screamed the old woman. "They were my turnips, so it
is my whistle-pipe."

"Well, whatever you do, don't blow in it," says the old man, and he
hands over the whistle-pipe.

She wouldn't listen to him.

"What?" says she; "I must not blow my own whistle-pipe?"

And with that she put the whistle-pipe to her lips and blew.

Out jumped the three lively whips, flew up in the air, and began to
beat her--phew! phew! phew!--one after another. If they made the old
man sore, it was nothing to what they did to the cross old woman.

"Stop them! Stop them!" she screamed, running this way and that in the
hut, with the whips flying after her beating her all the time. "I'll
never scold again. I am to blame. I stole the magic tablecloth, and
put an old one instead of it. I hid it in the iron chest." She ran to
the iron chest and opened it, and pulled out the tablecloth. "Stop
them! Stop them!" she screamed, while the whips laid it on hard and
fast, one after the other. "I am to blame. The goat that sneezes gold
pieces is hidden in the bushes. The goat by the door is one of the old
ones. I wanted all the gold for myself."

All this time the old man was trying to get hold of the whistle-pipe.
But the old woman was running about the hut so fast, with the whips
flying after her and beating her, that he could not get it out of her
hands. At last he grabbed it. "Into the whistle," says he, and put it
to his lips and blew.

In a moment the three lively whips had hidden themselves in the
whistle. And there was the cross old woman, kissing his hand and
promising never to scold any more.

"That's all right," says the old man; and he fetched the sneezing goat
out of the bushes and made it sneeze a little gold, just to be sure
that it was that goat and no other. Then he laid the tablecloth on
the table and told it to turn inside out. Up it flew, and came down
again with the best dinner that ever was cooked, only waiting to be
eaten. And the old man and the old woman sat down and ate till they
could eat no more. The old woman rubbed herself now and again. And the
old man rubbed himself too. But there was never a cross word between
them, and they went to bed singing like nightingales.

"Is that the end?" Maroosia always asked.

"Is that all?" asked Vanya, though he knew it was not.

"Not quite," said old Peter; "but the tale won't go any quicker than
my old tongue."

In the morning the old woman had forgotten about her promise. And jus