There was once a magnificent and mighty king who had three beautiful daughters by his first queen. But he had no sons, and he therefore held the three princesses all the dearer, so much so that he gave them anything they desired of him.

Now, warring armies broke into his kingdom and the king would go out to meet them. When the time came for him to leave, he asked his three beautiful daughters what he should bring home for them.

Well, the eldest asked him to buy her a ring that was such that she would not die for as long as she wore it on her finger.

The middle one had a mind for a wreath that was such that she would be glad and happy if only she gazed upon it, no matter how fretful and wretched she had felt.

“Buy sobbing and sorrow for me!” bade the youngest princess. She mourned and wept so for her mother, you see.

Yes, the king promised to do so.

When he had chased away the warring armies, both from his and the neighbouring kingdom, and contemplated his journey home, he remembered what he had promised his three beautiful princess. He obtained the ring and wreath easily enough, but sobbing and sorrow were not for sale, neither here nor there, neither in one place nor in the other: every man was so glad that the warring hordes were gone, and so cheerful, that neither sobbing nor sorrow were to be found in all the country and kingdom. Well, if it couldn’t be found to buy, then it wasn’t possible to buy it, and so he journeyed home without it, no matter how little he liked to.

Now, when the king and his army didn’t have far left to travel to the king’s farm, they passed through a copse. Here sat a squirrel in a tree by the road.

“Buy me, buy me! I am called Sobbing-and-Sorrow,” he said. Well, it would be better to return with a squirrel than with two empty hands, the king thought, and so he brought it along for his youngest daughter. She was as glad for her gift as her two sisters were for the ring and the wreath.

The squirrel was allowed to jump where he wanted in her chamber. Sometimes he wobbled on the bedpost; just like that, he sat on the dresser. And he was constantly full of chatter.

But after nightfall, the form of the squirrel fell off him, and he transformed into a handsome young prince. An evil gyger – he told her – lived in the golden forest, who had cast the form of the squirrel upon him, and as the day dawned each morning he had to take on that form again.1

Time passed and went, and after some time, it came to pass that the princess should have Sobbing-and-Sorrow. But after they were engaged, he bade her both sweetly and well, both nicely and beautifully, never to strike a light from a desire to see him: “then would she make them unhappy, the both of them,” he said.

No, she would never do so; she was as sure of that as could be, she replied.

And so it came to pass every night that a man came and lay down beside her, after she had retired and put out the light. But when she awoke in the morning, she lay alone, and the squirrel sat on the bedpost, greeting her and chattering at her about everything there was.

Then once, as he slept so deeply, it happened that she fancied that she was not able to control herself any longer, so she struck a light and dared to go with it to where he lay.

As she shone the light upon him, she saw that he was much more handsome than the most handsome of princes; she could barely believe how elegant and dashing he was, and she leaned over, so she could see him even more closely. Finally, she couldn’t stop herself; she had to kiss him on the mouth. Then she accidentally let three drops fall from the light on to his chest.

“No! Why have you done this, then?” he cried, groaning. “If you had but held out for three more days, then we would have been saved!” he said. “But now I must return to the irksome, loathsome gyger in the golden forest, and marry her; things between you and me are over,” he said.

“Can’t I go with you, though?” wept the princess.

“Oh no, you will never manage it, for when you rest in the evening, and bow your knees, then you will fall as far behind as you came during the day,” he said, going towards the door. And he was gone.

There was the princess, sobbing and wailing and weeping, and looking for him to come home. But he was neither heard of nor asked of again. Then she grew so restless and uneasy that she could no longer stay at home, so she began to entreat her maid to go with her to the golden forest.

Oh yes, her maid was eventually persuaded to go, but she wouldn’t take one step, she said, unless she could take along one ell of sackcloth, one of hemp, and one of canvas. This was not refused her; there was always more than a good supply of such at the king’s farm, you see.2

So they set off on their way, and before they knew it, they had entered a great forest. They walked and wandered the whole day long, first this way, and then that, until their feet were sorer than sore, and their courage was less than a little. They set off along both roads and paths, yet even though they looked in the north and in the south, in the east and in the west, they could not find their way out of such great gloomy darkness.

At length, the princess grew so tired and sullen that there was hardly any end to it, and she wanted to sit down for a while, so she could rest a little. But her maid took hold of her, and wouldn’t allow her to bow her knees, for then they would fall as far behind as they had come that day.

By the time that night should fall, they hardly knew of it before they stood by a huge great mountain.

“Well, here shall I knock,” said the maid, knocking and banging.

“Oh no!” said the princess. “Oh dear, don’t knock here; you see how awful it looks!” she said.

