Dame Grumble continued to praise the crutches and to admire them until she learned that they were made from branches of the Apple Tree. Then she was furious; her anger knew no bounds. She rushed out to the Apple Tree and shook it with all her might. Then she ran in to throw the crutches in the fire, but this Freyo would not permit.
"The Apple Tree herself gave me her branches, Mother," said he, "and the crutches are mine."
"Give them to me at once, I say!" stormed Dame Grumble. "The Apple Tree is mine, and consequently her branches are mine also. I must punish you for this disobedience. Do you not know that I prize the Apple Tree above all else on earth? Do I not expect a harvest of golden apples from it some day? Now when that day is come, I shall not have nearly so many, because of your wickedness. Why did you cut as much as a twig from the Apple Tree?"
"Mother," answered Freyo, "if there be any harm done, it is done. To burn the crutches will not make the branches grow upon the Apple Tree again." Dame Grumble first commanded and then entreated that her son give her the crutches to burn, but Freyo was firm. At last she burst into tears.
"Oh! Oh!" she sobbed. "It is not enough that I have had many troubles and cares in the past; each year my wicked enemy, the North Wind, steals a fortune in pennies from me! And now added to this I must suffer disobedience from my own ungrateful son." She sobbed and wailed until Freyo was nearly distracted.
"Oh, Mother!" he begged. "If you would only cease your weeping and look at these wonderful things I have made in your absence. Here is a clock-case with the four seasons carved upon it. The hours are told by twelve lovely nymphs dancing through the forest; it is a treasure worthy of a king. Some day a duke may come a-riding by and fancy it—then, who knows—my fortune may be made, and I would give it all to you, Mother."
In spite of all his pleadings, however, Dame Grumble would not look at his treasures. She was so deep in her woes that she could think of nothing else. She would not touch a crumb of supper but said mournfully that she had no heart for either food or drink.
Freyo sat before the fire, sad and desolate. With the scolding dame's return, the quiet and contentment of the little cottage had fled. "Ah," sighed the poor lad, "I have no doubt that Mother is right; perhaps I am wicked and ungrateful after all."
II
During the winter that followed, Dame Grumble led her son a dreadful life. He could no longer talk to his good friend, the Apple Tree, for she was sleeping her deep winter's sleep and would not waken until the spring. So while the snow whirled high without and piled itself in drifts at door and chimney, Freyo sat patiently carving his great oaken chests and settles. When he carved fields of wheat with wild fowl flying over, the poor lad fancied himself afield once more; when he carved forest scenes, he lived again the memories of his happy summer. If Dame Grumble spoke to her son, it was but to call him wicked and ungrateful. She often vowed she would forgive him if he would but give her the crutches to burn. But Freyo had a plan in mind. With the first sign of spring, he meant to be off and seek his own way in the world, and this he could never do without his precious crutches. The poor lad had no desire to spend another winter with this cross, fault-finding dame.