If you travel deep into the heart of Western Germany, past the rolling hills where the grapes grow fat on the vine, and into the ancient whispering forests of Westphalia, you will find yourself in a landscape where stories seem to grow right out of the mossy earth.
Over 200 years ago, two brothers named Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm wandered through these very towns and villages. They sat by hearth fires, listening to the tales that grandmothers and travelers told to keep the winter cold at bay.
Like all great folk tales, this story has been told in a thousand different ways, by a thousand different voices, but the heart of it remains as true today as it was when the trees of the forest were only saplings.
It is a story about what happens when the world decides you are no longer useful, and the quiet, marvelous discovery that you might just be getting started.
Our story begins in a quiet pasture at the edge of a great forest, where an old donkey stood with his head bowed toward the grass.
For 30 long years, this donkey had carried heavy sacks of grain from the fields to his master's mill. He had walked the same dusty path so many times that his hooves knew every stone, every dip, and every puddle without him ever having to look down.
His coat, which had once been the color of dark polished slate, was now silvered with age, especially around his muzzle and eyes. His ears, which used to twitch at the slightest rustle of a field mouse, now leaned forward with a heavy, quiet wisdom.
He was tired. His knees made a dry clicking sound when the damp autumn air rolled in from the hills, and his back, once straight and strong, had curved into the gentle shape of a crescent moon.
But the donkey's mind was still as sharp as a fresh thistle.
One evening, as he stood near the open window of the farmhouse stable, he heard his master talking to a neighbor. The farmer's voice was cold, like water drawn from a winter well.
"The gray donkey is finished," the farmer said, his boots scraping against the wooden floorboards. "He can barely carry a single sack of flour to the mill without his leg shaking. He is eating grass that my young horses need, and he is no longer worth his keep.
Tomorrow, I will sell his hide to the knacker."
The donkey did not blink. He did not cry out. But inside his chest, his heart gave a great heavy thud. The knacker was the man who took old animals and turned them into leather and glue.
After 30 years of faithful service, after carrying thousands of sacks of grain through rain, snow, and scorching summer heat, this was to be his reward?
The donkey looked out at the road that stretched away from the farm, winding its way through the hills toward the great city of Bremen.
He had heard the merchants talk of Bremen when they came to the mill. They said it was a city of music, of color, and of freedom. It was a place where the streets were wide, and the people gathered in the squares to listen to musicians play the loot, the flute, and the drums.
The donkey lifted his head. His ears stood straight up.
"No," he said softly to himself, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "I may not be strong enough to carry sacks of grain, but I still have breath in my lungs. I still have a voice. I will go to Bremen, and I will become a town musician."
Without waiting for the morning, and without saying goodbye to the master who had forgotten his kindness, the donkey slipped his halter over his ears.
He pushed open the creaking wooden gate of the pasture with his nose and stepped out onto the highway. The gravel was cool beneath his hooves, and the night air smelled of pine needles and damp earth.
He did not run. His knees were too stiff for that. But he walked with a steady, purposeful trot, his head held high. He was an old donkey on a new road. And for the first time in 30 years, his time belonged entirely to him.
By the time the sun began to rise, painting the edges of the sky in shades of bruised purple and pale gold, the donkey had traveled several miles. His legs were aching, but his spirit was light.
As he trotted past a hedge of wild blackberries, he heard a sound that made him stop. It was a panting, whistling sound, followed by a long, melancholy groan.
The donkey peered through the brambles and saw a large hound lying by the side of the road. The dog's coat was a dusty, brindled brown, and his floppy ears were scarred from old briers. He was panting as if he had run a marathon, his pink tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, and his tail lay motionless in the dust.
"Why are you panting so, my friend?" the donkey asked, leaning his head over the hedge. "And why do you look as though the world has come to an end?"
The hound lifted his heavy head, his dark eyes filled with a deep, liquid sadness.
