song, now; I've heard Jamie singin' it many a day," says
another.

"Whack! whack! thump-pet-ty crack!
In go the shoe-nails with many a smack.
Zu! zu! pull the thread through;
Soon will the shoe be, done, master, for you!

"Nay! nay! there's nothin' to pay,
If it is not mended as good as I say.
I do my work honestly--that is the thing;
Then Jamie the cobbler's as good as the king!"

And the folks passed on, or stopped to leave shoes to mend.

Jim prospered in the old stall, and they called him "Nimble Jim, the
Cobbler," for soon he was fairly installed as cobbler to the whole
country-side. He was happy, and his old mother was happy, and proud,
too, of the success of her boy, who was the light of her home and the
joy of her heart.

All day Jim worked away at his bench. Winter evenings he read his few
books by the firelight; in the cool of the summer days, or in the
early mornings, he busied himself in the little garden. His
vegetables were his pride, and for miles around no one had so trim a
garden-patch, or so many good things in it, as Nimble Jim.

Only one kind of all his plants failed to come to anything,--his
melon-vines,--and these always failed. This began to grieve him
sorely, for he was fond of melons; and, besides, he thought if he
could only raise fine ones, he might sell them for a deal of money,
like gruff, rich old Farmer Hummidge.

"Oh dear! my melons don't grow like other folkses. They don't come up
at all, or if they do they wither or spindle away," he said, losing
his temper, and tearing up some of the vines by the roots. Then he
went into the cottage, angrily, and began to pound away, driving in
big hob-nails. With the twilight, his mother called him to the simple
meal, but he was sullen and silent.

"What be the matter with ye, my Nimble Jim?" asked the good dame,
cheerily.

"Matter enough, mother! My melons wont grow; there's somethin' the
matter with them. Faith, I believe some imp has cast a spell over 'em.
I do, mother," quoth he, thumping the table with his fist until the
dishes rattled.

"Softly, softly, boy! Where's thy good nature gone?" said Mother
Growser, staring at him in wonder.

"It be well enough to say 'Softly, softly,'" said he, "and I don't
want to grieve ye, mother; but it's naught with me but hammer, stitch,
dig,--hammer, stitch, dig,--the day in, the day out, when I might be
raisin' fine melons and sellin' 'em for mints of gold in the great
city.