The mother came trolling up from the beach, with some wooden pails she
had been scouring; she saw the boy sitting on the grass, with his legs
crossed under him, crying, and went to him.

"What makes you cry?"

"Oh, my goat--my goat!"

"Why, where is the goat?" asked the mother, glancing up at the roof.

"It will never come back any more," said the boy.

"Dear me! how can _that_ be?"

Oyvind would not confess at once.

"Has the fox carried it off?"

"Oh, I wish it were the fox!"

"You must have lost your senses!" cried the mother. "What has become
of the goat?"

"Oh--oh--oh! I was so unlucky. I sold it for a twisted bun!"

The moment he uttered the words he realized what it was to sell the
goat for a bun; he had not thought about it before. The mother said,--

"What do you imagine the little goat thinks of you now, since you were
willing to sell it for a twisted bun?"