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


Olhinho, Doisolhinhos, Trêsolhinhos

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.
Era, uma vez, uma mulher que tinha três filhas. A mais velha chamava-se Olhinho, porque só tinha um ôlho no meio da testa; a segunda chamava-se Doisolhinhos, porque tinha dois olhos, como todo mundo; e a terceira, chamava-se Trêsolhinhos, porque tinha três olhos: o terceiro estava no meio da testa.
Mas como Doisolhinhos era igual ao resto da humanidade, a mãe e as outras irmãs, detestavam-na. Por isso diziam:
- Tu, com os teus dois olhos, não és nada diferente da gente vulgar! Nada tens em comum conosco!
Viviam a enxotá-la de um lado para outro aos empurrões; atiravam-lhe os piores vestidos e, para se alimentar, davam-lhe as sobras de comida; torturavam-na, enfim, de mil maneiras.

Um belo dia, Doisolhinhos tinha que ir levar as cabras a pastar; mas estava fraca de tanta fome porque as irmãs lhe haviam deixado pouquíssimas sobras para comer. Então sentou-se à borda do campo e pôs-se a chorar; chorou tanto que as lágrimas, escorrendo-lhe pelas faces, formaram dois regatos.
Enquanto estava assim chorando, deu com uma mulher na sua frente, que lhe perguntou:
- Por que estás chorando?
Doisolhinhos respondeu:
- E não tenho razão para chorar? Só porque tenho dois olhos, como todo mundo, minha mãe e minhas irmãs detestam-me, empurram-me de um canto para outro, atiram-me vestidos velhos e dão-me apenas restos de comida para me alimentar. Hoje comi tão pouco, que estou morrendo de fome.
A mulher, que era uma feiticeira, então disse:
- Enxuga teus olhos, minha menina; vou dizer-te uma coisa, para que não padeças mais fome. E' isto: basta que digas à tua cabrinha:
- Linha cabrinha, põe a mesinha!
e logo surgirá à tua frente uma mesinha ricamente posta, coberta com o que há de melhor no mundo, e ninguém te impedirá de comer até te fartares. Assim que estiveres satisfeita, dize:
- Linha cabrinha, tira a mesinhal
e a mesinha desaparecerá. Dito isto, a feiticeira retirou-se e a mocinha ficou a pensar: "Vou experimentar já fazer o que ela disse, para ver se é verdade, pois estou morrendo de fome!" Dito e feito. Aproximou-se da cabra e disse:
- Linha cabrinha, põe a mesinha!
Mal acabou de pronunciar essas palavras, surgiu a mesinha e, sôbre a linda e alva toalha que a cobria, viu um talher e um prato, tudo de prata, e mais diversas ter- rinas cheias de iguarias deliciosas, bem quentinhas, como se saissem nesse momento do fogo.
Doisolhinhos ajoelhou-se e rezou uma oração bem curta, pois a fome não permitia mais: "Senhor e Deus meu, - disse ela - que sejas o meu hóspede, agora e para sempre, Amém." Em seguida, serviu-se e comeu com grande apetite. Depois de satisfazer-se, repetiu as palavras que lhe ensinara a feiticeira:
- Linha cabrinha, tira a mesinha!
E a mesa, com tudo o que tinha em cima, desapareceu.
"Oh, - pensou ela muito feliz, - essa é uma bela maneira de preparar a comida!"
À noitinha, quando regressou à casa levando a cabra, lá encontrou apenas um pratinho de barro, com o pingo de sobras deixado pelas suas irmãs; mas não tocou néle. No dia seguinte, tornou a levar a cabra a pastar, sem tocar nos restos que lhe deram para comer.
Ora, nas primeiras vêzes isso não despertou a atenção das irmãs, mas, como o caso se repetisse, elas ficaram desconfiadas e disseram:
- Há coisa nisto! Doisolhinhos não toca mais na comida que antes devorava; decerto encontrou outra saída!
Para descobrir a verdade, Olhinho foi incumbida de segui-la ao campo e prestar bem atenção ao que ela fazia, e ver se alguém lhe dava a comida e a bebida.
Assim que a irmã se pôs a caminho, Olhinho aproxi- mou-se-lhe dizendo:
- Vou contigo ao campo; quero ver se cuidas bem das cabras e as deixas pastar convenientemente.
Doisolhinhos percebeu a intenção da irmã e uma vez no campo, levou a sua cabra para o meio de um capim muito alto e disse:
- Vem Olhinho, sentemo-nos aqui; eu te cantarei qualquer coisa.
Olhinho sentou-se, pois estava muito cansada pela caminhada que dera e pelo calor que fazia; a irmã então pôs-se a cantar:
- Olhinho, velas tu? Olhinho, dormes tu?
e ela, fechando o ôlho, adormeceu. Certificando-se de que a irmã dormia realmente e não poderia revelar nada, Doisolhinhos chamou a cabra:
- Linha cabrinha, põe a mesinha!
