Though it was fairly earned:
So silly Soft,
When perched aloft
In that great forest, learned."
"How was that?" asked Gold. And Slow told the story of
SOFT, THE WEAVER
In a certain town lived a weaver. His name was Soft, and he spent his time making garments dyed in various patterns, fit for such people as princes. But for all his labors, he could not collect a bit of money beyond food and clothes. Yet he saw other weavers, who made coarse fabrics, rolling in wealth, and he said to his wife: "Look at these fellows, my dear. They make coarse stuff, but they earn heaps of money. This city does not offer me a decent living. I am going to move."
"Oh, my dear," said his wife, "it is a mistake to say that money comes to those who travel. There is a proverb:
What shall not be, will never be;
What shall be, follows painlessly:
The thing your fingers grasp, will flit,
If fate has predetermined it.
And again:
A calf can find its mother cow
Among a thousand kine:
So good or evil done, returns
And whispers: 'I am thine.'
