面包師的一打

In the Dutch colonial town later known as Albany， New York， there lived a baker， Van Amsterdam， who was as honest as he could be. Each morning， he checked and balanced his scales， and he took great care to give his customers exactly what they paid for—not more and not less.

Van Amsterdams shop was always busy， because people trusted him， and because he was a good baker as well. And never was the shop busier than in the days before December 6th， when the Dutch celebrate Saint Nicholas Day.

At that time of year， people flocked to the bakers shop to buy his fine Saint Nicholas cookies. Made of gingerbread， iced in red and white， they looked just like Saint Nicholas as the Dutch know him—tall and thin， with a high， red bishops cap， and a long， red bishops cloak.

One Saint Nicholas Day morning， the baker was just ready for business， when the door of his shop flew open. In walked an old woman， wrapped in a long black shawl. “I have come for a dozen of your Saint Nicholas cookies.”

Taking a tray， Van Amsterdam counted out twelve cookies. He started to wrap them， but the woman reached out and stopped him.

“I asked for a dozen. You have given me only twelve.”

“Madam，” said the baker， “everyone knows that a dozen is twelve.”

“But I say a dozen is thirteen，” said the woman. “Give me one more.”

Van Amsterdam was not a man to bear foolishness.“Madam， my customers get exactly what they pay for—not more and not less.”

“Then you may keep the cookies.”

The woman turned to go， but stopped at the door.

“Van Amsterdam！ However honest you may be， your heart is small and your fist is tight. Fall again， mount again， learn how to count again！”

Then she was gone.

From that day， everything went wrong in Van Amsterdams bakery. His bread rose too high or not at all. His pies were sour or too sweet. His cakes crumbled or were chewy. His cookies were burnt or doughy.

His customers soon noticed the difference. Before long， most of them were going to other bakers.

“That old woman has bewitched me，” said the baker to himself. “Is this how my honesty is rewarded？”

A year passed. The baker grew poorer and poorer. Since he sold little， he baked little， and his shelves were nearly bare. His last few customers slipped away.

Finally， on the day before Saint Nicholas Day， not one customer came to Van Amsterdams shop. At days end， the baker sat alone， staring at his unsold Saint Nicholas cookies.

“I wish Saint Nicholas could help me now，” he said. Then he closed his shop and went sadly to bed.

That night， the baker had a dream. He was a boy again， one in a crowd of happy children. And there in the midst of them was Saint Nicholas himself.

The bishops white horse stood beside him， its baskets filled with gifts. Nicholas pulled out one gift after another， and handed them to the children. But Van Amsterdam noticed something strange. No matter how many presents Nicholas passed out， there were always more to give. In fact， the more he took from the baskets， the more they seemed to hold.

Then Nicholas handed a gift to Van Amsterdam. It was one of the bakers own Saint Nicholas cookies！ Van Amsterdam looked up to thank him， but it was no longer Saint Nicholas standing there. Smiling down at him was the old woman with the long black shawl.

Van Amsterdam awoke with a start. Moonlight shone through the half-closed shutters as he lay there， thinking.

“I always give my customers exactly what they pay for，”he said， “not more and not less. But why not give more？”

The next morning， Saint Nicholas Day， the baker rose early. He mixed his gingerbread dough and rolled it out. He molded the shapes and baked them. He iced them in red and white to look just like Saint Nicholas. And the cookies were as fine as any he had made.

Van Amsterdam had just finished， when the door flew open. In walked the old woman with the long black shawl.

“I have come for a dozen of your Saint Nicholas cookies.”

In great excitement， Van Amsterdam counted out twelve cookies—and one more.

“In this shop，” he said， “from now on， a dozen is thirteen.”

“You have learned to count well，” said the woman. “You will surely be rewarded.”

She paid for the cookies and started out. But as the door swung shut， the bakers eyes seemed to play a trick on him. He thought he glimpsed the tail end of a long red cloak.

As the old woman foretold， Van Amsterdam was rewarded. When people heard he counted thirteen as a dozen， he had more customers than ever.

In fact， Van Amsterdam grew so wealthy that the other bakers in town began doing the same. From there， the practice spread to other towns， and at last through all the American colonies.

And this， they say， is how thirteen became the “bakers dozen”—a custom common for over a century， and alive in some places to this day.

在荷蘭殖民地城鎮，后來的紐約州奧爾巴尼市，住著一位面包師范·阿姆斯特丹，他為人十分誠實。每天早上，他都會檢查、調整秤，客人買多少，他就仔細地稱出準確的重量——不多也不少。

范·阿姆斯特丹的店總是很繁忙，因為人們信任他，也因為他是一個出色的面包師。每年的12月6日是荷蘭的圣尼古拉斯節，臨近節日的幾天是面包店最忙碌的時候。

每年的那個時候，人們都會涌進面包店買他那些美味的圣尼古拉斯餅干。這種餅干由姜餅加上紅色和白色的糖霜做成，看起來就像荷蘭人熟悉的圣尼古拉斯那樣——高高瘦瘦，戴著高高的主教紅帽子，披著長長的主教紅斗篷。

一個圣尼古拉斯節的早上，面包師剛做好準備，門突然被打開了。一個披著長長黑色披肩的老太太走了進來，“我要買一打你做的圣尼古拉斯餅干。”

范·阿姆斯特丹拿出托盤，數了十二個餅干。正當他開始把餅干裝起來時，那位老太太過來打斷了他。

“我要一打，你只給了我12個。”

“夫人，”面包師說，“所有人都知道一打就是12個啊。”

“但我說的一打是13個，”老太太說。“再給我一個。”

范·阿姆斯特丹不能容忍這樣的蠢事。“夫人，我的顧客買多少我就給多少，不多也不少。”

“那你留著這些餅干吧。”

老太太轉身離開，但在門口處停住了。

“范·阿姆斯特丹！你雖然誠實，但你的心很小，你的手握得太緊。吃一塹，長一智，重新學學如何數數吧！”

然后，她就離開了。

那天以后，范·阿姆斯特丹的面包店遇到了麻煩。他的面包要么膨脹得太厲害，要么完全不膨脹。……