went to the bag, and
looking down at it, she said: "Now I wonder what that sly Fox has been
about?" And the little boy cried out again, and the woman untied the
string and let him out, and took the house dog and put him into the bag
instead, and the little boy joined the others around the table, and she
gave him a piece of the cake.

When the Fox came back he saw that the bag was all tied up, and looked
just as it had when he left it, so he took it from behind the door and
threw it over his shoulder, saying to himself: "I have had a long
journey to-day, and I am hungry. And I have not done so badly, either. I
will now go into the woods and see how the little boy tastes."

So he went into the woods and untied the string to take the little boy
out of the bag. But the little boy, as we know, was standing around the
table with the other little boys eating cake. And no sooner was the
string untied than the house dog jumped out of the bag and sprang right
on the Fox, and they had a fight right then and there in the woods.
Pretty soon the dog went trotting down the road. But the Fox did not go
home. In fact he did not go anywhere at all.

OEYVIND AND MARIT

Oeyvind was his name. A low barren cliff overhung the house in which he
was born, fir and birch looked down on the roof, and wild-cherry strewed
flowers over it. Upon this roof there walked about a little goat, which
belonged to Oeyvind. He was kept there that he might not go astray, and
Oeyvind carried leaves and grass up to him. One fine day the goat leaped
down, and--away to the cliff; he went straight up, and came where he
never had been before. Oeyvind did not see him when he came out after
dinner, and thought immediately of the fox. He grew hot all over, looked
around about, and called, "Killy-killy-killy-goat."

"Bay-ay-ay," said the goat, from the brow of the hill, as he cocked his
head on one side and looked down.

But at the side of the goat there kneeled a little girl.

"Is it yours, this goat?" she asked.

Oeyvind stood with eyes and mouth wide open, thrust both hands into the
breeches he had on, and asked, "Who are you?"

"I am Marit, mother's little one, father's fiddle, the elf in the house,
grand-daughter of Ole Nordistuen of the Heide farms, four years old in
the autumn, two days after the frost nights, I!"

"Are you really?" he said, and drew a long breath, which he had not
dared to do so long as she was speaking.

"Is it yours, this goat?"