Grimm fairy tales

GRIMM FAIRY-TALES
Author: The Brothers Grimm
Source: />eBook created (18/01/‘16): QuocSan.


All-kinds-of-fur (Allerleirauh)
There was once on a time a King who had a wife with golden hair, and she
was so beautiful that her equal was not to be found on earth. It came to pass
that she lay ill, and as she felt that she must soon die, she called the King and
said, “If thou wishest to marry again after my death, take no one who is not
quite as beautiful as I am, and who has not just such golden hair as I have:
this thou must promise me.” And after the King had promised her this she
closed her eyes and died.
For a long time the King could not be comforted, and had no thought of
taking another wife. At length his councillors said, “There is no help for it,
the King must marry again, that we may have a Queen.” And now
messengers were sent about far and wide, to seek a bride who equalled the
late Queen in beauty. In the whole world, however, none was to be found,
and even if one had been found, still there would have been no one who had
such golden hair. So the messengers came home as they went.
Now the King had a daughter, who was just as beautiful as her dead
mother, and had the same golden hair. When she was grown up the King
looked at her one day, and saw that in every respect she was like his late
wife, and suddenly felt a violent love for her. Then he spake to his
councillors, “I will marry my daughter, for she is the counterpart of my late
wife, otherwise I can find no bride who resembles her.” When the councillors
heard that, they were shocked, and said, “God has forbidden a father to marry
his daughter, no good can come from such a crime, and the kingdom will be
involved in the ruin.”
The daughter was still more shocked when she became aware of her

father’s resolution, but hoped to turn him from his design. Then she said to
him, “Before I fulfil your wish, I must have three dresses, one as golden as
the sun, one as silvery as the moon, and one as bright as the stars; besides
this, I wish for a mantle of a thousand different kinds of fur and hair joined
together, and one of every kind of animal in your kingdom must give a piece
of his skin for it.” But she thought, “To get that will be quite impossible, and
thus I shall divert my father from his wicked intentions.” The King, however,
did not give it up, and the cleverest maidens in his kingdom had to weave the
three dresses, one as golden as the sun, one as silvery as the moon, and one as
bright as the stars, and his huntsmen had to catch one of every kind of animal
in the whole of his kingdom, and take from it a piece of its skin, and out of


these was made a mantle of a thousand different kinds of fur. At length, when
all was ready, the King caused the mantle to be brought, spread it out before
her, and said, “The wedding shall be to-morrow.”
When, therefore, the King’s daughter saw that there was no longer any
hope of turning her father’s heart, she resolved to run away from him. In the
night whilst every one was asleep, she got up, and took three different things
from her treasures, a golden ring, a golden spinning-wheel, and a golden reel.
The three dresses of the sun, moon, and stars she put into a nutshell, put on
her mantle of all kinds of fur, and blackened her face and hands with soot.
Then she commended herself to God, and went away, and walked the whole
night until she reached a great forest. And as she was tired, she got into a
hollow tree, and fell asleep.
The sun rose, and she slept on, and she was still sleeping when it was full
day. Then it so happened that the King to whom this forest belonged, was
hunting in it. When his dogs came to the tree, they sniffed, and ran barking
round about it. The King said to the huntsmen, “Just see what kind of wild
beast has hidden itself in there.” The huntsmen obeyed his order, and when

they came back they said, “A wondrous beast is lying in the hollow tree; we
have never before seen one like it. Its skin is fur of a thousand different kinds,
but it is lying asleep.” Said the King, “See if you can catch it alive, and then
fasten it to the carriage, and we will take it with us.” When the huntsmen laid
hold of the maiden, she awoke full of terror, and cried to them, “I am a poor
child, deserted by father and mother; have pity on me, and take me with you.”
Then said they, “Allerleirauh, thou wilt be useful in the kitchen, come with
us, and thou canst sweep up the ashes.” So they put her in the carriage, and
took her home to the royal palace. There they pointed out to her a closet
under the stairs, where no daylight entered, and said, “Hairy animal, there
canst thou live and sleep.” Then she was sent into the kitchen, and there she
carried wood and water, swept the hearth, plucked the fowls, picked the
vegetables, raked the ashes, and did all the dirty work.
Allerleirauh lived there for a long time in great wretchedness. Alas, fair
princess, what is to become of thee now! It happened, however, that one day
a feast was held in the palace, and she said to the cook, “May I go up-stairs
for a while, and look on? I will place myself outside the door.” The cook
answered, “Yes, go, but you must be back here in half-an-hour to sweep the
hearth.” Then she took her oil-lamp, went into her den, put off her fur-dress,


and washed the soot off her face and hands, so that her full beauty once more
came to light. And she opened the nut, and took out her dress which shone
like the sun, and when she had done that she went up to the festival, and
every one made way for her, for no one knew her, and thought no otherwise
than that she was a king’s daughter. The King came to meet her, gave his
hand to her, and danced with her, and thought in his heart, “My eyes have
never yet seen any one so beautiful!” When the dance was over she curtsied,
and when the King looked round again she had vanished, and none knew
whither. The guards who stood outside the palace were called and questioned,

but no one had seen her.
She had, however, run into her little den, had quickly taken off her dress,
made her face and hands black again, put on the fur-mantle, and again was
Allerleirauh. And now when she went into the kitchen, and was about to get
to her work and sweep up the ashes, the cook said, “Leave that alone till
morning, and make me the soup for the King; I, too, will go upstairs awhile,
and take a look; but let no hairs fall in, or in future thou shalt have nothing to
eat.” So the cook went away, and Allerleirauh made the soup for the king,
and made bread soup and the best she could, and when it was ready she
fetched her golden ring from her little den, and put it in the bowl in which the
soup was served. When the dancing was over, the King had his soup brought
and ate it, and he liked it so much that it seemed to him he had never tasted
better. But when he came to the bottom of the bowl, he saw a golden ring
lying, and could not conceive how it could have got there. Then he ordered
the cook to appear before him. The cook was terrified when he heard the
order, and said to Allerleirauh, “Thou hast certainly let a hair fall into the
soup, and if thou hast, thou shalt be beaten for it.” When he came before the
King the latter asked who had made the soup? The cook replied, “I made it.”
But the King said, “That is not true, for it was much better than usual, and
cooked differently.” He answered, “I must acknowledge that I did not make
it, it was made by the rough animal.” The King said, “Go and bid it come up
here.”
When Allerleirauh came, the King said, “Who art thou?” “I am a poor girl
who no longer has any father or mother.” He asked further, “Of what use art
thou in my palace?” She answered, “I am good for nothing but to have boots
thrown at my head.” He continued, “Where didst thou get the ring which was
in the soup?” She answered, “I know nothing about the ring.” So the King
could learn nothing, and had to send her away again.

