[Note: The Grimm brothers received this tale at Cassel from Jeanette Hassenpflug early enough in the autumn of 1812 for them to include it in the edition published in December of that year. Jeanette reported having heard it from an old woman, Mamsell Storch, in Henschel. About the Grimm Collection.]
In days of yore there was a tailor who had three sons and only one goat.
But since they all lived on its milk, the goat had to have good fodder and had to be led to pasture every day. This the boys did in turn. Once the eldest son took it to the churchyard, where the finest grass grew, and let it feed there and skip about. In the evening when it was time to go home, he asked, “Goat, have you had enough?” The goat answered,
I’ve had so much,
I don’t want another blade.
Bleat! bleat!
“Then come home,” said the boy, took it by the rope, and led it into the stable and tied it up. “Well,” said the old tailor, “did the goat get what it’s supposed to?” “Oh”’ replied the son, “it’s had so much it doesn’t want another blade.” But the father wanted to make sure, went down into the stable, patted the dear creature, and asked, “Goat, did you really get enough?” The goat answered,
What could I have had my fill of?
I was just gamboling over graves
And didn’t find a single blade.
Bleat! bleat!
“What’s this I hear!” cried the tailor, ran upstairs, and said to the boy, “Why, you liar! You said the goat had had enough, and you let it starve,” and in his anger took the yardstick from the wall and chased him out with blows.
Next day it was the second son’s turn. He picked out a place near the garden hedge, where lots of good grass grew, and the goat grazed it clean. In the evening when he was about to go home, he asked, “Goat, have you had enough?” The goat answered,
I’ve had so much,
I don’t want another blade.
Bleat! bleat!
“Then come home,” said the boy, led it home and tied it up in the stable. “Well,” said the old tailor, “did the goat get what it’s supposed to?” “Oh,” answered the son, “it’s had so much it doesn’t want another blade.” The tailor wasn’t willing to rely on this statement, went down into the stable, and asked, “Goat, did you really get enough?” the goat answered,
What could I have had my fill of?
I was just gamboling over graves
And didn’t find a single blade.
Bleat! bleat!
“The unprincipled rascal!” cried the tailor, “to let such a good animal starve!” ran upstairs and with the yardstick beat the boy out the front door.
Now it was the third son’s turn. He wanted to do a job of it, picked out some bushes with the finest foliage, and let the goat feed on it. In the evening when he was about to go home, he asked, “Goat, did you really get enough?” The goat answered,
I’ve had so much,
I don’t want another blade.
Bleat! bleat!
“Come home then,” said the boy, led it into the stable, and tied it up. “Well,” said the old tailor, “did the goat get what it’s supposed to?” “Oh,” answered the son, “it’s had so much, it doesn’t want another leaf.” The tailor didn’t believe it, went down and asked, “Goat, did you really get enough?” But the malicious creature replied,
What could I have had my fill of?
I was just gamboling over graves
And didn’t find a single blade.
Bleat! bleat!
“Oh, you pack of liars!” cried the tailor, “one as base and undutiful as the other! You won’t make a fool of me any longer.” Quite beside himself with anger he rushed up and with his yard-stick gave the poor boy such a terrible tanning on the back that he ran out of the house.
The old tailor was now alone with his goat. Next morning he went down to the stable, petted the goat, and said, “Come, my dear creature, I lead you to pasture myself.” He took it by the rope and led it to green hedges and under clusters of scabious and to whatever goats like to eat. “Now you may eat to your heart’s content,” he said to it, and let it graze till nightfall. Then he said, “Goat, have you had enough?” It answered,
I’ve had so much,
I don’t want another blade.
Bleat! bleat!
“Come home then,” said the tailor, led it into the stable, and tied it up. Before leaving he turned around once more and said, “At last you’ve had enough!” but the goat behaved no better toward him and cried out,
What could I have had my fill of?
I was just gamboling over graves
And didn’t find a single blade.
Bleat! bleat!
When the tailor heard this, it gave him pause, and he saw that he had driven his sons away without cause. “Wait, you ungrateful creature,” he cried, “driving you away is far too little punishment! I’ll brand you so you won’t be able to show yourself any more among honest tailors.” In great haste he rushed up, got his razor, lathered the goat’s head, and shaved it as smooth as the palm of his hand. And since the yardstick would have been too good for it, he took a whip and dealt it such blows that it bounded away wildly.
