# The Devoted Friend

_Oscar Wilde_ · 24 min read · ages 7-12

Little Hans gives his flowers, his plank and his days to the rich Miller, who calls himself Hans’s best friend and keeps promising him an old wheelbarrow. When Hans drowns fetching the Doctor, the Miller leads the funeral and grumbles about the wheelbarrow, and the Water-rat, told of a moral, goes back into his hole.

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One morning the old Water-rat put his head out of his hole. He had bright, beady eyes and stiff gray whiskers, and his tail was like a long strip of black rubber. The little ducks were swimming about in the pond, looking just like a lot of yellow canaries, and their mother, who was pure white with bright red legs, was trying to teach them to stand on their heads in the water.

“You will never get into the best society unless you can stand on your heads,” she kept telling them, and every now and then she showed them how it was done. But the little ducks paid no attention to her. They were so young that they did not know what an advantage it is to be in society at all.

“What disobedient children!” cried the old Water-rat. “They really deserve to be drowned.”

“Nothing of the kind,” answered the Duck. “Everyone has to make a beginning, and parents can never be too patient.”

“Ah! I know nothing about the feelings of parents,” said the Water-rat. “I am not a family man. In fact, I have never been married, and I never intend to be. Love is all very well in its way, but friendship is far higher. Indeed, I know of nothing in the world that is nobler or rarer than a devoted friendship.”

“And tell me, what is your idea of the duties of a devoted friend?” asked a green Linnet, who was sitting in a willow tree close by and had overheard the conversation.

“Yes, that is just what I want to know,” said the Duck, and she swam away to the far end of the pond and stood on her head, to set her children a good example.

“What a silly question!” cried the Water-rat. “I would expect my devoted friend to be devoted to me, of course.”

“And what would you do in return?” said the little bird, swinging on a silver spray of willow and flapping his tiny wings.

“I don’t understand you,” answered the Water-rat.

“Let me tell you a story on the subject,” said the Linnet.

“Is the story about me?” asked the Water-rat. “If it is, I will listen to it, for I am extremely fond of fiction.”

“It applies to you,” answered the Linnet, and he flew down, settled on the bank, and told the story of the Devoted Friend.

“Once upon a time,” said the Linnet, “there was an honest little fellow named Hans.”

“Was he very distinguished?” asked the Water-rat.

“No,” answered the Linnet. “I don’t think he was distinguished at all, except for his kind heart and his funny, round, good-humored face. He lived all by himself in a tiny cottage, and every day he worked in his garden.

“In all the countryside there was no garden as lovely as his. Sweet William grew there, and gillyflowers, and shepherd’s purse, and fair maids of France. There were damask roses and yellow roses, lilac crocuses and gold, purple violets and white. Columbine and cuckooflower, marjoram and wild basil, the cowslip and the iris, the daffodil and the clove pink each bloomed in its turn as the months went by, one flower taking another flower’s place, so that there were always beautiful things to look at and sweet scents to smell.

“Little Hans had a great many friends, but the most devoted friend of all was big Hugh the Miller. Indeed, so devoted was the rich Miller to little Hans that he never went by his garden without leaning over the wall and picking a big bunch of flowers, or a handful of sweet herbs, or filling his pockets with plums and cherries if it was the season for fruit.

“‘Real friends should have everything in common,’ the Miller used to say, and little Hans nodded and smiled and felt very proud to have a friend with such noble ideas.

“Sometimes, it is true, the neighbors thought it strange that the rich Miller never gave little Hans anything in return, though he had a hundred sacks of flour stored away in his mill, and six milk cows, and a large flock of woolly sheep. But Hans never troubled his head about such things, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than listening to all the wonderful things the Miller used to say about the unselfishness of true friendship.

“So little Hans worked away in his garden. In spring, summer, and fall he was very happy, but when winter came and he had no fruit or flowers to take to market, he suffered a great deal from cold and hunger, and often went to bed with nothing for supper but a few dried pears or some hard nuts. In the winter he was very lonely too, because the Miller never came to see him then.

