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Updated: May 28, 2025
We greeted these things as children greet the loved pictures in a story book, lost and mourned and found again. It was marvelous how well we knew them. Beside the road we saw a plow-boy straddle, whistling on a stile. Gainsborough might have painted him. Beyond the stile, across the level velvet of a meadow, a footpath lay, like a thread of darker woof.
He therefore took him into his service as plow-boy, for he needed just such a lad to guide the oxen while he held the handles of the plow. Thus Jack became the servant of a worthy man in the village on the edge of the forest. But he was of little use, because he had not paid attention when good instruction was given him.
Then he ordered his plow-boy to take him home again. Quite a few of the folks at home, to whom he described his adventures, thought that Old Dschang must be a holy man, while others regarded the whole thing a magic vision. After five or six years Sir We's money came to an end. So his son took the straw hat to Yangdschou and there asked for old Wang.
I believe they do too. Why our Jack, the plow-boy, spends half his time in going to a shop in our market town, where they let out books to read, with marble covers. And they sell paper with all manner of colors on the edges, and gim-cracks, and powder-puffs, and wash-balls, and cards without any pips, and every thing in the world that's genteel and of no use.
One day he saw his father's plow-boy come galloping up to the door in great haste. This boy brought Brown word that his mother was dangerously ill, and that his father had sent his own best bay mare Smiler, that his son might lose no time, but set out directly to see his mother before she died.
Young We followed the plow-boy, intending to greet his brother-in-law. But when he reached the inn there was no one in sight. And when he turned around the plow-boy had disappeared as well. And since that time no one ever heard from Old Dschang again. There are old women who make their living at this profession. Once upon a time there was a man named Du Dsi Tschun.
Jack, the plow-boy, on whom they had now put a livery jacket, was employed half his time in trotting backward and forward with the most wretched trash the little neighboring bookshop could furnish. The choice was often left to Jack, who could not read, but who had general orders to bring all the new things, and a great many of them.
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