"Thank you kindly," says the old man. He hadn't the heart to be angry
with those little queer children.

Three or four of them ran into the hut and came out again with a
wooden whistle, a regular whistle-pipe, such as shepherds use. They
gave it to the old man.

"I can never play that," says the old man. "I don't know one tune from
another; and if I did, my old fingers are as stiff as oak twigs."

"Blow in it," cried the children; and all the others came crowding
round, laughing and chattering and whispering to each other. "Is he
going to blow in it?" they asked. "He _is_ going to blow in it." How
they laughed!

The old man took the whistle, and gathered his breath and puffed out
his cheeks, and blew in the whistle-pipe as hard as he could. And
before he could take the whistle from his lips, three lively whips had
slipped out of it, and were beating him as hard as they could go,
although there was nobody to hold them. Phew! phew! phew! The three
whips came down on him one after the other.

"Blow again!" the children shouted, laughing as if they were mad.
"Blow again--quick, quick, quick!--and tell the whips to get into the
whistle."

The old man did not wait to be told twice. He blew for all he was
worth, and instantly the three whips stopped beating him. "Into the
whistle!" he cried; and the three lively whips shot up into the
whistle, like three snakes going into a hole. He could hardly have