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There was once upon a time a child who had Good Luck for his godfather.

“I am not Fortune,” said Good Luck to the parents; “I have no gifts to bestow, but whenever he needs help I will be at hand.”

“Nothing could be better,” said the old couple. They were delighted. But what pleases the father often fails to satisfy the son: moreover, every man thinks that he deserves just a little more than he has got, and does not reckon it to the purpose if his father had less.

Many a one would be thankful to have as good reasons for contentment as he who had Good Luck for his godfather.

If he fell, Good Luck popped something soft in the way to break his fall; if he fought, Good Luck directed his blows, or tripped up his adversary; if he got into a scrape, Good Luck helped him out of it; and if ever Misfortune met him, Good Luck contrived to hustle her on the pathway till his godson got safely by.

In games of hazard the godfather played over his shoulder. In matters of choice he chose for him. And when the lad began to work on his father’s farm the farmer began to get rich. For no bird or field-mouse touched a seed that his son had sown, and every plant he planted throve when Good Luck smiled on it.

The boy was not fond of work, but when he did go into the fields, Good Luck followed him.

“Your christening-day was a blessed day for us all,” said the old farmer.

“He has never given me so much as a lucky sixpence,” muttered Good Luck’s godson.

“I am not Fortune–I make no presents,” said the godfather.

When we are discontented it is oftener to please our neighbours than ourselves. It was because the other boys had said–“Simon, the shoemaker’s son, has an alderman for his godfather. He gave him a silver spoon with the Apostle Peter for the handle; but thy godfather is more powerful than any alderman”–that Good Luck’s godson complained, “He has never given me so much as a bent sixpence.”

By and by the old farmer died, and his son grew up, and had the largest farm in the country. The other boys grew up also, and as they looked over the farmer’s boundary-wall, they would say:

“Good-morning, Neighbour. That is certainly a fine farm of yours. Your cattle thrive without loss. Your crops grow in the rain and are reaped with the sunshine. Mischance never comes your road. What you have worked for you enjoy. Such success would turn the heads of poor folk like us. At the same time one would think a man need hardly work for his living at all who has Good Luck for his godfather.”

“That is very true,” thought the farmer. “Many a man is prosperous, and reaps what he sows, who had no more than the clerk and the sexton for gossips at his christening.”

“What is the matter, Godson?” asked Good Luck, who was with him in the field.

“I want to be rich,” said the farmer.

“You will not have to wait long,” replied the godfather. “In every field you sow, in every flock you rear there is increase without abatement. Your wealth is already tenfold greater than your father’s.”

“Aye, aye,” replied the farmer. “Good wages for good work. But many a young man has gold at his command who need never turn a sod, and none of the Good People came to his christening. Fortunatus’s Purse now, or even a sack or two of gold–“

“Peace!” cried the godfather; “I have said that I give no gifts.”

Though he had not Fortunatus’s Purse, the farmer had now money and to spare, and when the harvest was gathered in, he bought a fine suit of clothes, and took his best horse and went to the royal city to see the sights.