After a while, there was another festival, and then, as before, Allerleirauh
begged the cook for leave to go and look on. He answered, “Yes, but come
back again in half-an-hour, and make the King the bread soup which he so
much likes.” Then she ran into her den, washed herself quickly, and took out
of the nut the dress which was as silvery as the moon, and put it on. Then she
went up and was like a princess, and the King stepped forward to meet her,
and rejoiced to see her once more, and as the dance was just beginning they
danced it together. But when it was ended, she again disappeared so quickly
that the King could not observe where she went. She, however, sprang into
her den, and once more made herself a hairy animal, and went into the
kitchen to prepare the bread soup. When the cook had gone up-stairs, she
fetched the little golden spinning-wheel, and put it in the bowl so that the
soup covered it. Then it was taken to the King, who ate it, and liked it as
much as before, and had the cook brought, who this time likewise was forced
to confess that Allerleirauh had prepared the soup. Allerleirauh again came
before the King, but she answered that she was good for nothing else but to
have boots thrown at her head, and that she knew nothing at all about the
little golden spinning-wheel.
When, for the third time, the King held a festival, all happened just as it
had done before. The cook said, “Faith rough-skin, thou art a witch, and
always puttest something in the soup which makes it so good that the King
likes it better than that which I cook,” but as she begged so hard, he let her go
up at the appointed time. And now she put on the dress which shone like the
stars, and thus entered the hall. Again the King danced with the beautiful
maiden, and thought that she never yet had been so beautiful. And whilst she
was dancing, he contrived, without her noticing it, to slip a golden ring on her
finger, and he had given orders that the dance should last a very long time.
When it was ended, he wanted to hold her fast by her hands, but she tore
herself loose, and sprang away so quickly through the crowd that she
vanished from his sight. She ran as fast as she could into her den beneath the

stairs, but as she had been too long, and had stayed more than half-an-hour
she could not take off her pretty dress, but only threw over it her fur-mantle,
and in her haste she did not make herself quite black, but one finger remained
white. Then Allerleirauh ran into the kitchen, and cooked the bread soup for
the King, and as the cook was away, put her golden reel into it. When the
King found the reel at the bottom of it, he caused Allerleirauh to be
summoned, and then he espied the white finger, and saw the ring which he


had put on it during the dance. Then he grasped her by the hand, and held her
fast, and when she wanted to release herself and run away, her mantle of fur
opened a little, and the star-dress shone forth. The King clutched the mantle
and tore it off. Then her golden hair shone forth, and she stood there in full
splendour, and could no longer hide herself. And when she had washed the
soot and ashes from her face, she was more beautiful than anyone who had
ever been seen on earth. But the King said, “Thou art my dear bride, and we
will never more part from each other.” Thereupon the marriage was
solemnized, and they lived happily until their death.
END.


Bearskin
There was once a young fellow who enlisted as a soldier, conducted
himself bravely, and was always the foremost when it rained bullets. So long
as the war lasted, all went well, but when peace was made, he received his
dismissal, and the captain said he might go where he liked. His parents were
dead, and he had no longer a home, so he went to his brothers and begged
them to take him in, and keep him until war broke out again. The brothers,
however, were hard-hearted and said, “What can we do with thee? thou art of
no use to us; go and make a living for thyself.” The soldier had nothing left

but his gun; he took that on his shoulder, and went forth into the world. He
came to a wide heath, on which nothing was to be seen but a circle of trees;
under these he sat sorrowfully down, and began to think over his fate. “I have
no money,” thought he, “I have learnt no trade but that of fighting, and now
that they have made peace they don’t want me any longer; so I see
beforehand that I shall have to starve.” All at once he heard a rustling, and
when he looked round, a strange man stood before him, who wore a green
coat and looked right stately, but had a hideous cloven foot. “I know already
what thou art in need of,” said the man; “gold and possessions shall thou
have, as much as thou canst make away with do what thou wilt, but first I
must know if thou art fearless, that I may not bestow my money in vain.” “A
soldier and fear – how can those two things go together?” he answered; “thou
canst put me to the proof.” “Very well, then,” answered the man, “look
behind thee.” The soldier turned round, and saw a large bear, which came
growling towards him. “Oho!” cried the soldier, “I will tickle thy nose for
thee, so that thou shalt soon lose thy fancy for growling,” and he aimed at the
bear and shot it through the muzzle; it fell down and never stirred again. “I
see quite well,” said the stranger, “that thou art not wanting in courage, but
there is still another condition which thou wilt have to fulfil.” “If it does not
endanger my salvation,” replied the soldier, who knew very well who was
standing by him. “If it does, I’ll have nothing to do with it.” “Thou wilt look
to that for thyself,” answered Greencoat; “thou shalt for the next seven years
neither wash thyself, nor comb thy beard, nor thy hair, nor cut thy nails, nor
say one paternoster. I will give thee a coat and a cloak, which during this time
thou must wear. If thou diest during these seven years, thou art mine; if thou
remainest alive, thou art free, and rich to boot, for all the rest of thy life.” The
soldier thought of the great extremity in which he now found himself, and as