“‘There is no point in my going to see little Hans as long as the snow lasts,’ the Miller used to say to his wife, ‘for when people are in trouble they should be left alone and not bothered by visitors. That, at least, is my idea of friendship, and I am sure I am right. So I will wait until spring comes, and then I will pay him a visit, and he will be able to give me a big basket of primroses, and that will make him so happy.’

“‘You are certainly very thoughtful about others,’ answered his wife, sitting in her comfortable armchair by the big pinewood fire. ‘Very thoughtful indeed. It is a real treat to hear you talk about friendship. I am sure the minister himself couldn’t say such beautiful things as you do, though he does live in a three-story house and wear a gold ring on his little finger.’

“‘But couldn’t we ask little Hans up here?’ said the Miller’s youngest son. ‘If poor Hans is in trouble, I’ll give him half my porridge and show him my white rabbits.’

“‘What a silly boy you are!’ cried the Miller. ‘I really don’t know what use it is sending you to school. You never seem to learn anything. Why, if little Hans came up here and saw our warm fire, and our good supper, and our great barrel of red wine, he might grow envious, and envy is a most terrible thing that 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 make sure he is not led into temptation. Besides, if Hans came here, he might ask me to let him have some flour on credit, and I could not possibly do that. Flour is one thing and friendship is another, and they should never be confused. Why, the words are spelled differently and mean quite different things. Anybody can see that.’

“‘How well you talk!’ said the Miller’s wife, pouring herself a large glass of warm ale. ‘Really, I feel quite drowsy. It is just like being in church.’

“‘Lots of people act well,’ answered the Miller, ‘but very few people talk well, which shows that talking is much the harder of the two, and much the finer as well.’ And he looked sternly across the table at his little son, who felt so ashamed of himself that he hung his head and turned bright red and began to cry into his tea. But he was so young that you must excuse him.”

“Is that the end of the story?” asked the Water-rat.

“Certainly not,” answered the Linnet. “That is the beginning.”

“Then you are quite behind the times,” said the Water-rat. “Every good storyteller nowadays starts with the end, then goes on to the beginning, and finishes with the middle. That is the new method. I heard all about it the other day from a critic who was walking around the pond with a young man. He spoke about it at great length, and I am sure he must have been right, for he had blue glasses and a bald head, and whenever the young man said anything, the critic always answered ‘Pooh!’ But do 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.”

“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 told his wife that he would go down and see little Hans.

“‘Why, what a good heart you have!’ cried his wife. ‘You are always thinking of others. And be sure to take the big basket with you for the flowers.’

“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.

“‘Good morning, little Hans,’ said the Miller.

“‘Good morning,’ said Hans, leaning on his spade and smiling from ear to ear.

“‘And how have you been all winter?’ said the Miller.

“‘Well, really,’ cried Hans, ‘it’s very good of you to ask, very good indeed. I’m afraid I had rather a hard time of it, but now spring has come and I’m quite happy, and all my flowers are doing well.’

“‘We often talked about you during the winter, Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘and wondered how you were getting along.’

“‘That was kind of you,’ said Hans. ‘I was half afraid you had forgotten me.’

“‘Hans, I am surprised at you,’ said the Miller. ‘Friendship never forgets. That is the wonderful thing about it, but I am afraid you don’t understand the poetry of life. How lovely your primroses look, by the way!’

“‘They certainly are lovely,’ said Hans, ‘and it’s a lucky thing for me that I have so many. I’m going to take them to market and sell them to the mayor’s daughter, and buy back my wheelbarrow with the money.’

“‘Buy back your wheelbarrow? You don’t mean to say you sold it? What a very stupid thing to do!’

“‘Well, the fact is,’ said Hans, ‘I had to. You see, the winter was a very bad time for me, and I really had no money at all to buy bread. So first I sold the silver buttons off my Sunday coat, and then I sold my silver chain, and then I sold my big pipe, and at last I sold my wheelbarrow. But I’m going to buy them all back again now.’

