Lucky Hans

Hans had worked for seven whole years for a kind master. When the time came to go home, the master brought out a shining reward: a lump of gold as big as Hans’s head. “You have served well,” the master said. “Take this, and may luck follow you.”

Hans tucked the gold into his cloth, slung it over his shoulder, and started down the road, whistling. The sun was warm, and the birds sang. But after a while the gold felt heavier and heavier. His back ached, and the strap bit into his hands.

Clip-clop! A rider came trotting by on a handsome horse. The rider sat tall and easy, hardly working at all. Hans stared, dazzled. “Oh, how blessed men on horseback are!” he sighed aloud. “You sit like a king while I stumble like a turtle.”

The rider laughed. “Is your bundle so very heavy?”

“Heavy as a stone house,” Hans groaned. “I’d be the happiest fellow if I had a horse.”

“Well,” said the rider, eyeing the glittering lump, “we may both be lucky today. I’ll trade you this horse for that gold. Then you can ride home and sing all the way.”

Hans didn’t need to be asked twice. He handed over the gold and swung himself onto the horse. “I’m the luckiest man alive!” he cried, and off he went at a lively trot.

But the horse was spirited. When Hans tried to make it go faster, the horse went faster indeed—too fast! It bucked and leaped, and before Hans could shout “Whoa!” he flew off and landed in a prickly hedge.

A farmer leading a quiet brown cow helped him up. “That horse is no beginner’s animal,” the farmer said kindly. “A cow, now—steady feet, warm milk. Much safer.”

Hans rubbed his aching elbows. “Milk every day?”

“Morning and evening,” said the farmer, patting the cow’s flank. “Trade you my cow for your horse?”

“Done!” said Hans. “If I can drink fresh milk whenever I like, I’ll be the most fortunate fellow under the sun.” He took the rope and led the cow away, smiling.

By noon Hans was thirsty and hungry. He tied the cow by a stream and tried to milk her. But no milk came, no matter how he tugged. The cow kicked, nearly stamping on his toes. Hans jumped back in a hurry.

Just then a butcher came by, pushing a plump pink pig in a cart. “Your cow’s too old for milk,” he said, shaking his head. “She’s fit for nothing but the pot.”

Hans’s heart sank. “I only want a bit of good luck.”

“Luck?” said the butcher. “A pig is luck. Roast it today, sausage tomorrow. Tell you what—trade your cow for my pig.”

Hans brightened at once. “What a fine thing!” he cried. “Now I’ll have enough to share with Mother.” He took the rope and happily led the pig down the lane.

Soon he met a cheerful young fellow carrying a white goose under his arm. “Good day!” called the fellow. He looked at the pig, then left and right as if checking for watchers. He lowered his voice. “Friend, are you not afraid?”

“Afraid? Of what?” Hans asked.

“A pig was stolen in the next village not an hour ago. The constable is searching every road. If he meets you with that pig—oh, the trouble you’ll be in!”

Hans went pale. “What should I do?”

The fellow hugged his goose. “I would not wish anyone harm. Let me help. Take this goose—honest, fat, and ready for roasting—and give me the pig. Then no one can say you had a stolen animal.”

Hans did not need persuading. “You are generous as an angel,” he said, and he took the goose gratefully. “Now I am safe, and Mother will have a fine feast.”

He walked on, light of heart. The goose’s white feathers shone, and its feet dangled like little orange spoons. Near afternoon, Hans heard a merry jingling and a song: “I make knives sing and scissors bite, my stones turn dull to bright!”

It was a grinder, pushing a cart with a grindstone on top. He stopped and sharpened a traveler’s knife with a cheerful hiss. Coins clinked into his hand. “A wonderful trade,” the grinder said to Hans. “When you have a good stone, money comes tumbling in.”

Hans’s eyes widened. “If only I had a stone like that! Then I could earn as I go.”

The grinder nodded at the goose. “You have something I admire. Roast goose is a prince’s dinner. I am a simple man, but I’ll do you a favor. Trade the goose for my grindstone and a neat little whetstone besides. With those, you can sharpen every blade you meet and jingle coins all day.”

Hans clapped his hands. “Luck upon luck!” He gave the goose to the grinder and received the round grindstone and a smaller whetstone. They were heavy, but Hans hugged them like treasures. “Now I’ll never be poor,” he said.

He trudged along, the afternoon growing hotter, the stones growing heavier. Sweat trickled into his eyes. At last he reached a well by the roadside. “A drink will help,” he panted. He set the stones carefully on the well’s edge, bent down, and took a long, cool swallow.

As he lifted the whetstone again, it slipped from his damp fingers. Plop! Down it fell into the deep water. “Oh!” cried Hans, and he leaned to peer after it. The big grindstone wobbled, then rolled—kerplunk!—straight into the well as well.

Hans stood still. Then, as the ripples faded, a smile spread over his face. “Why, this is the best luck yet!” he exclaimed. “No man living is as free as I am now. No heavy gold, no wild horse, no stubborn cow, no troublesome pig, no goose to guard, no stones to carry. I have nothing to weigh me down. I can walk like the wind!”

He laughed, shook the water from his sleeves, and strode on, hands swinging and feet light. The road seemed shorter, the sky bluer, and the world friendlier than before. That very evening he reached his mother’s door.

“Mother!” he called, bursting in with a grin as bright as sunrise.

She opened her arms and hugged him tight. “What have you brought, my boy?”

Hans tapped his chest. “Only the best thing of all,” he said. “Myself, safe and happy.”

His mother looked into his shining eyes and laughed. “Then you are truly lucky, Hans.”

And Hans, who had felt lucky every step of the way, agreed with all his heart.