"Ah, brother," the dog sighed, his voice a gravelly baritone. "For 10 years, I was the finest hunting dog in the province. I could scent a deer from three miles away, and I could outrun the wind. But now I am old. My joints are stiff, my nose is dull, and I can no longer keep up with the pack.
Yesterday, my master looked at me and said I was nothing but a useless mouth to feed. He reached for his hunting rifle, and I knew what that meant. So I took to my heels and ran. But now, what am I to do? I am too old to hunt, and I do not know how I am to earn my bread."
The donkey nodded, his long ears swaying in sympathy. He knew this story all too well.
"I will tell you what we shall do," the donkey said, his eyes bright with mischief. "I am going to Bremen to become a town musician. I have a voice like a brass trumpet, and though my knees are stiff, my spirit is young.
Come with me, and we will make music together. I will play the loot, and you can beat the kettle drums with your heavy paws. What do you say?"
The hound looked at the donkey, then down at his own paws, and then back up again. A tiny spark of hope flickered in his dark eyes. He stood up, shook the dust from his coat, and gave his tail a single tentative wag.
"A drummer," the dog muttered, a slow grin spreading across his jowls. "I always did like a good beat. Lead the way, singer."
And so the two of them walked on together. The gray donkey and the brindled hound, side by side, their shadows stretching long and thin before them in the morning light.
They had not gone more than a mile or two when they came to a crossroads. Sitting on top of a stone wall was a cat. She was a handsome creature, or she had been once, with stripes of charcoal and silver, but her coat was now dull, and her whiskers drooped like wet straw.
She was sitting with her paws tucked under her chest, her face as miserable as three days of rainy weather.
"Well, old whiskers," said the donkey, stopping in front of the wall. "What has gone wrong with you? You look as though you've been washed down a gutter."
The cat did not move her head, but her green eyes slitted as she looked at them.
"Who can be cheerful when their very life is at stake?" she hissed softly. "For years, I kept the granary free of rats and mice. I was quick, I was silent, and I was deadly. But now, my teeth are blunt, my claws are worn down, and I would rather sit by the warm ashes of the hearth and purr than chase mice through the cold dark.
Because of this, my mistress tried to drown me in the water butt this morning. I managed to slip through her fingers, but now I am homeless. Where am I to go? How am I to survive?"
The donkey smiled, a warm, wide donkey smile.
"You have a voice that can charm the birds from the trees, old cat. You understand the secrets of night music, of soft serenades and beautiful high melodies. Come with us to Bremen. We are going to be town musicians, and a voice like yours, clear and sharp, is exactly what our band needs.
You can sing the high parts, or perhaps play the violin with your delicate paws."
The cat washed her face with one paw, considering the offer. She looked at the donkey, then at the hound, who gave a friendly, if slightly wet, bark of agreement.
"It is true," the cat purred, her voice smoothing out like silk. "I have always had an operatic quality, and anything is better than a bucket of cold water. I will join you."
She leaped down from the wall with a grace that surprised them all, landing silently in the dust and joined the procession.
Now there were three: the donkey, the dog, and the cat. They walked on, their spirits rising with every step, until they passed a large farmhouse.
Perched on the very top of the wooden farmyard gate was a rooster. He was a magnificent bird with feathers of deep copper and iridescent green, but he was crowing with such frantic, desperate force that his voice was cracking, and his comb was turning a bright, angry red.
"Stop, stop!" cried the donkey, covering his ears. "Your crowing goes through one's very bones. What is the matter with you, red comb?"
The rooster flew down from the gate, landing in front of them, his chest heaving with exertion.
"I am crowing while I still have a throat to crow with!" he cried, his feathers ruffled in terror. "For years, I have been the clock of this farm. I woke the maids, I woke the plowman, and I never missed a single sunrise. But today is Saturday, and guests are coming for Sunday dinner tomorrow.
I heard the housewife telling the cook that she wants to eat me in the soup. Tonight, they are going to wring my neck. So I am screaming with all my might while the air is still in my lungs."
The donkey shook his head, his heart aching for the proud bird.
