His neighbor, on the contrary, who was rolling in wealth, sung but little and slept less. He was a banker; when by chance he fell into a doze at daybreak, the cobbler awoke him with his song. The banker complained sadly that providence had not made sleep a salable commodity, like edibles or drinkable.
Sometimes more, sometimes less; but the worst of it is, -- and, without that our earnings would be very tolerable -- a number of days occur in the year, on which we are forbidden to work; and the curate, moreover, is constantly adding some new saint to the list.
The cobbler fancied he beheld all the wealth which the earth had produced in the past century for the use of mankind. Returning home, he buried his money and his happiness at the same time. No more singing; he lost his voice, the moment he acquired that which is the source of so much grief.
Sleep quitted his dwelling; and cares, suspicions, and false alarms took its place, all day, his eye wandered in the direction of his treasure; and at night, if some stray cat made a noise, the cat was robbing him. At length the poor man ran to the house of his rich neighbor; "Give me back." said he, "sleep and my voice, and take your hundred crowns."