People I know in real life and online keep telling me about it. I’ve been overworking. So I’m taking a break from a lot of things that have been taking up my time for the past year or so. What is that? Work and manga.

It wasn’t easy. I kept doing stuff related for it for days, making excuses to just finish a bit of this and a bit of that. And then I reprimand myself over again.

I miss blogging. I miss posting on this blog. I miss writing out my quirky sentences and irreverent jokes about myself and those around me. In short, I miss having the time to just relax.

And what better way to start the relaxation process than to watch a cute video what makes you go “awwww”…

Old-Fashioned Fairy Tales, by Juliana Horatia Gatty Ewing

There once lived a farmer who was so avaricious and miserly, and so hard and close in all his dealings that, as folks say, he would skin a flint. A Jew and a Yorkshireman had each tried to bargain with him, and both had had the worst of it. It is needless to say that he never either gave or lent.

Now, by thus scraping, and saving, and grinding for many years, he had become almost wealthy; though, indeed, he was no better fed and dressed than if he had not a penny to bless himself with. But what vexed him sorely was that his next neighbour’s farm prospered in all matters better than his own; and this, although the owner was as open-handed as our farmer was stingy.

When in spring he ploughed his own worn-out land, and reached the top of the furrow where his field joined one of the richly-fed fields of his neighbour, he would cast an envious glance over the hedge, and say, “So far and no farther?” for he would have liked to have had the whole under his plough. And so in the autumn, when he gathered his own scanty crop and had to stop his sickle short of the close ranks of his neighbour’s corn, he would cry, “All this, and none of that?” and go home sorely discontented.

Now on the lands of the liberal farmer (whose name was Merryweather) there lived a dwarf or hillman, who made a wager that he would both beg and borrow of the covetous farmer, and out-bargain him to boot. So he went one day to his house, and asked him if he would kindly give him half a stone of flour to make hasty pudding with; adding, that if he would lend him a bag to carry it in to the hill, this should be returned clean and in good condition.

The farmer saw with half an eye that this was the dwarf from his neighbour’s estate, and as he had always laid the luck of the liberal farmer to his being favoured by the good people, he resolved to treat the little man with all civility.

“Look you, wife,” said he, “this is no time to be saving half a stone of flour when we may make our fortunes at one stroke. I have heard my grandfather tell of a man who lent a sack of oats to one of the fairies, and got it back filled with gold pieces. And as good measure as he gave of oats so he got of gold;” saying which, the farmer took a canvas bag to the flour-bin, and began to fill it. Meanwhile the dwarf sat in the larder window and cried—”We’ve a big party for supper to-night; give us good measure, neighbour, and you shall have anything under the sun that you like to ask for.”

When the farmer heard this he was nearly out of his wits with delight, and his hands shook so that the flour spilled all about the larder floor.

“Thank you, dear sir,” he said; “it’s a bargain, and I agree to it. My wife hears us, and is witness. Wife! wife!” he cried, running into the kitchen, “I am to have anything under the sun that I choose to ask for. I think of asking for neighbour Merryweather’s estate, but this is a chance never likely to happen again, and I should like to make a wise choice, and that is not easy at a moment’s notice.”

“You will have a week to think it over in,” said the dwarf, who had come in behind him; “I must be off now, so give me my flour, and come to the hill behind your house seven days hence at midnight, and you shall have your share of the bargain.”

So the farmer tied up the flour-sack, and helped the dwarf with it on to his back, and as he did so he began thinking how easily the bargain had been made, and casting about in his mind whether, he could not get more where he had so easily got much.

“And half a stone of flour is half a stone of flour,” he muttered to himself, “and whatever it may do with thriftless people, it goes a long way in our house. And there’s the bag—and a terrible lot spilled on the larder floor—and the string to tie it with, which doubtless he’ll never think of returning—and my time, which must be counted, and nothing whatever for it all for a week to come.” And the outlay so weighed upon his mind that he cleared his throat and began:

“Not for seven days, did you say, sir? You know, dear sir, or perhaps, indeed, you do not know, that when amongst each other we men have to wait for the settlement of an account, we expect something over and above the exact amount. Interest we call it, my dear sir.”