he so often had gone to meet death, he resolved to risk it now also, and

agreed to the terms. The Devil took off his green coat, gave it to the soldier,
and said, “If thou hast this coat on thy back and puttest thy hand into the
pocket, thou wilt always find it full of money.” Then he pulled the skin off
the bear and said, “This shall be thy cloak, and thy bed also, for thereon shalt
thou sleep, and in no other bed shalt thou lie, and because of this apparel shalt
thou be called Bearskin.” After this the Devil vanished.
The soldier put the coat on, felt at once in the pocket, and found that the
thing was really true. Then he put on the bearskin and went forth into the
world, and enjoyed himself, refraining from nothing that did him good and
his money harm. During the first year his appearance was passable, but
during the second he began to look like a monster. His hair covered nearly
the whole of his face, his beard was like a piece of coarse felt, his fingers had
claws, and his face was so covered with dirt that if cress had been sown on it,
it would have come up. Whosoever saw him, ran away, but as he everywhere
gave the poor money to pray that he might not die during the seven years, and
as he paid well for everything he still always found shelter. In the fourth year,
he entered an inn where the landlord would not receive him, and would not
even let him have a place in the stable, because he was afraid the horses
would be scared. But as Bearskin thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled
out a handful of ducats, the host let himself be persuaded and gave him a
room in an outhouse. Bearskin was, however, obliged to promise not to let
himself be seen, lest the inn should get a bad name.
As Bearskin was sitting alone in the evening, and wishing from the bottom
of his heart that the seven years were over, he heard a loud lamenting in a
neighboring room. He had a compassionate heart, so he opened the door, and
saw an old man weeping bitterly, and wringing his hands. Bearskin went
nearer, but the man sprang to his feet and tried to escape from him. At last
when the man perceived that Bearskin’s voice was human he let himself be
prevailed on, and by kind words bearskin succeeded so far that the old man
revealed the cause of his grief. His property had dwindled away by degrees,

he and his daughters would have to starve, and he was so poor that he could
not pay the innkeeper, and was to be put in prison. “If that is your only
trouble,” said Bearskin, “I have plenty of money.” He caused the innkeeper to
be brought thither, paid him and put a purse full of gold into the poor old
man’s pocket besides.


When the old man saw himself set free from all his troubles he did not
know how to be grateful enough. “Come with me,” said he to Bearskin; “my
daughters are all miracles of beauty, choose one of them for thyself as a wife.
When she hears what thou hast done for me, she will not refuse thee. Thou
dost in truth look a little strange, but she will soon put thee to rights again.”
This pleased Bearskin well, and he went. When the eldest saw him she was
so terribly alarmed at his face that she screamed and ran away. The second
stood still and looked at him from head to foot, but then she said, “How can I
accept a husband who no longer has a human form? The shaven bear that
once was here and passed itself off for a man pleased me far better, for at any
rate it wore a hussar’s dress and white gloves. If it were nothing but ugliness,
I might get used to that.” The youngest, however, said, “Dear father, that
must be a good man to have helped you out of your trouble, so if you have
promised him a bride for doing it, your promise must be kept.” It was a pity
that Bearskin’s face was covered with dirt and with hair, for if not they might
have seen how delighted he was when he heard these words. He took a ring
from his finger, broke it in two, and gave her one half, the other he kept for
himself. He wrote his name, however, on her half, and hers on his, and
begged her to keep her piece carefully, and then he took his leave and said, “I
must still wander about for three years, and if I do not return then, thou art
free, for I shall be dead. But pray to God to preserve my life.”
The poor betrothed bride dressed herself entirely in black, and when she
thought of her future bridegroom, tears came into her eyes. Nothing but

contempt and mockery fell to her lot from her sisters. “Take care,” said the
eldest, “if thou givest him thy hand, he will strike his claws into it.”
“Beware!” said the second. “Bears like sweet things, and if he takes a fancy
to thee, he will eat thee up.” “Thou must always do as he likes,” began the
elder again, “or else he will growl.” And the second continued, “But the
wedding will be a merry one, for bears dance well.” The bride was silent, and
did not let them vex her. Bearskin, however, travelled about the world from
one place to another, did good where he was able, and gave generously to the
poor that they might pray for him.
At length, as the last day of the seven years dawned, he went once more
out on to the heath, and seated himself beneath the circle of trees. It was not
long before the wind whistled, and the Devil stood before him and looked
angrily at him; then he threw Bearskin his old coat, and asked for his own
green one back. “We have not got so far as that yet,” answered Bearskin,


“thou must first make me clean.” Whether the Devil liked it or not, he was
forced to fetch water, and wash Bearskin, comb his hair, and cut his nails.
After this, he looked like a brave soldier, and was much handsomer than he
had ever been before.
When the Devil had gone away, Bearskin was quite lighthearted. He went
into the town, put on a magnificent velvet coat, seated himself in a carriage
drawn by four white horses, and drove to his bride’s house. No one
recognized him, the father took him for a distinguished general, and led him
into the room where his daughters were sitting. He was forced to place
himself between the two eldest, they helped him to wine, gave him the best
pieces of meat, and thought that in all the world they had never seen a
handsomer man. The bride, however, sat opposite to him in her black dress,
and never raised her eyes, nor spoke a word. When at length he asked the
father if he would give him one of his daughters to wife, the two eldest

jumped up, ran into their bedrooms to put on splendid dresses, for each of
them fancied she was the chosen one. The stranger, as soon as he was alone
with his bride, brought out his half of the ring, and threw it in a glass of wine
which he reached across the table to her. She took the wine, but when she had
drunk it, and found the half ring lying at the bottom, her heart began to beat.
She got the other half, which she wore on a ribbon round her neck, joined
them, and saw that the two pieces fitted exactly together. Then said he, “I am
thy betrothed bridegroom, whom thou sawest as Bearskin, but through God’s
grace I have again received my human form, and have once more become
clean.” He went up to her, embraced her, and gave her a kiss. In the
meantime the two sisters came back in full dress, and when they saw that the
handsome man had fallen to the share of the youngest, and heard that he was
Bearskin, they ran out full of anger and rage. One of them drowned herself in
the well, the other hanged herself on a tree. In the evening, some one knocked
at the door, and when the bridegroom opened it, it was the Devil in his green
coat, who said, “Seest thou, I have now got two souls in the place of thy
one!”
END.


