The Book of Friendly Giants

“Good-by,” he roared. “And don’t forget the giant Riverrath”

THE BOOK OF
FRIENDLY GIANTS
BY EUNICE FULLER
WITH INTRODUCTORY VERSES
BY SEYMOUR BARNARD
AND DRAWINGS BY
PAMELA COLMAN SMITH

“Giants should always be
brotherly with giants, but only
with good giants.”

Maxim of Pantagruel.

NEW YORK
THE CENTURY COMPANY

Copyright, 1914, by
The Century Co.

Published, October, 1914

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

In Defense of Giants

Somehow or other, the giants seem to have got a bad name. No sooner is the word “giant” mentioned than some one is sure to shrug his shoulders and speak in a meaning tone of “Jack and the Beanstalk.” Now, this is not only unkind, but, on the giants’ part, quite undeserved. For, as everybody who is intimate with them knows, there are very few of the Beanstalk variety.

No self-respecting giant would any more think of threatening a little boy, or of grinding up people’s bones to make flour, than would a good fairy godmother. Giants’ dispositions are in proportion to the size of their bodies, and so when they are good, as most of them are, they are the kindest-hearted folk in the world, and like nothing better than helping human beings out of scrapes.

The trouble is that many of the stories were written by people who do not really know the giants at all, but are so afraid of them as to suppose that giants must be cruel just because they are big. Every one else has taken it for granted that the giants were big enough to take care of themselves, and so nobody has bothered to look into the facts of the case. Mr. Andrew Lang has given us a whole rainbow of books about the fairies, but no one seems ever to have written down the whole history of the giants.

This is a pity, particularly since a great many people have had a chance to know the giants intimately. For in the old days the giants used to live all over the world—in Germany, and Ireland, and Norway, and even here in our own country. And since they have moved back into a land of their own, they have sometimes come into other countries on a visit and a brave Englishman, as you will see, once went to visit them.

The history of the giants is as simple as their good-natured lives. All the giants came originally from one big giant family. And wherever they went, they kept the same giant ways, and enjoyed playing the same big, clumsy jokes on each other.

Contents

Full Page Illustrations

To All Believers

Boys and girls, of those who rate

All things true if we believe them,

Knocking at your fancy’s gate,

Here are giants; pray receive them:

Friendly folk from every clime,

With an honest glee about them;

(Ah, the once-upon-a-time!—

What would it have been without them?)

Shambling fellows gray and old,

Mighty men of mighty merit;

Giants from the frost and cold,

And the land which we inherit:

Boys and girls, we bid you hark

While this genial host we rally;—

Mad ones, glad ones laugh and lark;

Big as fancied, true to tally.

I
The Giant and the Herdboy

“Where is your shepherd,

Little white sheep?

The moon is at midnight,

And sound is your sleep.

Where is your shepherd,

Little white band?”

“With a great giant

In Giantland.”

Seymour Barnard.

I
The Giant and the Herdboy

Ivan, the herdboy, lay on the hillside watching the King’s sheep. It was growing dark, but he did not start for home. For in all the world he had no home to go to. There was no one who belonged to him,—neither father nor mother, nor brother nor sister, nor grandfather nor grandmother, nor so much as a stepmother. Even his best friends, the sheep, belonged to the King.

Ivan took good care of them nevertheless; and got his black bread and white cheese to eat in return. Day and night he stayed with his flock out in the open field; and only when the storm beat down very wet did he crawl into the little hut he had built at the edge of the forest.

It was not so very lonely after all. For there were ninety-nine sheep to keep out of bogs and briers. And besides, there were ever so many good games he could play by himself, vaulting over the bushes with his crook and playing little tunes on a reed.

It was only at the dead of night when he woke up to hear the wolves howling, howling in the dark, and the icy shivers began to chase each other along his back, that he couldn’t help wishing for a warm bed at home, with a stout father sleeping nearby.

But the queer part was that whenever he thought what kind of father he should like to have, he could think of nobody but the King himself mounted on his charger. And as for a mother, who could be better than the Queen with her nice, motherly arms that hugged the little Princess Anastasia? When it came to a sister, Ivan could imagine no one more satisfactory than the Princess herself with her whisking curls and her blue eyes that were roguish and friendly both at the same time. But that, of course, was out of the question. So he contented himself with naming the softest, whitest, curliest lamb Anastasia, and let it go at that.

But to-night as he lay on the hillside he couldn’t help thinking what fun it would be if the lamb Anastasia were really the Princess, and all the other sheep were boys and girls so that they could play hide-and-seek together among the rocks and bushes in the moonlight. But the sheep had long since nestled down on the hill, and there was nothing for Ivan but to watch the moon as it came up and up behind the black mountain across the valley. His eyes began to blink, and he felt himself slipping, slipping off to sleep.

Ivan listened

A cry broke through the quiet pasture. Ivan started up. “Wolves!” said his heart. “Wolves! Wolves again!” But it was not a fierce sound after all. Again it came, loud like a roar of temper wailing off into a moan.

Ivan listened. “No sheep could bleat like that,” thought he. Nevertheless he looked. There in the moonlight the nine-and-ninety woolly shapes shone dimly, huddled safely against the hill.

Once more the sound came, fairly bursting through the air. Ivan held his breath. It was not the cry of animals but of men, of several men perhaps, shouting together. “A party of hunters,” thought Ivan, “lost in the forest!” And he breathed again.

Picking up his crook, he dashed off up the hill, along the edge of the wood. “I’m coming!” he shouted. “Coming!” But the hunters did not seem to hear. The same cry kept ringing through the trees ahead, louder at every step he ran. It seemed directly opposite him now, somewhere in the forest. He turned in, feeling his way with his crook among the black shadows of the branches.

There was a crashing and stirring. The trees before him trembled. Ivan stopped and looked up. Full in the moonlight, half way to the treetops, gleamed the gigantic shoulder of a man. His head was bent, and he seemed to be sitting down, gazing intently at something near the ground. As he moved his arm, the trees swayed and creaked.

Ivan crept nearer. Through an opening between the trees he could see the giant’s great hands fumbling over his foot. With a piece of fur he was trying to stop a small cataract of blood that was bursting out from it. Every now and then, in his clumsy efforts, he seemed to hurt himself more, for he would throw back his head and give the same deafening howl Ivan had heard before.

Ivan shivered. In all his life he had never seen a giant; and terrified as he was, he must have a good look at this one. Crouching, he stole through the shadow to a little thicket at the giant’s side, and parting the twigs, leaned eagerly forward. But he had reckoned too much on the bushes. Under his weight they cracked and bent, and snapped altogether. His foot slipped, and losing his balance, he crashed through the brush at the giant’s very elbow.

With a swoop the giant grasped at him. But Ivan was too quick. He dodged just out of reach, and ran as he had never run before.

“Little creature! Little creature!” called the giant, “don’t run away. I won’t hurt you. Come back, do come back and help me. If you will bind up my foot for me, I will give you a reward.”

Ivan’s heart thumped. The giant could crush him in one of his great hands. But he was in pain, and he had a kindly face. It would be mean to leave him there alone.

“Oh, little creature,” moaned the giant again, “don’t leave me. I promise I won’t hurt you. Do come, do come.”

Ivan turned. Stanchly he walked over to the giant’s foot, and running his hand gently along the sole, picked the rocks and pebbles out of the great gash.

The giant sighed with relief. “Thank you!” he said. “I hurt it rooting up an oak-tree, and then I walked on it.”

Ivan pulled off his blouse, and tore it into long pieces. Knotting them together, he made a strip five or six yards long. He laid it against the wound, and the giant drew it over the top of the foot where it was hard for him to reach. Between them they made a neat, firm bandage of it, with all the knots on top.

The giant beamed. “That feels better,” he said. “And now, little herdboy, I will show you how a giant keeps his word. If you are not afraid to sit upon my shoulder, I will take you where no little creature has ever been: to see a giants’ merrymaking. We are holding a wedding-feast now, and there will be plenty of fun, you may be sure. Come, I will take good care of you.”

Ivan picked up his crook. This would be more fun than hide-and-seek on the hill. He was not in the least afraid, and he felt on good terms with the giant already. “I’d like to go,” he said.

“Good! Good!” cried the giant, chuckling with the noise of a happy waterfall. “Up with you, then. Lean against my neck, and take tight hold of my long hair.” And with that, he picked Ivan gently up and tucked him snugly just below his right ear.

The giants danced

“Why, you’re too light! I can’t feel you at all!” he gurgled, as if it were the best joke in the world. “And I must fix it so that my brothers can’t see you. Here is a belt for you. Put it on, and you will be quite invisible.”

So he handed Ivan a long piece of gray gauze, so fine that in the moonlight he could hardly see it at all. Ivan tied it about his waist. And then although he pinched himself and knew quite well that he was all there, he couldn’t so much as see his own toes.

As for the giant, now that he could neither see Ivan nor feel his weight, he began to be a little nervous. “Once in a while,” he said, “I wish you’d stand up and shout my name ‘Costan’ into my ear, so that I’ll know you haven’t tumbled off. And now, are you ready? Hold tight, and we’ll go on.”

