But when the queen saw the golden comb her brows grew as black as a thunder-storm. “Where is the looking-glass?” said she; and though the old man vowed and declared that no looking-glass belonged with the comb, she knew a great deal better. So, now, the blacksmith might have his choice; he should either bring her the looking-glass that belonged to the golden comb or bring her that which was the best in all the world. If he did neither of these he should be thrown into a deep pit full of toads and vipers. Back went the old man home again and told the lad all that had happened from beginning to end. And then he wanted to know what he should do to get himself out of his pickle. [Illustration: The blacksmith brings y^e wonderful little bird and tree to y^e Queen.] Well, it was no easy task to make what the queen wanted; all the same, the lad would try what he could do. So he rolled up his sleeves and out he went into the forge and laid a piece of iron upon the bed of hot coals. This time he would not trust the old man to blow the bellows for him, but took the handle into his own hand and blew and blew. The dwarf knew what was happening this time as well as before. He changed himself into a fly and came and sat on the lad’s forehead, and bit until the blood ran down into his eyes and blinded him; but the lad blew the bellows and blew the bellows. First the fire burned red, and then it burned white, and then it burned blue, and after that the work was done. Then the young man raised his hand and struck the fly and killed it, and that was an end of the dwarf for good and all. What he had made he dipped into the water and it was a gold ring, nothing less nor more. He took a sharp knife and drew charms upon it, and inside of the circle he wrote these words: “WHO WEARS THIS SHALL HAVE THE BEST THAT THE WORLD HAS TO GIVE.” “Here,” said the lad to his father, “take this up to the queen, for it is what she wants, and there is nothing better in the world.” Off marched the old man and gave the ring to the queen, and she slipped it on her finger. That was how the blacksmith saved his own skin; but the poor queen did nothing but just sit and look out of the window, and sigh and sigh. After a while she called her steward to her and bade him go over and tell the blacksmith’s son to come to her. There sat the lad back of the stove. “Prut!” said he, “she must send a better than you if she would have me come to her.” So the steward had just to go back to the castle again and tell the queen what the lad had said. Then the queen called her chief minister to her. “Do you go,” said she, “and bid the lad come to me.” There sat the lad back of the stove. “Prut!” said he, “she must send a better than you if she would have me come to her.” [Illustration: The Young Smith forges the best that Life has to give.]