Brides on their trial
There was once a young shepherd who wished much to marry, and was
acquainted with three sisters who were all equally pretty, so that it was
difficult to him to make a choice, and he could not decide to give the
preference to any one of them. Then he asked his mother for advice, and she
said, “Invite all three, and set some cheese before them, and watch how they
eat it.” The youth did so; the first, however, swallowed the cheese with the
rind on; the second hastily cut the rind off the cheese, but she cut it so quickly
that she left much good cheese with it, and threw that away also; the third
peeled the rind off carefully, and cut neither too much nor too little. The

shepherd told all this to his mother, who said, “Take the third for thy wife.”
This he did, and lived contentedly and happily with her.
END.


Brother Lustig
There was one on a time a great war, and when it came to an end, many
soldiers were discharged. Then Brother Lustig also received his dismissal,
and besides that, nothing but a small loaf of contract-bread, and four kreuzers
in money, with which he departed. St. Peter had, however, placed himself in
his way in the shape of a poor beggar, and when Brother Lustig came up, he
begged alms of him. Brother Lustig replied, “Dear beggar-man, what am I to
give you? I have been a soldier, and have received my dismissal, and have
nothing but this little loaf of contract-bread, and four kreuzers of money;
when that is gone, I shall have to beg as well as you. Still I will give you
something.” Thereupon he divided the loaf into four parts, and gave the
apostle one of them, and a kreuzer likewise. St. Peter thanked him, went
onwards, and threw himself again in the soldier’s way as a beggar, but in
another shape; and when he came up begged a gift of him as before. Brother
Lustig spoke as he had done before, and again gave him a quarter of the loaf
and one kreuzer. St. Peter thanked him, and went onwards, but for the third
time placed himself in another shape as a beggar on the road, and spoke to
Brother Lustig. Brother Lustig gave him also the third quarter of bread and
the third kreuzer. St. Peter thanked him, and Brother Lustig went onwards,
and had but a quarter of the loaf, and one kreuzer. With that he went into an
inn, ate the bread, and ordered one kreuzer’s worth of beer. When he had had
it, he journeyed onwards, and then St. Peter, who had assumed the
appearance of a discharged soldier, met and spoke to him thus: “Good day,
comrade, canst thou not give me a bit of bread, and a kreuzer to get a drink?”
“Where am I to procure it?” answered Brother Lustig; “I have been

discharged, and I got nothing but a loaf of ammunition-bread and four
kreuzers in money. I met three beggars on the road, and I gave each of them a
quarter of my bread, and one kreuzer. The last quarter I ate in the inn, and
had a drink with the last kreuzer. Now my pockets are empty, and if thou also
hast nothing we can go a-begging together.” “No,” answered St. Peter, “we
need not quite do that. I know a little about medicine, and I will soon earn as
much as I require by that.” “Indeed,” said Brother Lustig, “I know nothing of
that, so I must go and beg alone.” “Just come with me,” said St. Peter, “and if
I earn anything, thou shalt have half of it.” “All right,” said Brother Lustig, so
they went away together.
Then they came to a peasant’s house inside which they heard loud


lamentations and cries; so they went in, and there the husband was lying sick
unto death, and very near his end, and his wife was crying and weeping quite
loudly. “Stop that howling and crying,” said St. Peter, “I will make the man
well again,” and he took a salve out of his pocket, and healed the sick man in
a moment, so that he could get up, and was in perfect health. In great delight
the man and his wife said, “How can we reward you? What shall we give
you?” But St. Peter would take nothing, and the more the peasant folks
offered him, the more he refused. Brother Lustig, however, nudged St. Peter,
and said, “Take something; sure enough we are in need of it.” At length the
woman brought a lamb and said to St. Peter that he really must take that, but
he would not. Then Brother Lustig gave him a poke in the side, and said, “Do
take it, you stupid fool; we are in great want of it!” Then St. Peter said at last,
“Well, I will take the lamb, but I won’t carry it; if thou wilt insist on having
it, thou must carry it.” “That is nothing,” said Brother Lustig. “I will easily
carry it,” and took it on his shoulder. Then they departed and came to a wood,
but Brother Lustig had begun to feel the lamb heavy, and he was hungry, so
he said to St. Peter, “Look, that’s a good place, we might cook the lamb

there, and eat it.” “As you like,” answered St. Peter, “but I can’t have
anything to do with the cooking; if thou wilt cook, there is a kettle for thee,
and in the meantime I will walk about a little until it is ready. Thou must,
however, not begin to eat until I have come back, I will come at the right
time.” “Well, go, then,” said Brother Lustig, “I understand cookery, I will
manage it.” Then St. Peter went away, and Brother Lustig killed the lamb,
lighted a fire, threw the meat into the kettle, and boiled it. The lamb was,
however, quite ready, and the apostle Peter had not come back, so Brother
Lustig took it out of the kettle, cut it up, and found the heart. “That is said to
be the best part,” said he, and tasted it, but at last he ate it all up. At length St.
Peter returned and said, “Thou mayst eat the whole of the lamb thyself, I will
only have the heart, give me that.” Then Brother Lustig took a knife and fork,
and pretended to look anxiously about amongst the lamb’s flesh, but not to be
able to find the heart, and at last he said abruptly, “There is none here.” “But
where can it be?” said the apostle. “I don’t know,” replied Brother Lustig,
“but look, what fools we both are, to seek for the lamb’s heart, and neither of
us to remember that a lamb has no heart!” “Oh,” said St. Peter, “that is
something quite new! Every animal has a heart, why is a lamb to have none?”
“No, be assured, my brother,” said Brother Lustig, “that a lamb has no heart;
just consider it seriously, and then you will see that it really has none.” “Well,


it is all right,” said St. Peter, “if there is no heart, then I want none of the
lamb; thou mayst eat it alone.” “What I can’t eat now, I will carry away in my
knapsack,” said Brother Lustig, and he ate half the lamb, and put the rest in
his knapsack.
They went farther, and then St. Peter caused a great stream of water to flow
right across their path, and they were obliged to pass through it. Said St.
Peter, “Do thou go first.” “No,” answered Brother Lustig, “thou must go
first,” and he thought, “if the water is too deep I will stay behind.” Then St.

