There was once upon a time a miller who lived with his wife in great contentment. They had money and land, and their prosperity increased year by year more and more. But ill-luck comes like a thief in the night, as their wealth had increased so did it again decrease, year by year, and at last the miller could hardly call the mill in which he lived, his own. He was in great distress, and when he lay down after his day's work, found no rest, but tossed about in his bed, full of care. One morning he rose before daybreak and went out into the open air, thinking that perhaps there his heart might become lighter. As he was stepping over the mill-dam the first sunbeam was just breaking forth, and he heard a rippling sound in the pond. He turned round and perceived a beautiful woman, rising slowly out of the water. Her long hair, which she was holding off her shoulders with her soft hands, fell down on both sides, and covered her white body. He soon saw that she was the Nix of the Mill-pond, and in his fright did not know whether he should run away or stay where he was. But the nix made her sweet voice heard, called him by his name, and asked him why he was so sad? The miller was at first struck dumb, but when he heard her speak so kindly, he took heart, and told her how he had formerly lived in wealth and happiness, but that now he was so poor that he did not know what to do. "Be easy," answered the nix, "I will make thee richer and happier than thou hast ever been before, only thou must promise to give me the young thing which has just been born in thy house." - "What else can that be," thought the miller, "but a young puppy or kitten?" and he promised her what she desired. The nix descended into the water again, and he hurried back to his mill, consoled and in good spirits. He had not yet reached it, when the maid-servant came out of the house, and cried to him to rejoice, for his wife had given birth to a little boy. The miller stood as if struck by lightning; he saw very well that the cunning nix had been aware of it, and had cheated him. Hanging his head, he went up to his wife's bedside and when she said, "Why dost thou not rejoice over the fine boy?" he told her what had befallen him, and what kind of a promise he had given to the nix. "Of what use to me are riches and prosperity?" he added, "if I am to lose my child; but what can I do?" Even the relations, who had come thither to wish them joy, did not know what to say. In the meantime prosperity again returned to the miller's house. All that he undertook succeeded, it was as if presses and coffers filled themselves of their own accord, and as if money multiplied nightly in the cupboards. It was not long before his wealth was greater than it had ever been before. But he could not rejoice over it untroubled, for the bargain which he had made with the nix tormented his soul. Whenever he passed the mill-pond, he feared she might ascend and remind him of his debt. He never let the boy himself go near the water. "Beware," he said to him, "if thou dost but touch the water, a hand will rise, seize thee, and draw thee down." But as year after year went by and the nix did not show herself again, the miller began to feel at ease. The boy grew up to be a youth and was apprenticed to a huntsman. When he had learnt everything, and had become an excellent huntsman, the lord of the village took him into his service. In the village lived a beautiful and true-hearted maiden, who pleased the huntsman, and when his master perceived that, he gave him a little house, the two were married, lived peacefully and happily, and loved each other with all their hearts.
One day the huntsman was chasing a roe; and when the animal turned aside from the forest into the open country, he pursued it and at last shot it. He did not notice that he was now in the neighbourhood of the dangerous mill-pond, and went, after he had disembowelled the stag, to the water, in order to wash his blood-stained hands. Scarcely, however, had he dipped them in than the nix ascended, smilingly wound her dripping arms around him, and drew him quickly down under the waves, which closed over him. When it was evening, and the huntsman did not return home, his wife became alarmed. She went out to seek him, and as he had often told her that he had to be on his guard against the snares of the nix, and dared not venture into the neighbourhood of the mill-pond, she already suspected what had happened. She hastened to the water, and when she found his hunting-pouch lying on the shore, she could no longer have any doubt of the misfortune. Lamenting her sorrow, and wringing her hands, she called on her beloved by name, but in vain. She hurried across to the other side of the pond, and called him anew; she reviled the nix with harsh words, but no answer followed. The surface of the water remained calm, only the crescent moon stared steadily back at her. The poor woman did not leave the pond. With hasty steps, she paced round and round it, without resting a moment, sometimes in silence, sometimes uttering a loud cry, sometimes softly sobbing. At last her strength came to an end, she sank down to the ground and fell into a heavy sleep. Presently a dream took possession of her. She was anxiously climbing upwards between great masses of rock; thorns and briars caught her feet, the rain beat in her face, and the wind tossed her long hair about. When she had reached the summit, quite a different sight presented itself to her; the sky was blue, the air soft, the ground sloped gently downwards, and on a green meadow, gay with flowers