Tales
& Legends

Near Saverne, a widow owned a large mill. She had an only daughter, young and beautiful. The mill’s servant, a lively, strong, and cheerful young man, loved her and thought he would marry her one day.
He noticed that more than once, the mother and daughter would leave at the beginning of the night and only return at dawn. Tormented by jealousy, he resolved to spy on them. One evening, he hid under the miller's bed and waited. The woman went to bed first, then after a while, she got up, went to the cupboard, and took a small pot. The girl came too; the two women rubbed themselves with ointment, murmured a few words, and immediately disappeared into the kitchen—and he heard no more.

He then came out of his hiding place, took the pot, rubbed himself the same way, and whispered the same words. Suddenly, he felt irresistibly drawn toward the kitchen, toward the fireplace, and lifted off the ground. He didn’t know what was happening to him; he passed through the chimney and flew through the air at dizzying speed, to the point he thought he would lose consciousness.
Then he felt the ground beneath his feet again. But when he looked around, he found himself on the Bastberg, surrounded by witches who rushed toward him, seized him, and wanted to kill him. To his great dismay, he recognized among them the widow and her daughter. The latter pleaded on his behalf, so they spared his life but turned him into a donkey. The girl, who loved the young man, barely had time to whisper to him:
– You will be freed when you drink holy water.
In the morning, the donkey tried to run to a church, but a farmer caught him and never let him go. He made him work hard and tied him tightly. He had to carry the heaviest loads, received little food, but many beatings.
After a full year, on a beautiful summer afternoon, the donkey managed to escape and saw the church door open. He slipped inside—it was empty—hurried to a basin of holy water, and drank deeply. Instantly, the donkey vanished, and the mill servant stood in his place—a handsome and joyful young man who proudly walked out of the church.
However, he never returned to the mill where the witch and her daughter lived. He tore from his heart the first love that had led him to the Bastberg and turned him into a donkey.

It is well known how attached donkeys are to their habits and how firmly rooted is the willpower that resides between their large, round, velvety eyes.
This particular donkey was exceptional in that regard.
Hardworking and resigned—but hardworking by reason and resigned by some mysterious donkey logic—he bore loads without protest, whether seeds or vegetables, as long as the weight didn’t exceed a maximum he had set for himself. For just an ounce more, he would lie down until he had been relieved of what, according to his donkey calculations, was excess.

The donkey belonged to a certain Mr. Nazaire, a natural enemy of schoolboys—his garden bordered the schoolyard where we played—and nicknamed by us Nazaire-Binoculars because, as a former naval commissioner, he was sometimes seen atop his home inspecting the horizon with a spyglass.
This donkey had, among other peculiarities, a strange habit. Was it a sense of cleanliness or mischievous teasing? I don’t know. But he had never been able to relieve himself in the stable like other donkeys. He needed open air and the sight of the street.
Whether he had stuffed himself with thistles the day before or had miserably chewed coarse chopped straw that serves as oats for poor donkeys, as soon as he left the stable and crossed the house threshold, he would shake himself, lift his tail, and the frugal Mr. Nazaire, armed with a shovel and broom, would rush to collect the excellent little pile of manure to fertilize his garden.
This had gone on for a long time when the town council, having discovered a great man and wanting to erect a statue in his honor, needed money and decided to auction off the city’s street cleaning.

The auction took place. A peasant from the lower district was named chief street sweeper; and from then on, the donkey became the cause of daily disputes between this peasant and Mr. Nazaire.
Mr. Nazaire, as before, wanted to keep the precious manure produced by his donkey, while the sweeper, confident in his official rights, claimed—rightfully so—that according to the contract, any manure touching the town pavement became his property.
They had to go to court, and that Saturday, we skipped school.
I still remember kind Mr. Trotabas, the judge, scratching his chin and filling his nose with snuff to clear his thoughts, while Mr. Nazaire and the sweeper loudly hurled insults and tried to argue their case.
– “The manure is mine,” said Mr. Nazaire, “since it’s made by my donkey, with my thistles and my straw.”
– “It’s mine,” replied the sweeper, “I have a right to anything that hits the street.”