"What a terrible waste of a fine tenor," he said. "Listen to me, red comb. We are outcasts, all of us, but we are not finished. We are going to Bremen to find our fortune as musicians. You have a voice that can wake the world. Come with us. Something better than death, you can find anywhere."
The rooster looked at the three travelers. He saw the donkey's kind eyes, the dog's steady gaze, and the cat's clever smile. He realized that here was a flock that would never put him in a soup pot.
"By my feathers!" the rooster crowed, his voice ringing out with a new, joyful energy. "I am a musician! Let us go to Bremen!"
With a flutter of his wings, he flew up and perched himself comfortably on the donkey's broad shoulder. And so, the four of them set off down the great road, a band of friends who had nothing left to lose, and everything to find.
The afternoon wore on, and the sun began its long, slow descent behind the western hills. The air grew colder, and a thin silver mist began to rise from the damp ditches by the side of the road.
Our four travelers were not as fast as they had been in their youth. The donkey's hooves clicked rhythmically on the stones, but his stride had grown shorter. The dog limped slightly on his back leg, which always grew stiff when the evening damp set in.
The cat padded along the dry edge of the ditch, her tail held straight up like a flag pole, but she paused every now and then to rest her aching paws. Only the rooster, riding high on the donkey's back, remained energetic, his bright eyes scanning the horizon.
As they walked, they talked. They did not talk of the masters who had discarded them, or of the hard work that had worn them down. Instead, they talked of the music they would make.
"I believe," said the dog, his tail giving a soft thump against the donkey's flank, "that I have a natural gift for the dramatic pause. In the middle of a song, when everyone is waiting to see what happens next, boom! I will strike the drum. It will be magnificent."
"And I," purred the cat, "shall specialize in the melancholy ballads of the rooftop. There is a certain note, just between a sigh and a whisper, that can make even the hardest heart weep. I shall sing of the moon and the mice that got away."
"I," declared the rooster, puffing out his copper-feathered chest, "shall sing of the morning. Even when it is dark and rainy, my song will make people believe that the sun is about to break through the clouds. That is the power of a true tenor."
The donkey smiled, his long ears flopping happily as he walked. "And I shall keep the rhythm," he said, "a steady, honest beat. The loot is a gentle instrument, but when paired with a drum, a violin, and a voice like yours, red comb, we shall have a sound that Bremen has never heard before."
But, as the shadows of the pine trees stretched across the road, turning the world into a landscape of dark blue and gray, the reality of their situation began to press in upon them. Bremen was still many miles away. They had no food, no money, and the forest that surrounded them was growing thicker and darker with every step.
The road, which had been wide and clear, narrowed into a dirt track that wound between massive, ancient oaks and towering pines. The wind began to whistle through the bare branches above, making a sound like dry bones rattling.
"We cannot reach Bremen tonight," the donkey said, stopping in a small clearing. "The forest is too dark, and we do not know the path in the night. We must find a place to rest until the morning."
The dog sniffed the cold air. "I smell damp leaves and wet pine," he muttered, shivering. "Not a very warm bed for an old hunter."
"And my paws are like ice," the cat complained, curling herself into a tight silver ball at the base of a tree. "If I do not find a warm hearth soon, my voice will be nothing but a squeak tomorrow."
The donkey looked up at the towering trees.
"Red comb," he called to the rooster. "You have the best eyes among us. Fly up into the branches of that tall pine, and see if you can spy any shelter. A barn, a shed, or even a haystack would do."
The rooster flapped his wings and flew from the donkey's shoulder. He scrambled up from branch to branch, climbing higher and higher into the dark green canopy of the pine tree, until he was perched on the very topmost bow.
The wind whipped at his feathers, and he shivered, but he turned his head this way and that, peering into the gathering gloom. For a long moment, there was nothing but the black expanse of the forest. But then, far away in the depths of the woods, where the trees grew thickest, the rooster saw a tiny golden spark.
He leaned forward, his heart beating fast. The spark did not move. It was steady, warm, and bright, the unmistakable light of a candle or a hearth fire.
