THE STORY OF THE TWO CAKES WHO LOVED EACH OTHER IN SILENCE
On the shop counter lay two gingerbread cakes. One was the shape of a man with a hat, the other of a maiden without a bonnet. Both their faces were on the side that was turned up, for they were to be looked at on that side, and not on the other. On the left the man wore a bitter almond—that was his heart. The maiden was honey-cake all over.
As they were only samples, they stayed on the counter a long time. And, at last, they fell in love with each other. But neither told the other, as should have been done, if anything was to come of it.
"He is a man and must speak first," thought she. But she was happy, for she knew he loved her.
His thoughts were far more extravagant; that is the way with men. He dreamed that he was a real street boy, and that he had four pennies of his own, and that he bought the sweet maiden and ate her up.
So they lay on the counter for weeks and weeks, and grew dry and hard.
But the thoughts of the maiden became ever more gentle and maidenly. "It is enough for me that I have lived on the same table with him," she said, and—crack! she broke in two.
