His name was Oyvind, and he cried when he was born.

But no sooner did he sit up on his mother's lap than he laughed, and when the candle was lit in the evening the room rang with his laughter, but he cried when he was not allowed to reach it.
"Something remarkable will come of that boy!" said the mother.
A barren cliff, not a very high one, though, overhung the house where he was born; fir and birch looked down upon the roof, the bird-cherry strewed flowers over it.

And on the roof was a little goat belonging to Oyvind; it was kept there that it might not wander away, and Oyvind bore leaves and grass up to it.

One fine day the goat leaped down and was off to the cliff; it went straight up and soon stood where it had never been before.

Oyvind did not see the goat when he came out in the afternoon, and thought at once of the fox.