His one
son he called by his own name, Thomas Hickathrift, and he put him to
good learning, but the lad was none of the wisest, and indeed seemed to
be somewhat soft, so he got no good at all from his teaching.
Tom's father died, and his mother being tender of him, kept him as well
as she could. The slothful fellow would do nothing but sit in the
chimney-corner, and eat as much at a time as would serve four or five
ordinary men. And so much did he grow that when but ten years old he was
already eight feet high, and his hand like a shoulder of mutton.
One day his mother went to a rich farmer's house to beg a bottle of
straw for herself and Tom. "Take what you will," said the farmer, an
honest charitable man. So when she got home she told Tom to fetch the
straw, but he wouldn't and, beg as she might, he wouldn't till she
borrowed him a cart rope. So off he went, and when he came to the
farmer's, master and men were all a-trashing in the barn.
"I'm come for the straw," said Tom.
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