"Unlucky Wolfert!" Exclaimed He, "Others Can Go To Bed And Dream
Themselves Into Whole Mines Of Wealth; They Have But
To seize a spade
in the morning, and turn up doubloons like potatoes; but thou must
dream of hardship, and
Rise to poverty - must dig thy field from year's
end to year's end, and - and yet raise nothing but cabbages!"
Wolfert Webber went to bed with a heavy heart; and it was long before
the golden visions that disturbed his brain, permitted him to sink into
repose. The same visions, however, extended into his sleeping thoughts,
and assumed a more definite form. He dreamt that he had discovered an
immense treasure in the centre of his garden. At every stroke of the
spade he laid bare a golden ingot; diamond crosses sparkled out of the
dust; bags of money turned up their bellies, corpulent with pieces of
eight, or venerable doubloons; and chests, wedged close with moidores,
ducats, and pistareens, yawned before his ravished eyes, and vomited
forth their glittering contents.
Wolfert awoke a poorer man than ever. He had no heart to go about his
daily concerns, which appeared so paltry and profitless; but sat all
day long in the chimney-corner, picturing to himself ingots and heaps
of gold in the fire. The next night his dream was repeated. He was
again in his garden, digging, and laying open stores of hidden wealth.
There was something very singular in this repetition. He passed another
day of reverie, and though it was cleaning-day, and the house, as usual
in Dutch households, completely topsy-turvy, yet he sat unmoved amidst
the general uproar.
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