صفحة 388 من 626

'My mother killed her little son; My father grieved when I was

gone; My sister loved me best of all; She laid her kerchief over

me, And took my bones that they might lie Underneath the

juniper-tree Kywitt, Kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!'

And when he had finished his song, he spread his wings, and with

the chain in his right claw, the shoes in his left, and the

millstone round his neck, he flew right away to his father's

house.

The father, the mother, and little Marleen were having their

dinner.

'How lighthearted I feel,' said the father, 'so pleased and

cheerful.'

'And I,' said the mother, 'I feel so uneasy, as if a heavy

thunderstorm were coming.'

But little Marleen sat and wept and wept.

Then the bird came flying towards the house and settled on the

roof.

'I do feel so happy,' said the father, 'and how beautifully the

sun shines; I feel just as if I were going to see an old friend

again.'