"See what fine things the thunder has brought!" he cried with glee as he ran back.
Then the white bird rattled the millstone about the eaves once more, and once again the stepmother said, "Hearken! How it thunders!"
So this time the father went out to see, and down dropped the golden chain about his neck.
"It is true," he said when he came back. "The thunder does bring fine things!"
Then once more the white bird rattled the millstone about the eaves, and this time the stepmother said hurriedly, "Hark! there it is again! Perhaps it has got something for me!"
Then she ran out; but the moment she stepped outside the door, down fell the millstone right on her head and killed her.
So that was an end of her. And after that the little boy was ever so much happier, and all the summer time he sate with his little rose-coloured shoes under the wild rose tree and listened to the white bird's song. But when winter came and the wild rose tree was all barren and bare save for snowflake flowers, the white bird came no longer and the little boy grew tired of waiting for it. So one day he gave up altogether, and they buried him under the rose tree beside his little playmate.
Now when the spring came and the rose tree blossomed, the flowers were no longer white. They were edged with rose colour like the little boy's shoes, and in the centre of each blossom there was a beautiful tuft of golden silk like the little girl's hair.
And if you look in a wild rose you will find these things there still.