“‘Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘I will give you my wheelbarrow. It is not in very good repair; in fact, one side is gone, and there is something wrong with the spokes of the wheel. But in spite of that I will give it to you. I know it is very generous of me, and a great many people would think me extremely foolish for parting with it, but I am not like the rest of the world. I think generosity is the very heart of friendship, and besides, I have a new wheelbarrow for myself. Yes, you may set your mind at rest. I will give you my wheelbarrow.’

“‘Well, really, that is generous of you,’ said little Hans, and his funny round face glowed all over with pleasure. ‘I can easily fix it up, since I have a plank of wood in the house.’

“‘A plank of wood!’ said the Miller. ‘Why, that is just what I need for the roof of my barn. There is a very large hole in it, and all the grain will get damp if I don’t patch it. How lucky that you mentioned it! It is quite remarkable how one good deed always leads to another. I have given you my wheelbarrow, and now you are going to give me your plank. Of course, the wheelbarrow is worth far more than the plank, but true friendship never notices things like that. Please fetch it at once, and I will set to work on my barn this very day.’

“‘Certainly,’ cried little Hans, and he ran into the shed and dragged the plank out.

“‘It is not a very big plank,’ said the Miller, looking it over, ‘and I am afraid that after I have mended my barn roof there won’t be any left for you to mend the wheelbarrow with. But of course, that is not my fault. And now, since I have given you my wheelbarrow, I am sure you would like to give me some flowers in return. Here is the basket, and be sure you fill it right to the top.’

“‘Right to the top?’ said little Hans, rather sadly, for it really was a very big basket, and he knew that if he filled it he would have no flowers left for the market, and he wanted very much to get his silver buttons back.

“‘Well, really,’ answered the Miller, ‘since I have given you my wheelbarrow, I don’t think it is much to ask you for a few flowers. I may be wrong, but I would have thought that friendship, true friendship, was quite free from selfishness of any kind.’

“‘My dear friend, my best friend,’ cried little Hans, ‘you are welcome to every flower in my garden. I would much rather have your good opinion than my silver buttons, any day.’ And he ran and picked all his pretty primroses and filled the Miller’s basket.

“‘Goodbye, little Hans,’ said the Miller, as he went up the hill with the plank on his shoulder and the big basket in his hand.

“‘Goodbye,’ said little Hans, and he began to dig away quite merrily, for he was so pleased about the wheelbarrow.

“The next day he was nailing up some honeysuckle against the porch when he heard the Miller’s voice calling to him from the road. So he jumped off the ladder, ran down the garden, and looked over the wall.

“There was the Miller with a large sack of flour on his back.

“‘Dear little Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘would you mind carrying this sack of flour to market for me?’

“‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Hans, ‘but I’m really very busy today. I have all my vines to nail up, and all my flowers to water, and all my grass to roll.’

“‘Well, really,’ said the Miller, ‘I think that, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, it is rather unfriendly of you to refuse.’

“‘Oh, don’t say that,’ cried little Hans. ‘I wouldn’t be unfriendly for the whole world.’ And he ran in for his cap and trudged off with the big sack on his shoulders.

“It was a very hot day, and the road was terribly dusty, and before Hans had reached the sixth milestone he was so tired that he had to sit down and rest. Still, he went on bravely, and at last he reached the market. After waiting there for some time, he sold the sack of flour for a very good price, and then he hurried straight home, for he was afraid that if he stayed too late he might meet robbers on the way.

“‘It has certainly been a hard day,’ little Hans said to himself as he was going to bed, ‘but I’m glad I didn’t refuse the Miller, for he is my best friend, and besides, he is going to give me his wheelbarrow.’

“Early the next morning the Miller came down to collect the money for his sack of flour, but little Hans was so tired that he was still in bed.

