"That's true for you," said she; "I did feel a little stroke of cold at the beginning of the night, but I drew a wool pack over my head then, and I never felt anything but moonogues[44] of perspiration running off me again until morning."
"Are you very old?" said the Crow; "or what age are you?"
"I have no certain date with regard to my age," said the Old Woman—"only this much. My father used to kill a beef every year, on the day I was born, in honour of my birthday, as long as he lived, and I followed the same custom, from that day to this. All the horns [of the beeves I killed] are on the loft in the barn and do you remain in my house until to-morrow, and if you like I'll send the servant boy to count them and you yourself can keep account of them [as he numbers them aloud.][45]
On the morrow with the rise of day the servant went up to count the horns, and he spent one full year, and a day over, at that work, and after all that there was only one corner of the loft emptied.
And during all that time the Crow was taking his ease, and there was neither thirst nor hunger on him [so well was he treated] and his plumage and his feathers grew on him again.
But even so, he got tired of keeping count.
"I give you the branch" [palm of victory] said he to the Old Woman; "you are as old as the old grandmother long ago, who ate the apples," and he sped forth from the Old Woman and went home.