The Complete Grimm's Fairy Tales

by Jacob Grimm

  Sharing Joy and Sorrow

  THERE WAS once a tailor, who was a quarrelsome fellow, and his wife, who was good, industrious, and pious, never could please him. Whatever she did, he was not satisfied, but grumbled and scolded, and knocked her about and beat her. As the authorities at last heard of it, they had him summoned and put in prison in order to make him better. He was kept for a while on bread and water, and then set free again. He was forced, however, to promise not to beat his wife any more, but to live with her in peace, and share joy and sorrow with her, as married people ought to do. All went on well for a time, but then he fell into his old ways, and was surly and quarrelsome. And because he dared not beat her, he would seize her by the hair and tear it out. The woman escaped from him, and sprang out into the yard, but he ran after her with his yard-measure and scissors, and chased her about, and threw the yard-measure and scissors at her, and whatever else came his way. When he hit her he laughed, and when he missed her, he stormed and swore. This went on so long that the neighbors came to the wife’s assistance. The tailor was again summoned before the magistrates, and reminded of his promise. “Dear gentlemen,” said he, “I have kept my word, I have not beaten her, but have shared joy and sorrow with her.” “How can that be,” said the judge, “as she continues to bring such heavy complaints against you?” “I have not beaten her, but just because she looked so strange I wanted to comb her hair with my hand; she, however, got away from me, and left me quite spitefully. Then I hurried after her, and in order to bring her back to her duty, I threw at her as a well-meant reminder whatever came readily to hand. I have shared joy and sorrow with her also, for whenever I hit her I was full of joy, and she of sorrow, and if I missed her, then she was joyful, and I sorry.” The judges were not satisfied with this answer, but gave him the reward he deserved.

  The Willow-Wren

  IN OLDEN times every sound still had its meaning and significance. When the smith’s hammer resounded, it cried: “Strike away! strike away.” When the carpenter’s plane grated, it said: “Here goes! here goes.” If the mill wheel began to clack, it said: “Help, Lord God! help, Lord God!” and if the miller was a cheat and set the mill a-going, it spoke high German, and first asked slowly: “Who is there? who is there?” and then answered quickly: “The miller! the miller!” and at last quite in a hurry: “He steals bravely! he steals bravely! three pecks in a bushel.”

  At this time the birds also had their own language which everyone understood; now it only sounds like chirping, screeching, and whistling, and sometimes like music without words. It came into the birds’ mind, however, that they would no longer be without a ruler, and would choose one of themselves to be their King. One alone among them, the green plover, was opposed to this. He had lived free and would die free, and anxiously flying hither and thither, he cried: “Where shall I go? where shall I go?” He retired into a solitary and unfrequented marsh, and showed himself no more among his fellows.

  The birds now wished to discuss the matter, and on a fine May morning they all gathered together from the woods and fields: eagles and chaffinches, owls and crows, larks and sparrows, how can I name them all? Even the cuckoo came, and the hoopoe, his clerk, who is so called because he is always heard a few days before him, and a very small bird which as yet had no name, mingled with the band. The hen, which by some accident had heard nothing of the whole matter, was astonished at the great assemblage. “What, what, what is going to be done?” she cackled; but the cock calmed his beloved hen, and said: “Only a lot of rich people,” and told her what they had on hand. It was decided that the one who could fly the highest should be King. A tree-frog which was sitting among the bushes, when he heard that, cried a warning: “No, no, no! no!” because he thought that many tears would be shed because of this; but the crow said: “Caw, caw,” and that all would pass off peaceably.

  It was now determined that on this fine morning they should at once begin to ascend, so that hereafter no one should be able to say: “I could easily have flown much higher, but the evening came on, and I could do no more.” On a given signal, therefore, the whole troop rose up in the air. The dust ascended from the land, and there was tremendous fluttering and whirring and beating of wings, and it looked as if a black cloud was rising up. The little birds were soon left behind. They could go no farther, and fell back to the ground. The larger birds held out longer, but none could equal the eagle, who mounted so high that he could have plucked the eyes out of the sun. And when he saw that the others could not get up to him, he thought: “Why should you fly still higher? You are the King,” and began to let himself down again. The birds beneath him at once cried to him: “You must be our King, no one has flown so high as you.” “Except me,” screamed the little fellow without a name, who had crept into the breast-feathers of the eagle. And as he was not at all tired, he rose up and mounted so high that he reached heaven itself. However, when he had gone as far as this, he folded his wings together, and called down with clear and penetrating voice: “I am King! I am King.”

  “You, our King?” cried the birds angrily. “You have managed it by trick and cunning!” So they made another condition. He should be King who could go down lowest in the ground. How the goose did flap about with its broad breast when it was once more on land! How quickly the cock scratched a hole! The duck came off the worst of all, for she leapt into a ditch, but sprained her legs, and waddled away to a neighboring pond, crying: “Cheating, cheating!” The little bird without a name, however, sought out a mouse-hole, slipped down into it, and cried out of it with his small voice: “I am King! I am King!”

