An old laborer, bent double with age and toil, was gathering sticks in a forest.
At last he grew so tired and hopeless that he threw down the bundle of sticks, and cried out: ‘I cannot bear this life any longer. Ah, I wish Death would only come and take me!’
As he spoke, Death, a grisly skeleton, appeared and said to him: ‘What wouldst thou, Mortal? I heard thee call me.’
‘Please, sir,’ replied the woodcutter, ‘would you kindly help me to lift this fagot of sticks on to my shoulder?’ We would often be sorry if our wishes were gratified.