And could scarce believe his eyes

To see the straw, to the smallest shreds,

Made into shining amber threads.

And he cried, “When once more I have tried

Your skill like this, you shall be my bride;

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For I might search through all my life

Nor find elsewhere so rich a wife.”

Then he led her by the hand

Through still another door,

To a room filled twice as full of straw

As either had been before.

There stood the chair and the spinning-wheel,

And there the can of oil and the reel;

And as he gently shut her in

He whispered, “Spin, little maiden, spin.”

Again she wept, and again Did the little dwarf appear; “What will you give this time,” he asked, “If I spin for you, my dear?” Alas—poor little maid—alas! Out of her eyes as gray as glass Faster and faster tears did fall, As she moaned, “I’ve nothing to give at all.” Ah, wicked indeed he looked; But while she sighed, he smiled! “Promise, when you are queen,” he said, “To give me your first-born child!” Little she tho’t what that might mean, Or if ever in truth she should be queen Anything, so that the work was done— Anything, so that the gold was spun! She promised all that he chose to ask; And blithely he began the task. Round went the wheel, and round, Whiz, and whiz-z, and whiz-z-z! So swift that the thread at the spindle point Flew off with buzz and hiss.
She dozed—so tired her eyelids were— To the endless whirr, and whirr, and whirr; Though not even sleep could overcome The wheel’s revolving hum, hum, hum! When at last she woke the room was clean, Not a broken bit of straw was seen; But in huge high heaps were piled and rolled Great spools of gold—nothing but gold! It was just at the earliest peep of dawn, And she was alone—the dwarf was gone.