“Why, I declare! There's a pair of galoshes,” said the watchman. They
must belong to the lieutenant who lives up there on the top floor, for they
are lying in front of the door.” A light still burned upstairs, and the honest
fellow was perfectly willing to ring the bell and return the overshoes. But he
didn't want to disturb the other tenants in the house, so he didn't do it.
“It must be quite comfortable to wear a pair of such things,” he said.
“How soft the leather feels.” They fitted his feet perfectly. “What a strange
world we live in. The lieutenant might be resting easy in his soft bed, yet
there he goes, pacing to and fro past his window. There's a happy man for
you! He has no wife, and he has no child, and every night he goes to a party.
Oh, if I were only in his place, what a happy man I would be.”
Just as he expressed his wish, the galoshes transformed him into the
lieutenant, body and soul, and there he stood in the room upstairs. Between
his fingers he held a sheet of pink paper on which the lieutenant had just
written a poem. Who is there that has not at some time in his life felt
poetic? If he writes down his thoughts while this mood is on him, poetry is
apt to come of it. On the paper was written:
IF ONLY I WERE RICH
If only I were rich; I often said in prayer
When I was but a tiny lad without much care
If only I were rich, a soldier I would be
With uniform and sword, most handsomely;
At last an officer I was, my wish I got
But to be rich was not my lot;
But You, oh Lord, would always help.
I sat one eve, so happy, young and proud;
A darling child of seven kissed my mouth
For I was rich with fairy tales, you see
With money I was poor as poor can be,
