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Once upon a time there were a farmer and his wife, and the village priest had taken a great fancy to the farmer’s wife. He was always wishing he could spend a whole day alone with her, enjoying himself, and the farmer’s wife would have been quite happy with that too. So one day he said to her, ‘Now, my dear farmer’s wife, I’ve thought of a way for us to spend a whole pleasant day together. Do you know what? On Wednesday, take to your bed and tell your husband you’re ill, and groan and moan as much as ever you can. Keep it up until Sunday, when I preach my sermon. Then I’ll preach that anyone who has a sick child, a sick husband, a sick wife, a sick father, a sick mother, a sick sister or brother, or whoever else it may be, at home, and makes a pilgrimage to Göcherliberg in Wälischland, where you can get a bushel of bay leaves for a kreuzer, will find that the sick child, the sick husband, the sick wife, the sick father, the sick mother, the sick sister, or whoever else it may be, gets well on the spot.’

‘I can certainly do that,’ said the farmer’s wife. Well, on Wednesday she took to her bed and groaned and moaned something dreadful. Her husband brought her every remedy he could think of, but nothing did any good. When Sunday came, the farmer’s wife said, ‘I feel so wretched I could die this very minute, but there’s one thing I’d still like before my end: I’d like to hear the sermon the reverend father is going to preach today.’ ‘Ah, my dear,’ said the farmer, ‘don’t you do that. You might get worse if you got up. Look, I’ll go to the sermon and listen very carefully, and I’ll tell you everything the reverend father says.’ ‘Well,’ said the farmer’s wife, ‘go, then, and listen carefully, and tell me everything you hear.’ So the farmer went to the sermon, and the reverend father began to preach. He said that if anyone had a sick child, a sick husband, a sick wife, a sick father, a sick mother, a sick sister or brother, or whoever else it might be, at home, and wished to make a pilgrimage to Göckerliberg in Wälischland, where a bushel of bay leaves cost a kreuzer, then the sick child, the sick husband, the sick wife, the sick father, the sick mother, the sick sister or brother, or whoever else it might be, would get well on the spot. Anyone wishing to undertake the journey should come to him after Mass, and he would give him the sack for the bay leaves and the kreuzer. No one was more eager than the farmer, and straight after Mass he went to the priest, who gave him the sack for the bay leaves and the kreuzer. Then he went home, and was already shouting from the doorway, ‘Hurrah, dear wife! Now you’re as good as well again! The reverend father preached today that anyone who has a sick child, a sick husband, a sick wife, a sick father, a sick mother, a sick sister or brother, or whoever else it may be, at home, and makes a pilgrimage to Göckerliberg in Wälischland, where a bushel of bay leaves costs a kreuzer, will find that the sick child, the sick husband, the sick wife, the sick father, the sick mother, the sick sister or brother, or whoever else it may be, gets well on the spot. And I’ve already fetched the sack for the bay leaves and the kreuzer from the reverend father, and I’ll set off on my journey at once, so you’ll get well all the sooner.’ And off he went. But he had scarcely left before the farmer’s wife was up, and the priest soon arrived as well. Now we’ll leave those two alone for a while and go along with the farmer. He kept walking briskly ahead, so as to reach Göckerliberg all the sooner, and as he went along he happened to meet his child’s godfather. The godfather was an egg seller, and he was just coming back from market, where he had sold his eggs. ‘Praised be the Lord,’ said the godfather. ‘Where are you hurrying off to, old friend?’ ‘For ever and ever, old friend,’ said the farmer. ‘My wife has fallen ill, and today I heard the reverend father’s sermon. He preached that if anyone has a sick child, a sick husband, a sick wife, a sick father, a sick mother, a sick sister or brother, or whoever else it may be, at home, and makes a pilgrimage to Göckerliberg in Wälischland, where a bushel of bay leaves costs a kreuzer, then the sick child, the sick husband, the sick wife, the sick father, the sick mother, the sick sister or brother, or whoever else it may be, will get well on the spot. So I fetched the sack for the bay leaves and the kreuzer from the reverend father, and now I’m setting out on my journey.’ ‘But look here, old friend,’ said the godfather to the farmer, ‘are you really so simple that you can believe such a thing? Do you know what’s going on? The priest wants to spend a whole day alone with your wife, enjoying himself, and that’s why they’ve spun you this yarn—to get you out of the way.’ ‘Well,’ said the farmer, ‘I’d certainly like to know whether that’s true.’ ‘Well, then,’ said the godfather, ‘do you know what? Climb into my egg basket, and I’ll carry you home, and you’ll see for yourself.’ And so they did. The godfather put the farmer into his egg basket and carried him home. When they got there, goodness, the merrymaking was already in full swing! The farmer’s wife had slaughtered just about everything in the farmyard, and she had baked fritters, and the priest was there already, with his fiddle. The godfather knocked, and the farmer’s wife asked who was outside. ‘It’s me, my dear,’ said the godfather. ‘Please give me a night’s lodging. I didn’t sell my eggs at market, and now I have to carry them home again, but they’re far too heavy. I can’t go any farther, and it’s dark already.’ ‘Well, my friend,’ said the farmer’s wife, ‘you’ve come at a very awkward time. Still, since there’s nothing else for it, come in and sit over there on the bench by the stove.’ So the godfather sat down on the bench by the stove with the basket on his back. The priest and the farmer’s wife, meanwhile, were having a merry time. At last the priest said, ‘Now, my dear farmer’s wife, you sing so beautifully. Do sing me something.’ ‘Oh,’ said the farmer’s wife, ‘I can’t sing any more. Yes, when I was young I could, but those days are over.’ ‘Come now,’ said the priest, ‘just sing a little.’ So the farmer’s wife began to sing, ‘I’ve sent my husband off, you see, to Göckerliberg in Wälischland.’

Then the priest sang, ‘I wish he’d stay a whole long year; what do I care for his sack of bay leaves? Hallelujah!’ Now the godfather joined in from the back and sang—but I must tell you here that the farmer’s name was Hildebrand—so the godfather sang, ‘Oh, my dear Hildebrand, what are you doing on the bench by the stove?

Hallelujah!’ And now the farmer sang from inside the basket, ‘I cannot bear this singing any more; out of my basket I must climb.’ And he climbed out of the basket and beat the priest out of the house.