ENGLISH

One-eye, two-eyes, and three-eyes

ITALIANO

Occhietto, Duocchietti, Treocchietti


There was once a woman who had three daughters, the eldest of whom was called One-eye, because she had only one eye in the middle of her forehead, and the second, Two-eyes, because she had two eyes like other folks, and the youngest, Three-eyes, because she had three eyes; and her third eye was also in the centre of her forehead. However, as Two-eyes saw just as other human beings did, her sisters and her mother could not endure her. They said to her, "Thou, with thy two eyes, art no better than the common people; thou dost not belong to us!" They pushed her about, and threw old clothes to her, and gave her nothing to eat but what they left, and did everything that they could to make her unhappy. It came to pass that Two-eyes had to go out into the fields and tend the goat, but she was still quite hungry, because her sisters had given her so little to eat. So she sat down on a ridge and began to weep, and so bitterly that two streams ran down from her eyes. And once when she looked up in her grief, a woman was standing beside her, who said, "Why art thou weeping, little Two-eyes?" Two-Eyes answered, "Have I not reason to weep, when I have two eyes like other people, and my sisters and mother hate me for it, and push me from one corner to another, throw old clothes at me, and give me nothing to eat but the scraps they leave? To-day they have given me so little that I am still quite hungry." Then the wise woman said, "Wipe away thy tears, Two-eyes, and I will tell thee something to stop thee ever suffering from hunger again; just say to thy goat,

"Bleat, my little goat, bleat,
Cover the table with something to eat,"

and then a clean well-spread little table will stand before thee, with the most delicious food upon it of which thou mayst eat as much as thou art inclined for, and when thou hast had enough, and hast no more need of the little table, just say,

"Bleat, bleat, my little goat, I pray,
And take the table quite away,"

and then it will vanish again from thy sight." Hereupon the wise woman departed. But Two-eyes thought, "I must instantly make a trial, and see if what she said is true, for I am far too hungry," and she said,

"Bleat, my little goat, bleat,
Cover the table with something to eat,"

and scarcely had she spoken the words than a little table, covered with a white cloth, was standing there, and on it was a plate with a knife and fork, and a silver spoon; and the most delicious food was there also, warm and smoking as if it had just come out of the kitchen. Then Two-eyes said the shortest prayer she knew, "Lord God, be with us always, Amen," and helped herself to some food, and enjoyed it. And when she was satisfied, she said, as the wise woman had taught her,

"Bleat, bleat, my little goat, I pray,
And take the table quite away,"

and immediately the little table and everything on it was gone again. "That is a delightful way of keeping house!" thought Two-eyes, and was quite glad and happy.

In the evening, when she went home with her goat, she found a small earthenware dish with some food, which her sisters had set ready for her, but she did not touch it. Next day she again went out with her goat, and left the few bits of broken bread which had been handed to her, lying untouched. The first and second time that she did this, her sisters did not remark it at all, but as it happened every time, they did observe it, and said, "There is something wrong about Two-eyes, she always leaves her food untasted, and she used to eat up everything that was given her; she must have discovered other ways of getting food." In order that they might learn the truth, they resolved to send One-eye with Two-eyes when she went to drive her goat to the pasture, to observe what Two-eyes did when she was there, and whether any one brought her anything to eat and drink. So when Two-eyes set out the next time, One-eye went to her and said, "I will go with you to the pasture, and see that the goat is well taken care of, and driven where there is food." But Two-eyes knew what was in One-eye's mind, and drove the goat into high grass and said, "Come, One-eye, we will sit down, and I will sing something to you." One-eye sat down and was tired with the unaccustomed walk and the heat of the sun, and Two-eyes sang constantly,

"One eye, wakest thou?
One eye, sleepest thou?"

until One-eye shut her one eye, and fell asleep, and as soon as Two-eyes saw that One-eye was fast asleep, and could discover nothing, she said,

"Bleat, my little goat, bleat,
Cover the table with something to eat,"

and seated herself at her table, and ate and drank until she was satisfied, and then she again cried,

"Bleat, bleat, my little goat, I pray,
And take the table quite away,"

and in an instant all was gone. Two-eyes now awakened One-eye, and said, "One-eye, you want to take care of the goat, and go to sleep while you are doing it, and in the meantime the goat might run all over the world. Come, let us go home again." So they went home, and again Two-eyes let her little dish stand untouched, and One-eye could not tell her mother why she would not eat it, and to excuse herself said, "I fell asleep when I was out."