“‘Upon my word,’ said the Miller, ‘you are very lazy. Really, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, I think you might work harder. Idleness is a great sin, and I certainly don’t like any of my friends to be idle or sluggish. You must not mind my speaking quite plainly to you. Of course I would never dream of doing so if I were not your friend. But what is the good of friendship if one cannot say exactly what one means? Anybody can say charming things and try to please and flatter, but a true friend always says unpleasant things and does not mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he prefers it, for he knows that then he is doing good.’

“‘I’m very sorry,’ said little Hans, rubbing his eyes and pulling off his nightcap, ‘but I was so tired that I thought I would lie in bed a little while and listen to the birds singing. Did you know that I always work better after I’ve heard the birds sing?’

“‘Well, I am glad of that,’ said the Miller, clapping little Hans on the back, ‘for I want you to come up to the mill as soon as you are dressed and mend my barn roof for me.’

“Poor little Hans was longing to go and work in his garden, for his flowers had not been watered for two days, but he did not want to refuse the Miller, who was such a good friend to him.

“‘Do you think it would be unfriendly of me if I said I was busy?’ he asked in a shy, timid voice.

“‘Well, really,’ answered the Miller, ‘I do not think it is much to ask of you, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow. But of course, if you refuse, I will go and do it myself.’

“‘Oh no, I wouldn’t hear of it!’ cried little Hans, and he jumped out of bed, got dressed, and went up to the barn.

“He worked there all day long, and at sunset the Miller came to see how he was getting along.

“‘Have you mended the hole in the roof yet, little Hans?’ called the Miller in a cheery voice.

“‘It’s all mended,’ answered little Hans, coming down the ladder.

“‘Ah!’ said the Miller. ‘There is no work so delightful as the work one does for others.’

“‘It is certainly a great privilege to hear you talk,’ answered little Hans, sitting down and wiping his forehead, ‘a very great privilege. But I’m afraid I’ll never have such beautiful ideas as you have.’

“‘Oh, they will come to you,’ said the Miller, ‘but you must take more pains. At present you have only the practice of friendship. Someday you will have the theory as well.’

“‘Do you really think I will?’ asked little Hans.

“‘I have no doubt of it,’ answered the Miller. ‘But now that you have mended the roof, you had better go home and rest, for I want you to drive my sheep up the mountain tomorrow.’

“Poor little Hans was afraid to say anything to this, and early the next morning the Miller brought his sheep around to the cottage, and Hans set off with them for the mountain. It took him the whole day to get there and back, and when he came home he was so tired that he fell asleep in his chair and did not wake up until it was broad daylight.

“‘What a lovely time I’ll have in my garden!’ he said, and he went to work at once.

“But somehow he was never able to look after his flowers at all, for his friend the Miller was always coming around and sending him off on long errands, or getting him to help at the mill. At times little Hans was very upset, because he was afraid his flowers would think he had forgotten them, but he comforted himself with the thought that the Miller was his best friend. ‘Besides,’ he used to say, ‘he is going to give me his wheelbarrow, and that is an act of pure generosity.’

“So little Hans worked away for the Miller, and the Miller said all kinds of beautiful things about friendship, which Hans copied into a notebook and used to read over at night, for he could read and write very well.

“Now it happened that one evening little Hans was sitting by his fire when there came a loud knock at the door. It was a very wild night, and the wind was blowing and roaring around the house so terribly that at first he thought it was only the storm. But a second knock came, and then a third, louder than either of the others.

“‘It’s some poor traveler,’ said little Hans to himself, and he ran to the door.

“There stood the Miller with a lantern in one hand and a big stick in the other.

“‘Dear little Hans,’ cried the Miller, ‘I am in great trouble. My little boy has fallen off a ladder and hurt himself, and I am going for the Doctor. But he lives so far away, and it is such a bad night, that it has just occurred to me it would be much better if you went instead of me. You know I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, and so it is only fair that you should do something for me in return.’

“‘Certainly,’ cried little Hans. ‘I take it as a real compliment that you came to me, and I’ll set off at once. But you must lend me your lantern, because the night is so dark that I’m afraid I might fall into the ditch.’