"I see a light!" the rooster crowed down to his friends, his voice echoing through the quiet woods. "Not far off! A warm golden light, shining right through the trees!"
"Ah," said the donkey, his ears twitching with delight. "A light means a house, and a house means a hearth, and a hearth means warmth. Come down, red comb. Lead us to it. A warm room is better than the cold ground. And who knows? Perhaps we shall find a scrap of supper as well."
The rooster fluttered down from the tree, and the four friends turned off the main road, making their way through the thick undergrowth of the forest. It was slow going. The donkey had to push through heavy briers, protecting the cat and the dog behind him, while the rooster flew ahead from branch to branch, acting as their guide.
"Left! Pass the big boulder!" the rooster called. "Now straight ahead, through the hazel bushes!"
As they drew closer, the golden light grew brighter, casting long, dancing shadows through the pine needles. Soon, the trees parted, and they found themselves at the edge of a small clearing.
In the center of the clearing stood a small, sturdy cottage, built of rough-hewn stone and timber. Moss grew thickly on its thatched roof, and a thin wisp of gray smoke curled lazily from its stone chimney, carrying with it a smell that made all four animals stop in their tracks.
It was the smell of roasting meat, of bubbling stew, of fresh, crusty bread, and of sweet, warm wine.
The dog's nose twitched frantically, his mouth watering so much that he had to lick his jowls. The cat let out a soft, involuntary mew of longing, her green eyes fixed on the glowing glass of the cottage window.
"Quietly now," whispered the donkey, his hooves making no sound on the soft pine needles. "We do not know who lives here. It could be a kind woodcutter, or it could be someone who does not care for uninvited guests. Let us see what we are dealing with."
They crept across the clearing, moving as silently as shadows. The window of the cottage was set high in the stone wall, too high for the dog or the cat to see through, and far too high for the rooster.
"Gray horse," whispered the dog, nudging the donkey's leg. "You are the tallest. Put your hooves on the sill and look inside. Tell us what you see."
The donkey stepped carefully onto the stone ledge beneath the window. He lifted his front legs, resting his hooves against the wooden frame of the glass, and stretched his long neck. He peered through the small leaded panes into the warm, bright room within.
The other three waited below, their breath held, their eyes wide with anticipation.
"What do you see, brother?" the hound whispered, his tail twitching.
The donkey's eyes grew as large as saucers. He let out a soft, low whistle.
"I see," the donkey whispered, "a table, a grand, long wooden table, spread with a cloth as white as snow. And on that table, oh my friends, there is a whole roast goose, golden brown and glistening with fat. There are chains of fat, juicy sausages, bowls of steaming cabbage, loaves of fresh bread still warm from the oven, and jugs of sweet red wine."
The cat let out a faint, desperate purr. "And who is eating this magnificent feast?"
"Ah," said the donkey, his brow furrowing as he looked closer. "That is the catch. Sitting around the table are four men. They are not woodcutters. They have rough, bearded faces, and they are wearing leather coats with heavy brass buckles. They have pistols tucked into their belts, and swords leaning against their chairs.
On the floor beside them are heavy leather sacks, overflowing with gold coins, silver candlesticks, and sparkling jewels. They are counting their booty and laughing."
"Robbers," muttered the dog, his ears flattening against his head. "A band of thieves."
"Yes," said the donkey, stepping down from the window sill and returning to his friends. "Robbers indeed. They have taken over this house, and they are enjoying a feast that they did not cook, paid for with gold that they did not earn."
The rooster flew down from a low branch, his comb twitching with anger.
"And here we are, honest musicians, starving in the cold, while those scoundrels stuff themselves with roast goose. It is not right! It is not fair!"
"We must have that house," said the cat, her eyes gleaming in the dark. "But how? We are old, we are tired, and we have no weapons. If we go in there and ask for a share, they will only throw us out, or worse, turn us into target practice."
The four friends sat in a circle in the dark woods, the delicious smell of the roast goose drifting over them, their stomachs rumbling in a sad, empty chorus. They looked at the warm golden window, and then at each other.