Next day the mother said to Three-eyes, "This time thou shalt go and observe if Two-eyes eats anything when she is out, and if any one fetches her food and drink, for she must eat and drink in secret." So Three-eyes went to Two-eyes, and said, "I will go with you and see if the goat is taken proper care of, and driven where there is food." But Two-eyes knew what was in Three-eyes' mind, and drove the goat into high grass and said, "We will sit down, and I will sing something to you, Three-eyes." Three-eyes sat down and was tired with the walk and with the heat of the sun, and Two-eyes began the same song as before, and sang,

"Three eyes, are you waking?"

but then, instead of singing,

"Three eyes, are you sleeping?"

as she ought to have done, she thoughtlessly sang,

"Two eyes, are you sleeping?"

and sang all the time,

"Three eyes, are you waking?
Two eyes, are you sleeping?"

Then two of the eyes which Three-eyes had, shut and fell asleep, but the third, as it had not been named in the song, did not sleep. It is true that Three-eyes shut it, but only in her cunning, to pretend it was asleep too, but it blinked, and could see everything very well. And when Two-eyes thought that Three-eyes was fast asleep, she used her little charm,

"Bleat, my little goat, bleat,
Cover the table with something to eat,"

and ate and drank as much as her heart desired, and then ordered the table to go away again,

"Bleat, bleat, my little goat, I pray,
And take the table quite away,"

and Three-eyes had seen everything. Then Two-eyes came to her, waked her and said, "Have you been asleep, Three-eyes? You are a good care-taker! Come, we will go home." And when they got home, Two-eyes again did not eat, and Three-eyes said to the mother, "Now, I know why that high-minded thing there does not eat. When she is out, she says to the goat,

"Bleat, my little goat, bleat,
Cover the table with something to eat,"

and then a little table appears before her covered with the best of food, much better than any we have here, and when she has eaten all she wants, she says,

"Bleat, bleat, my little goat, I pray,
And take the table quite away,"

and all disappears. I watched everything closely. She put two of my eyes to sleep by using a certain form of words, but luckily the one in my forehead kept awake." Then the envious mother cried, "Dost thou want to fare better than we do? The desire shall pass away," and she fetched a butcher's knife, and thrust it into the heart of the goat, which fell down dead.

When Two-eyes saw that, she went out full of trouble, seated herself on the ridge of grass at the edge of the field, and wept bitter tears. Suddenly the wise woman once more stood by her side, and said, "Two-eyes, why art thou weeping?" - "Have I not reason to weep?" she answered. "The goat which covered the table for me every day when I spoke your charm, has been killed by my mother, and now I shall again have to bear hunger and want." The wise woman said, "Two-eyes, I will give thee a piece of good advice; ask thy sisters to give thee the entrails of the slaughtered goat, and bury them in the ground in front of the house, and thy fortune will be made." Then she vanished, and Two-eyes went home and said to her sisters, "Dear sisters, do give me some part of my goat; I don't wish for what is good, but give me the entrails." Then they laughed and said, "If that's all you want, you can have it." So Two-eyes took the entrails and buried them quietly in the evening, in front of the house-door, as the wise woman had counselled her to do.

Next morning, when they all awoke, and went to the house-door, there stood a strangely magnificent tree with leaves of silver, and fruit of gold hanging among them, so that in all the wide world there was nothing more beautiful or precious. They did not know how the tree could have come there during the night, but Two-eyes saw that it had grown up out of the entrails of the goat, for it was standing on the exact spot where she had buried them. Then the mother said to One-eye, "Climb up, my child, and gather some of the fruit of the tree for us." One-eye climbed up, but when she was about to get hold of one of the golden apples, the branch escaped from her hands, and that happened each time, so that she could not pluck a single apple, let her do what she might. Then said the mother, "Three-eyes, do you climb up; you with your three eyes can look about you better than One-eye." One-eye slipped down, and Three-eyes climbed up. Three-eyes was not more skilful, and might search as she liked, but the golden apples always escaped her. At length the mother grew impatient, and climbed up herself, but could get hold of the fruit no better than One-eye and Three-eyes, for she always clutched empty air. Then said Two-eyes, "I will just go up, perhaps I may succeed better." The sisters cried, "You indeed, with your two eyes, what can you do?" But Two-eyes climbed up, and the golden apples did get out of her way, but came into her hand of their own accord, so that she could pluck them one after the other, and brought a whole apronful down with her. The mother took them away from her, and instead of treating poor Two-eyes any better for this, she and One-eye and Three-eyes were only envious, because Two-eyes alone had been able to get the fruit, and they treated her still more cruelly.