“And you want me to give you something extra for waiting a week?” asked the dwarf. “Pray, what do you expect?”

“Oh, dear sir, I leave it to you,” said the farmer. “Perhaps you may add some trifle—in the flour-bag, or not, as you think fit—but I leave it entirely to you.”

“I will give you something over and above what you shall choose,” said the dwarf; “but, as you say, I shall decide what it is to be.” With which he shouldered the flour-sack, and went his way.

For the next seven days, the farmer had no peace for thinking, and planning, and scheming how to get the most out of his one wish. His wife made many suggestions to which he did not agree, but he was careful not to quarrel with her; “for,” he said, “we will not be like the foolish couple who wasted three wishes on black-puddings. Neither will I desire useless grandeur and unreasonable elevation, like the fisherman’s wife. I will have a solid and substantial benefit.”

And so, after a week of sleepless nights and anxious days, he came back to his first thought, and resolved to ask for his neighbour’s estate.

At last the night came. It was full moon, and the farmer looked anxiously about, fearing the dwarf might not be true to his appointment. But at midnight he appeared, with the flour-bag neatly folded in his hand.

“You hold to the agreement,” said the farmer, “of course. My wife was witness. I am to have anything under the sun that I ask for; and I am to have it now.”

“Ask away,” said the dwarf.

“I want neighbour Merryweather’s estate,” said the farmer.

“What, all this land below here, that joins on to your own?”

“Every acre,” said the farmer.

“Farmer Merryweather’s fields are under the moon at present,” said the dwarf, coolly, “and thus not within the terms of the agreement. You must choose again.”

But as the farmer could choose nothing that was not then under the moon, he soon saw that he had been outwitted, and his rage knew no bounds at the trick the dwarf had played him.

“Give me my bag, at any rate,” he screamed, “and the string—and your own extra gift that you promised. For half a loaf is better than no bread,” he muttered, “and I may yet come in for a few gold pieces.”

“There’s your bag,” cried the dwarf, clapping it over the miser’s head like an extinguisher; “it’s clean enough for a nightcap. And there’s your string,” he added, tying it tightly round the farmer’s throat till he was almost throttled. “And, for my part, I’ll give you what you deserve;” saying which he gave the farmer such a hearty kick that he kicked him straight down from the top of the hill to his own back door.

“If that does not satisfy you, I’ll give you as much again,” shouted the dwarf; and as the farmer made no reply, he went chuckling back to his hill.

Old-Fashioned Fairy Tales, by Juliana Horatia Gatty Ewing

A Fool and a Knave once set up house together; which shows what a fool the Fool was.

The Knave was delighted with the agreement; and the Fool thought himself most fortunate to have met with a companion who would supply his lack of mother-wit.

As neither of them liked work, the Knave proposed that they should live upon their joint savings as long as these should last; and, to avoid disputes, that they should use the Fool’s share till it came to an end, and then begin upon the Knave’s stocking.

So, for a short time, they lived in great comfort at the Fool’s expense, and were very good company; for easy times make easy tempers.

Just when the store was exhausted, the Knave came running to the Fool with an empty bag and a wry face, crying, “Dear friend, what shall we do? This bag, which I had safely buried under a gooseberry-bush, has been taken up by some thief, and all my money stolen. My savings were twice as large as yours; but now that they are gone, and I can no longer perform my share of the bargain, I fear our partnership must be dissolved.”

“Not so, dear friend,” said the Fool, who was very good-natured; “we have shared good luck together, and now we will share poverty. But as nothing is left, I fear we must seek work.”

“You speak very wisely,” said the Knave, “And what, for instance, can you do?”

“Very little,” said the Fool; “but that little I do well.”

“So do I,” said the Knave. “Now can you plough, or sow, or feed cattle, or plant crops?”

“Farming is not my business,” said the Fool.

“Nor mine,” said the Knave; “but no doubt you are a handicraftsman. Are you clever at carpentry, mason’s work, tailoring, or shoemaking?”

“I do not doubt that I should have been had I learned the trades,” said the Fool, “but I never was bound apprentice.”

“It is the same with myself,” said the Knave; “but you may have finer talents. Can you paint, or play the fiddle?”

