Yes, that was what the blacksmith wanted.
“Very well,” says the dwarf, “here he is, and all that you have to do is to take him.” He opened the basket, and inside was a wren, a thrush, and a dove.
“But which of the three is the lad?” says the blacksmith.
“That is for you to tell, neighbor,” says the dwarf.
The blacksmith looked and looked, and first he thought it might be the wren, and then he thought it might be the thrush, and then he thought it might be the dove. But he was afraid to choose any one of the three, lest he should not be right in the choosing. So he shook his head and sighed, and was forced at last to go away with empty hands.
Out by the edge of the forest sat an old woman spinning flax from a distaff.
“Whither away, friend?” said she, “and why do you wear such a sorrowful face?”
The blacksmith stopped and told her the whole story from beginning to end. “Tut!” said the old woman, “you should have chosen the dove, for that was your son for sure and certain.”
“There!” said the blacksmith, “if I had only known that in the first place it would have saved me so much leg wear,” and back he went, hot-foot, to find the dwarf and to get his son again.
There was the dwarf waiting for him with a basket on his arm, but this time it was a sparrow and a magpie and a lark that were in it, and the blacksmith might take which of the three he liked, for one of them was his own son.