Costan raised himself, and strode off with a long, limping step through the forest. To Ivan it was like being on a great ship at sea, going up a long wave, and down. He felt that he might fall asleep if it were not such fun sitting there on Costan’s shoulder and watching the treetops glide past the moon.

The trees grew fewer and fewer. Ivan swung around, and peered ahead, clinging to Costan’s hair. They were coming to a great open space in the midst of the forest, a meadow thronged with giants and giantesses. There seemed to be hundreds of them, dressed not like Costan in skins but in wonderful shimmering garments that blew about their shoulders like clouds of mist in the moonlight. In the center of them all was a huge fountain that shot up in a silver torrent far above their heads.

One of the giants came running to meet Costan. “Oh, here you are!” he cried. “We were afraid you weren’t coming.” And with that, he gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder that nearly sent Ivan spinning off a hundred feet or more to the ground.

Costan explained about his hurt foot. “I’ll just sit and look on for to-night,” he said, and chuckled to himself, thinking of Ivan.

A fountain that shot up in a silver torrent

And so Ivan, safely nestled on Costan’s shoulder, watched till his eyes stood out, as the giants danced and played giant games, chasing each other through the fountain, with a shower of spray like a whirling rainstorm. They wrestled, they leaped, they sang till all the trees trembled.

She pulled up a fir-tree

Just as the fun was at its liveliest, there was a mighty gurgle, and the fountain, which had been casting itself so high into the air, sank suddenly into the earth. The oldest giantess of all gathered her great fluttering robes about her, and striding to the edge of the forest, pulled up a fir-tree with one wrench of her wrist.

“Midnight!” whispered Costan.

Silently the giants crowded about the uprooted tree.

“Este tennes!” cried the giantess.

They cut into the ground like huge knives

Instantly the giants seemed to flatten out. Their backs seemed to come forward, and their fronts to shrink back. Their arms, their legs, their heads, their bodies, grew thin as cardboard. They stood there like great paper-dolls, taller than the trees. One by one, they stepped into the hole where the tree had been, and cut their way down into the ground like huge knives.

Costan bent his ear. “Are you there, little herdboy?” he whispered.

“Yes, Costan,” cried Ivan.

“Keep tight hold, then,” cautioned Costan, “and don’t be afraid. I’m going to take you with me underground.”

As the last giant vanished, Costan got up slowly and walked toward the hole. With every step, Ivan could feel him shrinking, until his shoulder was nothing but a long, thin edge.

There was a quick moment of darkness, and suddenly they were in a hall shining from floor to ceiling with gold, and so vast that Ivan could not see to the end of it. Down the center, around a long table sat the giants, all in their natural shapes again.

Costan slipped into the huge seat that was left for him, and the banquet went merrily on. To Ivan, who never in all his life had had anything but bread and cheese, with a little fruit sometimes and a sugar cake at Christmas, it seemed an impossible dream. There were grapes as big as the oranges above ground, pheasants the size of eagles, and cakes and tarts and puddings as big around as the towers of the King’s palace.

But Costan sat silent and uneasy. Then Ivan realized what was the matter: Costan was not sure that Ivan was there. Steadying himself with his crook, Ivan scrambled up. Standing on tiptoe, he could almost reach the giant’s ear.

“Costan!” he whispered, as loud as he dared, “I’m here,—all safe.”

Costan beamed with relief, and fell to joking and eating with the rest. But every now and then he would poise a tiny piece of cake or meat carelessly above his right shoulder, where Ivan would make it disappear as completely as he had himself.

At last the oldest giantess rose in her place, to show that the banquet had come to an end. Amid all the jollity and confusion Costan leaned over and took from the table a giant roll, as big to Ivan as a whole loaf of bread.

“Here!” he whispered, below the scraping of the giant chairs. “Tuck this in your bag, little herdboy, as a reminder of a giant’s promise. And don’t forget Costan in the world up above.”

As he spoke, everything was suddenly lost in a whirl of darkness,—the giants, the hall and the feast, even Costan himself. The shouts and laughter of the huge banqueters grew fainter and fainter till they faded away into silence.

A sudden bleat made Ivan open his eyes. He was lying on the hillside near his sheep, and the mountain across the valley glowed red in the sunrise.

“And so,” thought Ivan sadly, “it was a dream after all,—the giants, the fountain, the banquet, and dear Costan as well.”

He reached for his crook, and started back in amazement. For though he could feel the handle tightly grasped in his fingers, it seemed to his startled eyes that the crook suddenly rose up of itself and stood clearly outlined against the morning sky. As he stepped back, the crook sprang after him. When he walked forward, the crook bobbed along by his side. He could feel his hand upon it, but when he looked he could see plainly that there was no hand there.

Ivan rubbed his eyes. Was he still dreaming then? But no, everything was just as usual,—the sheep, the hillside and the morning sky. Was it he or the crook that was bewitched? He looked down at himself in alarm,—and saw nothing but the stones and grass of the pasture. There was no Ivan to be seen: no arms nor hands nor legs nor feet.

A sudden thought came over him. He felt of his waist. Sure enough! It was tied about with gauze.

“The invisible belt!” he cried, and pulled it off.

In a twinkling there he was, arms, legs, hands, feet, just the same as ever. He folded up the long, wispy sash and stuck it into his bag. Inside, his hand hit something hard and bulgy. It was the giant’s roll,—the great loaf Costan had given him.

It was past Ivan’s breakfast time, and the sight of the tempting white bread made him hungry. He tried to break off a piece, but the great roll would not so much as bend. He drew out his knife, but the harder he cut, the firmer and sounder the loaf seemed to be. He could not even dent it.

Provoked and impatient, he tried with his teeth. At the first bite, the hard crust yielded. Something cold and slippery struck his tongue and rolled out clinking on the ground.

Ivan stooped and stared. There at his feet lay a great round gold-piece as big as a peppermint-drop. In amazement he looked at the loaf in his hand. There was not a break anywhere. It was as smooth and whole as before. He bit again and again. Another gold-piece, and another, fell at his feet, as round and shining as the first. But the loaf remained unbroken.

Ivan’s eyes almost started from his head. In all his life he had never seen a gold-piece before; and whatever he should do with so many he had not the least idea. He might, of course, build a palace and live like a lord. But that would take him away from the sheep, and the King and Queen and Anastasia. On the whole, he decided he was much better as he was, where he could roll the gold-pieces down the hill and race after them to the bottom.

Then a splendid idea struck him. To-morrow was the Princess’ birthday. For a long time he had been wondering what he could give her. Here was just the thing! What could be better than a heap of the pretty gold-pieces to play with? He sat down at once, and bit and bit at the loaf till he had enough of them to fill his bag to overflowing. Bag, loaf, belt, and all, he hid in his hut at the edge of the forest. Then he ate his black bread and cheese and went back to his sheep, bounding over the boulders for sheer happiness.

As soon as the sheep were settled for the night, he ran to the hut again. Tying the magic belt about his waist, he took up the bag of gold-pieces and trudged off with them across the fields.

In the moonlight the palace towers rose straight and shining. Every window gleamed, darkly outlined. Ivan did not hesitate. He knew quite well which one he wanted. It was the window of the Birthday Room, where once every year all the servants and the shepherds were allowed to come to see Anastasia’s presents. To-morrow, he thought, with a catch of his breath, would be the day.

The bulky form of a guard broke the bright wall of the palace ahead. For an instant Ivan shrank back. Then with a smothered laugh he dashed across the grass, underneath the man’s very nose. The guard turned sharply. But there was no one to be seen. Palace and park lay bright and still in the moonlight.

Ivan had gained the palace wall. Just as he had remembered, a stout vine with the trunk of a small tree ran up the side to the very window of the Birthday Room. He tried it with his foot. It would not have held a man, but it could bear Ivan even with a bag of gold. Breathless, he climbed,—so fast that the vine had barely time to tremble before he was at the top. At his shoulder the casement of the Birthday Room stood ajar. With one tug he swung it open, and leaned across the sill.

Ivan gazed. On broad chests all about the room glimmered jewels and toys for the Princess; and in the doorway stood a guard, erect and silent, watching over them. Underneath the window, deep in shadow, was a low, cushioned seat.

Every window gleamed

Something jangled on the floor; and the guard stooped to pick up a knife fallen from his belt. Instantly, Ivan saw his chance. Holding his bag, bottom up, on the window seat, he loosened the strings, letting the gold fall in a heap in the black shadow. By the time the guard had adjusted his belt again, Ivan was out of the window, climbing down the vine.

Next morning, everything was a-buzz at the palace. The servants and shepherds, filing around the Birthday Room, barely glanced at the gorgeous jewels. Every eye was fixed on a glittering pile of gold-pieces in a glass case. They were worth a king’s fortune, people said. The Princess could buy with them anything in the world her heart desired,—castles or coaches, jewels or gowns. And the mystery of it was, no one knew who had sent them. They had suddenly appeared in the middle of the night. The whole court was alive with conjectures.

Ivan, filing by with the others, said never a word; but his heart thumped with pride and happiness. Through a half-open door he could see Anastasia herself using four of the great round gold-pieces as dishes for her dolls. Ivan beamed. To-morrow, he decided, the Princess should have a birthday as well as to-day.