Peter strode through it, and the water just reached to his knee. So Brother
Lustig began to go through also, but the water grew deeper and reached to his
throat. Then he cried, “Brother, help me!” St. Peter said, “Then wilt thou
confess that thou hast eaten the lamb’s heart?” “No,” said he, “I have not
eaten it.” Then the water grew deeper still and rose to his mouth. “Help me,
brother,” cried the soldier. St. Peter said, “Then wilt thou confess that thou
hast eaten the lamb’s heart?” “No,” he replied, “I have not eaten it.” St. Peter,
however, would not let him be drowned, but made the water sink and helped
him through it.
Then they journeyed onwards, and came to a kingdom where they heard
that the King’s daughter lay sick unto death. “Hollo, brother!” said the soldier
to St. Peter, “this is a chance for us; if we can heal her we shall be provided
for, for life!” But St. Peter was not half quick enough for him, “Come, lift
your legs, my dear brother,” said he, “that we may get there in time.” But St.
Peter walked slower and slower, though Brother Lustig did all he could to
drive and push him on, and at last they heard that the princess was dead.
“Now we are done for!” said Brother Lustig; “that comes of thy sleepy way
of walking!” “Just be quiet,” answered St. Peter, “I can do more than cure
sick people; I can bring dead ones to life again.” “Well, if thou canst do that,”
said Brother Lustig, “it’s all right, but thou shouldst earn at least half the
kingdom for us by that.” Then they went to the royal palace, where every one
was in great grief, but St. Peter told the King that he would restore his
daughter to life. He was taken to her, and said, “Bring me a kettle and some
water,” and when that was brought, he bade everyone go out, and allowed no
one to remain with him but Brother Lustig. Then he cut off all the dead girl’s
limbs, and threw them in the water, lighted a fire beneath the kettle, and
boiled them. And when the flesh had fallen away from the bones, he took out
the beautiful white bones, and laid them on a table, and arranged them
together in their natural order. When he had done that, he stepped forward

and said three times, “In the name of the holy Trinity, dead woman, arise.”
And at the third time, the princess arose, living, healthy and beautiful. Then
the King was in the greatest joy, and said to St. Peter, “Ask for thy reward;
even if it were half my kingdom, I would give it thee.” But St. Peter said, “I
want nothing for it.” “Oh, thou tomfool!” thought Brother Lustig to himself,
and nudged his comrade’s side, and said, “Don’t be so stupid! If thou hast no
need of anything, I have.” St. Peter, however, would have nothing, but as the
King saw that the other would very much like to have something, he ordered
his treasurer to fill Brother Lustig’s knapsack with gold. Then they went on
their way, and when they came to a forest, St. Peter said to Brother Lustig,
“Now, we will divide the gold.” “Yes,” he replied, “we will.” So St. Peter
divided the gold, and divided it into three heaps. Brother Lustig thought to
himself, “What craze has he got in his head now? He is making three shares,
and there are only two of us!” But St. Peter said, “I have divided it exactly;
there is one share for me, one for thee, and one for him who ate the lamb’s
heart.”
“Oh, I ate that!” replied Brother Lustig, and hastily swept up the gold.
“You may trust what I say.” “But how can that be true,” said St. Peter, “when
a lamb has no heart?” “Eh, what, brother, what can you be thinking of?
Lambs have hearts like other animals, why should only they have none?”
“Well, so be it,” said St. Peter, “keep the gold to yourself, but I will stay with
you no longer; I will go my way alone.” “As you like, dear brother,”
answered Brother Lustig. “Farewell.”
Then St. Peter went a different road, but Brother Lustig thought, “It is a
good thing that he has taken himself off, he is certainly a strange saint, after
all.” Then he had money enough, but did not know how to manage it,
squandered it, gave it away, and and when some time had gone by, once more
had nothing. Then he arrived in a certain country where he heard that a
King’s daughter was dead. “Oh, ho!” thought he, “that may be a good thing

for me; I will bring her to life again, and see that I am paid as I ought to be.”
So he went to the King, and offered to raise the dead girl to life again. Now
the King had heard that a discharged soldier was traveling about and bringing
dead persons to life again, and thought that Brother Lustig was the man; but
as he had no confidence in him, he consulted his councillors first, who said
that he might give it a trial as his daughter was dead. Then Brother Lustig
ordered water to be brought to him in a kettle, bade every one go out, cut the
limbs off, threw them in the water and lighted a fire beneath, just as he had


seen St. Peter do. The water began to boil, the flesh fell off, and then he took
the bones out and laid them on the table, but he did not know the order in
which to lay them, and placed them all wrong and in confusion. Then he
stood before them and said, “In the name of the most holy Trinity, dead
maiden, I bid thee arise,” and he said this thrice, but the bones did not stir. So
he said it thrice more, but also in vain: “Confounded girl that you are, get
up!” cried he, “Get up, or it shall be worse for you!” When he had said that,
St. Peter suddenly appeared in his former shape as a discharged soldier; he
entered by the window and said, “Godless man, what art thou doing? How
can the dead maiden arise, when thou hast thrown about her bones in such
confusion?” “Dear brother, I have done everything to the best of my ability,”
he answered. “This once, I will help thee out of thy difficulty, but one thing I
tell thee, and that is that if ever thou undertakest anything of the kind again, it
will be the worse for thee, and also that thou must neither demand nor accept
the smallest thing from the King for this!” Thereupon St. Peter laid the bones
in their right order, said to the maiden three times, “In the name of the most
holy Trinity, dead maiden, arise,” and the King’s daughter arose, healthy and
beautiful as before. Then St. Peter went away again by the window, and
Brother Lustig was rejoiced to find that all had passed off so well, but was
very much vexed to think that after all he was not to take anything for it. “I