“I never tried,” said the Fool; “so I don’t know.”

“Just my case,” said the Knave. “And now, since we can’t find work, I propose that we travel till work finds us.”

The two comrades accordingly set forth, and they went on and on, till they came to the foot of a hill, where a merchantman was standing by his wagon, which had broken down.

“You seem two strong men,” said he, as they advanced; “if you will carry this chest of valuables up to the top of the hill, and down to the bottom on the other side, where there is an inn, I will give you two gold pieces for your trouble.”

The Knave and the Fool consented to this, saying, “Work has found us at last;” and they lifted the box on to their shoulders.

“Turn, and turn about,” said the Knave; “but the best turn between friends is a good turn; so I will lead the way up-hill, which is the hardest kind of travelling, and you shall go first down-hill, the easy half of our journey.”

The Fool thought this proposal a very generous one, and, not knowing that the lower end of their burden was the heavy one, he carried it all the way. When they got to the inn, the merchant gave each of them a gold piece, and, as the accommodation was good, they remained where they were till their money was spent. After this, they lived there awhile on credit; and when that was exhausted, they rose one morning whilst the landlord was still in bed, and pursued their journey, leaving old scores behind them.

They had been a long time without work or food, when they came upon a man who sat by the roadside breaking stones, with a quart of porridge and a spoon in a tin pot beside him.

“You look hungry, friends,” said he, “and I, for my part, want to get away. If you will break up this heap, you shall have the porridge for supper. But when you have eaten it, put the pot and spoon under the hedge, that I may find them when I return.”

“If we eat first, we shall have strength for our work,” said the Knave; “and as there is only one spoon, we must eat by turns. But fairly divide, friendly abide. As you went first the latter part of our journey, I will begin on this occasion. When I stop, you fall to, and eat as many spoonfuls as I ate. Then I will follow you in like fashion, and so on till the pot is empty.”

“Nothing could be fairer,” said the Fool; and the Knave began to eat, and went on till he had eaten a third of the porridge. The Fool, who had counted every spoonful, now took his turn, and ate precisely as much as his comrade. The Knave then began again, and was exact to a mouthful; but it emptied the pot. Thus the Knave had twice as much as the Fool, who could not see where he had been cheated.

They then set to work.

“As there is only one hammer,” said the Knave, “we must work, as we supped, by turns; and as I began last time, you shall begin this. After you have worked awhile, I will take the hammer from you, and do as much myself whilst you rest. Then you shall take it up again, and so on till the heap is finished.”

“It is not every one who is as just as you,” said the Fool; and taking up the hammer, he set to work with a will.

The Knave took care to let him go on till he had broken a third of the stones, and then he did as good a share himself; after which the Fool began again, and finished the heap.

By this means the Fool did twice as much work as the Knave, and yet he could not complain.

As they moved on again, the Fool perceived that the Knave was taking the can and the spoon with him.

“I am sorry to see you do that, friend,” said he.

“It’s a very small theft,” said the Knave. “The can cannot have cost more than sixpence when new.”

“That was not what I meant,” said the Fool, “so much as that I fear the owner will find it out.”

“He will only think the things have been stolen by some vagrant,” said the Knave—”which, indeed, they would be if we left them. But as you seem to have a tender conscience, I will keep them myself.”

After a while they met with a farmer, who offered to give them supper and a night’s lodging, if they would scare the birds from a field of corn for him till sunset.

“I will go into the outlying fields,” said the Knave, “and as I see the birds coming, I will turn them back. You, dear friend, remain in the corn, and scare away the few that may escape me.”

But whilst the Fool clapped and shouted till he was tired, the Knave went to the other side of the hedge, and lay down for a nap.

As they sat together at supper, the Fool said, “Dear friend, this is laborious work. I propose that we ask the farmer to let us tend sheep, instead. That is a very different affair. One lies on the hillside all day. The birds do not steal sheep; and all this shouting and clapping is saved.”

The Knave very willingly agreed, and next morning the two friends drove a flock of sheep on to the downs. The sheep at once began to nibble, the dog sat with his tongue out, panting, and the Knave and Fool lay down on their backs, and covered their faces with their hats to shield them from the sun.