  “You our King!” cried the birds still more angrily. “Do you think your cunning shall prevail?” They determined to keep him a prisoner in the hole and starve him out. The owl was placed as sentinel in front of it, and was not to let the rascal out if she had any value for her life. When evening was come and all the birds were feeling very tired after the exertion of so much flying, they went to bed with their wives and children. The owl alone remained standing by the mouse-hole, gazing steadfastly into it with her great eyes. Then she, too, grew tired and thought to herself: “You might certainly shut one eye, you will still watch with the other, and the little villain shall not come out of his hole.” So she shut one eye, and with the other looked straight at the mouse-hole. The little fellow put his head out and peeped, and wanted to slip away, but the owl came forward immediately, and he drew his head back again. Then the owl opened the one eye again, and shut the other, intending to shut them in turn all through the night. But when she next shut the one eye, she forgot to open the other, and as soon as both her eyes were shut she fell asleep. The little fellow soon observed that, and slipped away.

  From that day forth, the owl has never dared to show herself by daylight, for if she does the other birds chase her and pluck her feathers out. She flies out only by night, but hates and pursues mice because they make such ugly holes. The little bird, too, is very unwilling to let himself be seen, because he is afraid it will cost him his life if he is caught. He steals about in the hedges, and when he is quite safe, he sometimes cries: “I am King,” and for this reason, the other birds call him in mockery: “King of the hedges.” No one, however, was so happy as the lark at not having to obey the little King. As soon as the sun appears, she ascends high in the air and cries: “Ah, how beautiful that is! beautiful that is! beautiful, beautiful! ah, how beautiful that is!”

  The Sole

  THE FISHES had for a long time been discontented because no order prevailed in their kingdom. None of them turned aside for the others, but all swam to the right or the left as they fancied, or darted between those who wanted to stay together, or got into their way; and a strong one gave a weak one a blow with its tail, which drove it away, or else swallowed it up without more ado. “How delightful it would be,” said they, “if we had a king who enforced law and justice among us!” and they met together to choose for their ruler the one who could cleave through the water most quic
kly, and give help to the weak ones.

  They placed themselves in rank and file by the shore, and the pike gave the signal with his tail, on which they all started. Like an arrow, the pike darted away, and with him the herring, the gudgeon, the perch, the carp, and all the rest of them. Even the sole swam with them, and hoped to win the race.

  All at once, the cry was heard: “The herring is first! The herring is first!” “Who is first?” screamed angrily the flat envious sole, who had been left far behind, “who is first?” “The herring! The herring,” was the answer. “The naked herring?” cried the jealous creature, “the naked herring?” Since that time the sole has been punished by having been given a mouth on one side.

  The Bittern and the Hoopoe

  WHERE DO you like best to feed your flocks?” said a man to an old cowherd. “Here, sir, where the grass is neither too rich nor too poor, or else it is no use.” “Why not?” asked the man. “Do you hear that melancholy cry from the meadow there?” answered the cowherd, “that is the bittern; he was once a cowherd, and so was the hoopoe also,—I will tell you the story: The bittern pastured his flocks on rich green meadows where flowers grew in abundance, so his cows became wild and unmanageable. The hoopoe drove his cattle on to high barren hills, where the wind plays with the sand, and his cows became thin, and got no strength. When it was evening, and the cowherds wanted to drive their cows homewards, the bittern could not get his together again; they were too high-spirited, and ran away from him. He called: ‘Come, cows, come’ but it was of no use; they took no notice of his calling. The hoopoe, however, could not even get his cows up on their legs, so faint and weak had they become. “Up, up, up,” screamed he, but it was in vain, they remained lying on the sand. That is the way when one has no moderation. And to this day, though they have no flocks now to watch, the bittern cries: ‘Come, cows, come,’ and the hoopoe, ‘Up, up, up.’ ”