of every colour, stood a pretty cottage. She went up to it and opened the door; there sat an old woman with white hair, who beckoned to her kindly. At that very moment, the poor woman awoke, day had already dawned, and she at once resolved to act in accordance with her dream. She laboriously climbed the mountain; everything was exactly as she had seen it in the night. The old woman received her kindly, and pointed out a chair on which she might sit. "Thou must have met with a misfortune," she said, "since thou hast sought out my lonely cottage." With tears, the woman related what had befallen her. "Be comforted," said the old woman, "I will help thee. Here is a golden comb for thee. Tarry till the full moon has risen, then go to the mill-pond, seat thyself on the shore, and comb thy long black hair with this comb. When thou hast done, lay it down on the bank, and thou wilt see what will happen." The woman returned home, but the time till the full moon came, passed slowly. At last the shining disc appeared in the heavens, then she went out to the mill-pond, sat down and combed her long black hair with the golden comb, and when she had finished, she laid it down at the water's edge. It was not long before there was a movement in the depths, a wave rose, rolled to the shore, and bore the comb away with it. In not more than the time necessary for the comb to sink to the bottom, the surface of the water parted, and the head of the huntsman arose. He did not speak, but looked at his wife with sorrowful glances. At the same instant, a second wave came rushing up, and covered the man's head. All had vanished, the mill-pond lay peaceful as before, and nothing but the face of the full moon shone on it. Full of sorrow, the woman went back, but again the dream showed her the cottage of the old woman. Next morning she again set out and complained of her woes to the wise woman. The old woman gave her a golden flute, and said, "Tarry till the full moon comes again, then take this flute; play a beautiful air on it, and when thou hast finished, lay it on the sand; then thou wilt see what will happen." The wife did as the old woman told her. No sooner was the flute lying on the sand than there was a stirring in the depths, and a wave rushed up and bore the flute away with it. Immediately afterwards the water parted, and not only the head of the man, but half of his body also arose. He stretched out his arms longingly towards her, but a second wave came up, covered him, and drew him down again. "Alas, what does it profit me?" said the unhappy woman, "that I should see my beloved, only to lose him again!" Despair filled her heart anew, but the dream led her a third time to the house of the old woman. She set out, and the wise woman gave her a golden spinning-wheel, consoled her and said, "All is not yet fulfilled, tarry until the time of the full moon, then take the spinning-wheel, seat thyself on the shore, and spin the spool full, and when thou hast done that, place the spinning-wheel near the water, and thou wilt see what will happen." The woman obeyed all she said exactly; as soon as the full moon showed itself, she carried the golden spinning-wheel to the shore, and span industriously until the flax came to an end, and the spool was quite filled with the threads. No sooner was the wheel standing on the shore than there was a more violent movement than before in the depths of the pond, and a mighty wave rushed up, and bore the wheel away with it. Immediately the head and the whole body of the man rose into the air, in a water-spout. He quickly sprang to the shore, caught his wife by the hand and fled. But they had scarcely gone a very little distance, when the whole pond rose with a frightful roar, and streamed out over the open country. The fugitives already saw death before their eyes, when the woman in her terror implored the help of the old woman, and in an instant they were transformed, she into a toad, he into a frog. The flood which had overtaken them could not destroy them, but it tore them apart and carried them far away. When the water had dispersed and they both touched dry land again, they regained their human form, but neither knew where the other was; they found themselves among strange people, who did not know their native land. High mountains and deep valleys lay between them. In order to keep themselves alive, they were both obliged to tend sheep. For many long years they drove their flocks through field and forest and were full of sorrow and longing. When spring had once more broken forth on the earth, they both went out one day with their flocks, and as chance would have it, they drew near each other. They met in a valley, but did not recognize each other; yet they rejoiced that they were no longer so lonely. Henceforth they each day drove their flocks to the same place; they did not speak much, but they felt comforted. One evening when the full moon was shining in the sky, and the sheep were already at rest, the shepherd pulled the flute out of his pocket, and played on it a beautiful but sorrowful air. When he had finished he saw that the shepherdess was weeping bitterly. "Why art thou weeping?" he asked. "Alas," answered she, "thus shone the full moon when I played this air on the flute for the last time, and the head of my beloved rose out of the water." He looked at her, and it seemed as if a veil fell from his eyes, and he recognized his dear wife, and when she looked at him, and the moon shone in his face she knew him also. They embraced and kissed each other, and no one need ask if they were happy.