“‘I am very sorry,’ answered the Miller, ‘but it is my new lantern, and it would be a great loss to me if anything happened to it.’

“‘Well, never mind, I’ll do without it,’ cried little Hans, and he took down his big fur coat and his warm scarlet cap, wound a scarf around his throat, and set off.

“What a dreadful storm it was! The night was so black that little Hans could hardly see, and the wind was so strong that he could barely stand. But he was very brave, and after he had been walking for about three hours, he came to the Doctor’s house and knocked at the door.

“‘Who is there?’ cried the Doctor, putting his head out of his bedroom window.

“‘Little Hans, Doctor.’

“‘What do you want, little Hans?’

“‘The Miller’s son has fallen off a ladder and hurt himself, and the Miller wants you to come at once.’

“‘All right!’ said the Doctor, and he called for his horse, his big boots, and his lantern, came downstairs, and rode off toward the Miller’s house, with little Hans trudging behind him.

“But the storm grew worse and worse. The rain came down in torrents, and little Hans could neither see where he was going nor keep up with the horse. At last he lost his way and wandered out onto the moor, which was a very dangerous place, for it was full of deep holes, and there poor little Hans was drowned. The next day some goatherds found his body floating in a great pool of water, and they carried it back to the cottage.

“Everybody went to little Hans’s funeral, because he was so well liked, and the Miller was the chief mourner.

“‘Since I was his best friend,’ said the Miller, ‘it is only fair that I should have the best place.’ So he walked at the head of the procession in a long black cloak, and every now and then he wiped his eyes with a big pocket handkerchief.

“‘Little Hans is certainly a great loss to everyone,’ said the Blacksmith, when the funeral was over and they were all sitting comfortably in the inn, drinking spiced wine and eating sweet cakes.

“‘A great loss to me, at any rate,’ answered the Miller. ‘Why, I had as good as given him my wheelbarrow, and now I really don’t know what to do with it. It is very much in my way at home, and it is in such bad repair that I couldn’t get anything for it if I sold it. I will certainly take care never to give anything away again. One always suffers for being generous.’”

“Well?” said the Water-rat, after a long pause.

“Well, that is the end,” said the Linnet.

“But what became of the Miller?” asked the Water-rat.

“Oh! I really don’t know,” replied the Linnet, “and I am sure I don’t care.”

“It is quite clear, then, that you have no sympathy in your nature,” said the Water-rat.

“I am afraid you don’t quite see the moral of the story,” said the Linnet.

“The what?” screamed the Water-rat.

“The moral.”

“Do you mean to say that the story has a moral?”

“Certainly,” said the Linnet.

“Well, really,” said the Water-rat, very angrily, “I think you should have told me that before you began. If you had, I certainly would not have listened to you; in fact, I would have said ‘Pooh,’ like the critic. However, I can say it now.” So he shouted “Pooh!” at the top of his voice, gave a flick of his tail, and went back into his hole.

“And how do you like the Water-rat?” asked the Duck, who came paddling up a few minutes later. “He has a great many good points, but for my own part, I have a mother’s feelings, and I can never look at a confirmed bachelor without tears coming into my eyes.”

“I am rather afraid that I have annoyed him,” answered the Linnet. “The fact is, I told him a story with a moral.”

“Ah! That is always a very dangerous thing to do,” said the Duck.

And I quite agree with her.

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- Read online: https://talerie.com/en/tales/the-devoted-friend-original
- Wikidata: https://www.wikidata.org/wiki/Q3818426
- Source: The Happy Prince and Other Tales, by Oscar Wilde (Project Gutenberg #30120) (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/30120)
- Public-domain basis: Talerie contemporary retelling (CC0 2026), based on: The Happy Prince and Other Tales, by Oscar Wilde (Project Gutenberg #30120) — original: author died 1900 (+70 passed)
- License: CC0-1.0 (https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/)