Comeu tudo o que quis, bebeu o que lhe apetecia, e tornou a dizer:
- Linha cabrinha. lira a mesinha!
Imediatamente, desapareceu a mesa e tudo o que havia em cima dela. Em seguida despertou a irmã dizendo: '- Olhinho, vieste tomar conta das cabras e ver se pastam o suficiente e acabas dormindo! Contigo, elas poderíam perder-se tranqüilamente! Vem, levanta-te, vamos para casa.
Voltaram as duas para casa e também desta vez Dois- olhinhos deixou intacto o prato de comida. Olhinho não pôde explicar à mãe a razão por que a irmã não comia, e desculpou-se dizendo:
- Eu nada vi; pois lá no campo, deu-me sono e eu dormi um pouco.
No dia seguinte, a mãe disse a Trêsolhinhos:
- Vai tu com a tua irmã e presta bem atenção se ela come alguma coisa, ou se alguém lhe dá o que comer e beber.
Quando Doisolhinhos se aprestava a sair com as cabras, Trêsolhinhos disse-lhe:
- Vou contigo; quero ver se cuidas bem das cabras e as deixas pastar bastante.
A irmã compreendeu a intenção dela e, chegando ao campo, levou a cabra para o meio do capim bem alto, depois disse:
- Sentemo-nos aqui, Trêsolhinhos, quero cantar-te alguma coisa.
Cansada pela caminhada e pelo calor, Trêsolhinhos sentou-se e a irmã pôs-se a cantar o seu estribilho:
- Trêsolhinhos, velas lu?
Mas, ao invés de cantar:
- Trêsolhinhos, dormes tu?
Cantou distraidamente:
- Doisolhinhos, dormes tu?
E foi cantando, distraidamente:
- Trêsolhinhos, velas tu? Doisolhinhos, dormes tu?
Então, dois olhos fecharam-se e dormiram, mas o terceiro ficou aberto, pois a canção não se dirigira a êle. Trêsolhinhos, astuciosamente, fechou-o como se estivesse dormindo realmente êsse também. Entretanto, com êle espiava e enxergava tudo. Quando a irmã pensou que ela estivesse perfeitamente adormecida, pronunciou as palavras conhecidas:
Surgiu a mesa e ela comeu e bebeu fartamente, depois fêz desaparecer tudo, dizendo:
Trêsolhinhos vira tudo. A outra aproximou-se; despertou-a e disse:
- Linha cabrinha, põe a mesinha!
- Linha cabrinha, tira a mesinha!
- Trêsolhinhos, adormeceste? Como guardas bem as cabras! Vem daí, vamos para casa.
Chegando a casa, Doisolhinhos não comeu nada; mas a irmã contou à mãe que uma cabra lhe servia a melhor comida, numa mesa magnífica.
A mãe, cheia de inveja e de ódio, gritou:
- Ah, queres passar melhor do que nós? Hás de perder êsse gôsto!
Foi buscar um facão de açougueiro e matou a cabra.
Vendo isso, Doisolhinhos saiu desesperada, foi sentar-se à borda do campo e desatou a chorar. Repentinamente surgiu à sua frente a feiticeira, dizendo:
- Por que estás chorando, Doisolhinhos?
- E não tenho razão para chorar? Minha mãe matou a cabra que todos os dias me proporcionava tão gostosos alimentos; agora voltarei a padecer fome!
- Vou dar-te um ótimo conselho; - disse a feiticeira. - Volta para casa pede que te dêem os intestinos da cabra e enterra-os diante da porta; será a tua felicidade.
Dizendo isto desapareceu, e Doisolhinhos foi para casa.
- Queridas irmãs, - disse ela - dai-me alguma coisa da minha querida cabra! Não exijo o melhor; quero apenas os intestinos.
As irmãs puseram-se a rir dêsse estranho pedido e disseram:
- Podes pegá-los, já que não queres outra coisa!
A noite, quando estavam tôdas recolhidas, Doisolhinhos pegou os intestinos da cabra e, ocultamente, enter- rou-os diante da porta de casa, tal como lhe aconselhara a feiticeira.
No dia seguinte, quando despertaram, as irmãs, chegando à janela, viram uma árvore estupenda, maravilhosa, coberta de folhas de prata, no meio das quais balou- çavam lindas maçãs de ouro; tão lindas como certamente não existiam iguais no mundo. Mas não sabiam de que maneira havia surgido ali, durante a noite. Somente Doisolhinhos compreendeu que a árvore surgira dos intestinos da cabra, enterrados justamente naquele lugar.
A mãe, então, disse a Olhinho:
- Minha filha, trepa na árvore e colhe algumas frutas para nós.
Olhinho obedeceu; mas, quando ia colhêr uma fruta, os galhos fugiam-lhe das mãos; por mais que fizesse, sempre que ia agarrar uma fruta, esta fugia-lhe e não conseguiu apanhar uma. Então a mãe disse à outra filha:
- Trêsolhinhos, vai tu; com os teus três olhos poderás ver melhor que tua irmã.