“Who is it who knocks at my door?” cried the gyger, coarsely and foully, from within the mountain, cracking the door open and poking out her nose, which was a good ell long, through the crack.

“It is the youngest princess and her maid, who want to go to the golden forest,” replied the maid.

“Oh fie! It’s so far to the north,

That rowing or sailing, no one comes forth!”

said the gyger. “You may as well turn for home sooner rather than later,” she said. No, they would in no way turn back, not by any means, I wouldn’t think. The maid then began to ask if it might be so well that they spend the worst of the night there, if nothing more.

“You can always spend the night,” replied the gyger, “but when my husband comes home, he’ll twist off your heads,” she said.

Well, they couldn’t go any further now, in the middle of the charcoal-black night. So the maid brought out the ell of sackcloth she had with her, and gave it to the gyger for a bonnet.

“Oh my, oh my, no!” cried the gyger. “Now, I have been married for a hundred years, but never have I worn a bonnet of sackcloth before,” she said, and was so glad that she invited them in, welcomed them, and treated them well.

After a while, when they had helped themselves to the food and drink they needed, the gyger said:

“Well, he is certainly always in a foul mood, this husband of mine. But since you are so kind, then I shall try to hide you in the pantry, so that perhaps he won’t find you,” she said, and made up a cot there, as soft and good as any cot could be. Even so, they dared neither to lie nor to sit down, not so long as they could blink their eyes. They stood the whole night through, taking turns to stay awake, each holding the other up under her arms, for now the maid too was so weak and feeble that she could hardly manage any longer.

At the turn of midnight, there was a great roaring and shaking. It was the troll coming home, it was, and he had but reached his first head in through the door before he screamed so roughly and foully:

“Fie, fie, it smells of the smell of a Christian here!” he screamed, turning so wild and mad that sparks flew from him.

“Yes,” replied his gyger, “a bird came flying here with a Christian’s bone, and dropped it down through the fireplace chimney; I hurried to get it out, I did, but I should think that must be what it smells of anyway,” she said, soothing him. At this he calmed down.

But in the morning, she told him that a princess and her maid had come, thinking to go to the golden forest.

“Oh fie! It’s so far to the north,

That rowing or sailing, no one comes forth!”

screamed the troll, too. “It’s the princess who should have had Sobbing-and-Sorrow then, I suppose. She’ll never have him, for in three days he shall marry the great gyger herself; everything is being prepared for the wedding. But wherever are they? They won’t leave here!” he screamed, sniffing and nosing in all the nooks and corners.

“Oh no, you won’t do them any harm,” said the gyger. “They gave me a whole ell of sackcloth for a bonnet, they did. And I have been married for a hundred years, but never have I worn a bonnet of sackcloth before,” she said. “So you shall lend them your trotting tunic, you shall, to our nearest neighbour!” said the gyger, entreating on their behalf. Yes, he too would do so, the troll would, when he heard that they had been so kind.

After they had eaten in the morning, and stood ready to leave, he fastened the trotting tunic to them.

“Now you shall say: ‘Forward, forward, over willow hollow and spruce-tops, over mountain, over valley, to our nearest neighbour!’ shall you say,” he said. “And when you arrive, you shall say, ‘Where you were fastened today shall you hang up tonight,’” said the troll.

They did so. And now they went forth over mountain and over valley, from horizon to horizon. At twilight they came to a huge great mountain. Here they took off the trotting tunic, and said:

“Where you were fastened today shall you hang up tonight!” And so it went home by itself.

“Well, here shall I knock,” said the maid, knocking and banging.

“Oh no,” sobbed the princess. “Oh dear, don’t knock here; you see how awful it looks!” she complained.

“Who is it who knocks at my door?” cried this gyger, even coarser and fouler than the first, poking out her nose, which was a good two ells long, through the crack of the door.

“It is the youngest princess and her maid who want to go to the golden forest,” replied the maid.

Well, this gyger also began to crow, she did, about how it was so far to the north that “rowing or sailing, no one comes forth!” and at length she wanted them to turn around. “It’d be better they return home sooner rather than later,” she said.

No, they would by no means turn back. The maid then began to ask if it might be so well that they spend the worst of the night there, if nothing more.

“You can always stay the night,” said the gyger, “but when my husband comes home tonight, he’ll twist off your heads,” she said. Well, then the maid took out the ell of hemp she had brought, and gave it to the gyger for a bonnet.

“Oh no, oh my, no!” cried the gyger. “Now, I have been married for two hundred years, but never have I worn a bonnet of hemp before!” she said, and was so happy that she invited them in, welcomed them, and treated them well.

