"We were distributed, by the King's command, from the council-houses through the various towns, and proclamation was made of our great value; but no one believed in it, or even understood how to plant us. One man dug a hole in the earth and threw in his whole bushel of potatoes; another put one potato here and another there in the ground, and expected that each was to come up a perfect tree, from which he might shake down potatoes. And they certainly grew, and produced flowers and green watery fruit, but it all withered away.
Nobody thought of what was in the ground- the blessing- the potato.
Yes, we have endured and suffered, that is to say, our forefathers have; they and we, it is all one."
What a story it was!
"Well, and that will do," said the woman. "Now look at the sloe bush."
"We have also some near relations in the home of the potatoes, but higher towards the north than they grew," said the Sloes. "There were Northmen, from Norway, who steered westward through mist and storm to an unknown land, where, behind ice and snow, they found plants and green meadows, and bushes with blue-black grapes- sloe bushes. The grapes were ripened by the frost just as we are. And they called the land 'wine-land,' that is, 'Groenland,' or
'Sloeland.'"
"That is quite a romantic story," said the young man.
"Yes, certainly. But now come with me," said the wise woman, and she led him to the bee-hive.
He looked into it. What life and labor! There were bees standing in all the passages, waving their wings, so that a wholesome draught of air might blow through the great manufactory; that was their business. Then there came in bees from without, who had been born with little baskets on their feet; they brought flower-dust, which was poured out, sorted, and manufactured into honey and wax. They flew in and out. The queen-bee wanted to fly out, but then all the other bees must have gone with her. It was not yet the time for that, but still she wanted to fly out; so the others bit off her majesty's wings, and she had to stay where she was.
"Now get upon the earth bank," said the wise woman. "Come and look out over the highway, where you can see the people."
"What a crowd it is!" said the young man. "One story after another. It whirls and whirls! It's quite a confusion before my eyes. I shall go out at the back."
"No, go straight forward," said the woman. "Go straight into the crowd of people; look at them in the right way. Have an ear to hear and the right heart to feel, and you will soon invent something.
But, before you go away, you must give me my spectacles and my ear-trumpet again."
And so saying, she took both from him.
"Now I do not see the smallest thing," said the young man, "and now I don't hear anything more."
"Why, then, you can't be a poet by Easter," said the wise woman.
"But, by what time can I be one?" asked he.
"Neither by Easter nor by Whitsuntide! You will not learn how to invent anything."
"What must I do to earn my bread by poetry?"
"You can do that before Shrove Tuesday. Hunt the poets! Kill their writings and thus you will kill them. Don't be put out of countenance.
Strike at them boldly, and you'll have carnival cake, on which you can support yourself and your wife too."
"What one can invent!" cried the young man. And so he hit out boldly at every second poet, because he could not be a poet himself.
We have it from the wise woman. She knows WHAT ONE CAN INVENT.
