“I need not herds; all I want is the mill.”
“Well, poor man, I have refused thee three times, and three times thou hast asked for the mill; now, whether I will or not, I must give it. But know that thou art not to grind corn or wheat with the mill; for it has this virtue,—that it accomplishes all wishes. Here it is, take it, though my heart bleeds after it. Thou didst me a good deed, therefore let it be thine.”
The poor man put the mill on his back, took farewell of the King of the Crows, thanking him for his hospitality, and trudged home at his leisure. On the way back he entertained the swineherds, the horseherds, and the cowherds. All he did was to say, “Grind, my dear mill,” and what food was dear to the eye, the mouth, and the taste appeared of itself; and if he said, “Draw up, my dear mill,” all the food was as if the ground had swallowed it,—it vanished. Then he took leave of the good shepherds and continued his way.
As he travelled and journeyed, he came to a great wild wood; and having grown hungry, he said: “Grind, my dear mill.” Straightway the table was spread, not for one, but for two persons. The mill knew at once that the poor man would have a guest; for that moment, wherever he came from, a great fat man appeared, who without saying a word, took his seat at the table. When they had enjoyed God’s blessing, the great fat man spoke, and said:
“Listen, poor man. Give me that mill for this knotty club; for if thy mill has the power of accomplishing all thy desires [the fat man knew this already], my knotty club has this power, that thou hast need but to say, ‘Strike, my club,’ and the man thou hast in mind is the son of Death.”
What was the poor man to do? Thinking if he did not give it of his free will the fat man would take it by force, he exchanged the mill for the knotty club; but when he had it once in his hand, he said in a low voice, for he was commanding the knotty club, “Strike, my dear club.” And it so struck the fat man behind the ears that he gave forth not a sound; he didn’t move his little finger. Then the poor man continued his journey homeward at his ease; and when seven years had passed he was able to say: “Here we are!”
His wife who was weeping by the hearth, mourning over her dear lost lord and the two lean cows, scarcely knew the poor man, but still she knew him. His two sons had become large, and had grown out of their long clothes. When the poor man put his foot in his own house he set the mill down in the chimney-corner, loosed his mantle from his neck, hung it up on a nail, and only then did they know him.
“Well, father,” said his wife, “thou hast come; God knows ’tis time. I never expected to see thee again; but what didst thou get for Bimbo and Csako?”
“This mill,” answered he with many “see here’s” and “see there’s.”
“If that’s the case, the palsy strike thy work,” cried the woman; “better for thee to have stayed at home these seven years, and swung thy feet around here, than to have dragged that good-for-nothing mill from such a distant land, just as if thou hadst eaten the crazy-weed!”