He went as near as he could, shading his face from the heat.

“My good man,” says the snake, “pull me out of the fire, and you shall understand the talk of the beasts and the songs of the birds.”

“I’ll be happy to help you,” says the hunter, “but how? for the flames are so hot that I cannot reach you.”

“Put the barrel of your gun into the fire, and I’ll crawl out along it.”

The hunter put the barrel of his long gun into the flames, and instantly the snake wound itself about it, and so escaped out of the fire.

“Thank you, my good man,” says the snake; “you shall know henceforward the language of all living things.  But one thing you must remember.  You must not tell any one of this, for if you tell you will die the death; and man only dies once, and that will be an end of your life and your knowledge.”

Then the snake slipped off along the ground, and almost before the hunter knew it was going, it was gone, and he never saw it again.

Well, he went on with the two dogs, looking for something to shoot at; and when the dark night fell he was still far from home, away in the deep forest.

“I am tired,” he thought, “and perhaps there will be birds stirring in the early morning.  I will sleep the night here, and try my luck at sunrise.”

He made a fire of twigs and broken branches, and lay down beside it, together with his dogs.  He had scarcely lain down to sleep when he heard the dogs talking together and calling each other “Brother.”  He understood every word they said.

“Well, brother,” says the first, “you sleep here and look after our master, while I run home to look after the house and yard.  It will soon be one o’clock, and when the master is away that is the time for thieves.”

“Off with you, brother, and God be with you,” says the second.

And the hunter heard the first dog go bounding away through the undergrowth, while the second lay still, with its head between its paws, watching its master blinking at the fire.

Early in the morning the hunter was awakened by the noise of the dog pushing through the brushwood on its way back.  He heard how the dogs greeted each other.

“Well, and how are you, brother?” says the first.

“Finely,” says the second; “and how’s yourself?”

“Finely too.  Did the night pass well?”

“Well enough, thanks be to God.  But with you, brother?  How was it at home?”

“Oh, badly.  I ran home, and the mistress, when she sees me, sings out, ’What the devil are you doing here without your master?  Well, there’s your supper;’ and she threw me a crust of bread, burnt to a black cinder.  I snuffed it and snuffed it, but as for eating it, it was burnt through.  No dog alive could have made a meal of it.  And with that she ups with a poker and beats me.  Brother, she counted all my ribs and nearly broke each one of them.  But at night, later on—­just as I thought—­thieves came into the yard, and were going to clear out the barn and the larder.  But I let loose such a howl, and leapt upon them so vicious and angry, that they had little thought to spare for other people’s goods, and had all they could do to get away whole themselves.  And so I spent the night.”