They were old, yes. They were weak, yes. But they had something that the robbers, with all their swords and pistols, did not have. They had each other, and they had their music.
"Listen to me," the donkey said, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. "I have a plan. It is a crazy plan, but if we do it together, and if we do it with all our hearts, we can make those robbers run all the way to the Rhine.
Gather close, and I will tell you what we must do."
The night was silent, save for the wind in the trees, and the distant, rowdy laughter of the robbers inside the cottage.
At the side of the house, near the large glass window, a strange shadow began to form in the moonlight. It was a shadow that grew taller and taller, shifting and swaying, like some ancient, forgotten beast of the forest.
The donkey was the first to take his position. He stepped quietly up to the window sill, placing his heavy forehooves firmly upon the wooden ledge. He braced his legs, arching his strong, curved back, and stood as still as a statue of gray stone.
"Now, my friend," the donkey whispered into the dark. "Up you go. Be careful of my joints."
The hound, moving with a slow, careful dignity, stepped onto the donkey's rump. He scrambled up, his claws scraping softly against the donkey's gray coat, until he was standing with his hind legs on the donkey's shoulders, and his forelegs resting on the donkey's head.
He shook his head once, his long ears flopping, and braced himself.
"I am in position," the dog whispered, his voice vibrating through the donkey's skull. "But hurry. I am not as light as I used to be."
"My turn," purred the cat.
With a light, silent leap, the cat sprang from the ground onto the donkey's flank, then onto the dog's back. She scrambled up the dog's neck, her paws finding purchase in his thick, brindled fur. The dog let out a tiny, stifled sneeze as her tail brushed his nose, but he held firm.
The cat stood on the dog's shoulders, her back arched, her tail curved like a question mark.
"I am ready," the cat whispered, her green eyes level with the top pane of the window. "Red comb, the stage is yours."
The rooster flapped his wings with a soft, dry rustle. He flew up from the ground, soaring over the donkey's back, past the dog's ears, and landed with a light flutter directly on top of the cat's head. He dug his claws gently into her thick fur to steady himself in the evening breeze.
There they stood, a teetering, breathing, four-story tower of outcasts.
From inside the warm room, the robbers were laughing and shouting. They were raising their wooden mugs of wine, toast after toast, celebrating their cleverness and their wealth. They had no idea that just outside their window, in the cold forest air, a monstrous creature had appeared.
Seen from the inside, through the distorted, leaded glass of the window, the silhouette was terrifying. It was a creature with four legs, but also with wings, and a long, pointed tail, and ears that stretched up like horns, and a shape that seemed to defy all the laws of nature.
The donkey looked up with one eye, seeing the rooster perched high above.
"Is everyone ready?" the donkey whispered.
"Ready," muttered the dog.
"Ready," purred the cat.
"Ready," whispered the rooster.
"Then," said the donkey, "let us give them our very first concert. One, two, three, play!"
What followed was a sound that the forest of Westphalia had never heard before, and would never hear again. It was not a song. It was a physical force.
The donkey opened his great jaws and let loose a bray that sounded like a rusty iron gate being torn from its hinges by a hurricane, a deafening, metallic, hee-haw that shook the very glass in the window frame.
At the exact same instant, the hound opened his throat and let out a deep, hollow, howling bark, a woof-woof-a-woo that sounded like a pack of wolves descending from the mountains.
The cat, not to be outdone, screeched with all her might, a piercing, yowling, meow-squeal that sounded like a dozen wildcats fighting in a thunderstorm.
And on the very top of the tower, the rooster flapped his wings and screamed a frantic, operatic cock-a-doodle-doo that could have woken the dead in the next province. It was a cacophony of brass, drum, violin, and tenor, all thrown together into a single, terrifying wall of noise.
But they did not stop at the music.
As they let loose their grand crescendo, the donkey's hoof slipped on the wet stone sill. The tower began to tilt. With a great forward lurch, the entire teetering structure of animals crashed forward, right through the window pane.
