IN the old days, when London Bridge was lined with shops from one end to the other, and salmon swam under the arches, there lived in the town of Swaffham, about a hundred miles northward from London, a poor peddler. He had much ado to make a living, trudging about with his pack on his back and his dog at his heels, and at the close of each day’s labor he was only too glad to lie down and sleep.
It so happened one night that he dreamed a dream; and in the dream he saw the great bridge of London Town, and a voice seemed to tell him that if he went thither he would have joyful news. He made little account of the dream, but on the following night it came back to him, and likewise on the third night. Then he said within himself, “I must needs find out what truth there is in this matter.”
So off he trudged to London Town. Long was the way, and right glad was he when he stood on the great bridge and saw the tall houses to the right and left of the roadway where the teams and the people went and came, and had glimpses of the river and of the boats and ships moving about on it. All day long he paced to and fro, but he heard nothing to yield him comfort. Again, on the morrow, he stood and he gazed, and he paced afresh the length of London Bridge, but naught did he hear in the way of glad news.
The third day came, and there he was again on the bridge. He was looking about when a shopkeeper, standing at the door of his shop close by, spoke to him, saying: “Friend, this is the third day I have seen you loitering about here. I wonder much what object you have in so doing. Have you wares to sell?”
“No,” quoth the peddler.
“I have not observed you beg for alms,” said the shopkeeper.
“I am not so poor that I would need to do that,” responded the peddler, “and I shall never beg so long as I can provide for myself.”
“Then what, I pray you, do you want here?” inquired the shopkeeper, “and what is your business?”
“Well, kind sir,” responded the peddler, “to tell the truth, I dreamed that if I came thither I would have good news.”
Right heartily did the shopkeeper laugh. “Ah!” said he, “you must be a fool to go on a journey with no better excuse than that. I must tell you, my poor, silly country fellow, that I also dream at night, and thrice recently have I dreamed that I was in Swaffham, a place I never have even been near in my life, and I thought I was in a field behind a peddler’s house, and in the field was a great oak tree, and a voice seemed to tell me that if I dug beneath that tree I would find a rich treasure. But do you fancy I am so lacking in sense as to undertake a long and wearisome journey because of a foolish dream? No, my good fellow; and now I would have you take advice from a wiser man than yourself. Get you home and mind your business.”
The peddler answered never a word, but was exceedingly glad in himself and returned home speedily. As soon as possible he dug under the great oak, and there he found a prodigious treasure. It made him very rich, but he did not forget his duty in the pride of his wealth; for he rebuilt the Swaffham church. When he died a statue of him was put in the church, all in stone, with his pack on his back, and his dog at his heels. There it stands to this day a witness to the truth of this story.
