last, as he found himself on a wide heath that would take him more than
an hour to cross, he began to be so hot and parched that his tongue
clave to the roof of his mouth. 'I can find a cure for this,' thought
he; 'now I will milk my cow and quench my thirst': so he tied her to the
stump of a tree, and held his leathern cap to milk into; but not a drop
was to be had. Who would have thought that this cow, which was to bring
him milk and butter and cheese, was all that time utterly dry? Hans had
not thought of looking to that.

While he was trying his luck in milking, and managing the matter very
clumsily, the uneasy beast began to think him very troublesome; and at
last gave him such a kick on the head as knocked him down; and there he
lay a long while senseless. Luckily a butcher soon came by, driving a
pig in a wheelbarrow. 'What is the matter with you, my man?' said the
butcher, as he helped him up. Hans told him what had happened, how he
was dry, and wanted to milk his cow, but found the cow was dry too. Then
the butcher gave him a flask of ale, saying, 'There, drink and refresh
yourself; your cow will give you no milk: don't you see she is an old
beast, good for nothing but the slaughter-house?' 'Alas, alas!' said
Hans, 'who would have thought it? What a shame to take my horse, and
give me only a dry cow! If I kill her, what will she be good for? I hate
cow-beef; it is not tender enough for me. If it were a pig now--like
that fat gentleman you are driving along at his ease--one could do
something with it; it would at any rate make sausages.' 'Well,' said
the butcher, 'I don't like to say no, when one is asked to do a kind,
neighbourly thing. To please you I will change, and give you my fine fat
pig for the cow.' 'Heaven reward you for your kindness and self-denial!'
said Hans, as he gave the butcher the cow; and taking the pig off the
wheel-barrow, drove it away, holding it by the string that was tied to
its leg.

So on he jogged, and all seemed now to go right with him: he had met
with some misfortunes, to be sure; but he was now well repaid for all.
How could it be otherwise with such a travelling companion as he had at
last got?

The next man he met was a countryman carrying a fine white goose. The
countryman stopped to ask what was o'clock; this led to further chat;
and Hans told him all his luck, how he had so many good bargains, and
how all the world went gay and smiling with him. The countryman than
began