There once lived a man, was who born to make shoes. It wasn’t something you pick, or a path that you choose. His house was quite small, on a very short street, and all night and day, his hammer would beat. The rest of the town, thought he was blessed, his work highly prized, such was his finesse. They wore his fine boots, until they were none, and about this man, this here tale is spun.
Now one common day, a merchant comes upon, the town and its people, no map it is on. He thinks on his luck, which hasn’t been great, with strangers and places, such was his ill fate. But he pushes on, to further his trade, hoping not to be robbed, at least to be paid. When he enters the town, and the people come out, he finds them all friendly, and hope starts to sprout. They welcome him in, with offers to dwell, all keen to see, what he has to sell. By the end of the night, our merchant is grand, with the choice he had made, and out things have panned.
But when he awakes, he yells to the skies, “Who dares?!” He does scream. “How could you?!” He cries. “Someone has stolen! My favourite pair!” He shouts through the hall, and all down the stair. He charges head forth, from his gifted room, his head full of rage, his heart full of gloom. The first soul he meets, is the keeper of house, whose as old as time, and small as a mouse. He points and he shakes, his nerves and his fist, and demands to know, all that is amiss. Out of breath and of patience, the merchant just stares, the feeble old woman, no concerns for his cares. Finally her head turns, she glares at him hard, “Are you quite done? You’d think you’d been scarred. You shoes are not stolen, they’re with a dear friend. A gifted man he is, and your boots he will mend.”
|The Shoemaker – Makowski, Tadeusz (1882-1932)|