As soon as it was dark, he hurried to his hut, drew out the magic loaf from its hiding-place, and bit and bit till he had a bagful of gold-pieces again. Then he put on his invisible belt and ran to the palace. Everything happened almost as before; and he got away, down the vine, and back to his sheep before any one was the wiser.

On the window-seat next morning the Princess found the shining heap. And if the court had been excited before, now it was in an uproar of astonishment. Hereafter, the King ordered, two guards should stand hidden beside the window to discover who it was that brought the gold.

So night after night for a week Ivan left the gold-pieces. And morning after morning the guards reported to the King that no one had been there. The window, they said, had suddenly swung open; and a bag, jumping unaided from the sill, had emptied itself on the seat below, disappearing through the window as magically as it had come. At last the King, tired of the mystery, declared that he would watch himself.

The eighth night was dark and rainy, and Ivan slipped over the soggy ground. When he got to the entrance of the park, he realized with a dreadful sinking of his heart that he had forgotten to put on the magic belt. He turned to go back, but the thought of the dismal, stormy walk made him suddenly bold. The palace-guards, he reflected, would be keeping close to shelter, a night like this. He could easily escape them, and crawl up the vine unsuspected. Once at the window, he had only to watch his chance, pop in the gold, and fly back in the darkness to his sheep.

So Ivan kept on. He stole softly by the guard-house where the lazy soldier lounged half asleep, and crept stealthily up the dripping vine. The window swung open with a creak, and Ivan, frightened, crouched breathless beneath the sill. Minutes passed. There was a stir behind one of the great curtains. The guard was moving. Now perhaps would be the best time.

Ivan reached over and began emptying his bag. A heavy hand seized his collar and dragged him bodily into the room. By the light of a flickering lantern Ivan found himself face to face with—the King!

“Ivan!” exclaimed the King.

There was a pause, Ivan blushing like a culprit, with the empty bag trembling in his hands.

The King frowned. “To think that you,” he cried, “my best herdboy, whom I have trusted, should come to steal the gold which a good fairy brings the Princess! Well, you have given me good service before this, and I will not treat you harshly now. But go, go at once, and never let me see your face again.”

And with that, he led him down a staircase and thrust him out into the dark.

Choking and wretched, Ivan ran back to his hut. Gathering up his loaf and belt, he crammed them into his bag, and started off into the world.

“Good-by, my sheep!” he cried; and stooped to fondle the little lamb Anastasia.

“I suppose now,” he reflected miserably, “I shall have to be a great lord after all.”

By the time he got to the town, day was breaking. The rain had stopped, and rosy clouds floated across the eastern sky. A sunbeam slanted over the roof tops, and shone into Ivan’s face. He felt happier all of a sudden; and taking his loaf, he bit a dozen great gold-pieces out of it. Then wrapping it up in the magic belt so that no one could see it, he knocked at a cottage door. Inside, he found a warm breakfast, and dried himself off by the fire.

A dazzling scheme slowly unfolded in his mind. As soon as breakfast was done, he went to the coachmaker and ordered a great gold coach; to the tailor and ordered a golden suit; to the hatter for a hat with golden plumes. And when the tradespeople heard the clink of his gold-pieces, they were very glad to serve him, you may be sure.

Only the coachmaker demurred. “A gold coach is nothing,” said he, “without a coat-of-arms on the door.”

“But I haven’t any,” said Ivan.

“Never mind!” replied the coachmaker, “I will make you one. How did your good-luck begin?”

“From a loaf of bread,” said Ivan, “and a giant.”

So, the coachmaker painted and painted on the coach-door. When he had finished, there was as fine a coat-of-arms as you would wish to see,—a loaf of bread against a background of gold-pieces, and a giant standing up above.

Ivan’s coat-of-arms

Then six white horses with gold trappings were harnessed to the coach; and six servants in golden livery took their places,—two riding ahead, two riding behind, and two sitting up very straight on the box. Ivan stepped inside, all dressed in his golden suit and the hat with the golden plumes. Underneath his arm he carried the giant’s loaf wrapped up in the magic belt. (But of course nobody could see that.)

“Drive to the King’s palace!” cried Ivan.

So they drove; and all the people along the way were so amazed at the magnificence of the coach that they ran and told the King that some great prince was coming to visit him. The King dashed to put on his crown; and just as the coach drew up at the palace gate, he got seated on his throne with all his court about him.

So they drove

Ivan walked up the great hall and bowed low. And all the courtiers bowed in return to the splendid young prince. Before the King could say a word, Ivan threw back his head and told the story of the gold-pieces from beginning to end.

For a moment the King was dumb with astonishment and remorse. Then he spoke. “Ivan,” said he, “I have done you a wrong. If there is anything I can do to make it right, you have only to tell me.”

Ivan beamed. “There is only one thing in all the world I want,” he cried, “and that is to have you for my father, the Queen for my mother, and Anastasia for my sister!”

“Where is your real father?” asked the King.

“And where is your real mother?” asked the Queen.

“Where is your real sister?” cried Anastasia.

But to all these questions the herdboy gave a satisfactory answer. “I never had any,” he said.

“Very well then,” cried the King. “You are adopted! I will be your father; the Queen shall be your mother; Anastasia shall be your sister. What is more, in five years and a day, when you are quite grown-up, you shall marry the Princess!”

But by the time he got to that part Ivan and Anastasia were too much excited to hear. The minute he finished they bowed and curtsied as well-mannered children should, and ran into the courtyard to play tiddledywinks with the gold-pieces, over the bread.

Nevertheless, it turned out as the King had said, and in five years and a day, when they were quite grown-up, Ivan and the Princess were married. And ever after in the palace-treasury instead of heaps of gold-pieces for robbers to steal, there was nothing but a single loaf of bread.

—Based on a Hungarian Folk-tale.

II
The Giants’ Ship

To The Giant Children

Giant children of the Norseland,

In a glad, tumultuous rally,

Skimming ice-peaked mountain-course land,

Crushing forests in the valley,—

We who play in farm and town land,

Crowded streets and city spaces,

Envy you the Up-and-Down Land,

While you seek the level places.

Seymour Barnard.

II
The Giants’ Ship

Part One: How the Giants Went Exploring

After the earth was newly washed by the Flood, nearly all the land of Europe lay flat and green under the sun. Except in one far corner there was not a mountain nor a valley nor a hill nor a hollow, nor so much as a little stream. The soft young grass stretched away and away, in a wide meadow, as far as one could see.

But there was nobody there to look. For all the people there were, lived in the Up-and-Down Country, on a great forked point in the Far North. And that was a very different kind of place, with mountains that went up and valleys that went down, cliffs that rose and cascades that fell, and not so much flat land as a giant could cover with his pocket-handkerchief.

But the giant Wind-and-Weather, who lived there, did not mind that in the least. He sat quite placidly on a mountain-top and looked through a kind of glass that he had, out over the sea. As for his wife, the giantess Sun-and-Sea, nothing bothered her. She sat on a cliff and wove on a kind of loom that she had, back and forth, back and forth, with a noise like the long ocean rollers on a fair day.

Playing Follow-the-Leader down the long row of peaks

When it came to the children, they never sat at all. Like the country, they were always going up or down,—sliding down the mountains, scrambling up the waterfalls, or playing Follow-the-Leader, hoppety-skip, skippety-hop, straight down the long row of peaks that made their home.

And when they all played together, it made rather a good game. For there were fourteen of them, sturdy youngsters, each over a mile high, and growing fifty feet or so every day. Then too, they happened in the jolliest way, for they came in pairs so that every one had his twin. There were Handsig and Grandsig, Kildarg and Hildarg, Besseld and Hesseld, Holdwig and Voldwig, Grünweg and Brünweg, Bratzen and Gratzen, Mutzen and Putzen,—a boy and a girl, a boy and a girl, a boy and a girl, straight down through.

Now, one morning, with Handsig ahead and Putzen straggling somewhere behind, they were all playing Follow-the-Leader, rather harder than usual. Handsig had rolled down peaks, and wriggled up, hopped on one foot and jumped on two, turned somersaults and splashed through waterfalls. And the whole line of them had come rolling, wriggling, hopping, jumping, tumbling, splashing after. Being put to it for something to do next, Handsig started on the dead run from peak to peak, straight along the mountain-tops.

All of a sudden he stopped short. Ahead of him were no more mountains, only a straight drop thousands of feet to the sea. He had come, before he knew it, to the end of the Up-and-Down Country. But that was not what made Handsig stop so quickly. He had been to the end of the land before. It was something beyond the water that attracted him,—another country so different from his that at first it did not seem to be land at all. There was no up or down in it. It stretched flat and green as far as he could see.

Handsig waved his arms and shouted, “Oh, Kildarg, Hildarg, Besseld, Hesseld, see the nice, green running-place!”

And all the other children, thinking it was still part of the game, waved their arms and shouted, “Oh, Kildarg, Hildarg, Besseld, Hesseld, see the nice, green running-place.”

By that time Handsig had no doubt any longer. Without another word he plunged headforemost into the sea, and swam with all his might straight for the wide meadow that was the rest of Europe.