It so befell that once when they were all standing together by the tree, a young knight came up. "Quick, Two-eyes," cried the two sisters, "creep under this, and don't disgrace us!" and with all speed they turned an empty barrel which was standing close by the tree over poor Two-eyes, and they pushed the golden apples which she had been gathering, under it too. When the knight came nearer he was a handsome lord, who stopped and admired the magnificent gold and silver tree, and said to the two sisters, "To whom does this fine tree belong? Any one who would bestow one branch of it on me might in return for it ask whatsoever he desired." Then One-eye and Three-eyes replied that the tree belonged to them, and that they would give him a branch. They both took great trouble, but they were not able to do it, for the branches and fruit both moved away from them every time. Then said the knight, "It is very strange that the tree should belong to you, and that you should still not be able to break a piece off." They again asserted that the tree was their property. Whilst they were saying so, Two-eyes rolled out a couple of golden apples from under the barrel to the feet of the knight, for she was vexed with One-eye and Three-eyes, for not speaking the truth. When the knight saw the apples he was astonished, and asked where they came from. One-eye and Three-eyes answered that they had another sister, who was not allowed to show herself, for she had only two eyes like any common person. The knight, however, desired to see her, and cried, "Two-eyes, come forth." Then Two-eyes, quite comforted, came from beneath the barrel, and the knight was surprised at her great beauty, and said, "Thou, Two-eyes, canst certainly break off a branch from the tree for me." - "Yes," replied Two-eyes, "that I certainly shall be able to do, for the tree belongs to me." And she climbed up, and with the greatest ease broke off a branch with beautiful silver leaves and golden fruit, and gave it to the knight. Then said the knight, "Two-eyes, what shall I give thee for it?" - "Alas!" answered Two-eyes, "I suffer from hunger and thirst, grief and want, from early morning till late night; if you would take me with you, and deliver me from these things, I should be happy." So the knight lifted Two-eyes on to his horse, and took her home with him to his father's castle, and there he gave her beautiful clothes, and meat and drink to her heart's content, and as he loved her so much he married her, and the wedding was solemnized with great rejoicing. When Two-eyes was thus carried away by the handsome knight, her two sisters grudged her good fortune in downright earnest. The wonderful tree, however, still remains with us," thought they, "and even if we can gather no fruit from it, still every one will stand still and look at it, and come to us and admire it. Who knows what good things may be in store for us?" But next morning, the tree had vanished, and all their hopes were at an end. And when Two-eyes looked out of the window of her own little room, to her great delight it was standing in front of it, and so it had followed her.