After a while, when they had taken food and drink for themselves, there where they were staying, the gyger said:

“Well, he is certainly always in a foul mood, this husband of mine, and he tears asunder the soul of any Christian who enters in here, sorely and at length. But since you have been so kind, I shall try to hide you out in the pantry, I shall, so perhaps he won’t find you,” she said. And she made up a cot for them there; but they dared not lie nor sit down. They stood and held one another, and the one stayed awake whilst the other slept.

At the turn of midnight, there was a terribly great roaring and shaking. They felt how the earth quaked. Straightway, the troll came rushing in.

“Fie, fie! It smells of the smell of a Christian here!” he screamed, with such a coarse voice. And he turned so wild and carried on so that the sparks crackled as they flew from him.

“Yes,” said the gyger, “a bird came flying and dropped a Christian’s bone down through the fireplace chimney. I hurried to get it out again, I did, but I should think that must be what it smells of anyway,” she said, soothing him. Well, he contented himself with this.

At the time they should get up in the morning, she told him that a princess and her maid had come, who wanted to go to the golden forest. Straightway he heard this, he too began shouting that it was so far to the north that “rowing or sailing, no one comes forth!”

“Is it the princess who was supposed to have Sobbing-and-Sorrow, I suppose? But she shall never have him, for in two days he shall marry the great gyger herself; the wedding is already being prepared,” said the troll, just as the other had done. “But wherever are they? They won’t come from here alive!” he screamed, sniffing and nosing both high and low.

“Oh no, you shall do nothing to them,” the gyger said. And she told that she had given her an ell of hemp for a bonnet. “And I have been married for two hundred years, but never have I worn a bonnet of hemp before. So you shall lend them your trotting tunic, you shall, to our nearest neighbour,” she said. Yes, then he was willing, that very hour, the troll was too, when he heard they had been so kind.

After they had eaten that morning, he fastened the trotting tunic to them. “And when you arrive, then you shall say this: ‘Where you were fastened today shall you shall hang up tonight!’ and it will return by itself,” the troll said.

Now they went over mountain and deep valley, from horizon to horizon. At twilight they again came to a huge great mountain.

“Well, here shall I knock!” said the maid, and knocked and banged on the rock wall.

“Oh no!” begged the princess. “Oh dear, don’t knock here; you see how awful it looks!” she said.

“Who is it who knocks at my door?” cried the gyger within the mountain, even coarser and fouler than either of the others; she opened the door so that she could get her nose, which was a good three ells long, out through the crack.

“It is the youngest princess and her maid, who want to go to the golden forest,” replied the maid.

“Oh fie! It’s so far to the north,

That rowing or sailing, no one comes forth!”

screamed the gyger. “You may as well return home sooner rather than later,” she too said. Then the maid then began to ask if it might be so well that they spend the worst of the night there, if nothing more.

“You can always spend the night,” said the gyger. “But when my husband comes home tonight, he’ll twist off your heads,” she said. But there was no travelling in the forest and wilderness in the middle of the charcoal-black night. Then the maid took out the ell of canvas she had with her, and gave it to the gyger for a bonnet.

“Oh no, oh dear, no!” said the gyger. “Now I have been married for three hundred years, but never have I worn a bonnet of canvas before!” she cried. And she was so glad that she invited them in, welcomed them, and treated them nicely.

“Well, he certainly is always terribly fierce, this husband of mine, and he tears asunder the soul of any Christian who enters in here, sorely and at length. But as you were so kind, I shall try to hide you out in the pantry, I shall. Perhaps he won’t find you,” she said, and made up a cot for them there, as soft and good as any cot could be.

Now the princess was so weak and sleepy and sullen that there was nearly no end to it. She couldn’t hope to stand any longer, she said, and wanted finally to lie down, and even doze, though it would be little more than a short nap. The maid, too, had grown so weak that she slept where she stood; her head nodded a few times. But even so, she remembered so much that she supported the princess under her arms, not letting her bow her knees.

At the turn of midnight, there was a roaring and banging such that the whole house rocked, as if both the roof and walls should fall down. This was the huge great troll, this one, who now came rushing home. As soon as he got his first head in through the door, he screamed, so coarsely and horribly that they had never heard anything so coarse and horrible in all their livelong days:

“Oh fie! Oh fie! It smells of the smell of a Christian here!” he said, and was so wild and mad that the sparks thundered from him.

“Yes,” replied the gyger. “A bird came flying and dropped a Christian’s bone down through the fireplace chimney. I hurried to get it out, I did, but I should think that must be what it smells of anyway,” she said, soothing him.

Well, he contented himself with this. But when they got up in the morning, she told him that there was a princess and her maid there, who wanted to go to the golden forest.

“Oh fie! It’s so far to the north,

That rowing or sailing, no one comes forth!”

screamed the big troll, too, as the other trolls had done.