Splash! Splash! Splash! The other children dived after, and puffing, blowing, kicking, raced across the channel. Then hand in hand, fourteen in a row, they scampered pell-mell down across the plain where Germany is to-day.

But with swimming so hard and running so fast, poor Putzen was quite out of breath. It was so strange, too, to be going along on a level. It did not pitch one forward; it did not hold one back. It was just the same—just the same, step after step after step. The twenty-six legs beside Putzen did not stop for a minute; they beat along faster and faster. Putzen hung on to Mutzen as best she could, but her legs would not go and her breath would not come. And so, gasping and plunging, she sprawled headlong, pulling Mutzen after her.

Mutzen dragged down Gratzen, and Gratzen dragged down Bratzen; and so they all tumbled till the land for miles around was a mass of upturned turf and sprawling giant children. Then Bratzen wailed, and Gratzen wailed; and Mutzen and Putzen who were at the bottom of the whole pile, wailed loudest of all; and the air was so full of large sounds that it seemed likely to burst.

Now, Grandsig, who felt responsible as the oldest girl of the family, started to scramble up to quiet Mutzen and Putzen. As she did so, her hands dug into the soft, moist earth, and scratched up two good-sized hills. A happy idea struck her. “Kildarg! Hildarg!” she cried. “Look!” And she burrowed into the earth again, scooping up handful after handful.

Kildarg sat up and wiped his eyes. Hildarg sat up and wiped her eyes. Then they both began to dig as if their lives depended on it. In a twinkling, there were no more giant children piled on top of Mutzen and Putzen; and twenty-eight giant hands were scooping out valleys and piling up mountains of earth.

Handsig and Grandsig made big mountains; Mutzen and Putzen made little ones. Every single giant child piled up a whole range higher than he was himself. Then, when all of them were done, there was such a patting and a pounding as never was heard before, as the valleys were smoothed, and the mountains molded into shape. There were sharp peaks and blunt peaks, smooth peaks and rough peaks, single peaks, double peaks, triple peaks. As for the valleys, they were of all sorts,—straight and crooked, wide and narrow, long and short.

Grandsig looked at it all, quite satisfied. “Oh, children,” she cried, “we have made an Up-and-Down Country!”

The other children looked. Sure enough! It was nothing but hills and hollows, hills and hollows, just as it was at home. And they all danced about and cried, “Hooray! We have made an Up-and-Down Country.”

“There is your mast,” said Wind-and-Weather

“And now,” said Handsig, “let’s run!”

So all the children stepped out from between the mountains they had made, to run back again to the sea.

“But oh!” cried Kildarg, “where is our nice green running-place?”

The children gasped. Instead of their flat grass plot were miles and miles of mudholes, hardening in the sun. As far as they could see, their green meadow was scarred with row after row of great black hollows,—the marks of their twenty-eight running feet.

That was too much for Putzen, and she sat down on one of her mountains and wept a whole lake into a valley. As for the other giantesses, they did very little better, and even Grandsig wept a few giant tears, as she tried to think what they could ever do to get their running-place back again.

“I know!” she cried at last. “We’ll go home and ask father to build us a ship; and then we’ll sail till we find another running-place.”

When a giantess starts to weep, she has so many tears and such large ones, that it is very hard to stop. So, although the children set off at once for home, it was some time before Putzen, Gratzen, and Brünweg, Hesseld, Hildarg and Voldwig were smiling again. And their tears, in a great torrent, flowed after them, over the hubbles, around among the hollows, and out toward the sea.

They cried, in fact, so hard and so much that even to-day their tears are still flowing,—for they gathered and gathered until they became the river Rhine. As for the mountains the giant children built, they too are still there. They hardened until they became quite firm and rocky, so that nowadays in Switzerland people are continually climbing up and over them. And the place where the giant children made, so to speak, the first mud-pies, has been called the Playground of Europe ever since.

With as many trees as they could drag

When the children got home, there was old Wind-and-Weather sitting as usual on a mountain-top and looking through a kind of glass that he had, out to sea.

“Oh, father,” they cried, “we want a ship to sail the sea to find a running-place again.”

Old Wind-and-Weather was not disturbed in the least. He got up, put his glass into his pocket, and walked along the mountain-ridge. With one slow wrench, he pulled up by the roots a tree taller than he was himself.

“There is your mast,” said Wind-and-Weather.

Then, Handsig and Grandsig pulled up big trees for beams to make the sides and keel; Mutzen and Putzen pulled up little trees for oars. And with as many trees as they could drag, they all trooped after their father down to the seashore.

Half-way down there was the giantess Sun-and-Sea, sitting as usual on a cliff and weaving on a kind of loom that she had.

“Oh, mother,” cried the children, “help us. We are building a ship to sail the sea to find a running-place again.”

Sun-and-Sea was not disturbed in the least. She got up and took out of her loom a sheet longer than she was herself.

“There is your sail,” said Sun-and-Sea.

Wind-and-Weather took the sail down to the shore, and the children began such a hacking and planing and pounding as no shipyard has ever heard. In just a few hours of giant time, there was the great ship with the mast set and the sail rigged, ready to be launched.

Mutzen and Putzen climbed in and took their oars; and the others pushed and pulled until the boat, slipping and grating, shot out into the water. Mutzen and Putzen, having nothing to christen it with, beat on the sides with their oars and cried, “We name you Mannigfual!”

“Mannigfual!” echoed the other children. “The giants’ good ship Mannigfual!”

The children climbed in and took the oars. Wind-and-Weather took the tiller. And there they were, skipping along over the sea. When the wind blew against them, the children rowed and sang. When the wind blew with them, they set the sail and strained their eyes to find a running-place ahead across the water. As for Wind-and-Weather, no matter which way the wind blew, he sat and steered.

Now, it must never be forgotten that giants’ time is as big as they are; and half a year to them was scarcely more than a day. Our night and day they did not bother about in the least, for their big eyes looked through the dark as well as the light. Sunrise and sunset were no more to them than the revolving of a lighthouse lamp to us. But the minute a half-year was up, the giants’ night began, and giant children felt then very much as ordinary children feel in the evening after eight o’clock has struck.

Mannigfual had not sailed many hundred miles when the giants’ night came on. Mutzen and Putzen knew that it was coming, because their heads and their arms and their legs began to feel so very much in the way. Soon they lost track of their oars altogether, their heads bumped, their mouths dropped open, and there they were,—fast asleep. Then Gratzen yawned, and Bratzen yawned,—all the rest even up to Handsig and Grandsig. But somehow or other they managed to keep on rowing.

Wind-and-Weather took out his glass and scanned the sea ahead. In a little while they all saw what he was steering for. It was land. A few minutes more, and they had dropped overboard the great cliff they had brought for an anchor.

Wind-and-Weather picked up Mutzen and Putzen. With one against each shoulder, he stepped leisurely out and waded ashore. The children jumped after, splashing and rubbing their eyes. Straight ahead was a wide valley. Wind-and-Weather laid Mutzen and Putzen in that; and picking out a convenient hill for a pillow, stretched himself across the landscape.

“Well,” said Handsig, looking around, “I don’t think much of this as a running-place!”

And quite right he was. For there was nothing flat or broad about it. The whole country was broken up into little hills, little valleys, little fields, little forests. But Handsig might have spared his words, for there was nobody to listen. So he fitted himself neatly between two hills, and snored as loudly as the others.

Part Two: How the Giants’ Ship Was Stolen

Now, it happened that the giants had landed in the North of England, which even in that early time was inhabited by the race of men. And although there was only wilderness in the part where the giants had stretched themselves, a few miles down the shore was the cave of the pirates, Dare-and-Do, Catch-and-Kill, Fear-and-Fly.

Dare-and-Do, Catch-and-Kill, Fear-and-Fly

The morning after the giants landed, Dare-and-Do was awakened unusually early. Somewhere outside the dark of the cave, the air seemed full of rumblings and the noise of great waves beating on the beach. Dare-and-Do yawned irritably. He was wondering how their old long-boat was standing it, tied under the cliff. Drawing his dirk, he reached over and pricked his comrades awake, after the pleasant custom of the cave.

“Storm!” hissed Dare-and-Do.

Groping and growling, the three pirates got up to look after their boat, and stumbled out—into as fair and innocent a day as ever dawned off England. The thunderings kept on, but there was not a cloud in the sky. The waves still pounded, but they burst white and glittering into the sunlight.

Catch-and-Kill turned crossly. “The storm’s over,” he said.

But Fear-and-Fly stood where he was, pointing out to sea, and shaking from head to foot. “Sea-serpent!” he gasped.

The others looked. There, a mile or so out at sea, stretched a great monster, motionless and stiff. Was it after all a monster,—the long, high, level wall, hiding the horizon, the great column in the center, towering and towering until it was lost in the sky?

“Sea-serpent!” snorted Catch-and-Kill. “It’s an island, a magic island.”

Dare-and-Do peered, shading his eyes. Across that high column went a bar. “You’re both wrong!” he shouted. “It’s all a ship,—a great ship.”

Now, there was this to be said for Dare-and-Do. There was never a ship made that he was afraid of. No matter what the size, his one idea was always to capture it; and the bigger the better, for him. So, instead of cowering at the sight of the giants’ ship, he rushed back to the cave for his oars and a whole set of dirks and pikes.