Thus they lay till evening, when, the sun being down, they uncovered their faces, and found that the sheep had all strayed away, and the dog after them.

“The only plan for us is to go separate ways in search of the flock,” said the Knave; “only let us agree to meet here again.” They accordingly started in opposite directions; but when the Fool was fairly off, the Knave returned to his place, and lay down as before.

By and by the dog brought the sheep back; so that, when the Fool returned, the Knave got the credit of having found them; for the dog scorned to explain his part in the matter.

As they sat together at supper, the Fool said, “The work is not so easy as I thought. Could we not find a better trade yet?”

“Can you beg?” said the Knave. “A beggar’s trade is both easy and profitable. Nothing is required but walking and talking. Then one walks at his own pace, for there is no hurry, and no master, and the same tale does for every door. And, that all may be fair and equal, you shall beg at the front door, whilst I ask an alms at the back.”

To this the Fool gladly agreed; and as he was as lean as a hunted cat, charitable people gave him a penny or two from time to time. Meanwhile, the Knave went round to the back yard, where he picked up a fowl, or turkey, or anything that he could lay his hands upon.

When he returned to the Fool, he would say, “See what has been given to me, whilst you have only got a few pence.”

At last this made the Fool discontented, and he said, “I should like now to exchange with you. I will go to the back doors, and you to the front.”

The Knave consented, and at the next house the Fool went to the back door; but the mistress of the farm only rated him, and sent him away. Meanwhile, the Knave, from the front, had watched her leave the parlour, and slipping in through the window, he took a ham and a couple of new loaves from the table, and so made off.

When the friends met, the Fool was crestfallen at his ill luck, and the Knave complained that all the burden of their support fell upon him. “See,” said he, “what they give me, where you get only a mouthful of abuse!” And he dined heartily on what he had stolen; but the Fool only had bits of the breadcrust, and the parings of the ham.

At the next place the Fool went to the front door as before, and the Knave secured a fat goose and some plums in the back yard, which he popped under his cloak. The Fool came away with empty hands, and the Knave scolded him, saying, “Do you suppose that I mean to share this fat goose with a lazy beggar like you? Go on, and find for yourself.” With which he sat down and began to eat the plums, whilst the Fool walked on alone.

After a while, however, the Knave saw a stir in the direction of the farm they had left, and he quickly perceived that the loss of the goose was known, and that the farmer and his men were in pursuit of the thief. So, hastily picking up the goose, he overtook the Fool, and pressed it into his arms, saying, “Dear friend, pardon a passing ill humour, of which I sincerely repent. Are we not partners in good luck and ill? I was wrong, dear friend; and, in token of my penitence, the goose shall be yours alone. And here are a few plums with which you may refresh yourself by the wayside. As for me, I will hasten on to the next farm, and see if I can beg a bottle of wine to wash down the dinner, and drink to our good-fellowship.” And before the Fool could thank him, the Knave was off like the wind.

By and by the farmer and his men came up, and found the Fool eating the plums, with the goose on the grass beside him.

They hurried him off to the justice, where his own story met with no credit. The woman of the next farm came up also, and recognized him for the man who had begged at her door the day she lost a ham and two new loaves. In vain he said that these things also had been given to his friend. The friend never appeared; and the poor Fool was whipped and put in the stocks.

Towards evening the Knave hurried up to the village green, where his friend sat doing penance for the theft.

“My dear friend,” said he, “what do I see? Is such cruelty possible? But I hear that the justice is not above a bribe, and we must at any cost obtain your release. I am going at once to pawn my own boots and cloak, and everything about me that I can spare, and if you have anything to add, this is no time to hesitate.”

The poor Fool begged his friend to draw off his boots, and to take his hat and coat as well, and to make all speed on his charitable errand.

The Knave, took all that he could get, and, leaving his friend sitting in the stocks in his shirt-sleeves, he disappeared as swiftly as one could wish a man to carry a reprieve.

For those good folks to whom everything must be explained in full, it may be added that the Knave did not come back, and that he kept the clothes.

It was very hard on the Fool; but what can one expect if he keeps company with a Knave?