Up went St. Nicholas to the peasant once again. “Go and see the pope,” he said, “and redeem your field; you won’t lose by it.”

The peasant went to see the pope. “The Lord has grievously afflicted you, has smitten your field with hail, as smooth as a board. Let’s share the cost of it; I will take back my field, and to relieve your loss will return you half the money.”

Oh, how glad the pope was to consent! They shook hands on it at once.

Meanwhile, somehow or other, the peasant’s field righted itself; new shoots sprang up out of the old roots, the rain poured down on them, and nourished the earth; wonderful fresh corn grew up, lofty and thick; not a weed to be seen; and the ears were so full that they bowed down to earth. The little sun warmed them, and the rye was warmed through, and waved like a field of gold. The peasant bound up sheaf after sheaf, built rick after rick; carted it away and stacked it.