t on in his stead.

Presently, who should come riding up to the blacksmith's shop but a rich
old nobleman and three servants. The servants were hale, stout fellows,
but the nobleman was as withered as a winter leaf. "Can you shoe my
horse?" said he to Simon Agricola, for he took him to be the smith
because of his leathern apron.

"No," says Simon Agricola; "that is not my trade: I only know how to
make old people young."

"Old people young!" said the old nobleman; "can you make me young
again?"

"Yes," said Simon Agricola, "I can, but I must have a thousand golden
angels for doing it."

"Very well," said the old nobleman; "make me young, and you shall have
them and welcome."

So Simon Agricola gave the word, and Babo blew the bellows until the
fire blazed and roared. Then the doctor caught the old nobleman, and
laid him upon the forge. He heaped the coals over him, and turned him
this way and that, until he grew red-hot, like a piece of iron. Then he
drew him forth from the fire and dipped him in the water-tank. Phizz!
The water hissed, and the steam rose up in a cloud; and when Simon
Agricola took the old nobleman out, lo and behold! He was as fresh and
blooming and lusty as a lad of twenty.

But you should have seen how all the people stared and goggled!--Babo
and the blacksmith and the nobleman's servants. The nobleman strutted up
and down for a while, admiring himself, and then he got upon his
horse again. "But wait," said Simon Agricola; "you forgot to pay me my
thousand golden angels."

"Pooh!" said the nobleman, and off he clattered, with his servants at
his heels; and that was all the good that Simon Agricola had of this
trick. But ill-luck was not done with him yet, for when the smith saw
how matters had turned out, he laid hold of the doctor and would not let
him go until he had paid him the golden angel he had promised for the
use of the forge. The doctor pulled a sour face, but all the same he
had to pay the angel. Then the smith let him go, and off he marched in a
huff.

Outside of the forge was the smith's mother--a poor old creature,
withered and twisted and bent as a winter twig. Babo had kept his eyes
open, and had not travelled with Simon Agricola for nothing. He plucked
the smith by the sleeve: "Look'ee, friend," said he, "how would you like
me to make your mother, over yonder, young again?"

"I should like nothing better," said the smith.

"Very well," said Babo; "give me the golden an