Sitting thus all alone in his house, the tailor was plunged into great sadness; he’d like to have had his sons back, but no one knew where they’d got to.
The eldest had apprenticed himself to a cabinetmaker and learned the trade diligently and perseveringly, and when his time was up and he was to start traveling, his master gave him a little table of no very special appearance and of ordinary wood. But it had one good property: on putting it down and saying, “Table, be set!” it was at once covered with a clean cloth, and there’d be a plate with a knife and fork beside it, and dishes with all sorts of food, as many as there was room for, also a large glass gleaming with red wine which made one’s heart jump for joy. The young journeyman thought, “That’s enough for the rest of your life,” roamed gaily about the world, and didn’t worry whether an inn was good or bad, and whether anything was to be had there or not. If he felt like it, he wouldn’t turn in anywhere, but be it in field, in forest, or in some meadow, wherever he fancied, he’d take his table off his back, put it down in front of him, and say, “Be set!” Thereupon everything was there that his heart desired.
At last the idea occurred to him to return to his father, whose anger would likely have subsided and, what with table-be-set, would probably gladly welcome him again. Now it happened that on the way home he one evening got to an inn which was crowded with guests. They bade him welcome and invited him to come in and join them and eat with them, otherwise he’d have a hard time getting anything so late. “No,” the cabinetmaker replied, “I won’t deprive you of the few morsels; you’d better be my guests.” They laughed and thought he was joking them, but he set up his wooden table in the middle of the room, saying, “Table, be set!” Immediately it was covered with food better than anything the host could have served and whose odor rose agreeably to the guests’ noses. “Help yourselves, dear friends,” said the cabinetmaker, and the guests, when they saw the point, didn’t wait to be asked twice but drew up, took out their knives, and went to it valiantly. What amazed them most of all, however, was that as soon as one dish got empty, a full dish at once took its place.
The innkeeper stood in a corner and watched the affair. He didn’t know what to say but thought, “You could certainly use a chef like that in your business.” The cabinetmaker and his companions made merry far into the night; finally they went to sleep, and the journeyman went to bed, too, putting his wishing-table against the wall. But the innkeeper’s thoughts left him no peace and he remembered that there was in his lumber-room an old table that looked just like it. He quietly fetched it and substituted it for the wishing-table. Next morning the cabinet-maker paid for his lodging, picked up his table, and, never dreaming he had a false table, went on his way.
At noon he reached his father’s house and was received with great rejoicing. “Well, my dear son, what did you learn?” his father said to him. “Father, I’ve become a cabinetmaker.” “A good trade,” replied the old man, “but what did you bring back from your travels?” “Father, the best thing I’ve brought back is this table.” The tailor looked at it from all sides and said, “This isn’t exactly a masterpiece of yours; it’s an old and poor table.” “But it’s a set-itself table,” answered the son. “Whenever I put it up and tell it to set itself, at once the finest dishes appear and a wine, too, that delights the heart. Just invite all our friends and relatives. For once they shall refresh themselves and enjoy themselves, for the table will give them all they can eat.” When the company was assembled, he put up his table in the middle of the room and said, “Table, be set!” But the table didn’t stir and remained as bare as any other table that didn’t understand speech. Then the poor journeyman realized that his table had been changed on him and was mortified at appearing there as a liar. His relatives, however, laughed at him and had to go back home without having had a bite to eat or a drop to drink. His father fetched his cloth and went on tailoring, and the son started work with a master.
The second son had gone to a miller and had apprenticed himself to him. When his term was up, the master said, “Since you’ve behaved so well, I’m giving you a donkey of a special kind: it doesn’t pull a cart or carry sacks.” “What good is it?” asked the young journeyman. “It spits gold,” answered the miller. “If you put it on a cloth and say ‘Brickle-brit,’ the good creature will spit out gold pieces for you from in front and behind.” “That’s a fine thing,” said the journeyman, thanked the master, and set out in the world. Whenever he needed money, he had only to say “Brickle-brit” to his donkey, and it rained gold pieces, and he had no further bother than to pick them up off the ground. Wherever he went, only the best was good enough for him, and the dearer the better, for he always had a full purse.
