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 The poor devil had to say: “Yes,” and thereupon the farmer began to whistle and at the same time to beat the devil over his head and shoulders until the devil supposed that the whole forest was falling on him.

“Stop whistling!” he shouted. “Stop or I’ll be killed!”

But the farmer wouldn’t stop until he was too exhausted to beat the devil any longer.

Then he paused and asked:

“Shall I whistle some more?”

“No! No! No!” the devil roared. “Undo the kerchief and let me go and I swear I’ll never come back!”

So the farmer undid the kerchief and the devil fled, too terrified to stop even long enough to look around for all those fallen trees.

He never came back and the farmer was left in undisputed possession of the gold.

“I owe all my good fortune to my old grandmother,” the farmer used to say, “for she it was who told me to tie them with bast.”