One day the huntsman was chasing a roe; and when the animal turned aside from the forest into the open country, he pursued it and at last shot it. He did not notice that he was now in the neighbourhood of the dangerous mill-pond, and went, after he had disembowelled the stag, to the water, in order to wash his blood-stained hands. Scarcely, however, had he dipped them in than the nix ascended, smilingly wound her dripping arms around him, and drew him quickly down under the waves, which closed over him. When it was evening, and the huntsman did not return home, his wife became alarmed. She went out to seek him, and as he had often told her that he had to be on his guard against the snares of the nix, and dared not venture into the neighbourhood of the mill-pond, she already suspected what had happened. She hastened to the water, and when she found his hunting-pouch lying on the shore, she could no longer have any doubt of the misfortune. Lamenting her sorrow, and wringing her hands, she called on her beloved by name, but in vain. She hurried across to the other side of the pond, and called him anew; she reviled the nix with harsh words, but no answer followed. The surface of the water remained calm, only the crescent moon stared steadily back at her. The poor woman did not leave the pond. With hasty steps, she paced round and round it, without resting a moment, sometimes in silence, sometimes uttering a loud cry, sometimes softly sobbing. At last her strength came to an end, she sank down to the ground and fell into a heavy sleep. Presently a dream took possession of her. She was anxiously climbing upwards between great masses of rock; thorns and briars caught her feet, the rain beat in her face, and the wind tossed her long hair about. When she had reached the summit, quite a different sight presented itself to her; the sky was blue, the air soft, the ground sloped gently downwards, and on a green meadow, gay with flowers of every colour, stood a pretty cottage. She went up to it and opened the door; there sat an old woman with white hair, who beckoned to her kindly. At that very moment, the poor woman awoke, day had already dawned, and she at once resolved to act in accordance with her dream. She laboriously climbed the mountain; everything was exactly as she had seen it in the night. The old woman received her kindly, and pointed out a chair on which she might sit. "Thou must have met with a misfortune," she said, "since thou hast sought out my lonely cottage." With tears, the woman related what had befallen her. "Be comforted," said the old woman, "I will help thee. Here is a golden comb for thee. Tarry till the full moon has risen, then go to the mill-pond, seat thyself on the shore, and comb thy long black hair with this comb. When thou hast done, lay it down on the bank, and thou wilt see what will happen." The woman returned home, but the time till the full moon came, passed slowly. At last the shining disc appeared in the heavens, then she went out to the mill-pond, sat down and combed her long black hair with the golden comb, and when she had finished, she laid it down at the water's edge. It was not long before there was a movement in the depths, a wave rose, rolled to the shore, and bore the comb away with it. In not more than the time necessary for the comb to sink to the bottom, the surface of the water parted, and the head of the huntsman arose. He did not speak, but looked at his wife with sorrowful glances. At the same instant, a second wave came rushing up, and covered the man's head. All had vanished, the mill-pond lay peaceful as before, and nothing but the face of the full moon shone on it. Full of sorrow, the woman went back, but again the dream showed her the cottage of the old woman. Next morning she again set out and complained of her woes to the wise woman. The old woman gave her a golden flute, and said, "Tarry till the full moon comes again, then take this flute; play a beautiful air on it, and when thou hast finished, lay it on the sand; then thou wilt see what will happen." The wife did as the old woman told her. No sooner was the flute lying on the sand than there was a stirring in the