now i shall tell a story about good luck. we all know good luck: some see it from year’s end to year’s end, others only at certain seasons, on a certain day; there are even people who only see it once in their lives, but see it we all do.

now i need not tell you, for every one knows it, that god sends the little child and lays it in a mother’s lap, it may be in the rich castle, and in the well-to-do house, but it may also be in the open field where the cold wind blows. every one does not know, however, but it is true all the same, that god, when he brings the child, brings also a lucky gift for it: but it is not laid openly by its side; it is laid in some place in the world where one would least expect to find it, and yet it always is found: that is the best of it. it may be laid in an apple; it was so for a learned man who was called newton: the apple fell, and so he found his good luck. if you do not know the story, then ask some one who knows it to tell it you. i have another story to tell, and that is a story about a pear.

once upon a time there was a man who was born in poverty, had grown up in poverty, and in poverty he had married. he was a turner by trade and made, especially, umbrella handles and rings; but he only lived from hand to mouth. “i never find good luck,” he said. this is a story that really happened, and one could name the country and the place where the man lived, but that doesn’t matter.

the red, sour rowan-berries grew in richest profusion about his house and garden. in the garden there was also a pear-tree, but it did not bear a single pear, and yet the good luck was laid in that pear-tree, laid in the invisible pears.

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