Once upon a time there was a farmer on the Veluwe, [1] who lived a godless life, and maintained with a smile on his face, "Nobody can harm a farmer, because a farmer does not have to worry about a thing, and all the other people have to obey the farmer."

Christmas night had come; no snow was on the fields yet, but it was freezing outside, the soil was rigid, black, and solid as a rock, and the farmer said to his wife, "I'm going to gather wood now. The roads are passable everywhere, the sky is clear, the moon is shining and soon a nice fire will be burning, to cook porridge."

"Don't go looking for brushwood or branches in the Christmas night. I can hear the church bells ringing. God will punish you, if you work on a holy day."

"Trust me, woman, God shall not punish me; farmers may do as they please."

He swung a bag over his shoulder and went on his way. After he had gathered enough wood, he returned home, while he was secretly thinking: "Now my wife will be convinced that a farmer can do what he likes, just because a farmer is a farmer."

Suddenly, he noticed that an invisible and inaudible force was lifting him into the air, higher and higher all the time, straight towards the moon, until – wham! – he reached the surface of the moon with his bag of brushwood.

On very clear summer nights one can observe the moon, and with the naked eye, one can see that the farmer is the man-in-the-moon, and if one looks closely enough, one can even see his bag full of brushwood.