us benefactor with a
speech.

After a few minutes, which Moor spent in talking with the soldier,
Pellicanus raised his glass, coughed again, and said, first calmly, then
in an agitated voice, whose sharp tones grew more and more subdued:

"A rogue a fool must be, 't is true,
Rog'ry sans folly will not do;
Where folly joins with roguery,
There's little harm, it seems to me.
The pope, the king, the youthful squire,
Each one the fool's cap doth attire;
He who the bauble will not wear,
The worst of fools doth soon appear.
Thee may the motley still adorn,
When, an old man, the laurel crown
Thy head doth deck, while gifts less vain,
Thine age to bless will still remain.
When fair grandchildren thee delight,
Mayst then recall this Christmas night.
When added years bring whitening hair,
The draught of wisdom then wilt share,
But it will lack the flavor due,
Without a drop of folly too.
And if the drop is not at hand,
Remember poor old Pellican,
Who, half a rogue and half a fool,
Yet has a faithful heart and whole."

"Thanks, thanks!" cried the artist, shaking the jester's hand. "Such a
Christmas ought to be lauded! Wisdom, art, and courage at one table!
Haven't I fared like the man, who picked up stones by the way side, and
to-they were changed to pure gold in his knapsack."

"The stone was crumbling," replied the jester; "but as for the gold, it
will stand the test with me, if you seek it in the heart, and not in the
pocket. Holy Blasius! Would that my grave might lack filling, as long as
my little strong-box here; I'd willingly allow it."

"And so would I!" laughed the soldier:

"Then travelling will be easy for you," said the artist. "There was a
time, when my pouch was no fuller than yours. I know by the experience of
those days how a poor man feels, and never wish to forget it. I still owe
you my after-dinner speech, but you must let me off, for I can't speak
your language fluently. In brief, I wish you the recovery of your health,
Pellican, and you a joyous life of happiness and honor, my worthy
comrade. What is your name?"

"Hans Eitelfritz von der Lucke, from Colln on the Spree," replied the
soldier. "And, no offence, Herr Moor, God will care for the monks, but
there were three poor invalid fellows in your cart. One goblet more to
t