming at me?"

At this they all laughed at him for a fool; for nobody but our tailor
could perceive this terrific weapon, which was doubtless invisible to
common eyes. His conscience whispered, however, that his punishment was
a reminder from the friendly goblin, and accordingly he set to work with
renewed diligence. After a while, lost in dreams of his approaching
wealth, he stopped stitching again, when, like a flash, in came the
yardstick, touched him up with a vengeance, and vanished as before; and
so it continued all the time he was sewing: the watchful yardstick would
only allow him to stop to thread his needle or turn the work.

When he had stitched all the seams, he laid the coat on the table and
heated his goose, that he might smooth them. He took care to post
himself a good way from the window, in order to get rid of the ferocious
yardstick; but the goblin was not to be baffled thus. The moment he
stopped ironing and began to count the flies on the ceiling, the goose
seemed to carry his hand up with it--irresistibly--to the end of his
nose, and gave it a good scorching! This was no joke, I can tell you,
and in a very short time Bartlemy began so to dread the visits of his
two enemies that he never left working a minute, and his needle dashed
along like magic. By sunset the coat was done, and sewed in a manner
vastly superior to the other tailors, who looked at him with envious
eyes. "What! finish a whole coat in