Towards morning he lit a candle and dressed himself.  He was in a terrible humour; and when he began to shave, his hand shook and he cut himself.  The draughts made the flame of the candle unsteady too, and the shadow of the Miller’s nose (which was a large one) fell in uncertain shapes upon his cheeks, and interfered with the progress of the razor.  At first he thought he would wait till daylight.  Then his temper got the better of him.

“I won’t,” he said, “I won’t; why should I?”

So he began again.  He held on by his nose to steady his cheeks, and he gave it such a spiteful pinch that the tears came into his eyes.

“Matters have come to a pretty pass, when a man’s own nose is to stand in his light,” said he.

By and by a gust of wind came through the window.  Up flared the candle, and the shadow of the Miller’s nose danced half over his face, and the razor gashed his chin.

Transported with fury, he struck at it before he could think what he was doing.  The razor was very sharp, and the tip of the Miller’s nose came off as clean as his whiskers.

When daylight came, and he saw himself in the glass, he resolved to leave the place.

“I won’t stay here to be a laughing-stock,” said he.

As he trudged out on to the highway, with his bundle on his back, the Baron met him and pitied him.  He dismounted from his horse, and leading it up to the Miller, he said: 

“Friend, you are elderly to be going far afoot.  I will lend you my mare to take you to your destination.  When you are there, knot the reins and throw them on her shoulder, saying, ‘Home!’ She will then return to me.  But mark one thing,—­she is not used to whip or spur.  Humour her, and she will carry you well and safely.”

The Miller mounted willingly enough, and set forward.  At first the mare was a little restive.  The Miller had no spurs on, but, in spite of the Baron’s warning, he kicked her with his heels.  On this, she danced till the Miller’s hat and bundle flew right and left, and he was very near to following them.

“Ah, you vixen!” he cried.  “You think I’ll humour you as the Baron does.  But I won’t—­no, you shall see that I won’t!” And gripping his walking-stick firmly in his hand, he belaboured the Baron’s mare as if she had been a donkey.

On which she sent the Miller clean over her head, and cantered back to the castle; and wherever it was that he went to, he had to walk.

He never returned to his native village, and everybody was glad to be rid of him.  One must bear and forbear with his neighbours, if he hopes to be regretted when he departs.

But my grandmother says that long after the mill had fallen into ruin, the story was told as a warning to wilful children of the Miller who cut off his nose to spite his own face.

THE MAGIC JAR.

There was once a young fellow whom fortune had blessed with a good mother, a clever head, and a strong body.  But beyond this she had not much favoured him; and though able and willing to work, he had often little to do, and less to eat.  But his mother had taught him to be contented with his own lot, and to feel for others.  Moreover, from her he inherited a great love for flowers.