The Salad

A merry young huntsman was going briskly through a wood when a little old woman greeted him and said she was hungry and thirsty—pray give her something to eat. He took pity and gave her what he had in his pocket. As he turned to go she held him. “Listen, I will reward your kindness. Go on, and soon you will see a tree with nine birds sitting on a cloak. Shoot into the midst of them; one will fall dead, and the cloak with it. Take the cloak: it is a wishing-cloak, and when you wear it you will find yourself wherever you wish. Cut open the dead bird, keep its heart, and every morning you will find a piece of gold under your pillow.” The huntsman thanked her, thinking that if it came true it would be a fine thing.

A hundred steps on he heard screaming in the branches: birds pulling a cloak with bills and feet, fighting as if each would have it. Wonderful—just as she said. He shot into the flock; feathers flew; one bird fell dead with the cloak. He cut out the heart and carried cloak and heart home. Next morning under his pillow lay glittering gold, and so every day. He heaped up wealth until he thought gold was little use if he stayed home—he would go into the world and look about him.

He took leave, hung bag and bow about his neck, and went. One day his road led through a thick wood ending in a large castle on a green meadow. At a window stood an old woman with a very beautiful young lady. The old woman was a witch and told the girl a young man was coming with a wonderful prize—a bird’s heart that brought gold under the pillow every morning—and they must get it, for it fitted them better than him. The huntsman drew near, looked at the lady, and told himself he had travelled long and would rest in the castle—he had money enough—though the true reason was to see more of her beauty. He was welcomed kindly and was soon so much in love that he thought of nothing but her eyes and doing what she wished. The witch said now was the time for the bird’s heart. The lady stole it; gold stopped appearing under his pillow and appeared under hers, and the witch took it each morning; yet he was so in love he never missed his prize.

“We have the heart,” said the witch, “but not the wishing-cloak, and that we must have too.” “Leave him that,” said the girl; “he has already lost his wealth.” The witch grew angry. “Such a cloak is rare and wonderful; I must and will have it.” So the girl sat at the window looking sorrowful. “What makes you so sad?” asked the huntsman. “Alas,” she said, “yonder lies the granite rock where all the costly diamonds grow, and I long so much to go there that I cannot help grieving. Who can reach it but birds and flies? No man can.” “If that is all your grief,” said he, “I will take you there with all my heart.” He drew her under his cloak, wished to be on the granite mountain, and both were there. Diamonds glittered on all sides; they delighted and picked the finest. But the witch cast a deep sleep on him. He said they should sit and rest—he was so tired he could not stand. He laid his head in her lap and fell asleep; while he slept she took the cloak from his shoulders, hung it on her own, picked up the diamonds, and wished herself home.

When he awoke and found she had tricked him and left him alone on the wild rock, he cried out at the world’s roguery and sat in grief and fear. The rock belonged to fierce giants. Seeing three stride about, he thought to save himself by feigning sleep. The first pushed him with a foot. “What worm lies curled up here?” “Tread on him and kill him,” said the second. “Not worth the trouble,” said the third. “Let him live; he’ll climb higher, and some cloud will roll up and carry him away.” They passed on. The huntsman had heard all; as soon as they were gone he climbed to the top. Soon a cloud rolled round him, caught him in a whirlwind, and bore him along until it settled in a garden; he fell gently among greens and cabbages.

Looking round he wished for food—neither apples nor pears, only vegetables. At last he thought salad would refresh him. He picked a fine head and ate; scarcely had he swallowed two bites when he felt himself changed and saw with horror he was a donkey. Still hungry, and the salad tasting nice, he ate on until he came to another kind; scarcely had he tasted it when another change came, and he was lucky enough to find his old shape again.

He slept off his weariness; next morning he broke off a head of both the bad and the good salad, thinking this would help him to his fortune again and pay some folks for their treachery. After wandering a few days he found the castle. He stained his face brown so even his mother would not have known him, went in, and asked lodging—he was so tired he could go no farther. “Countryman,” said the witch, “who are you, and what is your business?” “I am a messenger sent by the king,” he said, “to find the finest salad under the sun. I have been lucky enough to find it and have brought it with me, but the sun is so hot that it has begun to wither, and I doubt I can carry it farther.”