depths, and a wave rushed up and bore the flute away with it. Immediately afterwards the water parted, and not only the head of the man, but half of his body also arose. He stretched out his arms longingly towards her, but a second wave came up, covered him, and drew him down again. "Alas, what does it profit me?" said the unhappy woman, "that I should see my beloved, only to lose him again!" Despair filled her heart anew, but the dream led her a third time to the house of the old woman. She set out, and the wise woman gave her a golden spinning-wheel, consoled her and said, "All is not yet fulfilled, tarry until the time of the full moon, then take the spinning-wheel, seat thyself on the shore, and spin the spool full, and when thou hast done that, place the spinning-wheel near the water, and thou wilt see what will happen." The woman obeyed all she said exactly; as soon as the full moon showed itself, she carried the golden spinning-wheel to the shore, and span industriously until the flax came to an end, and the spool was quite filled with the threads. No sooner was the wheel standing on the shore than there was a more violent movement than before in the depths of the pond, and a mighty wave rushed up, and bore the wheel away with it. Immediately the head and the whole body of the man rose into the air, in a water-spout. He quickly sprang to the shore, caught his wife by the hand and fled. But they had scarcely gone a very little distance, when the whole pond rose with a frightful roar, and streamed out over the open country. The fugitives already saw death before their eyes, when the woman in her terror implored the help of the old woman, and in an instant they were transformed, she into a toad, he into a frog. The flood which had overtaken them could not destroy them, but it tore them apart and carried them far away. When the water had dispersed and they both touched dry land again, they regained their human form, but neither knew where the other was; they found themselves among strange people, who did not know their native land. High mountains and deep valleys lay between them. In order to keep themselves alive, they were both obliged to tend sheep. For many long years they drove their flocks through field and forest and were full of sorrow and longing. When spring had once more broken forth on the earth, they both went out one day with their flocks, and as chance would have it, they drew near each other. They met in a valley, but did not recognize each other; yet they rejoiced that they were no longer so lonely. Henceforth they each day drove their flocks to the same place; they did not speak much, but they felt comforted. One evening when the full moon was shining in the sky, and the sheep were already at rest, the shepherd pulled the flute out of his pocket, and played on it a beautiful but sorrowful air. When he had finished he saw that the shepherdess was weeping bitterly. "Why art thou weeping?" he asked. "Alas," answered she, "thus shone the full moon when I played this air on the flute for the last time, and the head of my beloved rose out of the water." He looked at her, and it seemed as if a veil fell from his eyes, and he recognized his dear wife, and when she looked at him, and the moon shone in his face she knew him also. They embraced and kissed each other, and no one need ask if they were happy.
Es war einmal ein Müller, der führte mit seiner Frau ein vergnügtes Leben. Sie hatten Geld und Gut, und ihr Wohlstand nahm von Jahr zu Jahr noch zu. Aber Unglück kommt über Nacht: wie ihr Reichtum gewachsen war, so schwand er von Jahr zu Jahr wieder hin, und zuletzt konnte der Müller kaum noch die Mühle, in der er saß, sein Eigentum nennen. Er war voll Kummer, und wenn er sich nach der Arbeit des Tages niederlegte, so fand er keine Ruhe, sondern wälzte sich voll Sorgen in seinem Bett. Eines Morgens stand er schon vor Tagesanbruch auf, ging hinaus ins Freie und dachte, es sollte ihm leichter ums Herz werden. Als er über dem Mühldamm dahinschritt, brach eben der erste Sonnenstrahl hervor, und er hörte in dem Weiher etwas rauschen. Er wendete sich um und erblickte ein schönes Weib, das sich langsam aus