Ela trepou na árvore, mas não teve melhor êxito. Por mais que olhasse e fizesse, as maçãs de ouro fugiam- -lhe das mãos e ela nada conseguiu.
A mãe acabou por perder a paciência e trepou ela mesma na árvore; mas teve a mesma sorte das filhas. Então Doisolhinhos ofereceu-se para colher as frutas. As irmãs disseram, desdenhosamente:
- Que podes fazer tu, com êsses dois olhos?
Ela não se importou e trepou na árvore; as maçãs não se retraiam dela; ao contrário, apresentavam-se espontâneamente ao alcance de sua mão de maneira que ela conseguiu encher o avental. A mãe tomou-lhas tôdas e, em vez de tratá-la melhor, como era sua obrigação, ela e as outras duas filhas, cheias de inveja, começaram a maltratá-la ainda mais.
Certo dia, encontravam-se as três môças ao pé da árvore, quando viram aproximar-se garboso cavaleiro.
- Depressa, Doisolhinhos, - exclamaram as outras; - corre, vai esconder-te debaixo do barril, pois não queremos envergonhar-nos por tua causa.
E, mais que depressa, empurraram a irmã, jogando- -lhe em cima um barril vazio, escondendo também as maçãs que haviam colhido.
O cavaleiro já estava bem próximo e as duas irmãs viram que êle era muito formoso. Deteve-se ao pé da árvore e ficou a admirar os belos frutos de ouro, depois disse:
- A quem pertence esta bela árvore? Quem me der um galho dela, pode pedir-me em troca o que quiser.
Olhinho e Trêsolhinhos responderam que a árvore pertencia a elas e que de bom grado lhe davam o galho pedido. E as duas esforçaram-se, mas inutilmente, para apanhar um galho, pois êste sempre lhes fugia das mãos, e, por mais que fizessem, nada conseguiram.
Então, o cavaleiro disse:
- E' estranho que, pertencendo-vos esta árvore, não possais arrancar-lhe um galho!
As duas môças continuaram insistindo que a árvore lhes pertencia realmente; mas, enquanto assim falavam, Doisolhinhos empurrou para fora do barril as maçãs de ouro e estas rolaram até aos pés do cavaleiro, porque a irritava ouvir Olhinho e Trêsolhinhos afirmarem o que não era verdade.
O cavaleiro ficou surpreendido ao ver aquelas maçãs rolando para junto dêle e perguntou de onde vinham. Olhinho e Trêsolhinhos responderam que tinham outra
irmã mas que não podia mostrar-se porque só tinha dois olhos, como a gente ordinária. O cavaleiro, porém, quis vê-la e gritou:
- Doisolhinhos, vem cá; apresenta-te!
Muito contente e cheia de esperanças, ela saiu debaixo do barril, deixando o cavaleiro admirado de sua grande beleza. Êste perguntou-lhe:
- Tu, Doisolhinhos, com certeza podes dar-me um galho dessa linda árvore!
- Posso, sim, - respondeu ela - porque essa árvore é minha.
Trepou, àgilmente, pelo tronco acima e, sem a menor dificuldade, apanhou um galho com as mais lindas folhas de prata, carregado de frutas de ouro, e entregou-o ao môço, o qual disse:
- Que devo dar-te, em troca disto?
- Ah, - respondeu Doisolhinhos - aqui padeço fome o dia inteiro e tôda espécie de maus tratos; se quisésseis levar-me embora, eu seria muito feliz.
O cavaleiro colocou-a no arção da sela e levou-a para o castelo de seu pai. Lá, mandou que lhe dessem trajes suntuosos e a melhor alimentação. Tendo-se apaixonado loucamente por ela, desposou-a em meio a grandes festas e alegria.
Quando o cavaleiro levou consigo Doisolhinhos, a sorte desta aumentou incrivelmente a inveja das duas irmãs, que se consolaram, pensando: "Resta-nos, todavia, a árvore maravilhosa e, embora não possamos colher seus lindos frutos, ela atrairá a atenção de todos os transeuntes, que virão até cá para admirá-la; quem sabe se não teremos também uma feliz sorte?"
Mas, na manhã seguinte, viram, desapontadas que a árvore tinha desaparecido desvanecendo-se assim as suas esperanças. E Doisolhinhos, ao olhar para fora da janela, viu com grande alegria que a sua árvore a havia acompanhado e estava lá diante dela.
Doisolhinhos viveu longamente, muito feliz, mas certo dia, apresentaram-se ao castelo duas mendigas pedindo esmola. Olhando para elas atentamente, Doisolhinhos reconheceu suas irmãs, Olhinho e Trêsolhinhos, reduzidas a tamanha miséria que eram obrigadas a mendigar de porta em porta.
Ela, porém, acolheu-as amàvelmente. E no castelo foram muito bem tratadas e assistidas, acabando por arrepender-se, sinceramente, de todo o mal causado à boa irmãzinha durante a sua juventude.

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