A cobbler passed his time in singing from morning till night; it was wonderful to see, wonderful to hear him. He was more contented than any of the seven sages. His neighbor, on the contrary, who was rolling in wealth, sang 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 saleable commodity, like food or drink. Having at length sent for the songster, he said to him, "How much a year do you earn, Master Gregory?"
"How much a year, sir?" said the merry cobbler, laughing. "I never reckon in that way, living as I do from one day to another. Somehow I manage to reach the end of the year; each day brings its meal."
"Well then! How much a day do you earn, my friend?"
"Sometimes more, sometimes less," replied the cobbler. "But the worst of it is that a number of days occur in the year on which we are forbidden to work; and the priest is constantly adding some new saint to the list."
The banker, laughing at his simplicity, said, "In the future I shall place you above want. Take these hundred crowns, preserve them carefully, and make use of them in time of need."
The cobbler fancied he beheld all the wealth which the earth had produced. 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, he thought the cat was robbing him.
At length the poor man ran to the house of his rich neighbor. "Give me back," said he, "my sleep and my voice, and take your hundred crowns."