grumbles too. But it
does not have the same weight, and is not worth spreading.

But whoso has no horses, and makes a pair of lean oxen draw his plow,
is a cotter and must hold his tongue. In the tavern, in the town
meeting, and everywhere. His opinion is worthless, and no regular
farmer pays any attention to the poor beggar.

The professor of the Cobbler-Sebastian property, house number eight in
Eynhofen, George Fottner by name, was a cotter. And a beggarly one at
that. As to oxen, he had one, of cows very few, but a swarm of
children. Four girls and three boys, making seven according to Adam
Reese[A]; and when there was scarce enough food for the two old folks,
it took good figuring and dividing to give the young ones something.

[Footnote A: popular arithmetic primer--TRANSLATOR.]

But in the country no one ever starved yet, and so the Fottners
managed to pull their children through. As soon as one of them was
eight or nine years old, it could begin to earn a bit, and of course
there was no danger after it could quit school.

The girls soon went into service; of the boys the oldest, Georgie,
stayed at home, the second, Vitus by name, went to the Shuller Farm,
and the third--well, I am going to tell you about him.

Matthew his name was, and he came into the world long after the sixth
child, and quite unexpectedly.

At that time Fottner was already fifty, and his wife was in the
forties.

So in the opinion of all acquaintances there was absolutely no
necessity of getting a seventh child to add to their six.

In its early years this child was weakly and puny to boot; its parents
often thought it looked sickly and would soon become a little angel in
Heaven. But it was not so; Matthew thrived, became a priest
subsequently, and weighed in his prime two hundred and fifty, and not a
pound less.

His choice of a clerical profession was unforeseen, and caused by
nothing less than the pricks of conscience of the Upper-Bridge Farmer
in Eynhofen.

The same had much money, no children, and a grievous sin that weighed
on his heart. Years before he had perjured himself in a lawsuit with
his neighbor and had won thereby.

At first he did not care much, for in swearing he had taken the
precaution of turning down the fingers of his left hand. Venerable
tradition has it that in this way the oath passes downward through the
body into the ground, like a bolt striking a lightning-rod, and so can
do no harm.

[Illustr