“It will make our fortune,” he cried, “—our everlasting fortune!”

Catch-and-Kill headed off Fear-and-Fly, who was already making for the bushes, and dragged him down to untie the boat. Dare-and-Do took one oar, Catch-and-Kill the other; and, with Fear-and-Fly huddling astern, they set off at top speed. With every stroke of the oars the ship grew nearer and bigger. To Fear-and-Fly it seemed an unending stretch of wooden cliff ahead. As they drew toward it, he saw that the side was nothing less than a mountain, towering a thousand feet into the air. The sight made him dizzy. He threw himself down on the bottom and shut his eyes.

The others were rowing silently now. The boat slipped stealthily, stealthily, alongside the steep ship. Dare-and-Do crept to the prow and thrust his pike into one of the ship’s enormous beams. It held. He passed a rope over, and the boat was tied.

Without a moment’s pause, he drew his knife, and began carving out footholds in the massive wood,—up, up, up the ship’s side. As he carved, he climbed, hand over hand, foot over foot, clinging like a fly to the precipice.

Catch-and-Kill did not hesitate. He fastened the boat’s stern, as Dare-and-Do had the prow. Stooping, he seized Fear-and-Fly by the collar, and dragged him forward along the bottom. With his free hand he pulled out his dirk and pointed with it, first at Dare-and-Do’s steps, then at the water. “Up?” he growled through his teeth. “Or down?”

Shaking and shrinking, Fear-and-Fly made the best of his way up the ship’s side. Catch-and-Kill followed at his heels, ready with a dirk to encourage him at the slightest hesitation.

Finally Dare-and-Do reached the top. Leaning against the side, he could look over into the great ship. Before him stretched, seemingly, a long, wide deck. He scanned it closely. As far as he could see there was not a single soul. He listened. Not a sound but Fear-and-Fly’s startled breathing below.

“Crew’s asleep,” muttered Dare-and-Do.

He turned to the others. “Quiet now,” he warned, “and follow me.”

With dirks drawn the pirates clambered over the side and tiptoed stealthily across the deck. Dare-and-Do headed for the stern. His idea was to make way with the crew before taking possession of the ship.

“Up? Or down?”

“Dirks and daggers!” he exclaimed. Before him opened a yawning abyss. The deck had come abruptly to an end. Beyond the wide chasm began another deck, made, seemingly, of a single, tremendous board.

Dare-and-Do turned and ran toward the prow. Again the deck stopped before an abyss, beyond which another deck began. He understood now. There was no true deck at all,—simply a succession of immense planks laid at intervals from side to side.

Fear-and-Fly groaned. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” he screamed hoarsely. “It’s a giants’ ship, a giants’ ship, and the decks are their rowing-seats.”

Catch-and-Kill scratched his dirk remindingly across Fear-and-Fly’s throat. “Silence!” he hissed.

But Dare-and-Do caught his hand. “Dirks and daggers!” he cried. “But the coward’s right. It’s a giants’ ship. Look at the mast; look at the sail; look at the tiller there, far above our heads! A giants’ ship, and not one of the crew aboard! They won’t be back either, if I know giants. They’ve landed somewhere for their six months’ sleep. Here’s luck, luck, luck at last. We don’t have to capture the ship. We’ve got her!”

Catch-and-Kill looked up at the mammoth rigging. “Great luck!” he sneered. “Great luck! A ship you can’t move! A ship you can’t steer! I suppose you’ll set the sail; I suppose you’ll turn the tiller; I suppose you’ll sail her to the Gold Lands!”

Dare-and-Do came a step nearer. “Who wants the Gold Lands most?” he asked meaningly.

Catch-and-Kill started. “You don’t mean the King?” he cried.

“Three hundred builders, three hundred sailors, two hundred days,” said Dare-and-Do calmly, “and there’ll be enough gold for us all and a little to spare; eh?”

“Daggers and dirks!” cried Catch-and-Kill, making for the ship’s side. “Let’s be off to ask him!”

Dare-and-Do dashed after, but Fear-and-Fly (who was as anxious to be off the ship as he was loth to climb on) was the first over the ship’s rail and down into their boat.

Waste-and-Want

Stroke! Stroke! Stroke! Their oars flew through the water. In just half the time it had taken them to come, the pirates went back to their beach. Without stopping for food they ran over hill and dale, field and fen, brook and bog, till they reached the King’s castle.

Now the king of the country at that time was a spendthrift named Waste-and-Want. Half his time he spent in running into debt, the other half in imploring his councillors to get him out.

At last one day his councillors came to him. “Your Majesty,” said they politely, “we have the honor to report that the hundred and one means of escaping from debt which are recorded in history, have, in your case, been exhausted.”

“What!” roared the King. “You mean to say that you can’t get me out this time!”

“All methods,” replied the councillors delicately, “have been employed.”

Then the King was angry indeed. He vowed that the common people of his kingdom could help him better than that, and he issued a proclamation promising half his ships and half his kingdom to the person who should find a new way to free him from debt. All who wished to try had but to come to the castle and give the password, “Fortune favors Kings.” But any one who spoke the password and failed of his errand, was doomed to exile on the sea.

Now, exile of that kind did not frighten Dare-and-Do in the least. He shouted the password at the top of his lungs, and strode by the guard right into the King’s castle.

In the great hall the King sat on his throne, doing problems in arithmetic. But the trouble with the examples was that they were all in subtraction.

Dare-and-Do bowed low. The King looked up and hastily put on his crown.

“Your Majesty,” said Dare-and-Do, “may I make bold to ask you one question: Why is it that no ship yet has reached the Gold Lands?”

Now, it happened that the King had been thinking of that very matter himself. So he answered right off, “Why, we’ve never had one long enough, we’ve never had one strong enough, to stand the storms.”

Dare-and-Do’s eyes gleamed. “Just so, Your Majesty,” he said.

Then he drew a step nearer the throne. “But what would you say,” he asked, “if I could give you a ship long enough and strong enough to stand any storm that ever blew?”

“What!” cried the King; and then: “Where?”

Dare-and-Do told him about the giants’ ship. Before he was half through, Waste-and-Want rushed down his throne-steps, bawling, “Guards! Guards! Guards! Call together all the builders. Call together all the sailors. Get all the beams and boards in the kingdom!” And when the King spoke in that voice, the guards were not slow in obeying.

By the next morning every sailor and every builder in the kingdom was in line on the sea-beach. As for the piles of beams and boards, they stretched for miles and miles. All day long every sailboat and rowboat on the coast plied back and forth, loaded down with beams and boards, sailors and builders. Then began a hammering and pounding, a planing and joining, that kept up five months and a day.

In the pulley-blocks were little rooms

When it was over, even Dare-and-Do opened his eyes wide. From one end of the ship to the other ran a smooth deck, bridging the great gaps between the rowing-seats. At the stern was a high platform on which a hundred men could stand abreast to turn the tiller. Up the mast ran a ladder; and in the pulley-blocks were carved out little rooms where the sailors could rest from climbing, over night. To Dare-and-Do as captain, the King gave his fastest horse, which could do the distance down the deck from stern to prow in a few hours.

Finally everything was ready. The builders went ashore. The sailors ranged themselves on board. A hundred hacked in turn at the anchor-rope. A hundred began to set the sail. A hundred began to turn the tiller. Dare-and-Do galloped up and down the deck, shouting orders.

At last the anchor rope was cut. The sail flapped slowly out. The tiller creaked. The wind blew and the ship started forward. All the people shouted, and as for King Waste-and-Want, he made a bonfire of all his bills on the beach.

The ship moved along at a terrible rate. But had it not been for losing sight of the shore, not a sailor on board would have known that it was stirring at all. Dare-and-Do walked his horse. The crew, in three shifts, took turns eating dinner and holding the tiller. Catch-and-Kill and Fear-and-Fly began to plan how the gold should be divided. An open sea, and the wind behind,—what better luck could be desired?

“Land ahoy!” the lookout’s voice came down. And again, “Land ahoy!”

Dare-and-Do galloped forward. On both sides cliffs began to appear. Every minute they seemed to grow closer and closer together. Dare-and-Do measured with his eye the width of the passage ahead. Then he thought of his ship. A ghastly fright seized him. Suppose the ship should not get through! It was too late to turn around. The channel was already too narrow for that. But they must not go dashing on like this.

“Take in sail!” screamed Dare-and-Do. “Take in sail!”

Now, it had taken the crew a day and a night to set the sail; and although they raced to their posts when Dare-and-Do shouted his order, it was no easy task to pull the sail in. A hundred of them all together tugged and hauled with all their strength. Dare-and-Do drew a long breath. The ship’s prow was safely through the channel—

Smash! Shock! Shiver! Shake! The great ship stopped;—stuck fast between the cliffs that line the straits of Dover!

It happened that at the very moment when the ship was stopped so suddenly, the giant Wind-and-Weather awoke, a little early, from his six months’ sleep. He stretched his big arms and his big legs, and looked about him. Seeing his children still asleep, he got up softly; and sitting down on a nearby hill, looked through a kind of glass that he had, down across England.

Looked through a kind of glass that he had, down across England

Just then there was a great stirring among the giant children. They began to wake up and stretch the sleep out of their cramped bodies.

