King Alfred, in a rude disguise, was resting in the cowherd's cot; the
cowherd's wife was baking pies, and had her oven smoking hot.

"You watch these pies," exclaimed the frau; "I have to chase myself
outdoors, and see what ails the spotted cow, the way she bawls around
and roars."

King Alfred said he'd watch the pies; then started thinking of the
Danes, who fooled him with their tricks and lies, and put his bleeding
realm in chains. He studied plans to gain his own, fair visions rose
before his eyes; he'd hew a pathway to his throne--and he forgot the
matron's pies. And then the cowherd's wife came in; she smelled the
smoke, she gave a shout; she biffed him with the rolling pin, and
cried: "Ods fish, you useless lout! You are not worth the dynamite
'twould take to blow you off the map! Your head is not upholstered
right--you are a worthless trifling chap!"

When on his throne King Alfred sat, that woman had an inward ache; she
chewed the feathers from her hat because she'd made so bad a break.

It isn't safe, my friends, to say that any man's a failure flat because
he cannot shovel hay, or climb a tree, or skin a cat. The man who's
awkward with a saw, who cannot hammer in a nail, may in the future
practice law and fill his bins with shining kale. The ne'er-do-well
who cannot cook the luscious egg his hen has laid, may yet sit down and
write a book that makes the big best sellers fade. The man who blacks
your boots today, and envies you your rich cigar, next year may have
the right of way while touring in his private car.

It isn't safe at men to jeer however awkwardly they tread; they yet may
find their proper sphere--no man's a failure till he's dead.