should just like to know,” thought he, “what fancy that fellow has got in his
head, for what he gives with one hand he takes away with the other there is
no sense whatever in it!” Then the King offered Brother Lustig whatsoever
he wished to have, but he did not dare to take anything; however, by hints
and cunning, he contrived to make the King order his knapsack to be filled
with gold for him, and with that he departed. When he got out, St. Peter was
standing by the door, and said, “Just look what a man thou art; did I not
forbid thee to take anything, and there thou hast thy knapsack full of gold!”
“How can I help that,” answered Brother Lustig, “if people will put it in for
me?” “Well, I tell thee this, that if ever thou settest about anything of this
kind again thou shalt suffer for it!” “Eh, brother, have no fear, now I have
money, why should I trouble myself with washing bones?” “Faith,” said St.
Peter, “the gold will last a long time! In order that after this thou mayst never
tread in forbidden paths, I will bestow on thy knapsack this property, namely,
that whatsoever thou wishest to have inside it, shall be there. Farewell, thou
wilt now never see me more.” “Good-bye,” said Brother Lustig, and thought
to himself, “I am very glad that thou hast taken thyself off, thou strange


fellow; I shall certainly not follow thee.” But of the magical power which had
been bestowed on his knapsack, he thought no more.
Brother Lustig travelled about with his money, and squandered and wasted
what he had as before. When at last he had no more than four kreuzers, he
passed by an inn and thought, “The money must go,” and ordered three
kreuzers’ worth of wine and one kreuzer’s worth of bread for himself. As he
was sitting there drinking, the smell of roast goose made its way to his nose.
Brother Lustig looked about and peeped, and saw that the host had two geese
standing in the oven. Then he remembered that his comrade had said that
whatsoever he wished to have in his knapsack should be there, so he said,
“Oh, ho! I must try that with the geese.” So he went out, and when he was

outside the door, he said, “I wish those two roasted geese out of the oven and
in my knapsack,” and when he had said that, he unbuckled it and looked in,
and there they were inside it. “Ah, that’s right!” said he, “now I am a made
man!” and went away to a meadow and took out the roast meat. When he was
in the midst of his meal, two journeymen came up and looked at the second
goose, which was not yet touched, with hungry eyes. Brother Lustig thought
to himself, “One is enough for me,” and called the two men up and said,
“Take the goose, and eat it to my health.” They thanked him, and went with it
to the inn, ordered themselves a half bottle of wine and a loaf, took out the
goose which had been given them, and began to eat. The hostess saw them
and said to her husband, “Those two are eating a goose; just look and see if it
is not one of ours, out of the oven.” The landlord ran thither, and behold the
oven was empty! “What!” cried he, “you thievish crew, you want to eat goose
as cheap as that? Pay for it this moment; or I will wash you well with green
hazel-sap.” The two said, “We are no thieves, a discharged soldier gave us
the goose, outside there in the meadow.” “You shall not throw dust in my
eyes that way! the soldier was here but he went out by the door, like an
honest fellow. I looked after him myself; you are the thieves and shall pay!”
But as they could not pay, he took a stick, and cudgeled them out of the
house.
Brother Lustig went his way and came to a place where there was a
magnificent castle, and not far from it a wretched inn. He went to the inn and
asked for a night’s lodging, but the landlord turned him away, and said,
“There is no more room here, the house is full of noble guests.” “It surprises
me that they should come to you and not go to that splendid castle,” said
Brother Lustig. “Ah, indeed,” replied the host, “but it is no slight matter to


sleep there for a night; no one who has tried it so far, has ever come out of it
alive.”

“If others have tried it,” said Brother Lustig, “I will try it too.”
“Leave it alone,” said the host, “it will cost you your neck.” “It won’t kill
me at once,” said Brother Lustig, “just give me the key, and some good food
and wine.” So the host gave him the key, and food and wine, and with this
Brother Lustig went into the castle, enjoyed his supper, and at length, as he
was sleepy, he lay down on the ground, for there was no bed. He soon fell
asleep, but during the night was disturbed by a great noise, and when he
awoke, he saw nine ugly devils in the room, who had made a circle, and were
dancing around him. Brother Lustig said, “Well, dance as long as you like,
but none of you must come too close.” But the devils pressed continually
nearer to him, and almost stepped on his face with their hideous feet. “Stop,
you devils’ ghosts,” said he, but they behaved still worse. Then Brother
Lustig grew angry, and cried, “Hola! but I will soon make it quiet,” and got
the leg of a chair and struck out into the midst of them with it. But nine devils
against one soldier were still too many, and when he struck those in front of
him, the others seized him behind by the hair, and tore it unmercifully.
“Devils’ crew,” cried he, “it is getting too bad, but wait. Into my knapsack,
all nine of you!” In an instant they were in it, and then he buckled it up and
threw it into a corner. After this all was suddenly quiet, and Brother Lustig
lay down again, and slept till it was bright day. Then came the inn-keeper,
and the nobleman to whom the castle belonged, to see how he had fared; but
when they perceived that he was merry and well they were astonished, and
asked, “Have the spirits done you no harm, then?” “The reason why they
have not,” answered Brother Lustig, “is because I have got the whole nine of
them in my knapsack! You may once more inhabit your castle quite
tranquilly, none of them will ever haunt it again.” The nobleman thanked
him, made him rich presents, and begged him to remain in his service, and he
would provide for him as long as he lived. “No,” replied Brother Lustig, “I
am used to wandering about, I will travel farther.” Then he went away, and
entered into a smithy, laid the knapsack, which contained the nine devils on

the anvil, and asked the smith and his apprentices to strike it. So they smote
with their great hammers with all their strength, and the devils uttered howls
which were quite pitiable. When he opened the knapsack after this, eight of
them were dead, but one which had been lying in a fold of it, was still alive,
slipped out, and went back again to hell. Thereupon Brother Lustig travelled


a long time about the world, and those who know them can tell many a story
about him, but at last he grew old, and thought of his end, so he went to a
hermit who was known to be a pious man, and said to him, “I am tired of
wandering about, and want now to behave in such a manner that I shall enter
into the kingdom of Heaven.” The hermit replied, “There are two roads, one
is broad and pleasant, and leads to hell, the other is narrow and rough, and
leads to heaven.” “I should be a fool,” thought Brother Lustig, “if I were to
take the narrow, rough road.” So he set out and took the broad and pleasant
road, and at length came to a great black door, which was the door of Hell.
Brother Lustig knocked, and the door-keeper peeped out to see who was
there. But when he saw Brother Lustig, he was terrified, for he was the very
same ninth devil who had been shut up in the knapsack, and had escaped
from it with a black eye. So he pushed the bolt in again as quickly as he
could, ran to the devil’s lieutenant, and said, “There is a fellow outside with a
knapsack, who wants to come in, but as you value your lives don’t allow him
to enter, or he will wish the whole of hell into his knapsack. He once gave me
a frightful hammering when I was inside it.” So they called out to Brother
Lustig that he was to go away again, for he should not get in there! “If they
won’t have me here,” thought he, “I will see if I can find a place for myself in
heaven, for I must be somewhere.” So he turned about and went onwards
until he came to the door of Heaven, where he knocked. St. Peter was sitting
hard by as door-keeper. Brother Lustig recognised him at once, and thought,
“Here I find an old friend, I shall get on better.” But St. Peter said, “I really