Two-eyes lived a long time in happiness. Once two poor women came to her in her castle, and begged for alms. She looked in their faces, and recognized her sisters, One-eye, and Three-eyes, who had fallen into such poverty that they had to wander about and beg their bread from door to door. Two-eyes, however, made them welcome, and was kind to them, and took care of them, so that they both with all their hearts repented the evil that they had done their sister in their youth.
C'era una volta una donna che aveva tre figlie: la maggiore si chiamava Occhietto, perché‚ aveva un occhio solo in mezzo alla fronte; la seconda, Duocchietti, perché‚ aveva due occhi come tutti gli altri; e la terza, Treocchietti, perché‚ aveva tre occhi, e il terzo proprio in mezzo alla fronte. Ma poiché‚ Duocchietti era proprio come tutti gli altri, la madre e le sorelle non la potevano soffrire, e le dicevano: -Con quei due occhi, non sei meglio della gente comune! Non hai niente da spartire con noi-. E la spingevano di qua e di là, le gettavano dei brutti vestiti, le davano da mangiare soltanto gli avanzi, e le facevano ogni sorta di angherie. Un giorno ella dovette andare nei campi a custodire la capra, ma aveva ancora tanta fame perché‚ le sorelle le avevano dato troppo poco da mangiare. Si sedette sul ciglio di un campo e si mise a piangere e piangeva tanto che dai suoi occhi sgorgavano due ruscelletti. Quando alzò gli occhi, vide una donna accanto a s‚ che le chiese: -Duocchietti, perché‚ piangi?-. Ella rispose: -Non devo piangere? Perché‚ ho due occhi come tutti gli altri, le mie sorelle e mia madre non mi possono soffrire, mi cacciano di qua e di là, mi buttano i loro vecchi vestiti e mi danno da mangiare solo gli avanzi. Oggi non mi hanno dato quasi nulla, e ho ancora tanta fame-. La maga disse: -Duocchietti, asciugati gli occhi: ti dirò una cosa in modo che tu non debba più patire la fame. Devi solamente dire alla capra:"Bela, caprettina, pronta, tavolina!"e ti troverai davanti una tavolina bell'e pronta, coperta di cibi prelibati, e potrai mangiare finché‚ ne hai voglia. E quando sei sazia e la tavolina non ti occorre più, devi soltanto dire:"Bela, caprettina, basta, tavolina!"e la tavolina sparirà-. Ciò detto, la maga se ne andò, mentre Duocchietti pensava: "Proverò subito se è vero quel che ha detto, perché‚ ho proprio tanta fame!," e disse:-Bela, caprettina, pronta, tavolina!-Aveva appena pronunciato queste parole, che comparve una tavolina sulla quale era stesa una tovaglietta candida, e sopra c'era un piatto con coltello, forchetta e cucchiaio, e tutt'intorno le vivande più squisite, che erano ancora calde, come se fossero state appena portate dalla cucina. Allora Duocchietti disse la preghiera più corta che conosceva: -Signore, che tu sia sempre nostro ospite, amen!- si servì e mangiò di gusto. E quando fu sazia, disse, come le aveva insegnato la maga:-Bela, caprettina, basta, tavolina!-E subito la tavolina sparì con tutto quel che c'era sopra. "E' un bel modo di far cucina" pensò Duocchietti, ed era tutta allegra e contenta. La sera riportò a casa la capra e non toccò neppure la piccola ciotola di terra con il cibo che le sorelle le avevano messo da parte. Il giorno seguente uscì di nuovo con la sua capra e lasciò stare anche quei due bocconi che le avevano dato. La prima e la seconda volta le sorelle non se ne accorsero neanche, ma siccome si ripeteva ogni volta, lo notarono e dissero: -Qui c'è qualcosa di strano: Duocchietti non tocca più cibo, eppure una volta divorava tutto quanto le davamo: deve aver trovato un altro sistema-. E per scoprire la verità, Occhietto dovette accompagnarla quando andava al pascolo, e doveva badare a quel che faceva, e se qualcuno le portava da mangiare e da bere. Quando Duocchietti si mise in cammino con la capra, Occhietto le si avvicinò e disse: -Verrò nei campi con te, a vedere se la capra è ben custodita e se la fai pascolare-. Ma l'altra capì le sue intenzioni, condusse la capra fra l'erba alta e disse: -Vieni, Occhietto, sediamoci un po', ti canterò qualcosa-. Occhietto si sedette ed era stanca per il cammino cui non era abituata e per il gran caldo; e Duocchietti continuava a cantare:-Occhietto, vegli tu? Occhietto, dormi tu?