s
singing--his own and another's. He stopped, and asked his wife,--

"Is that you joining in my song with a little thin voice?"

"What's the matter with you? I never thought of singing with you. I
never opened my mouth."

"Who is it then?"

"No one except yourself. Any one would say you had had a drink of wine
after all."

"But I heard some one ... a little weak voice ... a little sad
voice ... joining with mine."

"I heard nothing," said his wife; "but sing again, and I'll listen."

The poor man sang again. He sang alone. His wife listened, and it was
clear that there were two voices singing--the dry voice of the poor
man, and a little miserable voice that came from the shadows under the
trees. The poor man stopped, and asked out loud,--

"Who are you who are singing with me?"

And a little thin voice answered out of the shadows by the roadside,
under the trees,--

"I am Misery."

"So it was you, Misery, who were helping me?"

"Yes, master, I was helping you."

"Well, little Master Misery, come along with us and keep us company."

"I'll do that willingly," says little Master Misery, "and I'll never,
never leave you at all--no, not if you have no other friend in the
world."

And a wretched little man, with a miserable face and little thin legs
and arms, came out of the shadows and went home with the peasant and
his wife.

It was late when they got home, but little Master Misery asked the
peasant to take him to the tavern. "After such a day as this has
been," says he, "there's nothing else to be done."

"But I have no money," says the peasant.

[Illustration: Misery seated himself firmly on his shoulders and
pulled out Handfuls of his hair.]

"What of that?" says little Master Misery. "Spring has begun, and you
have a winter jacket on. It will soon be summer, and whether you have
it or not you won't wear it. Bring it along to the tavern, and change
it for a drink."

The poor man went to the tavern with little Master Misery, and they
sat there and drank the vodka that the tavern-keeper gave them in
exchange for the coat.

Next day, early in the morning, little Master Misery began
complaining. His head ached and he could not open his eyes, and he did
not like the weather, and the children were crying, and there was no
food in the house. He asked the peasant to come with him to the tavern
again and forget all this wretchedness in a drink.

"But I've got no money," says the peasant.

"Rubbish