dem Wasser erhob. Ihre langen Haare, die sie über den Schultern mit ihren zarten Händen gefaßt hatte, flossen an beiden Seiten herab und bedeckten ihren weißen Leib. Er sah wohl, daß es die Nixe des Teichs war, und wußte vor Furcht nicht, ob er davongehen oder stehen bleiben sollte. Aber die Nixe ließ ihre sanfte Stimme hören, nannte ihn bei Namen und fragte, warum er so traurig wäre. Der Müller war anfangs verstummt, als er sie aber so freundlich sprechen hörte, faßte er sich ein Herz und erzählte ihr, daß er sonst in Glück und Reichtum gelebt hätte, aber jetzt so arm wäre, daß er sich nicht zu raten wüßte. "Sei ruhig," antwortete die Nixe, "ich will dich reicher und glücklicher machen, als du je gewesen bist, nur mußt du mir versprechen, daß du mir geben willst, was eben in deinem Hause jung geworden ist." - "Was kann das anders sein," dachte der Müller, "als ein junger Hund oder ein junges Kätzchen?" und sagte ihr zu, was sie verlangte. Die Nixe stieg wieder in das Wasser hinab, und er eilte getröstet und gutes Mutes nach seiner Mühle. Noch hatte er sie nicht erreicht, da trat die Magd aus der Haustüre und rief ihm zu, er sollte sich freuen, seine Frau hätte ihm einen kleinen Knaben geboren. Der Müller stand wie vom Blitz gerührt, er sah wohl, daß die tückische Nixe das gewußt und ihn betrogen hatte. Mit gesenktem Haupt trat er zu dem Bett seiner Frau, und als sie ihn fragte: "Warum freust du dich nicht über den schönen Knaben?" so erzählte er ihr, was ihm begegnet war, und was für ein Versprechen er der Nixe gegeben hatte. "Was hilft mir Glück und Reichtum," fügte er hinzu, "wenn ich mein Kind verlieren soll? aber was kann ich tun?" Auch die Verwandten, die herbeigekommen waren, Glück zu wünschen, wußten keinen Rat.
Indessen kehrte das Glück in das Haus des Müllers wieder ein. Was er unternahm, gelang, es war, als ob Kisten und Kasten von selbst sich füllten und das Geld im Schrank über Nacht sich mehrte. Es dauerte nicht lange, so war sein Reichtum größer als je zuvor. Aber er konnte sich nicht ungestört darüber freuen: die Zusage, die er der Nixe getan hatte, quälte sein Herz. Sooft er an dem Teich vorbeikam, fürchtete er, sie möchte auftauchen und ihn an seine Schuld mahnen. Den Knaben selbst ließ er nicht in die Nähe des Wassers. "Hüte dich," sagte er zu ihm, "wenn du das Wasser berührst, so kommt eine Hand heraus, hascht dich und zieht dich hinab." Doch als Jahr auf Jahr verging und die Nixe sich nicht wieder zeigte, so fing der Müller an sich zu beruhigen.
Der Knabe wuchs zum Jüngling heran und kam bei einem Jäger in die Lehre. Als er ausgelernt hatte und ein tüchtiger Jäger geworden war, nahm ihn der Herr des Dorfes in seine Dienste. In dem Dorf war ein schönes und treues Mädchen, das gefiel dem Jäger, und als sein Herr das bemerkte, schenkte er ihm ein kleines Haus; die beiden hielten Hochzeit, lebten ruhig und glücklich und liebten sich von Herzen.
Einstmals verfolgte der Jäger ein Reh. Als das Tier aus dem Wald in das freie Feld ausbog, setzte er ihm nach und streckte es endlich mit einem Schuß nieder. Er bemerkte nicht, daß er sich in der Nähe des gefährlichen Weihers befand, und ging, nachdem er das Tier ausgeweidet hatte, zu dem Wasser, um seine mit Blut befleckten Hände zu waschen. Kaum aber hatte er sie hineingetaucht, als die Nixe emporstieg, lachend mit ihren nassen Armen ihn umschlang und so schnell hinabzog, daß die Wellen über ihm zusammenschlugen.
Als es Abend war und der Jäger nicht nach Haus kam, so geriet seine Frau in Angst. Sie ging aus, ihn zu suchen, und da er ihr oft erzählt hatte, daß er sich vor den Nachstellungen der Nixe in acht nehmen müßte und nicht in die Nähe des Weihers sich wagen dürfte, so ahnte sie schon, was geschehen war. Sie eilte zu dem Wasser, und als sie am Ufer seine Jägertasche liegen fand, da konnte sie nicht länger an dem Unglück zweifeln. Wehklagend und händeringend rief sie ihren Liebsten mit Namen, aber vergeblich: sie eilte hinüber auf die andere Seite des Weihers, und rief ihn aufs neue: sie schalt die Nixe mit harten Worten, aber keine Antwort erfolgte. Der Spiegel des Wassers blieb ruhig, nur das halbe Gesicht des Mondes blickte unbeweglich zu ihr herauf.
