Once upon a time, in those prehistoric days before even I was born, let alone you, there was a small peasant family with only two children, both boys.  Thomas Malthus would have been pleased with the parents' refusal to populate the world beyond the replacement level, but their decision owed nothing to Malthusianism and everything to the mother's frail health.

Jack, the elder son, grew up to be big and strong; so he helped his father in the field.  Ned, the younger, grew up - insofar as he grew up at all - to be small and weak (brothers with such contrasting physical characteristics are quite common in fairy tales because in those prehistoric days the laws of heredity had not yet been passed); so he helped his mother around the house, and from his mother's untimely death until his brother's wedding he did all the housework himself and became quite expert at it.  Wherever he went he would sing, accompanying himself on his lute whenever his hands were free.  A talented musician, he also composed songs: love ballads in which he imagined himself a conquering hero, winning the hearts of beautiful maidens,
whose appearance he described in loving detail.

Jack was so resentful of his brother's inability to help him in the field that he ridiculed him mercilessly, harping constantly on the stark contrast between the contents of Ned's songs and the reality of his life, and only fear of parental retribution prevented Jack from adding injury to insult.  The day after they buried their father, Jack turned to his brother and sneered, "All right, runt, your Daddy's no longer around to stick up for you; so get off my farm!  You're more trouble than you're worth to me.  You're no help to me in the field, and I already have someone to do the housework.  You eat up valuable food, you take up space that should go to my kids, and your singing drives me up a wall!"

"I find his songs charming, and I can certainly use some help around the house," interjected Jack's wife.

"You have no say in this matter, woman!" thundered Jack.  "It's my farm, I'm the one who brings in the money, and should I choose to beat you, neither you nor Ned nor even both of you together could do a damned thing about it.  Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Sir," sighed his wife, for these were the days before equal rights and battered women's shelters.

And so, at the age of eighteen years and three months, Ned went to the nearest town to seek his fortune.  His fortune consisted of the money dropped by passers-by into his lute case as he played and sang in the streets.  It was enough to buy him marginally adequate food, clothing and shelter, but little else, and certainly not the attention of any of the maidens he met.  In the hope of securing more remunerative employment he offered his services as a music teacher to whoever stopped to listen to him, but their answers were depressingly similar: "Why should I pay to learn a trade that will enable me to beg in the streets like you?"  A legitimate question in lean, mean times!