One evening, three witches made camp on the outskirts of a town, carrying with them a large cauldron. Upon their arrival, they began to gather tinder, and to draw water from a nearby stream. No sooner had the cauldron started to boil -- and the three witches started to chop carrots and celery -- than they were discovered by a dairy farmer who'd gone searching for his missing cow. While the three witches prepared their meal, the dairy farmer ran back to town to share the news.

When he reported the size and utility of the cauldron, the mood was grim. The townspeople agreed they couldn't force the witches to leave (uncertain as to why they'd arrived in the first place); the only thing they might do -- as one woman suggested -- was to offer a bribe, and hope they'd decamp before nightfall. Thus, the townspeople collected a pail of salt, a dozen eggs, and a demented kid goat, and placed everything where the farmer had said -- trusting that the goat's incessant bleating would draw the witches near.

It was a week before the summer solstice, and the sun remained shining until late in the day. Finally, with dusk nearly upon them, the townspeople heard a strange sound: the three witches were singing! Their song didn't contain any lyrics -- but the melody was familiar to anyone who listened, and the sentiment unmistakably melancholy. There was some debate as to whether or not the witches had accepted their bribe; but the song was so lovely, and so haunting, that everyone went to bed feeling better.

In the morning, entirely one-third of the male population was gone (including the dairy farmer). Husbands, fathers, and sons had all vanished during the night; and there was no question who was responsible. The witches had lured the men from their homes, through the woods, to the very lip of the cauldron ... and that was the last anyone would ever see of them. Somewhere in the distance, the goat brayed inconsolably.

Still, the townspeople couldn't force the witches to leave -- so, on the second day, the remaining men took action: they barricaded their doors with furniture, and tied their hands and feet together. They gave instructions to their wives to lash them to the bed, and to stuff their ears with corn silk. They swore they wouldn't be seduced; but, as dusk approached, and as the three witches began to sing, their song was even more persuasive than the day before. By dawn, another third of the male population had escaped its constraints, removed whatever obstacles lay in its path, and had ventured forth -- never to be heard from again.

This is how, on the evening of the third day, the sun would set on a terrible sight: all of the surviving men -- who'd been spared the night before, but who doubted the strength of their resolve -- had grievously injured themselves, in order to prevent egress. They'd smashed their toes with hammers, and had cut their tendons with paring knives. Their legs had been broken, and their kneecaps shattered, to keep them from answering the witches' call. And yet, that night, when they were beckoned, the same men willingly dragged themselves from their homes. The witches' song was so intoxicating that it transcended even their crippling pain.

By morning, there wasn't a single man left. In groups of three or four, the townswomen moved among the houses -- checking under beds, and inside closets. Finally, they converged on a dilapidated shack that stood far apart from anything else -- a dwelling with no windows, and a roof made of peat. There, they found an old man lying on the floor. He, too, had damaged both of his legs; and his eyes -- through which he stared at the ceiling -- were cloudy and white.

He said, "You shan't have me."

The women -- dozens of them crowded at his door -- grunted.

Lifting the old man by his rug, they carried him to where the dairy farmer had first encountered the singing witches, three days earlier. Their giant cauldron, still cooling, had been tipped over to drain; the townswomen deposited the old man in its shadow, amid the bleached bones of his fellows. Under a nearby tree sat the witches -- cradling their full bellies, and sharpening their teeth.

"You shan't have me," groused the old man -- receiving no response.

One of the townswomen stepped forth. "You said all," she scolded the witches. "You said all, and there's still one left."

"YOU SHAN'T HAVE ME!" he thundered. A freckled girl of nine or ten ran forward, and kicked the old man in the ribs. He whimpered, and buried his face in his hands.

The witches had hardly stirred. "Make good," the town's spokeswoman demanded, "or give us something in return."

"A refund?" inquired the first witch.

"You can't have to goat," replied the second. "We ate him."

The third witch craned her neck, and belched. "The pail of salt," she bargained. "Keep however much is left. Your menfolk tasted like dirt."

So, they accepted what little salt remained, and returned to town; and the old man wished he could hear the witches' singing one last time.