Hearing of beautiful salad, witch and lady longed to taste it. “Dear countryman, let us just taste it.” “To be sure,” he said; “I have two heads and will give you one.” He gave them the bad. The witch took it to the kitchen; when it was ready she could not wait but put a few leaves in her mouth—scarcely swallowed when she lost her form and ran braying into the court as a donkey. The servant-maid, seeing the salad ready, meant to carry it up, tasted some leaves on the way, and also became a donkey and ran after the other, letting the dish fall. The messenger sat with the beautiful young lady; when nobody came with the salad she longed for it. He said he would go to the kitchen and see. In the court two donkeys ran about and salad lay on the ground. “All right,” he said; “those two have had their share.” He gathered up the rest of the leaves, laid them on the dish and took them to the young lady himself, so that she need not wait any longer. She ate, and like the others ran off into the court braying. Then the huntsman washed his face and went into the court so that they might know him. “Now you shall be paid for your roguery,” he said. He tied all three to a rope and led them to a mill, where he asked the miller to keep them. “Give the old one stripes three times a day and hay once,” he said, “the next, the servant-maid, stripes once a day and hay three times, and the youngest, the beautiful lady, hay three times a day and no stripes,” for he could not find it in his heart to have her beaten. Then he went back to the castle and found everything he wanted.

Some days later the miller came and said the old donkey was dead; the other two lived and ate but were so sorrowful they could not last long. The huntsman pitied them and had them driven back; he gave them some of the good salad. The beautiful young lady fell on her knees. “Dearest huntsman, forgive all the ill I have done you. My mother forced me; it was against my will, for I always loved you very much. Your wishing-cloak hangs in the closet, and as for the bird’s heart, I will give it to you too.” “Keep it,” he said; “it will be just the same, for I mean to make you my wife.” So they were married, and kept each other’s company to the end of their days.

Where this story comes from

“The Salad” is the Gutenberg English title for a German tale the Brothers Grimm printed as number 122; Margaret Hunt’s 1884 translation calls it “Donkey Cabbages” (Der Krautesel). It is not an Indian story, and the wording here follows the text built on Taylor and Edwardes.

The Grimms had it from German Bohemia. Their note compares the people turned into donkeys with the ancient Roman writer Apuleius, whose hero becomes an ass, and with a story told by Prätorius about a soldier from Brück in Saxony whom a widow changes into an ass for deserting her daughter.

This retelling retains the huntsman’s ordered beatings and the old woman’s death. These events make the revenge troubling, even though the story ends with reconciliation and marriage.

Read the original: Grimms’ Fairy Tales, tr. Edgar Taylor and Marian Edwardes (Project Gutenberg #2591, The Salad)

For older readers with discussion: theft, abandonment, coerced participation, repeated beatings and a death during captivity. The wedding does not resolve every harm in this dark revenge tale.

Reading the story closely

The two salads repeat the power of the two stolen treasures in a different form: the huntsman can now change other people’s condition and control where they go. Recovery becomes domination when he orders punishments. The maid merely tastes the food, yet receives beatings, while the young woman’s beauty and his attachment protect her. These differences prevent a fair ‘everyone gets what they deserve’ reading.

List what the text actually shows each of the three women doing, then compare the huntsman’s three instructions to the miller. Separate the daughter’s earlier objection to stealing the cloak from her final claim that she always loved him. Which parts of her explanation have prior support, and which must he take on trust?

Talk about it

• How did the witch and the young lady steal the huntsman’s treasures?
• The servant is punished although the story shows no part she played in the theft. How does that change your judgment of the huntsman’s revenge?
• At the end he marries the young lady who tricked him. Would you have forgiven her? Explain why.

Related stories

• The King of the Golden Mountain — a Grimm hero tricked by his wife who wins his kingdom back with magic
• The Blue Light — a Grimm soldier cheated by a witch who still comes out on top
• The Raven — a Grimm traveller who wins a cloak, a stick and a horse from quarrelling robbers