But when it had passed, back he came again, and this time it did no good for his mother and father to beg and pray, for he had put off his bargain long enough, and now he was for having what was his. “All the same,” says he to the blacksmith, “if you will come after five years to the place in the woods where you saw me, you shall have your son, if you choose to take him.” And off he went with the lad at his heels. Well, after five years had passed, the blacksmith went into the forest to find the dwarf and to bring back his son again. There was the dwarf waiting for him, and in his hand he held a basket. “Well, neighbor,” says he, “and have you come to fetch your son again?” Yes, that was what the blacksmith wanted. “Very well,” says the dwarf, “here he is, and all that you have to do is to take him.” He opened the basket, and inside was a wren, a thrush, and a dove. “But which of the three is the lad?” says the blacksmith. “That is for you to tell, neighbor,” says the dwarf. The blacksmith looked and looked, and first he thought it might be the wren, and then he thought it might be the thrush, and then he thought it might be the dove. But he was afraid to choose any one of the three, lest he should not be right in the choosing. So he shook his head and sighed, and was forced at last to go away with empty hands. Out by the edge of the forest sat an old woman spinning flax from a distaff. “Whither away, friend?” said she, “and why do you wear such a sorrowful face?” The blacksmith stopped and told her the whole story from beginning to end. “Tut!” said the old woman, “you should have chosen the dove, for that was your son for sure and certain.” “There!” said the blacksmith, “if I had only known that in the first place it would have saved me so much leg wear,” and back he went, hot-foot, to find the dwarf and to get his son again. There was the dwarf waiting for him with a basket on his arm, but this time it was a sparrow and a magpie and a lark that were in it, and the blacksmith might take which of the three he liked, for one of them was his own son. [Illustration: The blacksmith chooses y^e raven and runs away with it. ¶):(⁋] The man looked and looked, and could make nothing of it, so all that he could do was to shake his head and turn away again with empty hands. Out by the edge of the forest sat the old woman spinning. “Prut!” says she, “you should have chosen the lark, for it was your son for sure and certain. But listen; go back and try again; look each bird in the eyes, and choose where you find tears; for nothing but the human soul weeps.” Back went the man into the forest for the third time, and there was the dwarf just as before, only this time it was a sparrow and a jackdaw and a raven that he had in his basket. The man looked at each of the three in turn, and there were tears in the raven’s eyes. “This is the one I choose,” said he, and he snatched it and ran. And it was his son and none other whom he held.