Beryl the Milkman imagined he was the most unfortunate man in all of Vaysechvoos. Certainly,” he concluded, “I’m the loneliest.” And the townspeople agreed. Skinny as a beanpole, Beryl was shy and withdrawn. He was an orphan, and the only creatures with which he conversed were a few milk cows he inherited from his father.
Being a milkman was not a bad life. In fact, it was said that a milkman would make a good husband and father since his family would always have fresh milk and cheese (if he had a family, that is). However, Beryl was so particular—and so very timid—that he bypassed the most eligible young women of Vaysechvoos. He told himself that was because he could do better. But in his heart he knew it was an excuse for his cowardice. And so he remained alone.
Now he was almost past the “marrying age.” His work kept him busy, for he had increased his herd considerably. But when the work was finished and the sun went down, Beryl entered his little house and stared at the empty rooms. He spent his evenings moaning to himself about how he was the loneliest man in the entire province.
One day when Beryl could stand it no longer, he went to the rabbi of Vaysechvoos to ask him to say a prayer. “Pray that the Almighty might end my loneliness.” The rabbi agreed to pray, and as Beryl shuffled to the door to leave, the old teacher exclaimed in a mysterious voice, “Go and see the Widow Fruma. She isvery wise and can advise you how to solve your problem.”
Beryl took the rabbi’s advice and called upon Fruma the Wise Woman. Now Fruma had a pleasant way about her, and when it came to intelligence, there were few who could match her. Her figure was stocky, her face was round, but her eyes were penetrating. She listened to Beryl’s lament and advised him:
“You say you’re lonely. I tell you, you need not be lonely, but you must do exactly as I say. You have a number of fine milk cows and a house that is empty. Why not bring three of the cows inside your home? After all, they give you your livelihood, and they should share in your comfort.”
It made sense to Beryl and so he thanked Fruma and went home, and did as she said. But after a week, the skinny milkman was beside himself. He rushed over to the home of Fruma the Wise Woman and with urgency in his shrill voice, he complained, “With all due respect, Widow Fruma, I have to tell you that having the milk cows in my house is not working out well. They are breaking the furniture and making a shambles of my little dwelling. Cleaning up after them is exhausting. And the smell of these animals is almost unbearable!”
Fruma listened intently, nodding her head at all the appropriate moments. She sympathized, “My dear Reb Beryl, you have been too impatient. Come back in a month and I’m sure you’ll understand the wisdom of keeping the cows in your house. If you send them out now, this entire week will have been in vain.”
She smiled at him warmly, and Beryl grudgingly agreed to keep the milk cows indoors. But how he suffered. And the poor cows suffered too! They longed for the open pasture. And they made their complaints known by constant lowing. Yet Beryl kept his word. And at the end of the torturous month he returned to the wise woman. Gaunt and haggard from lack of sleep, Beryl looked like a man who had lost a battle—one thousand years before—and he smelled even worse. The Widow Fruma looked at him with doleful eyes.
“What you must do now, Reb Beryl,” she said softly, “is to remove one of your milk cows from the house and come back in a week.” He happily agreed and was back the following week looking a little less frazzled.
“Now, Reb Beryl,” the widow instructed him, her eyes sparkling, “remove all but one of the cows and come back in another week!” Again, he did as she instructed.
This time, when he returned to the widow’s home, there was some color in his cheeks and his walk was not so stooped.
“Should I remove the last milk cow from my house now?” he asked in gleeful anticipation.
“Of course not!” said Fruma indignantly. “If you do that, your problem of loneliness will only get worse. You’ve learned to live with several cows. One cow should not be so terrible. It’s true, they’re not the cleanest creatures. And it’s true, cows are not known for being witty conversationalists. They won’t wash your clothes or cook your meals or give you sons. But a cow has friendly, big brown eyes. That should warm your nights for you.”
As she smiled knowingly at him, Beryl stared at the widow in astonishment.
“Is this to be my fate in life?” he thought. “This woman thinks that I should spend the rest of my life with a milk cow for company? Who does she think she is!” Beryl was angry at this point. Very angry.
Fruma sweetly interrupted the agitated man’s thoughts. “Before you leave to go home to your companion, I’ve prepared a meal for you, Reb Beryl.” He didn’t have a chance to respond before she set out a meal that was fit for the czar. And the smell! Umm, it was like paradise itself! Beryl’s anger melted away as he feasted on the sumptuous meat and potatoes and barley soup. One would not have thought that such a scrawny fellow could eat so many helpings! And he laughed as Fruma related the wittiest stories he’d ever heard. And he actually glowed as his eyes met hers.
Need we tell you what happened? The milkman had met his match. Oh, and the cows—all of them—were sent out to pasture. For the home that Beryl and Fruma now shared as man and wife was filled to capacity—filled with the love that Beryl for so many years had locked up inside his heart, and also filled with the wisdom of a plump, pleasant woman who found the key to that heart. “Children?” you ask. Yes, they were blessed with several—some lean and tall like Beryl, some short and stocky like Fruma. And now the milkman’s home is filled with the sounds of laughter, not mooing cows.