In that time, there were two farmers with four children: one son and one daughter and two who were neither sons nor daughters. The son could smoke anything, and the daughter could drink anything, and one of the children could tell any lie and the other one could find any hidden thing.

Eventually, the farmer and the farmer died, as is the way of things, and their four children were thrown into the world to seek their fortune; the farm had been mortgaged to the local lord and so they were landless. They took to the road, which was likewise full of the starving children of other farmers, and beat against the gates of the city, which remained shut.

“Listen, my loves,” said the daughter, “if we keep drifting we’re doomed.”

“We are doomed either way,” said the finder of things. “Death is our only inheritance.”

A crowd had gathered, and the liar climbed into a tree to address them. “Justice!” they cried. “Justice is a hollow log, and honesty an unplowed field. They have shut us out of the woods, and chased us away from the streams; they have stolen our land for taxes and drowned our mothers in ditches. But I have seen a vision, a brighter future this side of heaven but that side of blood. Take up arms, my loves: we have nothing to lose but our lives!”

And the son leaned against the fence and smoked his pipe and kept his own counsel.