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Main > Czechoslovak folktale > Fairy tale "The Three Citrons: The Story of a Prince Who Climbed the Glass Hill"

The Three Citrons: The Story of a Prince Who Climbed the Glass Hill

So I’ve come to you to ask whether you can tell me something about the Glass Hill and the Three Citrons.”

Yezibaba’s son wrinkled his forehead. He thought for a moment and then, lowering his voice a little, he said: “I’ve never heard of any Glass Hill around here. But I tell you what you do: go on to my brother in arms who lives in the Silver Castle and ask him. Maybe he’ll be able to tell you. But I can’t let you go away hungry. That would never do! Hi, mother, bring out the dumplings!”

Old Yezibaba placed a large dish on the table and her giant son sat down.

“Well, come on! Eat!” he shouted to the prince.

When the prince took the first dumpling and bit into it, he almost broke two of his teeth, for the dumpling was made of lead.

“Well,” shouted Yezibaba’s son, “why don’t you eat? Doesn’t the dumpling taste good?”

“Oh, yes, very good,” said the prince, politely, “but just now I’m not hungry.”

“Well, if you’re not hungry now you will be later. Put a few in your pocket and eat them on your journey.”

So, whether he wanted them or not, the prince had to put some leaden dumplings into his pocket. Then he took his leave of Yezibaba and her son and traveled on.

He went on and on for three days and three nights. The farther he went, the more inhospitable became the country. Before him stretched a waste of mountains, behind him a waste of mountains with no living creature in sight.

Wearied with his long journey, he threw himself on the ground. His silver sword clanked sharply and at its sound twenty-four ravens circled above him, cawed in fright, and flew away.

“A good sign!” cried the prince. “I’ll follow the ravens again!”

So on he went as fast as his legs could carry him until he came in sight of a tall castle. It was still far away, but even at that distance it shone and flashed, for it was built of pure silver.

In front of the castle stood an old woman, bent with age, and leaning on a long silver staff. This was the second Yezibaba.

“Yi, yi, my boy!” she cried.

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