Crash! The glass shattered into a thousand glittering pieces. The wooden frame splintered with a loud pop, and the entire mass of fur, feathers, hooves, and claws tumbled into the room, landing in a chaotic, shouting heap on the wooden floorboards.
Inside the cottage, the effect was instantaneous and absolute.
The robbers, who had been laughing and drinking, were frozen in horror. The window had exploded. In the shower of glass and the cloud of dust, they saw a monstrous, shifting shape with glowing green eyes, flapping wings, scratching claws, and a voice like the end of the world.
"A demon!" screamed the robber captain, his face turning as white as a turnip. "The forest demon has come for us! It's a witch!" shrieked another, knocking over his chair and spilling his wine all over his leather trousers. "A multi-headed beast!"
They did not look to see that the demon was actually a very old donkey, trying to untangle his legs from a very surprised hunting dog. They did not notice that the witch's claws belonged to a gray cat, who was trying to find her footing on a sausage.
Terrified out of their wits, the robbers did not even think of their pistols or their swords. They did not look back at the bags of gold on the floor. They simply turned and fled. They threw open the heavy oak door of the cottage and bolted out into the dark forest, screaming and running as fast as their legs could carry them, tearing through the briers and the bushes in their haste to escape the terrible monster of the window.
Within seconds, the cottage was silent, save for the crackle of the hearth fire and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
The four friends slowly picked themselves up. The rooster shook the dust from his copper feathers and flew onto the back of a chair. The cat licked a speck of soot from her paw. The dog stretched his stiff legs, and the donkey gave a great, joyful shake of his ears, sending a few stray shards of glass sliding across the floorboards.
They looked at the empty room, and then they looked at the table.
The roast goose was still warm, its skin crispy and brown. The sausages were still steaming. The fresh bread was waiting to be broken, and the sweet wine was ready to be poured.
The donkey walked over to the table, his hooves clattering happily on the floorboards.
"Well, my fellow musicians," he said, his eyes twinkling with delight. "I believe our first performance was a resounding success. The audience was absolutely moved."
The dog let out a happy bark, the cat purred like a small engine, and the rooster crowed a short, triumphant note. They gathered around the table, and for the first time in their long lives, they ate until their bellies were completely full, with no master to tell them to move, and no work waiting for them in the morning.
When the feast was finished, and not a single scrap of goose or sausage remained, the four friends felt a deep, heavy sleepiness steal over them. The fire in the hearth had burned down to a pile of glowing red coals, casting a warm, cozy light across the room.
"We must find our sleeping places," said the donkey, yawning so wide his ears almost touched his neck. "Each of us should sleep where we are most comfortable, according to our nature."
The donkey, who was used to the open air and the smell of the earth, trotted out through the open door into the yard. He found a large, warm heap of straw and dung near the stable, curled himself up, and was asleep in an instant.
The hound, who spent his life guarding the house and keeping watch, lay down directly behind the heavy oak door. If anyone tried to open it, they would have to step over him first.
The cat, who loved nothing more than warmth, curled herself up in the hearth, right next to the warm ashes, where the heat of the fire still lingered. And the rooster, who liked to look out over the world from a high place, flew up to the roof beam of the cottage, tucked his head under his wing, and went to sleep.
By midnight, the cottage was completely dark, and all four animals were snoring in a peaceful, rhythmic harmony.
But the story was not quite finished. Far out in the dark forest, the robbers had stopped running. They stood shivering in the cold wind, their breath rising in white plumes, their leather coats torn by briers.
"Why did we run?" the captain muttered, his pride beginning to return now that the terrifying noise had stopped. "We are brave men. We have swords and pistols. We let ourselves be frightened out of our own home by a bit of noise and a shadow?"
He looked at his men, who were all looking down at their boots, feeling rather foolish.
"You," the captain said, pointing his finger at one of the robbers. "Go back to the house. Creep in quietly, and see if that monster is still there. If the coast is clear, we will return and take our gold."
