Then the Queen lay awake till morning, thinking over all the names she had ever heard of, and she sent a messenger over the country to inquire far and near any other names there might be. When the little man came the next day she began with Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar, and repeated all the names she knew; but at each one the little man said, “No, that’s not my name.”
The next day she sent to inquire the names of all the people in the neighborhood, and had a long list of the most uncommon and extraordinary names for the little man when he came.
“Is your name Shortribs, perhaps, or Sheepshanks, or Spindleleg?”
But he always replied, “No, that is not my name.”
The third day the messenger returned and reported: “I have not been able to find any more new names, but on my way home, as I came to a high mountain on the edge of the forest, I saw there a little house, and before the house a fire was burning, and round the [[7]]fire a ridiculous little man was hopping and dancing on one leg and crying:
“ ‘To-day I brew, to-morrow I bake,
Next morning I shall the Queen’s child take;
How glad I am that no one can dream
That Rumpelstiltskin is my name!’ ”
