there was once a young man who studied to become a poet. he wanted to be a poet by next easter, so that he could marry and earn his living from poetry, which he knew was just a matter of making things up. but he had no imagination. he firmly believed he had been born too late. every subject had been used up before he had a chance at it, and there was nothing in the world left to write about.
"how happy were the people born a thousand years ago," he sighed. "then it was an easy thing to be immortal. even those who were born a hundred years ago were lucky compared with me. they still had things left to make poems about. but now every subject is worn out, and it's no use for me to try my pen on such threadbare stuff."
he thought about it, and worried about it, until he grew very thin and woe-begone, the poor fellow. no doctor could help him, but there was one person who would know just the remedy he needed to set him right. she was a little old lady, wonderfully wise, who lived in a tiny gate-house in the turnpike. she opened and closed the toll gate for everyone who rode by, but she was learned in the ways of the world. she was a clever woman, who could do more than open a gate, and she knew far more than the doctor who drives in his own carriage and pays taxes.
"i must go to her," the young man said. he found her house small and tidy, but most uninteresting. not a tree, not a flower, grew anywhere near it. there was a beehive by her door - very useful; there was a potato patch - very useful; and over the ditch a blackthorn bush had flowered, and now bore fruit - very sour berries that puckered your mouth if you tasted them before they were ripened by frost.