The chosen robber did not want to go, but he feared the captain's anger more than the dark. He drew his sword and crept back through the woods, his boots making no sound on the pine needles.
The clearing was quiet. The light in the window was gone, and the house looked empty and still. The robber slipped through the open door, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The room was pitch black. The robber felt his way toward the hearth, hoping to find a candle or a match to light.
As he reached out his hand, he saw two glowing green circles in the darkness. They looked exactly like two live coals, still burning in the grate.
"Ah," the robber whispered, "a bit of fire to light my match."
He leaned forward, holding a dry sulfur match, and touched it directly to one of the glowing green circles.
But it was not a coal. It was the eye of the cat.
Startled out of her deep sleep by a sulfur match in her face, the cat did not hesitate. She let out a ferocious hiss, leaped straight onto the robber's face, and dug her sharp claws into his cheeks, scratching him from forehead to chin.
"Ah, the witch!" the robber screamed, dropping his match and stumbling backward in terror. He turned and bolted for the door, but in his panic, he did not see the hound lying behind it. He tripped over the dog's back, landing with a heavy thud on the floorboards.
The hound, awakened by a heavy man falling on him, did what any good hunting dog would do. He clamped his teeth firmly into the robber's leg, shaking his head with a deep, furious growl.
"Ah!" the robber shrieked, tearing his leg free and scrambling out the door into the yard. "It's got me! The monster's got me!"
He ran across the dark yard, heading for the safety of the forest, but he ran right past the warm heap of straw where the donkey was sleeping. The donkey, startled by the screaming man running past his bed, stood up. He turned his rump toward the robber, braced his front legs, and delivered a tremendous, double-hoofed kick straight to the robber's backside.
Whack! The kick sent the robber flying through the air, landing face-first in a bush of wild nettles.
To make matters worse, the noise had awakened the rooster on the roof beam. Seeing the commotion in the moonlight, the rooster flapped his wings and crowed with all his might. "Cock-a-doodle-doo! Bring the rogue to me! Cock-a-doodle-doo!"
The robber scrambled out of the nettle bush, his face scratched, his leg bleeding, his backside bruised, and his mind completely unhinged by terror. He ran back through the forest as if the devil himself were chasing him, bursting into the clearing where his companions were waiting.
"We must leave!" he gasped, falling to his knees, his chest heaving. "We must never go back to that house!"
"What did you see?" the captain demanded, grabbing him by the collar.
"It is horrible!" the robber cried, his eyes wild. "In the kitchen, there sits a horrible witch! She hissed at me and scratched my face with her long, bony fingers! And by the door, there stands a man with a knife, who stabbed me in the leg as I tried to run! And in the yard, there lies a great black monster, who beat me with a wooden club! And on the roof, there sits the judge, who screamed, 'Bring the rogue to me! Bring the rogue to me!' We must run, captain, run!"
The robbers did not wait to hear any more. They turned and fled, running deeper and deeper into the dark forest, leaving their gold, their house, and their feast behind them. They never returned, and from that day forward, they avoided that part of the woods entirely, telling tales of the terrible demons that guarded the stone cottage.
As for our four friends, they found that they liked the little stone cottage in the woods so much that they never did make it to Bremen. They did not need to. They had found a warm home, a table that was always full, and a forest that provided everything they needed. But most of all, they had found a place where they were valued, not for how much work they could do or how fast they could run, but simply for who they were.
They lived there together for many years, in peace and comfort. The donkey played his loot, or at least, he made a very pleasant braying sound when the sun went down. The dog kept the beat, the cat sang her night songs, and the rooster woke them all every morning with a song of the rising sun.
They were old, they were tired, and the world had discarded them. But together, they were a family.
And now, as the story of the Bremen Town Musicians comes to its quiet end, and you settle down into the warmth of your own bed, here is a question to keep with you as you fall asleep. When the world tells you that you are too old, or too small, or no longer useful, what is the music that you still have inside you, and who are the friends you will find to help you sing it?