Grossmund and Grosshand settled themselves for the night. They sprawled flat on their backs down the mountain side, and began promptly and lustily to snore. The moon came up from the valley and glistened in the dewdrops that covered Grosskopf’s hair. The stars blinked faintly. There was not a sound but the slow rumbling of his brothers’ snores. But Grosskopf did not move. He sat, cheek on hand, still thinking.
The moon went high and bright, and slowly pale and paler. The whole sky became light and the stars went out. Down in the farmyards the cocks began to stir. Then the sun looked up and shone red on the great tufts of Grosskopf’s hair till it glowed like a forest-fire. But Grosskopf did not raise his eyes.
It was morning in good earnest. The porridge steamed up in a savory, white cloud straight to Grosskopf’s nose. But he did not turn his head. He gazed steadily through it down into the wide abyss that held the stove. It was still dark in there, and for steam and shadow not even Grosskopf’s big eyes could make out the hundreds of pots marshaled at the bottom. It seemed as if the great bowl itself were one steaming pot of porridge.
Suddenly, Grosskopf sprang up. With one leap he cleared the abyss, steam and all, and came down on the other side. He capered, he shouted, he shook his snoring brothers. He had an idea at last.
“Grosshand! Grossmund!” he cried. “I have it. We must have a big pot. No more little pots. A big pot that will cover our stove!”
Grosshand rubbed his eyes and stared. But Grossmund was never at a loss, and could talk even in his sleep.
“Why, yes,” he said. “A big pot. A pot to fit our stove. A pot to hold all our porridge.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Grosskopf. “We must plan. We must measure. We must get some one to make it.”
“But first,” said Grossmund, “we must eat.”
Grosshand scrambled over to the stove and began to hand up the porridge. And as they ate, they talked so fast of the new pot that no one had time to notice that there was less porridge than usual.