Die arme Frau verließ den Teich nicht. Mit schnellen Schritten, ohne Rast und Ruhe, umkreiste sie ihn immer von neuem, manchmal still, manchmal einen heftigen Schrei ausstoßend, manchmal in leisem Wimmern. Endlich waren ihre Kräfte zu Ende: sie sank zur Erde nieder und verfiel in einen tiefen Schlaf. Bald überkam sie ein Traum.
Sie stieg zwischen großen Felsblöcken angstvoll aufwärts; Dornen und Ranken hakten sich an ihre Füße, der Regen schlug ihr ins Gesicht und der Wind zauste ihr langes Haar. Als sie die Anhöhe erreicht hatte, bot sich ein ganz anderer Anblick dar. Der Himmel war blau, die Luft mild, der Boden senkte sich sanft hinab und auf einer grünen, bunt beblümten Wiese stand eine reinliche Hütte. Sie ging darauf zu und öffnete die Türe, da saß eine Alte mit weißen Haaren, die ihr freundlich winkte. In dem Augenblick erwachte die arme Frau. Der Tag war schon angebrochen, und sie entschloß sich gleich, dem Traume Folge zu leisten. Sie stieg mühsam den Berg hinauf, und es war alles so, wie sie es in der Nacht gesehen hatte. Die Alte empfing sie freundlich und zeigte ihr einen Stuhl, auf den sie sich setzen sollte. "Du mußt ein Unglück erlebt haben," sagte sie, "weil du meine einsame Hütte aufsuchst." Die Frau erzählte ihr unter Tränen, was ihr begegnet war. "Tröste dich," sagte die Alte, "ich will dir helfen: da hast du einen goldenen Kamm. Harre, bis der Vollmond aufgestiegen ist, dann geh zu dem Weiher, setze dich am Rand nieder und strähle dein langes schwarzes Haar mit diesem Kamm. Wenn du aber fertig bist, so lege ihn am Ufer nieder, und du wirst sehen, was geschieht."
Die Frau kehrte zurück, aber die Zeit bis zum Vollmond verstrich ihr langsam. Endlich erschien die leuchtende Scheibe am Himmel, da ging sie hinaus an den Weiher, setzte sich nieder und kämmte ihre langen schwarzen Haare mit dem goldenen Kamm, und als sie fertig war, legte sie ihn an den Rand des Wassers nieder. Nicht lange, so brauste es aus der Tiefe, eine Welle erhob sich, rollte an das Ufer und führte den Kamm mit sich fort. Es dauerte nicht länger, als der Kamm nötig hatte, auf den Grund zu sinken, so teilte sich der Wasserspiegel, und der Kopf des Jägers stieg in die Höhe. Er sprach nicht, schaute aber seine Frau mit traurigen Blicken an. In demselben Augenblick kam eine zweite Welle herangerauscht und bedeckte das Haupt des Mannes. Alles war verschwunden, der Weiher lag so ruhig wie zuvor, und nur das Gesicht des Vollmondes glänzte darauf.
Trostlos kehrte die Frau zurück, doch der Traum zeigte ihr die Hütte der Alten. Abermals machte sie sich am nächsten Morgen auf den Weg und klagte der weisen Frau ihr Leid. Die Alte gab ihr eine goldene Flöte und sprach: "Harre, bis der Vollmond wiederkommt, dann nimm diese Flöte, setze dich an das Ufer, blas ein schönes Lied darauf, und wenn du damit fertig bist, so lege sie auf den Sand; du wirst sehen, was geschieht."