“It’s the princess who should have had Sobbing-and-Sorrow then, I suppose. But she shall never have him; tomorrow or the next day he shall marry the great gyger herself,” said the troll. “And wherever they are, they won’t come from here with their lives!” he screamed, jumping up and running around the floor, sniffing and nosing with his nine noses all at once.

“Oh no, you shall do nothing to them!” said the gyger. “They gave me an ell of canvas for a bonnet. And I have been married for three hundred years, but never have I worn a bonnet of canvas before. So you shall lend them your trotting tunic to our nearest neighbour!” said the gyger, you understand.

Well, when the great troll heard this, he wanted to do so too, he did.

In the morning, when they had eaten their food, he fastened his trotting tunic to them. And now they went far and farther than far, over mountain and deep valley, from horizon to horizon.

At twilight they came to a great, great forest. All the trees were as black as charcoal here. As soon as you went in, even a little, you would turn sooty and dirty.

In a flat clearing in the midst of the darkness stood a small crooked hut which was mostly rotten. It looked worse than the most squalid of pasture cabins. Before the door lay a foul heap of rubbish, scrap, and straw, which closed the way for them. Still, the maid took the trotting tunic off them and said:

“Where you were fastened today shall you hang up tonight!” and now it went home by itself.

“Well, here shall I knock,” said the maid.

“Oh no, oh dear no! Do not knock here; you see how horrible it is here!” complained the princess.

“Do now as I do, or things will go badly with the both of us,” said the maid, as she waded through the midden to knock on the door. An ancient gyger with a horribly long nose peered out at them.

“If these women-folk want to come in, then they may, and if they don’t, then they may leave be!” she growled in a fierce rage.

“Yes thank you, we will come in,” replied the maid, dragging the princess behind her.

“Oh my, oh dear me!” sighed the princess.

“If the women-folk want to come away from the door, then they may, and if they don’t, then they may leave be!” growled the gyger, growing fiercer and fiercer.

“Yes thank you, we will,” replied the maid, wading across the floor, up to her knees in rubbish and rags.

“Oh my, oh dear me!” sighed the princess.

Then the gyger went for some milk for them.

“If the women-folk want to drink, then they may, and if not, then they may leave be!” she growled, nearly taking the vessel away again.

“Yes thank you, we want a drink,” replied the maid, drinking and wiping the milk away.

“Oh my, oh dear me!” sighed the princess when the time came for her to drink, for the milk was in a pig trough, and it was full of dirt, and had tufts of hair floating on top.

Then the gyger made some food for them.

“If the women-folk want to come over and eat, they may, and if they don’t, then they may leave be!” bellowed the gyger at them, you understand.

“Yes thank you, we want to,” replied the maid, before the gyger could take the food away again. The bread was moldy, the cheese mouse-eaten, the butter rancid, and the meat completely spoiled. It smelt from afar. And two dirty calf tails lay in a ring around the butterdish.

“Oh my, oh dear me!” sighed the princess, nearly weeping. But she should do as her maid said anyway, she thought, and tasted the banquet.

Then they should thank her for her hospitality.

In some furs on a horrid cot in the corner lay an old man whom they had not seen before, and when the princess went to thank him, too. He stood up and kissed her hand. Straightway he became a handsome young prince, who was so outwardly comely and elegant and dashing that no one could imagine how elegant and fine he was. And she recognised Sobbing-and-Sorrow, whom she had grieved for and yearned for so sorely.

“Now you have saved me!” he told her.

“Bother!” screamed the gyger, rushing for the door. But as soon as she came out on to the threshold, she remained standing there as stock and stone, for the forest was no longer charcoal black. The trees looked as if they were gilded from top to bottom. They blinked and gleamed like the midday sun. And after the princess and her maid had stared for long enough, the squalid dark cabin had become a king’s farm so magnificent and fine that there was no measure. You would think the walls and ceilings were made of silver and gold. And they were so, too.

“Now you may bow your knees!” said the prince. “And no matter how much you have been sobbing in sorrow, you shall have all the more joy henceforth,” he said.

The gyger had brewed and baked and readied all the wedding fare. In the morning, as early as the day dawned, the maid and all the people in the king’s farm and in the whole country came to where the prince and princess would now be king and queen, and began to celebrate their wedding. They all carried on celebrating for four fortnights, so that it was heard of and asked about across seven kingdoms and all the way home to the father of the bride and her two sisters. They were supposed to be at the celebration too, but they lived too far away for that.

I was at the banquet and helped them with the carrying. But on the last day of the wedding, the bridegroom stuffed me into a canon and shot me hither.

And here I sit, and there you are. I haven’t been with them since, but as far as I know, they live still, and that both in gladness and in joy.