“No,” said the younger, “I will shoot her!” He looked up and drew his arrow, and as his aim was absolutely unerring, swish went the arrow directly to her, and she was killed. The power of life by which the Sun was drawing her up was gone, the thread was cut, and she fell over and over and struck the earth.
The two little children were so very small, and their bones so soft, that the fall did not hurt them much. They fell on the soft bank, and rolled and rolled down the hill, and the younger brother ran forward and caught them up in his arms, crying: “Oh, my little children!” and brought them to the elder brother, who said: “Now, what can be done with these little babies, with no mother, no food?”
“We will take them home to grandmother,” said the younger brother.
“Your grandmother cannot take care of these babies,” said the elder brother.
“Yes, she can, of course,” said the younger brother. “Come on, come on! I didn’t want to lose my wife and children, too; I thought I must still have the children; that is the reason why I shot her.”
So one of them took one of the children, and the other one took the other, and they carried them up to the top of Thunder Mountain.
“Now, then,” said the elder brother, “we went off to marry; we come home with no wife and two little children and with nothing to feed them.”
“Oh, grandmother!” called out the younger brother.
The old woman hadn’t heard them for many a day, for many a month, even for years. She looked out and said: “My grandchildren are coming,” and she called to them: “I am so glad you have come!”
“Here, see what we have,” said the younger brother. “Here are your grandchildren. Come and take them!”