The old man said nothing.

"Give it to me!" screamed the old woman. "They were my turnips, so it
is my whistle-pipe."

"Well, whatever you do, don't blow in it," says the old man, and he
hands over the whistle-pipe.

She wouldn't listen to him.

"What?" says she; "I must not blow my own whistle-pipe?"

And with that she put the whistle-pipe to her lips and blew.

Out jumped the three lively whips, flew up in the air, and began to
beat her--phew! phew! phew!--one after another. If they made the old
man sore, it was nothing to what they did to the cross old woman.

"Stop them! Stop them!" she screamed, running this way and that in the
hut, with the whips flying after her beating her all the time. "I'll
never scold again. I am to blame. I stole the magic tablecloth, and
put an old one instead of it. I hid it in the iron chest." She ran to
the iron chest and opened it, and pulled out the tablecloth. "Stop
them! Stop them!" she screamed, while the whips laid it on hard and
fast, one after the other. "I am to blame. The goat that sneezes gold
pieces is hidden in the bushes. The goat by the door is one of the old
ones. I wanted all the gold for myself."

All this time the old man was trying to get hold of the whistle-pipe.