-Allora Occhietto chiuse il suo unico occhio e si addormentò. E quando l'altra vide che dormiva sodo e non poteva rivelare nulla disse:-Bela, caprettina, pronta, tavolina!-Si sedette, mangiò e bevve a sazietà, poi tornò a dire:-Bela, caprettina, basta, tavolina!-e sparì tutto quanto. Poi svegliò Occhietto e disse: -Occhietto, vuoi custodire la capra e dormi! Nel frattempo la capra avrebbe potuto correre in capo al mondo! Vieni, torniamo a casa-. Tornarono a casa e Duocchietti lasciò di nuovo stare la sua scodellina; e Occhietto non pot‚ dire alla madre perché‚ la sorella non volesse mangiare, e disse: -Mi sono addormentata là fuori!-. Il giorno dopo la madre disse a Treocchietti: -Accompagnala tu, e fa' attenzione se Duocchietti mangia fuori e se qualcuno le porta da mangiare e da bere: perché‚ mangiare e bere deve pure in qualche modo!-. Allora Treocchietti si avvicinò alla sorella e disse: -Verrò con te a vedere se custodisci bene la capra e se la fai pascolare-. Ma l'altra capì la sua intenzione, condusse la capra fra l'erba alta e disse: -Sediamoci un po', Treocchietti, ti canterò qualcosa-. Treocchietti si sedette ed era stanca per il cammino e il gran caldo; la sorella intonò di nuovo la sua canzoncina e cantò:-Treocchietti, vegli tu?-Ma invece di cantare:-Treocchietti, dormi tu?-cantò per distrazione:-Duocchietti, dormi tu?-e continuò a cantare:-Treocchietti, vegli tu? Duocchietti, dormi tu?-Allora a Treocchietti si chiusero i due occhi, ma il terzo, cui la canzoncina non si era rivolta, non si addormentò. Però Treocchietti lo chiuse astutamente, come se dormisse anche quello, e invece sbirciava e poteva vedere tutto quanto. E quando Duocchietti pensò che la sorella dormisse, disse le sue paroline magiche:-Bela, caprettina, pronta, tavolina!-Mangiò e bevve a volontà, e fece poi sparire ogni cosa:-Bela, caprettina, basta, tavolina!-e Treocchietti aveva visto tutto. Allora Duocchietti le si avvicinò e disse: -Ehi, Treocchietti, ti sei addormentata? La custodisci bene la capra! Vieni, andiamo a casa-. E quando rincasarono, Duocchietti non mangiò neanche questa volta, ma Treocchietti disse alla madre: -Ora so, finalmente, perché‚ quella superba non mangia! Quando è fuori, dice alla capra:"Bela, caprettina, pronta, tavolina!"e le compare davanti una tavolina, coperta di cibi squisiti, migliori di quelli che mangiamo noi; e quando è sazia dice:"Bela, caprettina, basta, tavolina!"e ogni cosa scompare. L'ho vista proprio bene: mi aveva addormentato due occhi con una canzoncina, ma quello sulla fronte è rimasto sveglio, per fortuna-. Allora la madre, furiosa, gridò: -Vuoi stare meglio di noi? Ti passerà la voglia-. Andò a prendere un coltellaccio e lo piantò nel cuore della capra, che cadde a terra morta. A quella vista, Duocchietti uscì disperata, si sedette sul ciglio del campo e pianse lacrime amare. Ma, d'un tratto, ecco nuovamente la maga accanto a lei, che disse: -Duocchietti, perché‚ piangi?-. -Non devo piangere?- ella rispose. -Mia madre ha ucciso la capra, che ogni giorno mi preparava una così bella tavola, quando dicevo la vostra canzoncina: adesso devo tornare a patire la fame.- La maga disse: -Duocchietti, voglio darti un buon consiglio: prega le tue sorelle di darti le interiora della capra e sotterrale davanti all'uscio di casa: sarà la tua fortuna-. Poi sparì e Duocchietti andò a casa e disse alle sorelle: -Care sorelle, datemi qualcosa della mia capra! Non pretendo niente di buono: datemi soltanto le interiora-. Quelle si misero a ridere e dissero: -Se non vuoi altro, quelle te le possiamo proprio dare-. Ed ella prese le interiora e, la sera, le sotterrò di nascosto davanti all'uscio di casa, secondo il consiglio della maga. Il mattino dopo, quando tutti si svegliarono e si affacciarono all'uscio, ecco un albero magnifico, stupefacente, che aveva le foglie d'argento e in mezzo pendevano dei frutti d'oro, e nulla al mondo era più bello a vedersi e più prezioso. Ma non sapevano come avesse fatto a spuntare quell'albero, in una notte; soltanto Duocchietti s'accorse che era cresciuto dalle interiora della capra, perché‚ era proprio là dov'essa le aveva sotterrate. Allora la madre disse a Occhietto: -Sali sull'albero, bimba mia, e coglici i frutti-. Occhietto salì, ma quando volle prendere una delle mele d'oro, il ramo le sfuggì di mano, e