believe that thou wantest to come into Heaven.” “Let me in, brother; I must
get in somewhere; if they would have taken me into Hell, I should not have
come here.” “No,” said St. Peter, “thou shalt not enter.” “Then if thou wilt
not let me in, take thy knapsack back, for I will have nothing at all from
thee.” “Give it here, then,” said St. Peter. Then Brother Lustig gave him the
knapsack into Heaven through the bars, and St. Peter took it, and hung it
beside his seat. Then said Brother Lustig, “And now I wish myself inside my
knapsack,” and in a second he was in it, and in Heaven, and St. Peter was
forced to let him stay there.
END.


Cat and mouse in partnership
A cat had made the acquaintance of a mouse, and had said so much to her
about the great love and friendship that he felt for her, that at last the mouse
agreed that they should live and keep house together. “But we must make
preparations for winter, or else we shall suffer from hunger,” said the cat,
“and you, little mouse, cannot venture out everywhere, or in the end you will
be caught in a trap.” This good advice was followed, and they bought a pot of
fat, but they did not know where to store it. Finally, after much consideration,
the cat said, “I know of no place where it will be better stored up than in the
church. No one dares take anything away from there. We will put it beneath
the altar, and not touch it until we are need it.” So the pot was stored safely
away, but it was not long before the cat took a great longing for it, and said to
the mouse, “I wanted to tell you, little mouse, that my cousin has brought a
little son into the world, and she has asked me to be his godfather. He is
white with brown spots, and I am to hold him over the baptismal font. Let me
go out today, and you look after the house by yourself.” – “Yes, yes,”
answered the mouse. “By all means go, and if you get anything good to eat,
think of me. I would like to drink a drop of sweet red christening wine

myself.” All this, however, was untrue. The cat had no cousin, and had not
been asked to be godfather. He went straight to the church, crept up to the pot
of fat, began to lick at it, and licked off the top of the fat. Then he went for a
stroll on the roofs of the town, looked out for opportunities, and then
stretched out in the sun, licking his whiskers whenever he thought of the pot
of fat. He did not return home until it was evening. “Well, here you are
again,” said the mouse. “You must have had a happy day.” – “Everything
went well,” answered the cat. “What name did they give the child?” asked the
mouse. “Top-Off,” said the cat quite coolly. “Top-Off?” cried the mouse.
“That is a very odd and uncommon name. Is it a usual one in your family?” –
“What does that matter?” said the cat. “It is no worse than Crumb-Thief, as
your godchildren are called.”
Before long the cat was seized by another fit of longing. He said to the
mouse, “You must do me a favor, and once more manage the house alone for
a day. I have been asked again to be godfather, and since the child has a
white ring around its neck, I cannot refuse.” The good mouse consented.
However, the cat crept behind the town wall to the church, and devoured half
the pot of fat. “Nothing tastes as good as that which one eats by oneself,” he


said, and was quite satisfied with his day’s work. When he arrived home the
mouse asked, “What name was this child christened with?” – “Half-Gone,”
answered the cat. “Half-Gone? What are you saying? I have never heard that
name in all my life. I’ll wager it is not in the almanac.”
The cat’s mouth soon again began to water for the delicious goods. “All
good things come in threes,” he said to the mouse. “I have been asked to be
godfather again. The child is totally black, only it has white paws. Otherwise
it has not a single white hair on its whole body. This only happens once every
few years. You will let me go, won’t you?” – “Top-Off. Half-Gone,”
answered the mouse. “They are such odd names, that they make me stop and

think.” – “Here you sit at home,” said the cat, “with your dark gray fur coat
and long braid of hair capturing fantasies. That is because you do not go out
in the daytime.” During the cat’s absence the mouse cleaned the house, and
put it in order, but the greedy cat devoured all the rest of the fat. “One has
peace only after everything is eaten up,” he said to himself. Well filled and
fat, he did not return home until nighttime. The mouse immediately asked
what name had been given to the third child. “You will not like it either,” said
the cat. “His name is All-Gone.” – “All-Gone!”, cried the mouse. “That is the
most worrisome name of all. I have never seen it in print. All-Gone! What
can that mean?” Then she shook her head, curled herself up, and lay down to
sleep.
From this time forth no one invited the cat to be godfather, but when
winter had come and there was no longer anything to be found outside, the
mouse thought of their stored food, and said, “Come cat, we will go to our
pot of fat which we have stored up for ourselves. It will taste good now.” –
“Yes,” answered the cat. “You will enjoy it as much as you would enjoy
sticking that dainty tongue of yours out of the window.” They set out on their
way, but when they arrived, the pot of fat, to be sure, was still in its place, but
it was empty. “Alas,” said the mouse, “now I see what has happened. Now it
comes to light. You are a true friend. You ate everything when you were
serving as a godfather. First top off, then half done, then…” – “Be quiet!”
cried the cat. “One more word, and I will eat you too.”
“All gone,” was already on the poor mouse’s lips. She had scarcely spoken
it before the cat sprang on her, seized her, and swallowed her down. You see,
that is the way of the world.
END.


