ve the land, and we still have our wish."

"Well," said his wife, "we could do very well with a horse and a cow."

"They are not worth wishing for," said he. "We can get them as we got
the land."

So they went on working steadily and spending wisely for another year.
At the end of that time they bought both the horse and the cow. It
seemed great good fortune to them.

"We have all we wanted, and our wish left, also," they said.

So the years passed away. Every season saw the boundaries of the farm
increase and the granaries grow fuller. All day long the farmer was
about in the fields while his wife looked after the house and the
dairy. Sometimes, as they sat alone of an evening, the plowman's wife
would remind him of the unused ring and would talk of things she would
like to have for the house. But he always said there was plenty of
time.

The man and his wife grew old and gray. Then came a day when they both
died, and the wishing ring had not been used. It was still on the
plowman's finger as he had worn it for forty years. One of his sons
was going to take it off, but the oldest said,

"Do not disturb it. There is some secret connected with it. Perhaps
our mother gave it to him, for I have often seen her look longingly at
it."

So the old plowman was buried with the ring which he had supposed to
be a wishing ring. It was not, but it had brought more good fortune
and happiness than all the wishing in the world could have given.

THE FARMER AND THE TROLL

There was once a man who owned a little farm, as fine and fruitful as
you would care to see. He had always tended it himself, too, driving
his own plow in the spring, and taking his two-wheeled cart to market
in the fall with a load of apples, potatoes, and carrots.

All of a sudden, though, things began to go badly with the farmer. His
milk curdled in the dairy and his horse kicked the traces on market
day, spilling the load and laming herself into the bargain. The eggs
were addled, and weeds choked and overran his garden, faster than he
could pull them out.

"A troll is at the bottom of this," said the farmer's wife, and to
prove it she led him to the dairy. There, on the white floor, were the
prints in mud of tiny, tiny hob-nailed shoes. The same foot prints
could be seen in the barn near the horse's stall, and that night the
farmer saw a bright little light skipping about in the dusky garden.
Of course he knew what that was, the one shining e