Die Frau tat, wie die Alte gesagt hatte. Kaum lag die Flöte auf dem Sand, so brauste es aus der Tiefe: eine Welle erhob sich, zog heran, und führte die Flöte mit sich fort. Bald darauf teilte sich das Wasser, und nicht bloß der Kopf, auch der Mann bis zur Hälfte des Leibes stieg hervor. Er breitete voll Verlangen seine Arme nach ihr aus, aber eine zweite Welle rauschte heran, bedeckte ihn und zog ihn wieder hinab.
"Ach, was hilft es mir," sagte die Unglückliche, "daß ich meinen Liebsten nur erblicke, um ihn wieder zu verlieren." Der Gram erfüllte aufs neue ihr Herz, aber der Traum führte sie zum drittenmal in das Haus der Alten. Sie machte sich auf den Weg, und die weise Frau gab ihr ein goldenes Spinnrad, tröstete sie und sprach: "Es ist noch nicht alles vollbracht, harre bis der Vollmond kommt, dann nimm das Spinnrad, setze dich an das Ufer und spinn die Spule voll, und wenn du fertig bist, so stelle das Spinnrad nahe an das Wasser, und du wirst sehen, was geschieht."
Die Frau befolgte alles genau. Sobald der Vollmond sich zeigte, trug sie das goldene Spinnrad an das Ufer und spann emsig, bis der Flachs zu Ende und die Spule mit dem Faden ganz angefüllt war. Kaum aber stand das Rad am Ufer, so brauste es noch heftiger als sonst in der Tiefe des Wassers, eine mächtige Welle eilte herbei und trug das Rad mit sich fort. Alsbald stieg mit einem Wasserstrahl der Kopf und der ganze Leib des Mannes in die Höhe. Schnell sprang er ans Ufer, faßte seine Frau an der Hand und entfloh. Aber kaum hatten sie sich eine kleine Strecke entfernt, so erhob sich mit entsetzlichem Brausen der ganze Weiher und strömte mit reißender Gewalt in das weite Feld hinein. Schon sahen die Fliehenden ihren Tod vor Augen, da rief die Frau in ihrer Angst die Hilfe der Alten an, und in dem Augenblick waren sie verwandelt, sie in eine Kröte, er in einen Frosch. Die Flut, die sie erreicht hatte, konnte sie nicht töten, aber sie riß sie beide voneinander und führte sie weit weg.
Als das Wasser sich verlaufen hatte und beide wieder den trocknen Boden berührten, so kam ihre menschliche Gestalt zurück. Aber keiner wußte, wo das andere geblieben war; sie befanden sich unter fremden Menschen, die ihre Heimat nicht kannten. Hohe Berge und tiefe Täler lagen zwischen ihnen. Um sich das Leben zu erhalten, mußten beide die Schafe hüten. Sie trieben lange Jahre ihre Herden durch Feld und Wald und waren voll Trauer und Sehnsucht.
Als wieder einmal der Frühling aus der Erde hervorgebrochen war, zogen beide an einem Tag mit ihren Herden aus, und der Zufall wollte, daß sie einander entgegenzogen. Er erblickte an einem fernen Bergesabhang eine Herde und trieb seine Schafe nach der Gegend hin. Sie kamen in einem Tal zusammen, aber sie erkannten sich nicht, doch freuten sie sich, daß sie nicht mehr so einsam waren. Von nun an trieben sie jeden Tag ihre Herde nebeneinander: sie sprachen nicht viel, aber sie fühlten sich getröstet. Eines Abends, als der Vollmond am Himmel schien und die Schafe schon ruhten, holte der Schäfer die Flöte aus seiner Tasche und blies ein schönes, aber trauriges Lied. Als er fertig war, bemerkte er, daß die Schäferin bitterlich weinte. "Warum weinst du?" fragte er. "Ach," antwortete sie, "so schien auch der Vollmond, als ich zum letztenmal dieses Lied auf der Flöte blies und das Haupt meines Liebsten aus dem Wasser hervorkam." Er sah sie an, und es war ihm, als fiele eine Decke von den Augen, er erkannte seine liebste Frau: und als sie ihn anschaute und der Mond auf sein Gesicht schien, erkannte sie ihn auch. Sie umarmten und küßten sich, und ob sie glückselig waren, braucht keiner zu fragen.