  The Owl

  TWO OR three hundred years ago, when people were far from being so crafty and cunning as they are nowadays, an extraordinary event took place in a little town. By some mischance one of the great owls, called horned owls, had come from the neighboring woods into the barn of one of the townsfolk in the night-time, and when day broke did not dare to venture forth again from her retreat, for fear of the other birds, which raised a terrible outcry whenever she appeared. In the morning when the manservant went into the barn to fetch some straw, he was so mightily alarmed at the sight of the owl sitting there in a corner, that he ran away and announced to his master that a monster, the like of which he had never set eyes on in his life, and which could devour a man without the slightest difficulty, was sitting in the barn, rolling its eyes about in its head. “I know your kind,” said the master, “you have courage enough to chase a blackbird about the fields, but when you see a hen lying dead, you have to get a stick before you go near it. I must go and see for myself what kind of a monster it is,” added the master, and went quite boldly into the granary and looked round him. When, however, he saw with his own eyes the strange grim creature, he was no less terrified than the servant had been. With two bounds he sprang out, ran to his neighbors, and begged them imploringly to lend him assistance against an unknown and dangerous beast, or else the whole town might be in danger if it were to break loose out of the barn, where it was shut up. A great noise and clamor arose in all the streets, the townsmen came armed with spears, hay-forks, scythes, and axes, as if they were going out against an enemy; finally, the senators appeared with the burgomaster at their head. When they had drawn up in the market-place, they marched to the barn, and surrounded it on all sides. Thereupon one of the most courageous of them stepped forth and entered with his spear lowered, but came running out immediately afterwards with a shriek and as pale as death, and could not utter a single word. Yet two others ventured in, but they fared no better. At last one stepped forth; a great strong man who was famous for his warlike deeds, and said: “You will not drive away the monster by merely looking at him; we must be in earnest here, but I see that you have all turned into women, and not one of you dares to encounter the animal.” He ordered them to give him some armor, had a sword and spear brought, and armed himself. All praised his courage, though many feared for his life. The two barn-doors were opened, and they saw the owl, which in the meantime had perched herself on the middle of a great cross-beam. He had a ladder brought, and when he raised it, and made ready to climb up, they all cried out to him that he was to bear himself bravely, and commended him to St. George, who slew the dragon. When he had just got to the top, and the owl perceived that he had designs on her, and was also bewildered by the crowd and the shouting, and knew not how to escape, she rolled her eyes, ruffled her feathers, flapped her wings, snapped her beak, and cried: “Tuwhit, tuwhoo,” in a harsh voice. “Strike home! strike home!” screamed the crowd outside to the valiant hero. “Any one who was standing where I am standing,” answered he, “would not cry: ‘strike home!’ ” He certainly did plant his foot one rung higher on the ladder, but then he began to tremble, and half-fainting, went back again.

  And now there was no one left who dared to place himself in such danger. “The monster,” said they, “has poisoned and mortally wounded the very strongest man among us, by snapping at him and just breathing on him! Are we, too, to risk our lives?” They took counsel as to what they ought to do to prevent the whole town from being destroyed. For a long time everything seemed to be of no use, but at length the burgomaster found an expedient. “My opinion,” said he, “is that we ought, out of the common purse, to pay for this barn, and whatsoever corn, straw, or hay it contains, and thus indemnify the owner, and then burn down the whole building, and the terrible beast with it. Thus no one will have to endanger his life. This is no time for thinking of expense, and stinginess would be ill applied.” All agreed with him. So they set fire to the barn at all four corners, and with it the owl was miserably burnt. Let any one who will not believe it, go thither and inquire for himself.

  The Moon

  IN DAYS gone by there was a land where the nights were always dark, and the sky spread over it like a black cloth, for there the moon never rose, and no star shone in the gloom. At the creation of the world, the light at night had been sufficient. Three young fellows once went out of this country on a traveling expedition, and arrived in another kingdom, where, in the evening when the sun had disappeared behind the mountains, a shining globe was placed on an oak-tree, which shed a soft light far and wide. By means of this, everything could very well be seen and distinguished, even though it was not so brilliant as the sun. The travelers stopped and asked a countryman who was driving past with his cart, what kind of a light that was. “That is the moon,” answered he; “our mayor bought it for three talers, and fastened it to the oak-tree. He has to pour oil into it daily, and to keep it clean, so that it may always burn clearly. He receives a taler a week from us for doing it.”

  When the countryman had driven away, one of them said: “We could make some use of this lamp, we have an oak-tree at home, which is just as big as this, and we could hang it on that. What a pleasure it would be not to have to feel about at night in the darkness!” “I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said the second; “we will fetch a cart and horses and carry away the moon. The people here may buy themselves another.” “I’m a good climber,” said the third, “I will bring it down.” The fourth brought a cart and horses, and the third climbed the tree, bored a hole in the moon, passed a rope through it, and let it down. When the shining ball lay in the cart, they covered it over with a cloth, that no one might observe the theft. They conveyed it safely into their own country, and placed it on a high oak. Old and young rejoiced, when the new lamp let its light shine over the whole land, and bed-rooms and sitting-rooms were filled with it. The dwarfs came forth from their caves in the rocks, and the tiny elves in their little red coats danced in rings on the meadows.

  The four took care that the moon was provided with oil, cleaned the wick, and received thei
r weekly taler, but they became old men, and when one of them grew ill, and saw that he was about to die, he appointed that one quarter of the moon, should, as his property, be laid in the grave with him. When he died, the mayor climbed up the tree, and cut off a quarter with the hedge-shears, and this was placed in his coffin. The light of the moon decreased, but still not visibly. When the second died, the second quarter was buried with him, and the light diminished. It grew weaker still after the death of the third, who likewise took his part of it away with him; and when the fourth was borne to his grave, the old state of darkness recommenced, and whenever the people went out at night without their lanterns they knocked their heads together in collision.