A cobbler passed his time in singing from morning till night; it was wonderful to see,wonderful to hear him; he was more contented making in shoes,than was any of the seven neighbor,on the contrary,who was rolling in wealth, sung but little and slept less. he was a banker; when by chance he fell into a doze at day-break, the cobbler awoke him with his song. The banker complained sadly that providence had not made sleep a saleable commodity, like edibles or at length sent for the songster, he said to him,“how much a year do you earn,master gregory?” “how much a year,sir?”said the merry cobbler laughing,“I never reckon in that way, living as i do from one day to another;somehow i manage to reach the end of the year; each day brings its meal.” “well then!how much a day do you earn,my friend?” “sometimes more,sometimes less;but the worst of it is, -and,without that our earnings would be very tolerable,-a number of days occur in the year on which we are forbidden to work;and the curate, moreover, is constantly adding some new saint to the list.”