The king has got _sore feet_--from wearing tight boots, they
say,--and sits in an arm-chair with his feet wrapped up in a flannel.
We saw it all just a while ago."

"I took stock of His Majesty's feet that day," said Caspar promptly,
"the day he was out on the 'Green.' I can't help measuring people's feet
with my eye," he added apologetically to the swallows; "you see, it's my
trade, and it is the only thing I am good at."

But ere he had finished speaking, the friendly swallows had described
their last swift circle in the air, and, with a sharp scream of
"Goodnight," had darted into their nests under the old pointed roof.

That evening, ere he lay down in _his_ nest, poor Caspar had cut out of
soft, well-tanned leather a pair of shoes, which he knew to be the
king's own measure. "Ah," said Caspar, "the poor king must have his new
shoes as soon as possible, for it is awful to suffer toe-ache, and to be
obliged to sit all day long with one's feet swathed in flannel." And
Caspar sat with his leather apron on, and wrought as if for life and
death at the new shoes. He was too busy even to rise and look at the
window for little Mabel passing by.

At last they were completed. Then the humpbacked cobbler, having washed
his hands, and brushed his one coat, went off, quivering with
excitement, bearing the new shoes in his hands, away downstairs, and
through the narrow street under the castle wall, till he came and stood
before the castle gate. Here the sentinel on duty demanded what he
wanted.

"Pair of shoes for His Majesty," responded Caspar in a businesslike
manner, and was admitted.

When he had crossed the courtyard, and had arrived at the entrance of
the inner apartments, he was accosted by a couple of lackeys covered
with gold lace, and with powdered hair.

"Heigho! What's all this!" they exclaimed. "Where dost thou hail from,
old Hop-o'-my-thumb?"

"I am Caspar the cobbler, of Cobweb Corner," replied the little man
gravely; "as you may perceive by these new shoes which I bring for the
king, and which are His Majesty's exact fit."

"Begone, knave!" cried the lackeys indignantly. "Dost thou imagine the
king would wear anything contrived by the likes of thee. Be off, old
mountebank, ere thou and thy shoes are flung into the castle dungeon!"

In vain poor Caspar intreated; they would not even listen to him. At
last, in utter terror for his life, he hurried away, disappointed,
mortified, sick at heart, carrying t