Grosshand puttered and patched. He mended a hole here and added a handle there. He stopped up cracks and soldered edges. But finally, in spite of all his care, two or three of the weaker ones dropped completely to pieces. Then matters were desperate indeed. Grosshand filled the remaining pots to overflowing; and the giants stuck in their spoons with great deliberation so that it should seem as if there were quite as much porridge as usual. Nevertheless, they were worried. It began to look as if they would soon be unable to cook all their porridge at once.
Every evening after supper they sat on their mountain top, around the rim of the wide bowl above their stove, and talked things over. That is, Grossmund talked; as for the others, they sat gravely by and listened. For, since Grossmund was sure to say everything they could possibly have said themselves, there seemed no need of wearying their tongues. But, no matter how long or how late the talk went on, it seemed that they never came to any conclusion. The pots were going, that was clear; and something must be done, that was still clearer. But what that something was, no one of the giants, and least of all Grossmund, could say.
Just plain pots
The day the fourth pot gave out, the giants’ faces were longer than ever. To-morrow one of them would have to do without part of his porridge. Grossmund’s words came slowly after supper. Grosskopf bent his head on his hands, trying to think. Grosshand sprawled his long body down the mountain-side and absently snapped off the smaller trees with his thumb and forefinger.
“If only we had something else to cook in!” cried Grossmund for the twentieth time.
“If only we had something else to cook in!” echoed Grosshand sleepily.
Grosskopf said nothing whatever. He was enveloped in that remote and august air he always assumed when using his mind. Finally he held up his hand for silence.
“Let me think,” he said.
Grossmund scrambled up and stretched his arms and his legs and his great mouth in one tremendous yawn. Grosshand clattered among his pots getting ready the morning’s porridge. But Grosskopf towered motionless into the twilight.