“No, no, good King of the Cats. How could I bear my goat to be away from me, and I having no other company?”
“If you do not let me ride on your goat to the top of the Hill of Horns I will leave a sign on your house that will bring the cross crane to build her nest on the top of it again.”
“Then take my goat, King of the Cats, take my goat but let him come back to me soon.”
“I will. Come with me now and bid him take me to the top of the Hill of Horns.”
The King of the Cats marched out of the house and the Hag of the Ashes hobbled after him. The goat was lying under the hawthorn bush. He put his horns to the ground when they came up to him.
“Will you go to the Hill of Horns?” said the Hag of the Ashes.
“Indeed, that I will not do,” said the goat.
“Oh, the soft tops of the hedges on the way to the Hill of Horns—sweet in the mouth of a goat they should be,” said the Hag of the Ashes. “But my own poor goat wants to stay here and eat the tops of the burnt-up thistles.”
“Why didn’t you tell me of the hedges on the way to the Hill of Horns before?” said the goat, rising to his feet. “To the Hill of Horns I’ll go.”
“And will you let a cat ride on your back to the Hill of Horns?”