But first, because she was a wicked witch-woman, knowing spells and charms, she took out the heart of the little girl and made it into two savoury pasties, one for her husband's breakfast and one for the little boy's, for thus would the love they bore to the little girl become hers. Nevertheless, she was mistaken, for when morning came and the little child could not be found, the father sent away his breakfast barely tasted, and the little boy wept so that he could eat nothing. So they grieved and grieved. And when the snow melted and they found the bones of the poor child, they said, "She must have lost her way that dark night going to the grocer's to buy candles." So they buried the bones under the children's rose tree, and every day the little boy sate there and wept and wept for his lost playmate. Now when summer came the wild rose tree flowered. It was covered with white roses, and amongst the flowers there sate a beautiful white bird. And it sang and sang and sang like an angel out of heaven; but what it sang the little boy could never make out, for he could hardly see for weeping, hardly hear for sobbing. So at last the beautiful white bird unfolded its broad white wings and flew to a cobbler's shop, where a myrtle bush hung over the man and his last, on which he was making a dainty little pair of rose-red shoes. Then it perched on a bough and sang ever so sweetly: "Stepmother slew me, Father nigh ate me, He whom I dearly love Sits below, I sing above, Stick! Stock! Stone dead!" "Sing that beautiful song again," said the cobbler. "It is better than a nightingale's." "That will I gladly," sang the bird, "if you will give me the little rose-red shoes you are making." And the cobbler gave them willingly, so the white bird sang its song once more. Then with the rose-red shoes in one foot it flew to an ash tree that grew close beside a goldsmith's bench, and sang: "Stepmother slew me, Father nigh ate me, He whom I dearly love Sits below, I sing above, Stick! Stock! Stone dead!" "Oh, what a beautiful song!" cried the goldsmith. "Sing again, dear bird, it is sweeter than a nightingale's." "That will I gladly," sang the bird, "if you will give me the gold chain you're making." And the goldsmith gave the bauble willingly, and the bird sang its song once more. Then with the rose-red shoes in one foot and the golden chain in the other, the bird flew to an oak tree which overhung the mill stream, beside which three millers were busy picking out a millstone, and, perching on a bough, sang its song ever so sweetly: "My stepmother slew me, My father nigh ate me, He whom I dearly love Sits below, I sing above, Stick!--" Just then one of the millers put down his tool and listened. "Stock!" sang the bird. And the second miller put aside his tool and listened. "Stone," sang the bird. Then the third miller put aside his tool and listened.