After traveling about the world for some time, he thought, “You’d better look up your father. When you arrive with your gold-donkey, he’ll forget his anger and give you a hearty welcome.” Now it so happened that he got into the very inn where his brother’s table had been changed. He was leading his donkey and the host wanted to take the animal from him and tie it up, but the young journeyman said, “Don’t bother, I’ll lead Gray-Steed into the stable myself and tie it up myself, for I’ve got to know where it is.” This struck the innkeeper as odd and he thought that a man who had to look after his donkey himself wouldn’t have much money to spend. But when the stranger reached into his pocket, took out two gold pieces, and told him to lay in nothing that wasn’t really good, he opened his eyes, hurried off, and shopped for the best food he could get.
After the meal the stranger asked what he owed. The host didn’t mind chalking up double the amount and said he’d have to add a couple of gold pieces. The journeyman reached into his pocket, but his supply of gold had just run out. “Wait a moment, innkeeper,” he said, “I’ll just go and get some more gold,” taking along the tablecloth. The innkeeper didn’t know what that might mean, was curious, and crept after him, and since the guest bolted the stable door, he peeked through a knothole. The stranger spread out the cloth under the donkey, called out “Brickle-brit,” and straightway the animal began to spit out gold from in front and behind, so that it really rained down on the ground. “The deuce!” said the innkeeper, “that’s minting ducats fast! Not a bad kind of purse.”
The guest paid his bill and went to sleep. During the night, however, the innkeeper crept into the stable, led the master minter away, and tied another donkey in its place. Early next morning the journeyman went off with his donkey, thinking he had his gold-donkey. He arrived at his father’s at noon; the latter was glad to see him again and gave him a hearty welcome. “What have you become, my son?” asked the old man. “A miller, father dear,” he answered. “What did you bring back from your travels?” “Nothing but a donkey.” “There are plenty of donkeys here-abouts,” said the father, “I’d rather have had a good goat.” “Yes,” replied the son, “but it’s no ordinary donkey; it’s a gold-donkey. When I say ‘Brickle-brit’ the good creature spits out a whole cloth full of gold pieces for one. Just have all the relatives in; I’ll make them all rich.” “I like that all right,” said the tailor, “then I shan’t have to toil any longer with the needle,” hurried off, and called in his relatives.
As soon as they were assembled, the miller told them to make way, spread out his cloth, and led the donkey into the room. “Now pay attention,” he said and called out “Brickle-brit,” but what dropped weren’t gold pieces, and it was clear that the animal understood nothing of that art, for not every donkey’s so accomplished. Then the poor miller pulled a long face, realized he’d been cheated, and apologized to his relatives, who went home as poor as they’d come. So there was nothing to do but for the old man to take up his needle again and the lad to hire himself out to a miller.
The third brother had become apprentice to a turner, and because this is a skilled trade, his apprenticeship lasted longest. His brothers, however, told him by letter how ill they’d fared and how on the very last night before reaching home the innkeeper had got their fine wishing-objects away from them. When the turner finished his apprenticeship and was to start journeying, his master, to reward him for his good conduct, gave him a bag, saying, “There’s a cudgel in it.” “I can carry the bag on my back, and it may be very useful to me, but what good is the cudgel in it? It only makes it heavier.” “I’ll tell you,” answered the master, “if anyone harms you in any way, all you have to say is, ‘Cudgel, come out of the bag,’ and the cudgel will jump out into the crowd and dance about so merrily on their backs that they won’t be able to move or stir for a week. And it won’t stop till you say, ‘Cudgel, get into the bag!’”
The journeyman thanked him, shouldered the bag, and when anybody came too near and was going to attack him, he’d say, “Cudgel, come out of the bag!” and the cudgel would come out and beat the dust out of the coats or jackets on their backs, one after the other, without waiting for them to take them off. And this happened so quickly that one’s turn came before one could say “Jack Robinson.” It was evening when the young turner reached the inn where his brothers had been cheated. He put his knapsack in front of him on the table and began to recount all the remarkable things he’d seen in the world. “Yes,” he said, “of course one finds a table-be-set, a gold-donkey, and the like—all very fine things, which I don’t despise—but all that’s nothing to the treasure I’ve acquired and which I’m carrying with me in my bag there.”
