After one day the manikin came back to find out whether his name had been discovered.
“Is your name Kasper, or Melchior, or Belshayzar?” the Queen asked in a worried manner.
“Oh, no!” the little fellow said to each name she suggested.
The second day the Queen tried him with some names she had made up herself. “Perhaps they call you Sheepshanks, or Cruickshanks, or Spindleshanks?” she suggested eagerly. But each time the manikin shook his head haughtily and answered, “No!”
The poor Queen was nearly crazy with worry on the third day, and the messengers could find no more queer names. One of them, however, told this story:
“I was drawing to the top of a high hill, and the road where I was riding went through a thick wood. Not a new name had I learned all day. But suddenly I came upon a hut, and before it was a big fire. A little man was hopping madly about the fire, and singing at the top of his voice:
“‘Now a feast I must prepare,
Of the finest royal fare.
Soon the Queen must give her son
To me, for I’m the lucky one.
That Rumpelstiltskin is my name,
She will never guess—the silly dame.’”
The Queen was so delighted she did not even mind being called silly. Soon the manikin came in.
“Well,” he said defiantly, “I guess you don’t know my name yet, do you? Remember, this is your last chance.”
“Oh, dear,” said the Queen, pretending to be very anxious. “Is it John?”