HIS story begins on a beautiful, warm summer day, many years ago—a Sunday, moreover. The birds were chirping sweetly in the calm woods; around the edges of the yellow-tinted cornfields shone thousands of many-colored, sweet-scented flowers; in short, everything was peaceful, quiet, and agreeable.

At the outskirts of Timmylimtimtown there lived a fat old monk who had settled in the neighborhood of a small chapel, where the peasants would hold their service on Sunday morning. So the worthy Father Jonas had repaired to the place of meeting on this particular Sunday morning, and the members of his flock arrived, one after another, when Brother Timmy Timmylim, who lived a short distance down the road, appeared, standing at his gate, enjoying the beautiful, fresh morning breeze. The bees hummed merrily; one butterfly after another danced across the road, while Timmy stood leaning on the gate, meditating if he might not spend his Sunday in a more profitable way than sitting in the