tornò a sfuggirle ogni volta che provava, sicché‚ non riuscì a cogliere neanche una mela, per quanto si desse da fare. Allora la madre disse: -Treocchietti, sali tu sull'albero: con quei tre occhi puoi guardarti intorno meglio di Occhietto-. Occhietto scivolò giù e salì Treocchietti; ma non se la cavò meglio e, per quanto aguzzasse la vista, le mele d'oro continuavano a ritrarsi. Alla fine la madre perse la pazienza e s'arrampicò lei, ma di frutti non ne colse più delle figlie, e continuava a gesticolare nel vuoto. Allora Duocchietti disse: -Voglio salire io, forse mi riesce più in fretta-. Le sorelle esclamarono: -Cosa vuoi fare tu con i tuoi due occhi!- Ma ella salì sull'albero e, davanti a lei, le mele non si ritrassero anzi pareva proprio che venissero incontro alla sua mano, sicché‚ ella pot‚ coglierle una dopo l'altra e ne portò giù un grembiule pieno. La madre gliele prese; e invece di trattarla meglio, come avrebbero dovuto, la madre e le sorelle divennero gelose di Duocchietti, perché‚ solo lei poteva cogliere i frutti, e la maltrattarono ancora di più. Un giorno, che si trovavano tutt'e tre accanto all'albero, ecco arrivare un giovane cavaliere. -Svelta, Duocchietti- esclamarono le due sorelle -nasconditi qua sotto, perché‚ non dobbiamo vergognarci di te- e spinsero a forza la poverina sotto una botte vuota che era vicino all'albero, e vi cacciarono sotto anche le mele d'oro ch'ella aveva colto. Mentre il cavaliere si avvicinava, videro che era molto bello; egli ammirò lo splendido albero d'oro e d'argento e disse alle due sorelle: -A chi appartiene questo bell'albero? Chi me ne desse un ramo, potrebbe chiedermi in cambio qualunque cosa-. Occhietto e Treocchietti risposero che l'albero apparteneva a loro, e che gliene avrebbero staccato volentieri un ramo. Si dettero un gran da fare, ma senza riuscire a venirne a capo, perché‚ i rami e i frutti si ritraevano ogni volta davanti a loro. Allora il cavaliere disse: -Strano che l'albero vi appartenga e non possiate staccarne un ramo!- Quelle insistettero dicendo che l'albero era proprio loro. Ma mentre parlavano, Duocchietti fece rotolare fuori dalla botte alcune mele d'oro, che rotolarono ai piedi del cavaliere, poiché‚ era indispettita che Occhietto e Treocchietti non dicessero la verità. Vedendo le mele, il cavaliere si stupì e domandò da dove venissero. Occhietto e Treocchietti risposero che avevano un'altra sorella, ma non doveva farsi vedere, perché‚ aveva soltanto due occhi come la gente comune. Ma il cavaliere volle vederla e gridò: -Duocchietti, vieni fuori!-. Allora ella sbucò fuori dalla botte, piena di speranza, e il cavaliere si meravigliò della sua grande bellezza e disse: -Sicuramente tu saprai staccarmi un ramo dell'albero-. -Sì- rispose la fanciulla -io posso farlo perché‚ l'albero appartiene a me.- Salì e staccò senza fatica un ramo con le foglie d'argento e i frutti d'oro e lo porse al cavaliere. Allora egli disse: -Duocchietti, cosa devo darti in cambio?-. -Ah- rispose la fanciulla -patisco la fame, la sete e ogni sorta di stenti da mane a sera: se voleste portarmi via con voi e liberarmi, sarei felice.- Allora il cavaliere la mise sul suo cavallo e la portò al castello di suo padre; là le diede dei bei vestiti, da mangiare e da bere a sazietà; e poiché‚ l'amava tanto la sposò, e le nozze si festeggiarono con grande gioia. Quando Duocchietti fu portata via dal bel cavaliere, le sue sorelle le invidiarono molto la sua fortuna. -Almeno ci resta l'albero meraviglioso- pensavano -e se anche non possiamo coglierne i frutti, tutti si fermeranno qui davanti, e verranno da noi per cantarne le lodi: chissà che la fortuna non possa arriderci ancora!- Ma il mattino dopo, l'albero era sparito e, con esso, erano svanite anche le loro speranze. Duocchietti visse a lungo felice. Un giorno vennero al castello due povere donne e le chiesero l'elemosina. Ella le guardò in volto e riconobbe le sue sorelle Occhietto e Treocchietti, divenute così povere che erano costrette ad andare di porta in porta a elemosinare il pane. Ma Duocchietti le accolse benevolmente, fece loro del bene ed ebbe cura di loro, sicché‚ le due sorelle si pentirono di cuore del male che le avevano fatto in gioventù.




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