“Oh, father,” wailed Mutzen and Putzen.

“Oh, father,” wailed all the others. “Oh, father, our ship is gone!”

Old Wind-and-Weather was not disturbed in the least.

“Indeed?” he said.—“I see it.”

“Oh, where?” cried all the children.

“Over the little hills, over the little valleys, over the little fields, over the little forests,” said Wind-and-Weather, “I see the mast against the sky.”

“Oh, there!” cried Handsig, and “There!” cried Grandsig, and “There!” they all cried together.

With one leap they started, plunging down across England. From hill to hill, from valley to valley, over field, farm, and forest they raced, stubbing their toes against towns and jumping over villages when they happened to see them. Wind-and-Weather strode along after them, a mile at a step; and was at the seashore as soon as they.

Now, the three hundred sailors aboard the giants’ ship were hardly over their fright at having their big craft stuck between the cliffs when they were thrown into a much greater panic at hearing the giants’ footsteps beating down across England. They huddled in the stern; they hid behind the mast; they scuttled this way and that. They tussled and scrambled and scrimmaged and scratched, each one trying to get behind his neighbor. Finally, as they saw Wind-and-Weather’s huge form bearing down upon them, every mother’s son of them took a wild leap and plunged recklessly into the sea.

Dare-and-Do and Catch-and-Kill did not jump. They had been in plenty of panics before, and it was always their policy to stay by the ship. So, they sat, one on Fear-and-Fly’s head, the other on his feet, and waited the coming of the giants.

They plunged into the sea

Wind-and-Weather’s great eyes made them out at once. He picked them all up with one scoop of his big hand and stuffed them into his pocket. Then he stepped into the ship. With a single kick he sent the platform under the tiller flying a hundred miles across Europe. With a stamp of his foot he smashed the decks between the rowing seats, one after the other.

“But oh!” cried Mutzen; and “Oh!” cried Putzen; “our ship is stuck between the rocks! How shall we ever get it out again?”

“I know!” cried Grandsig. And putting her hands into her apron-pockets, she drew out two immense cakes of soap, which she had brought to wash the children’s faces.

She took one. Handsig took the other. And they went to work with a will, soaping Mannigfual’s sides. Then Wind-and-Weather pulled and all the children pushed. The ship creaked and scratched; then slipped and slid straight out into the English Channel. But the soap, which they put on rather thick, came off on the rocks, and that is why the cliffs of Dover have ever since been white.

With a good wind it did not take long, I can tell you, for the giant children to sail up around the British Isles, back to the Up-and-Down Country. There sat Sun-and-Sea just as usual, weaving on a kind of loom that she had.

“Oh, mother, mother!” cried the children. “See what father has brought you.”

Wind-and-Weather held out the little men on the palm of his hand.

“They are just what I need,” said Sun-and-Sea, “to keep my threads straight.” So she took the bold pirates Dare-and-Do and Catch-and-Kill, and set them on her loom.

Wind-and-Weather put Fear-and-Fly back into his pocket. “For,” he said, “he can polish my glass for me and keep it bright.”

Whether the giant children ever found another running-place I cannot say. But I fear not. For, years afterward, the great-limbed men who followed the giants in the Up-and-Down Country, were still sailing the seas in search of new lands.

—Based on Norse legends.

The cliffs of Dover have ever since been white

III
How the Giants Got the Best of Thor

Swift as the tempest comes terrible Thor,

Heaving his hammer behind and before;

Roaming folk, homing folk, careful be ye!

Only the giants are stronger than he.

Seymour Barnard.

III
How the Giants Got the Best of Thor

In the misty time when the gods walked about the earth, Thor, the strongest of them all, set out one day for Giantland. In his hand he carried his hammer which could batter down mountains; and around his waist he wore his magic belt which made him twice as strong as before. For he was going to humble the giants.

In spite of his wonderful strength, Thor was but little larger than a man; and the giants, by their very size, annoyed him. When he hurled his hammer through the clouds, the sky rocked, the sea shook, but the giants did not tremble. And when his chariot-wheels struck out swift streaks of fire across the sky, they only smiled in their big way as if it were some game of fireflies. Now he was bound to show them that however big the giants might be, Thor was stronger, and that a little trembling now and then might not be out of place.

With Thor went the hungry god Loki, and the swift runner Thialfi. All day long they walked together through sunny mists across the bare, green uplands, and just at nightfall they came to a wide moor. As far as they could see, there was not a house, nor a shed, nor any kind of shelter. Not even a tree broke the soft horizon. Thialfi ran ahead; and Loki, who was ravenous, walked furiously. Only Thor did not notice. He was planning how he would put the giants in their place.

It grew darker and darker. The mist which had played about them all day in gentle clouds, rose in a damp, gray fog. It filled their throats and their eyes. They lost sight of Thialfi altogether. Loki stepped back, groping to make sure that Thor was there behind him; and plunged on again, sullen and dripping.

Somewhere through the fog there came a shout. It was Thialfi far ahead. “Halloo!” he cried. “Halloo-oo-oo! Shelter!”

Thor and Loki answered, walking faster. Thialfi’s voice was louder now, and plainer. “Here!” he cried. “Here! Here!”

It seemed as if they must be close upon him. But the fog ahead grew no brighter. “Where is the house?” shouted Loki. “Hasn’t it a light?”

With Thor went hungry Loki and swift Thialfi

But even as he spoke, they stumbled across a wide threshold. Above them through the thick grayness they could make out a low ceiling. They put out their hands, groping for the door-arch, and met only empty air. There seemed to be no doorway at all; or rather, there was nothing but doorway,—a great entrance, like the mouth of a cave, as wide as the building itself.

Thor struck his hammer on the floor. “Who’s here?” he thundered. But there was no reply,—only soft echoes, “Here—here—here!”

Thialfi found them. “There is no one here,” he said. “I’ve shouted before. It’s a ruined palace, I think, with all one side gone. This part is a great hall; and beyond, there are five narrow wings. Come, I’ll show you.”

But Thor and Loki yawned, tired out with their day’s journey. And throwing themselves down on the floor, they all three fell fast asleep.

About midnight Thor started up. The floor trembled, and the whole palace quaked. The wide roof above them shook till it seemed ready to fall. Thor roused the others. “Run into one of the wings,” he cried. And picking up his hammer, he himself went to sit in the great doorway to guard the house.

All night long the strange rumblings continued. There would be a great heaving sound, a silence, and then another sound louder than before. Thor clutched his hammer and waited.

At dawn the noises suddenly ceased. The fog thinned, and Thor looked out across the country. In the distance he could make out a bright hill, and amid the shrubbery on the side, two lakes gleaming through the morning mists. He started to walk toward them when all at once the whole hill stirred.

Thor stopped, motionless with surprise. For a moment he could hardly realize that what he had taken for a hill was a giant’s head, and that the lakes fringed with shrubbery were his eyes gleaming beneath his bushy brows. Even the rumblings were explained, for they were the giant’s snores.

When the giant spied Thor, he laughed. “Well, well, my little fellow, you’re an early riser!” he cried. “And perhaps you’ve seen something of my glove. I had it yesterday, and I must have dropped it about here last night. Oho! There it is now!” And with that, he stooped and picked up the palace.

“Take care!” cried Thor, gasping. “Take care! People inside!”

He was just in time. Very gently, the giant took the glove by the fingers and shook Loki and Thialfi out into his tremendous hand.

When the giant heard how they had mistaken his glove for a ruined palace, and the finger places for wings, he roared till the ground rocked, and Thor had to skip about to keep his balance.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” gasped the giant, wiping his eyes. “This is a rare meeting indeed. And now what do you say to some breakfast with the giant Skrymir?”

Setting Loki and Thialfi carefully on the ground, he untied a huge wallet which he had slung over his shoulder, and laid out small hills of bread and cheese in a wide semi-circle about him. The gods sat down opposite and opened their lunch-bag. A very merry breakfast they had of it. For between his tremendous mouthfuls, Skrymir told the biggest jokes in the world.

Finally he got up, and shaking out of his lap three or four crumbs, the size of an ordinary loaf, said that he was ready to start along. “And where are you bound?” he asked.

Thor told him a little sheepishly.

“That’s my direction too,” said Skrymir good-naturedly. “Come along with me; I’ll show you the road and carry your bag.”

And picking up their wallet with his thumb and forefinger he tucked it into a corner of his big one, which he tied up securely and slung again over his shoulder.

So they set off, Skrymir walking as slowly as he could, and the gods running like terriers at his great heels in a desperate effort to keep up with him.

At nightfall they stopped under a towering oak-tree, and Skrymir seeming suddenly tired out, stretched himself full length upon the ground. But Loki, who since breakfast had thought of nothing but supper, cried out to him that he had their bag.

Sleepily, he took his big wallet from his back and laid it on the ground beside them. “Take anything from it you wish,” said he; and, with that, fell fast asleep.

In a minute Loki had climbed to the top of the sack and begun to tug at the huge ropes that bound it. Thialfi sprang after him. But the harder they pulled, and the redder and hotter they grew, the more firmly the knots seemed to stay in place. Then Thor, tightening his magic belt, leaped up and pulled too. But the knots remained as securely tied as before.

