The Complete Short Fiction by Oscar Wilde, Ian Small

snow lasts,” the Miller used to say to his wife, “for when people are in trouble they should be left alone, and not be bothered by visitors. That at least is my idea about friendship, and I am sure I am right. So I shall wait till the spring comes, and then I shall pay him a visit, and he will be able to give me a large basket of primroses, and that will make him so happy.”
    â€˜â€œYou are certainly very thoughtful about others,” answered the Wife, as she sat in her comfortable armchair by the big pinewood fire; “very thoughtful indeed. It is quite a treat to hear you talk about friendship. I am sure the clergyman himself could not say such beautiful things as you do, though he does live in a three-storied house, and wears a gold ring on his little finger.”
    â€˜â€œBut could we not ask little Hans up here?” said the Miller’s youngest son. “If poor Hans is in trouble I will give him half my porridge, and show him my white rabbits.”
    â€˜â€œWhat a silly boy you are!” cried the Miller; “I really don’t know what is the use of sending you to school. You seem not to learn anything. Why, if little Hans came up here, and saw our warm fire, and our good supper, and our great cask of red wine, he might get envious, and envy is a most terrible thing, and would spoil anybody’s nature. I certainly will not allow Hans’s nature to be spoiled. I am his best friend, and I will always watch over him, and see that he is not led into any temptations. Besides, if Hans came here, he might ask me to let him have some flour on credit, and that I could not do. Flour is one thing, and friendship is another, and they should not be confused. Why, the words arespelt differently, and mean quite different things. Everybody can see that.”
    â€˜â€œHow well you talk!” said the Miller’s Wife, pouring herself out a large glass of warm ale; “really I feel quite drowsy. It is just like being in church.”
    â€˜â€œLots of people act well,” answered the Miller; “but very few people talk well, which shows that talking is much the more difficult thing of the two, 2 and much the finer thing also;” and he looked sternly across the table at his little son, who felt so ashamed of himself that he hung his head down, and grew quite scarlet, and began to cry into his tea. However, he was so young that you must excuse him.’
    â€˜Is that the end of the story?’ asked the Water-rat.
    â€˜Certainly not,’ answered the Linnet, ‘that is the beginning.’
    â€˜Then you are quite behind the age,’ said the Water-rat. ‘Every good story-teller nowadays starts with the end, and then goes on to the beginning, and concludes with the middle. That is the new method. I heard all about it the other day from a critic who was walking round the pond with a young man. He spoke of the matter at great length, and I am sure he must have been right, for he had blue spectacles and a bald head, and whenever the young man made any remark, he always answered “Pooh!” But pray go on with your story. I like the Miller immensely. I have all kinds of beautiful sentiments myself, so there is a great sympathy between us.’
    â€˜Well,’ said the Linnet, hopping now on one leg and now on the other, ‘as soon as the winter was over, and the primroses began to open their pale yellow stars, the Miller said to his wife that he would go down and see little Hans.
    â€˜â€œWhy, what a good heart you have!” cried his wife; “you are always thinking of others. And mind you take the big basket with you for the flowers.”
    â€˜So the Miller tied the sails of the windmill together with a strong iron chain, and went down the hill with the basket on his arm.
    â€˜â€œGood morning, little Hans,” said the Miller.
    â€˜â€œGood morning,” said Hans, leaning on his spade, and smiling from ear to