The case was tricky, and Mr. Trotabas hesitated. However, public opinion leaned slightly in favor of the street sweeper.
In the end, after one last pinch of snuff, Mr. Trotabas called for silence and gave his ruling:
– “Listen, Nazaire, you're not wrong, but the sweeper is right. So, let’s compromise. Act like brothers. Share the object in dispute. The donkey dung from even days goes to you, Nazaire, and the odd days to the sweeper.”
Our local motto is: “All or nothing”; in touching agreement, both Nazaire and the sweeper refused.
– “In that case, since an agreement is impossible, I rule in favor of the street sweeper. However, here’s a piece of advice,” added Mr. Trotabas, the most conciliatory of men, “talk to your donkey, Nazaire, convince him to do indoors what he usually does outdoors. Donkeys are sometimes less stubborn than some litigants and may respond to a kind word. And if your donkey insists, you could always hang a basket under his tail. The manure will be yours—as long as it doesn’t touch the ground.”
Apparently, the donkey held his ground, for following this Solomonic verdict, for twenty years—whether donkeys or men, regular habits lead to long life—we saw Mr. Nazaire’s donkey heading to the fields every morning with a basket hanging precisely where dogs rarely wear muzzles.

Once upon a time, there was a king and queen who had everything they wanted, except a child. The queen was devastated and lamented day and night: “I am like barren land where nothing grows.”
At last, heaven heard her prayers; but when the child was born, it didn’t look human at all—it was a little donkey. When his mother saw him, she wept even more:
– I would rather have no child at all than a donkey as a son. He should be thrown into the water and eaten by fish.
But the king disagreed:
– God gave him to us; he will be my son and heir, and when I die, he shall sit on the throne and wear the royal crown.
So they raised the little donkey as best they could, and he grew up well. He enjoyed life, played, laughed—but above all, he loved music. So he went to a famous musician and said:
– Teach me your art. I want to play the lute as well as you.
“Poor little one,” sighed the musician. “Your fingers aren’t made to play the lute; they’re too big—I’m afraid the strings won’t hold.”
But the little donkey was determined. He persisted and eventually succeeded. He became so diligent and focused that he learned to play as well as his master.

One day, the little donkey wandered and arrived at a well. There, he saw his donkey face reflected in the water. Saddened by what he saw, he set out into the world, taking only his faithful companion. They traveled far and wide and eventually reached a kingdom ruled by an old king. He had one daughter, who was very beautiful.
– We'll stay here for a while, the little donkey decided.
He knocked on the castle gate and cried:
– A guest is at your door! Open up and let him in!
When no one answered, he sat down and began to play his lute beautifully with his front hooves.
The porter, surprised, ran to tell the king:
– Outside, at the gate, there’s a little donkey playing the lute like a master.
– Bring him in, said the king.
When the donkey entered the grand hall with his lute, everyone laughed at him. They sent him to eat with the servants, but he protested:
– I’m not from a common stable—I come from noble blood!
– If you’re so noble, go eat with the soldiers.
– No, I want to sit with the king.
The king laughed and, in good humor, agreed:
– All right, little donkey, come sit by me.
Then he asked:
– And what do you think of my daughter?
The donkey looked at her from head to toe:
– I like her very much; I’ve never seen a more beautiful girl.
– Then go sit beside her, said the king.
– Gladly! said the donkey, and he ate and drank with excellent manners.
He stayed at court for some time. “There’s no point in delaying,” he thought one day, “you must go home.”
Sad and with his head low, he asked the king for permission to leave. But the king had grown fond of him and asked:
– What’s wrong, little donkey? You look so sad. Stay here. I’ll give you whatever you want. Gold? Jewels? Half my kingdom?
– No, no, no.
– If only I knew what would make you happy. Do you want to marry my daughter?
– Oh yes! She’s what I want most.
So they held a grand wedding feast. That night, the king ordered a servant to hide in the bridal chamber to observe the little donkey.
When the couple were alone, the donkey locked the door and removed his donkey skin, revealing a handsome young prince.
– Now you know who I am. I’m not unworthy of you.
The bride embraced him and fell deeply in love. In the morning, he put the donkey skin back on. No one suspected a thing.
The king was amazed when he heard the servant’s story. That night, he watched himself. At dawn, he took the skin and burned it. When the prince awoke and couldn’t find it, he panicked:
– I must flee!
But the king stopped him:
– Where are you going, my dear son? Stay. You are a fine young man. I’ll give you half my kingdom now, and the rest later.
– May this happy beginning bring a happy ending.
The young prince became king and, after his own father's death, inherited that kingdom too. He lived magnificently ever after.