“Skrymir! Skrymir!” shouted Loki.

A huge snore that nearly shook them off the sack was the only answer. By that time the gods were desperate with hunger, and Thor, who had never before failed in a trial of strength, was bursting with rage. Dashing down off the wallet, he took up his hammer and hurled it with terrific force at the giant’s forehead.

Skrymir turned a little in his sleep. “Did a leaf fall?” he murmured drowsily. “I thought I felt something on my head.” In another minute he was snoring again more loudly than ever.

Thor shrank back, astounded. Never before had his hammer failed to kill. Trembling and exhausted, he lay down beside Loki and Thialfi on the ground. But it was no more possible to sleep than it had been to get something to eat. The oak-tree rocked as in a wild hurricane; the leaves dashed together, and the ground quaked with the giant’s snores. It sounded as if a hundred vast trumpets were blaring at once.

By midnight Thor could stand it no longer. He sprang up, determined to put an end to Skrymir once and for all. Tightening his magic belt three times, he swung his hammer about his head and dashed it straight and sure into the giant’s temple.

Skrymir’s eyelashes flickered. “How troublesome!” he grumbled, raising his head. “These acorns dropping on my face!”

Thor held his breath. Minute after minute passed, and Skrymir did not begin again to snore. Would he never go to sleep? Thor clenched his fist till his fingernails bit deep into his hand. Somehow he must get one more chance with his hammer. It was maddening, unbelievable, that there was a giant who could withstand it.

Finally, just at dawn, Skrymir’s wide bosom began to move up and down, up and down, like the high waves at sea. At the first snore Thor was ready. He gripped his hammer with both his mighty hands, and hurled it with a force to kill a hundred men. With a thundering crash it sank deep into the giant’s forehead.

Thor ran exultingly to drag it out. But Skrymir, brushing his hand drowsily across his brow, swept it gently to the ground.

A tremendous palace, all of ice

“Just as I got to sleep!” he growled. “To have a twig drop on me! There must be birds building a nest in the branches above here. Are you awake, my little gods? Well, Thor, you are up early! What do you say to starting on?”

And with that, Skrymir stretched his great arms and sprang up as if nothing had happened. As for his forehead, it was as sound and firm as ever.

Thor leaned back weakly against the oak. “Yes,” he gasped, “let us be going.”

So Skrymir shouldered his great wallet again, and set off whistling across the field, with the gods following limply after. At the meadow’s edge Skrymir stopped and waited. Beyond a line of trees stretched a hard, bright road, gleaming like a sea of white marble in the sun.

Skrymir pointed along it. “This road,” said he kindly, “takes you to the palace of the giant king. My way lies over the hills so I must be saying good-by. Many thanks for your pleasant company, my little friends. You will be well received in Giantland. Only remember your size, and don’t get to boasting, my tiny gods. Here’s your wallet now; and good luck go with you.”

As he spoke, Skrymir took his great sack from his back and plucked it open with one pull at the huge knot. Picking out the wallet of the gods, he laid it on the ground; and flourishing his enormous cap about his head, by way of good-by, he went leaping off toward the hills. The gods watched him, speechless, till he was out of sight. One moment his huge form rose clear against the blue sky as he jumped over a mountain range; the next, it was lost to view on the other side.

Loki turned trembling to the other gods. “Let us turn back,” he cried. “I am not going on to be laughed at in Giantland.” Then his eye caught the wallet. Diving for it, he tore it open, and the starving gods fell to. There was only a mouthful apiece, but it gave them new courage.

Thor brandished his hammer. “Go back? Never!” he cried. “On we travel to Giantland. They shall yet learn to know the great god Thor!”

Thialfi sprinted ahead along the marvelous white road, and Loki, more ravenous than ever, pelted after.

Suddenly, the road turned sharply upward. The gods climbed, panting. There in the distance, beyond the hill-top, gleamed a tremendous palace, all of ice. Immense icicles made its pillars, and its frosty pinnacles glittered above the clouds. In the sunlight it shone with a thousand rainbows.

Thialfi stopped. Straight before him flashed the palace gate, each great icicle-bar blazing back the sun. For a moment he paused, dazzled. Then he saw that wide as the huge bars were, wider still were the spaces between them. He walked through, arms outstretched, without touching on either side. Thor and Loki followed along the glittering ice-roadway to the palace.

Up and down in front paced two giant sentinels, their heads erect and their great eyes peering out through the upper air. The tiny gods slipped unnoticed by their very feet, and into the great hall of the giant king.

Around the sides sat giant nobles on benches as high as hills, and at the end the king himself on his towering throne. Blinding light flashed from the floor, the ceiling, the walls. But the gods did not quail. Proud and straight, they passed unremarked down the center of the hall.

Before the throne Thor stopped, and dashed his hammer on the floor. The vast hall resounded and the giants rose to look.

Thor drew himself up. “I am the great god Thor,” he cried, “whose hammer cleaves the clouds and shakes the sky. I come to demand the homage of the giants.”

Like a burst from a hundred volcanoes at once, the giants’ laughter came booming down the hall.

The giant king smiled. “The giants welcome the gods,” he said kindly, “but we can bow only before proofs of greater power than our own.”

At that, Loki who was nearly starving, could stand it no longer. “Greater power!” he shouted. “Greater power! Let any one here eat food faster than I!”

The giants clapped their hands with a noise like waves smiting the beach. “Hear! Hear!” they roared.

“Have my cook Logi bring a trough of meat,” called the giant king.

Setting the trough before the throne, Logi sat down at one end, and Loki at the other.

“Ready!—Start!” cried the king.

Click-clack! Loki’s little jaws were at it before Logi got his great mouth open. Click-clack, click-clack, they kept on while Logi’s great tongue swept down the trough. Squarely in the middle, their heads bumped, Loki’s little head against Logi’s big one.

“A tie!” cried Thor. And so it seemed. But while Loki had eaten every morsel of meat from the bones, Logi had devoured meat, bones, trough and all.

Thialfi stepped forward, flushing at Loki’s defeat. “Who will race with me?” he cried.

“Hugi! Hugi!” shouted a dozen giant voices.

Hugi walked out, a slender young giant, and led Thialfi to a race-course covered with marble-dust, just behind the palace.

The giant king gave the signal, and off they dashed. Thialfi smaller and quicker, was off first; but Hugi, with his long legs, covered an immense distance at a single bound. Before the course was half finished, Thialfi was running like a tiny hound at the heels of a deer. As they drew nearer the goal, Hugi with a sudden urge, sped forward and crossed the line before Thialfi was three-quarters of the way around.

The contest between Loki and Logi

“Bravo, Hugi! Well run, Thialfi!” cried the giants kindly.

But Thor blazed with wrath from head to foot. His muscles quivered and his throat was dry. “Bring out your largest drinking-horn,” he thundered, “and see how Thor will empty it.”

The giants trooped back into the hall, and Logi brought a horn as deep as a well, filled with mead.

“With us, Thor,” said the king, “a giant is thought a good drinker if he can empty the horn at a single draught; a moderate drinker does it in two, and any giant can do it in three.”

Thor gave his magic belt a quick twist. Instantly his little form began to expand; and he stood before them, a god of majestic size, half as big as the giants themselves, and with muscles greater than their own. Taking the horn in one of his mighty hands, he breathed with all his force and drank till it seemed as if the vessel must have been emptied twice over. Triumphantly he raised his head and looked within. But the mead still brimmed to the horn’s edge.

Astonished and angry, he bent his lips again and drank till he thought he should burst. But again the horn seemed as full as when he had begun. With a last desperate straining, he lifted it a third time and buried his face in its vast depth. He stopped, breathless and choking. The mead had sunk below the rim, but the horn was still more than half full.

A great silence came over the hall. Loki and Thialfi cast down their eyes. But Thor threw back his head, unbaffled. “Give me any weight,” he cried, “and I will lift it. You shall yet see the matchless strength of Thor.”

A gray cat larger than an elephant rubbed itself against the steps of the throne. “Perhaps then, Thor,” said the giant king, “you will lift my cat for me.”

Snorting with scorn, Thor took a swift step forward, and put one immense arm around it. But the cat seemed bound to the floor with iron chains. Thor tugged again. But the harder he pulled, the higher the cat arched its back; and the best he could do was to make it lift one paw from the floor.

Thor roared with rage. “Let me wrestle,” he cried. “I defy any giant of you all to match his strength against mine. Let any one try to bring Thor low, in fair and single combat!”

“Ask my old nurse Elli to come in,” ordered the giant king.

Thor’s eyes flashed. “Do not mock me,” he thundered. “At your risk you taunt the great god Thor.”

“No offense is offered you,” said the giant king kindly. “Elli is no mean opponent. Many a bold champion before now she has brought to his knees.”

As he spoke, there hobbled into the room a hag so bent, so wrinkled, so infirm, that Thor drew back in anger and dismay.

“Elli,” said the giant king, “will you wrestle with the god Thor?”

The old dame nodded her head, and tottering up to the god, cackled tauntingly in his face. “Throw me!” she quavered. “Throw me!”

