"Sing that beautiful song again," said the cobbler. "It is better than a nightingale's."
"That will I gladly," sang the bird, "if you will give me the little rose-red shoes you are making."
And the cobbler gave them willingly, so the white bird sang its song once more. Then with the rose-red shoes in one foot it flew to an ash tree that grew close beside a goldsmith's bench, and sang:
"Stepmother slew me,
Father nigh ate me,
He whom I dearly love
Sits below, I sing above,
Stick! Stock! Stone dead!"
"Oh, what a beautiful song!" cried the goldsmith.
"Sing again, dear bird, it is sweeter than a nightingale's."
"That will I gladly," sang the bird, "if you will give me the gold chain you're making."
And the goldsmith gave the bauble willingly, and the bird sang its song once more. Then with the rose-red shoes in one foot and the golden chain in the other, the bird flew to an oak tree which overhung the mill stream, beside which three millers were busy picking out a millstone, and, perching on a bough, sang its song ever so sweetly:
"My stepmother slew me,
My father nigh ate me,
He whom I dearly love
Sits below, I sing above,
Stick!—"
Just then one of the millers put down his tool and listened.