“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!” says little Master Misery; “you have a sledge and a cart.”

They took the cart and the sledge to the tavern, and stayed there drinking until the tavern-keeper said they had had all that the cart and the sledge were worth.  Then the tavern-keeper took them and threw them out of doors into the night, and they picked themselves up and crawled home.

Next day Misery complained worse than before, and begged the peasant to come with him to the tavern.  There was no getting rid of him, no keeping him quiet.  The peasant sold his barrow and plough, so that he could no longer work his land.  He went to the tavern with little Master Misery.

A month went by like that, and at the end of it the peasant had nothing left at all.  He had even pledged the hut he lived in to a neighbour, and taken the money to the tavern.

And every day little Master Misery begged him to come.  “There I am not wretched any longer,” says Misery.  “There I sing, and even dance, hitting the floor with my heels and making a merry noise.”

“But now I have no money at all, and nothing left to sell,” says the poor peasant.  “I’d be willing enough to go with you, but I can’t, and here is an end of it.”