Whoever plucks it at midnight on the first night of May, will be served for a whole year by all the woodland elves.
They will open for him the rocky caverns in which treasures lie hidden. If he loses his way in the forest, they will lead him safely out again. Everything he longs for, everything he wishes, will be granted him.
But the fairy flower can be seen only on this one night. Ah—lucky—a hundred times most lucky—he who picks it at the stroke of twelve!
Seven of the eight Mouse brothers spoke at once: “Come, we will seek this magic blossom!“ The seven nodded, but the eighth brother was still.
He gazed first into the fire, then into the distance. He raised his flute to his lips and played the song that he heard in his soul.
The first notes were full of sorrow. It seemed as though hearts wept at parting. Next, hope crept into the music. It was as if a pilgrim, returning from a long journey smiled as he neared his native hut. Lastly, the song rose like the spirit of a joyful child, who, after long absence,