The innkeeper pricked up his ears. “What in the world can it be?” he thought, “the bag’s surely full of jewels, and by rights I should have it, too, for all good things go by threes.” When it was bedtime, the guest stretched out on the bench and put his bag under his head for a pillow. When the innkeeper thought the guest was fast asleep, he softly and cautiously tugged at the bag to see if he could pull it out and slip in another. But the turner had long been waiting for this, and just as the innkeeper was about to give a good tug, he called out, “Cudgel, come out of the bag!” At once the cudgel jumped out, attacked the innkeeper and gave him a good drubbing. The innkeeper cried piteously, but the louder he cried, the harder the cudgel beat time to it on his back, until he finally fell to the ground exhausted.
Then the turner said, “If you don’t give me back the table-be-set and the gold-donkey, the dance will start up again.” “Oh no,” cried the innkeeper, quite subdued, “I’ll gladly hand over everything, only have this cursed hobgoblin creep back into the bag!” Then the journeyman said, “I’ll let mercy prevail over justice, but watch out for yourself.” Then he called out, “Cudgel, get into the bag!” and made it quiet down.
Next morning the turner went home to his father’s with the table-be-set and the gold-donkey. The tailor was glad to see him again and asked him, too, what he’d learned abroad. “Father dear,” he answered, “I’ve become a turner.” “A skilled trade,” said the father. “What did you bring home from your travels?” “A valuable item, father dear,” answered the son, “a cudgel in a bag.” “What!” cried the father, “a cudgel! That’s worth while! You can cut that off any old tree!” “But not one like this, father dear; if I say ‘Cudgel come out of the bag!’ the cudgel at once jumps out and starts a vicious dance with anyone who harbors me ill, and it doesn’t stop till he’s on the ground and asking for mercy. You see, with this cudgel I recovered the table-be-set and the gold-donkey, which the thievish innkeeper took from my brothers. Now have them both called and invite all the relatives. I’m going to give them food and drink and fill their pockets with gold, besides.”
The old tailor couldn’t really believe it, but just the same he got the relatives together. Then the turner spread out a cloth in the room, led in the gold-donkey, and said to his brother, “Now, dear brother, talk to it.” The miller said “Brickle-brit,” and at once gold pieces began raining down on the cloth like a cloudburst, and the donkey didn’t stop till all had so much that they couldn’t carry any more. (From the way you look, I see you’d like to have been there, too.) Then the turner fetched the table and said, “Dear brother, now you speak to it,” and scarcely had the cabinetmaker said, “Table, be set!” than it was laid with a cloth and covered with an abundance of the finest dishes. Then they had a meal such as the good tailor had never had in his house, and all the relatives stayed on till far into the night and were all merry and contented. The tailor locked up his needle and thread, yardstick and goose, in a cupboard and lived with his sons in joy and splendor.
But what happened to the goat that was to blame for the tailor’s driving his three sons away? I’ll tell you. It was so ashamed of its bald head that it ran into a fox hole and hid there. When the fox got home, a pair of big eyes were sparkling at it in the dark, so that it was frightened and ran off again. It met a bear, and since the fox looked quite upset, the bear said, “What’s the matter, brother fox? What kind of a face are you making?” “Alas,” said Redcoat, “a fierce animal is sitting in my hole and is staring at me with fiery eyes.” “We’ll soon drive it out,” said the bear, went along to the hole and looked in. But on beholding the fiery eyes, it, too, got scared and would have nothing to do with the fierce animal and cleared out.
It met a bee, and when the bee noticed that the bear didn’t seem in any too good spirits, it said, “Bear, you’ve certainly got a dreadfully sour expression. What’s become of your good humor?” “You may talk!” answered the bear. “Why, there’s a fierce animal with staring eyes that’s sitting in Redcoat’s hole, and we can’t drive it out.” The bee said, “I’m sorry for you, bear. I’m a poor, weak creature which you two won’t even look at in passing; still, I think I can help you.” So it flew into the fox hole, settled on the goat’s smooth-shaven head, and stung it so badly that it jumped up, crying “Bleat, bleat!” and ran like mad out into the world. And to this day nobody knows where it ran to.