Cinderella (Aschenputtel)
There was once a rich man whose wife lay sick, and when she felt her end

drawing near she called to her only daughter to come near her bed, and said,
“Dear child, be pious and good, and God will always take care of you, and I
will look down upon you from heaven, and will be with you.” And then she
closed her eyes and expired. The maiden went every day to her mother’s
grave and wept, and was always pious and good. When the winter came the
snow covered the grave with a white covering, and when the sun came in the
early spring and melted it away, the man took to himself another wife.
The new wife brought two daughters home with her, and they were
beautiful and fair in appearance, but at heart were, black and ugly. And then
began very evil times for the poor step-daughter. “Is the stupid creature to sit
in the same room with us?” said they; “those who eat food must earn it. Out
upon her for a kitchen-maid!” They took away her pretty dresses, and put on
her an old grey kirtle, and gave her wooden shoes to wear. “Just look now at
the proud princess, how she is decked out!” cried they laughing, and then
they sent her into the kitchen. There she was obliged to do heavy work from
morning to night, get up early in the morning, draw water, make the fires,
cook, and wash. Besides that, the sisters did their utmost to torment her,
mocking her, and strewing peas and lentils among the ashes, and setting her
to pick them up. In the evenings, when she was quite tired out with her hard
day’s work, she had no bed to lie on, but was obliged to rest on the hearth
among the cinders. And as she always looked dusty and dirty, they named her
Cinderella.
It happened one day that the father went to the fair, and he asked his two
step-daughters what he should bring back for them. “Fine clothes!” said one.
“Pearls and jewels!” said the other. “But what will you have, Cinderella?”
said he. “The first twig, father, that strikes against your hat on the way home;
that is what I should like you to bring me.” So he bought for the two stepdaughters fine clothes, pearls, and jewels, and on his way back, as he rode
through a green lane, a hazel-twig struck against his hat; and he broke it off
and carried it home with him. And when he reached home he gave to the
step-daughters what they had wished for, and to Cinderella he gave the hazeltwig. She thanked him, and went to her mother’s grave, and planted this twig

there, weeping so bitterly that the tears fell upon it and watered it, and it
flourished and became a fine tree. Cinderella went to see it three times a day,


and wept and prayed, and each time a white bird rose up from the tree, and if
she uttered any wish the bird brought her whatever she had wished for.
Now if came to pass that the king ordained a festival that should last for
three days, and to which all the beautiful young women of that country were
bidden, so that the king’s son might choose a bride from among them. When
the two stepdaughters heard that they too were bidden to appear, they felt
very pleased, and they called Cinderella, and said, “Comb our hair, brush our
shoes, and make our buckles fast, we are going to the wedding feast at the
king’s castle.” Cinderella, when she heard this, could not help crying, for she
too would have liked to go to the dance, and she begged her step-mother to
allow her. “What, you Cinderella!” said she, “in all your dust and dirt, you
want to go to the festival! you that have no dress and no shoes! you want to
dance!” But as she persisted in asking, at last the step-mother said, “I have
strewed a dish-full of lentils in the ashes, and if you can pick them all up
again in two hours you may go with us.” Then the maiden went to the
backdoor that led into the garden, and called out, “O gentle doves, O turtledoves, And all the birds that be, The lentils that in ashes lie Come and pick
up for me!
The good must be put in the dish,
The bad you may eat if you wish.”
Then there came to the kitchen-window two white doves, and after them
some turtle-doves, and at last a crowd of all the birds under heaven, chirping
and fluttering, and they alighted among the ashes; and the doves nodded with
their heads, and began to pick, peck, pick, peck, and then all the others began
to pick, peck, pick, peck, and put all the good grains into the dish. Before an
hour was over all was done, and they flew away. Then the maiden brought
the dish to her step-mother, feeling joyful, and thinking that now she should

go to the feast; but the step-mother said, “No, Cinderella, you have no proper
clothes, and you do not know how to dance, and you would be laughed at!”
And when Cinderella cried for disappointment, she added, “If you can pick
two dishes full of lentils out of the ashes, nice and clean, you shall go with
us,” thinking to herself, “for that is not possible.” When she had strewed two
dishes full of lentils among the ashes the maiden went through the backdoor
into the garden, and cried, “O gentle doves, O turtle-doves, And all the birds
that be, The lentils that in ashes lie Come and pick up for me!
The good must be put in the dish,


The bad you may eat if you wish.”
So there came to the kitchen-window two white doves, and then some
turtle-doves, and at last a crowd of all the other birds under heaven, chirping
and fluttering, and they alighted among the ashes, and the doves nodded with
their heads and began to pick, peck, pick, peck, and then all the others began
to pick, peck, pick, peck, and put all the good grains into the dish. And before
half-an-hour was over it was all done, and they flew away. Then the maiden
took the dishes to the stepmother, feeling joyful, and thinking that now she
should go with them to the feast; but she said “All this is of no good to you;
you cannot come with us, for you have no proper clothes, and cannot dance;
you would put us to shame.” Then she turned her back on poor Cinderella,
and made haste to set out with her two proud daughters.
And as there was no one left in the house, Cinderella went to her mother’s
grave, under the hazel bush, and cried,
“Little tree, little tree, shake over me,
That silver and gold may come down and cover me.”
Then the bird threw down a dress of gold and silver, and a pair of slippers
embroidered with silk and silver., And in all haste she put on the dress and
went to the festival. But her step-mother and sisters did not know her, and

thought she must be a foreign princess, she looked so beautiful in her golden
dress. Of Cinderella they never thought at all, and supposed that she was
sitting at home, arid picking the lentils out of the ashes. The King’s son came
to meet her, and took her by the hand and danced with her, and he refused to
stand up with any one else, so that he might not be obliged to let go her hand;
and when any one came to claim it he answered, “She is my partner.”
And when the evening came she wanted to go home, but the prince said he
would go with her to take care of her, for he wanted to see where the
beautiful maiden lived. But she escaped him, and jumped up into the pigeonhouse. Then the prince waited until the father came, and told him the strange
maiden had jumped into the pigeon-house. The father thought to himself, “It
cannot surely be Cinderella,” and called for axes and hatchets, and had the
pigeon-house cut down, but there was no one in it. And when they entered
the house there sat Cinderella in her dirty clothes among the cinders, and a
little oil-lamp burnt dimly in the chimney; for Cinderella had been very
quick, and had jumped out of the pigeon-house again, and had run to the
hazel bush; and there she had taken off her beautiful dress and had laid it on