Enraged beyond endurance, Thor seized her about the waist, meaning to lay her gently upon the floor. But the harder he gripped her, the steadier she stood. Bracing all his muscles Thor took a new hold, but the hag had grasped him in her turn. Something in her slow embrace seemed to sink into his very limbs. His arms loosened. His legs weakened. Before he knew it, he dropped kneeling before her.

“Enough, Elli!” cried the giant king. “Let Thor go. We must give him better entertainment. Come, minstrels. Come, cooks; deck out our board and feast our guests like gods.”

In a twinkling a magnificent repast was spread, and giant jokes sped about the hall. The minstrels played great, sounding tunes upon their mammoth harps, and the giants did their best to make their guests forget the outcome of all their boasting. But the gods, humbled and downcast, took little part in the merrymaking. Even Thor, who had resumed his natural size, had no more pride left in him. They sat silent and dejected, and went off early to bed.

The cat was none other than the terrible serpent

Next morning they rose before daybreak, hoping to escape from the palace without seeing the giants again. But the giant king was up before them, and in the great hall a breakfast stood ready. After they had finished, the king himself led them down the gleaming roadway, and out through the great ice gate, rosy with the light of dawn.

The giant king paused. “Before I leave you, my small friends,” he said, “I must in honesty tell you that the giants admire while they do not yield to the power of the gods. For had it not been for the magic we used, we, and not you, would have been humbled.

“I myself was that giant Skrymir in whose glove you slept. I tied up the wallet with the enchanted rope. It was I whom Thor struck with his unconquerable hammer. Any one of the blows would have killed me had I not each time brought a mountain in between. There in the distance you can see in the peak the three great clefts his hammer made.

“Yesterday Loki could not win his eating wager. But it was because he was matched against Logi who is none other than Fire itself, which could devour meat, bones, trough and all. Thialfi lost his race. But we giants marveled at his speed, for he ran against Hugi who is Thought, the swiftest thing in the world.

“When Thor drank, then indeed we wondered; for his drinking-horn was connected with the ocean, and his great draughts made the waters ebb from shore to shore. My cat which he tried to lift was none other than the terrible serpent which lies around the world with its tail in its mouth. When Thor tugged, he lifted it up till its back arched against the sky, and it seemed likely to slip altogether out of the sea.

“When he wrestled with my nurse Elli, we saw the greatest marvel of all. For she is Old Age, whom no one has ever withstood.

“But strong as you are, do not boast again, my tiny gods. For remember, the giants’ magic is as great as the giants themselves, and can never be conquered.”

Overcome with rage, Thor raised his hammer to shatter the giant and his palace forever. But a sudden mist blinded his eyes. When it cleared, he found himself, with Loki and Thialfi, alone on a wide moor glowing in the sunrise.

—From a Norse myth.

IV
The Cunning of Fin’s Wife

From the stories we have told,

One may learn what giants’ lives are;

Here’s a tale of giants bold

Which will show what giants’ wives are:

How the doughty Fin M’Coul

Fled Cucullin, who was stouter;

Sought his faithful wife; and who’ll

Say he could have done without her?

How she put her spouse to bed,

Planning that Cucullin, maybe,

Would her husband learn to dread

If he took Fin for their baby:

If the babe be strong as this,

Thought Cucullin, I would rather

Hesitate to meet with his

Proud, perhaps pugnacious father.

So from out the house of Fin

See the hulking fellow hustle:

Thus a woman’s wit may win

Over bulk and brawn and muscle.

Seymour Barnard.

IV
The Cunning of Fin’s Wife

The giants were building a causeway

The giants were building a causeway from Ireland over to Scotland. A great bridge it was to be: thousands of piles sunk in the sea, and over them such a road as would take ten giants abreast. All the giants in Ulster were working to make it, and Fin M’Coul was the head of them all. Whack, whack, whack! went their sledges pounding the piles; and roar, roar, roar! came Fin’s big voice telling how to place them.

Up came a little lad running. “Fin M’Coul! Fin M’Coul!” cried he. “The great Scotch giant Cucullin’s looking for you. He says he’s come to beat you; he says he’s come to treat you as he’s done every other giant in Ireland!”

At that there was not a giant but dropped his sledge. Some felt of their heads, some felt of their jaws, some felt of their backs, and some, of their ribs. Every one put his hand to the spot where Cucullin had touched him last. For the truth of it was, Cucullin was a terror and there was not a giant could stand before him. When he stamped his foot, he shook the whole county. In his pocket he carried a thunderbolt which he had flattened to a pancake with one blow of his fist. Many were the times he had come before, looking for Fin; but always it had happened that Fin was away, seeing after his affairs in some distant part of the country.

But Fin was the best fighter in Ireland and not the man to be frightened before his friends. So, though his knees set up a kind of swaying beneath him, he called out to the little lad in a voice to shake the whole township.

“And what is the Scotchman waiting for?” roared he. “Tell him here is Fin, ready this long time to thrash him,—although,” he added easily, “if it’s not hurrying he is, he may not find me here. For the truth of it is, I was just about to be starting to see my wife Oonagh on the top of Knockmany Hill. And fight or no fight, it’s there I must be going, for she’ll be ailing, poor woman, and low in her spirits, all for the want of her Fin.”

Now, Fin was not one to be slow in anything he had made up his mind to. So hardly were the words from his mouth when it was down with his sledge, up with his heels and off with him over the hills to Knockmany. At first it was a long, swinging step he took, with a stout fir-tree as a walking-stick. But the farther and farther from the Causeway he went, the faster and faster his legs began to move, until after all he was going not so much at a walk as a run.

Of all the hills in Ireland, the chilliest and windiest was Knockmany where Fin lived. Day or night, winter or summer, it was never without a breeze; and besides that, from top to bottom was never a drop of water. But little did that trouble Fin. “Why,” he would say, “ever since I was the height of a round tower, I was fond of a good prospect of my own. And where should I find a better than the top of Knockmany Hill?”

There were some who said though, that it was not so much the view itself that Fin liked as it was to be able to see when Cucullin was coming to visit him. For then he could be off in time on his distant travels across the country.

Be that as it may have been, there was no doubt now but Fin was glad to be at home again. There was his darling Oonagh waiting for him at the tiptop of the hill; and the smack they gave each other made the waters of the lake below curl with kindness and sympathy.

“But what brought you home so soon?” said Oonagh.

“And what should it have been,” cried Fin, “but affection for yourself?”

But Oonagh, who always had her wits about her, soon saw that something was troubling her good man. For it was nothing but into the house and out again, across the hill and back, looking and peering, looking and peering for something he didn’t seem altogether wishful to see.

Oonagh watched him for a while. Then, “Is there some one you’re expecting, Fin?” said she.

Now, Fin knew very well that Oonagh would have it out of him sooner or later. So he lost no time. “It’s that Cucullin,” roared he, “that earthquaker, that thunderbolt-flattener! He’ll be coming here to beat me; he’ll be coming here to treat me as—”

A pause came on Fin. Not a word more did he say; but into his mouth went his great thumb. It was a rare quality Fin’s thumb had that when he stuck it between his teeth it could tell him of the future.

“Thundering pancakes!” howled Fin. “He’s coming now! He’s down below Dungannon. My thumb tells me.”

“Well,” said Oonagh, keeping on with some knitting she had, “what if he is?”

“What if he is!” echoed Fin. “What if he is! So you’d sit there, would you, and never raise your eyes to see your good man made pulp before you! Cucullin’s coming, I tell you, that can knock a thunderbolt flat as a pancake; and I can’t be running away.”

“Well, well,” said Oonagh, “we might be stopping him a bit.” So she got up and turned toward Cullamore.

Now, Cullamore was where her sister Granua lived,—a hill, four miles across the valley, the twin of Knockmany. Many a pleasant chat Oonagh and Granua had together of summer evenings, one sitting outside her door on Knockmany, the other on Cullamore. For Granua was as ready-witted as Oonagh herself, and something of a fairy as well.

“Granua,” called Oonagh, “are you at home?”

“No,” answered Granua, “I’m down in the valley picking bilberries.”

“Well, go up on top of Cullamore,” said Oonagh, “and tell me what you see.”

“Now I’m up,” said Granua; “and down below Dungannon I see a giant, the biggest I ever saw.”

“That’s what I was expecting,” said Oonagh. “That’s Cucullin on his way to Knockmany, coming up to beat Fin.”

“Would you want me to be keeping him a while?” asked Granua. “I’ll be having a party of giants and giantesses this evening, and we could give him some entertainment maybe that would keep him over night, and quite away from your house till the morning.”

“If you would,” said Oonagh, “I’d thank you kindly.”

So Granua made a high smoke on her hill and whistled three times to show Cucullin that he was invited to Cullamore. For it was in that way the giants of old times told a traveler that he was welcome to come in and eat with them.

As for Oonagh, when she turned around, there was Fin shivering and shaking behind her.

“Thundering pancakes, Oonagh!” said he. “And what have you done but made everything ten times worse than it was before? If Cucullin is coming, I’d wish it would be now while I have some heart left to fight him. What with thinking it over all day and dreaming it over all night, I’ll have no more courage by morning than a boiled rabbit.”

“No,” said Granua, “I’m down in the valley, picking bilberries”

“If I were you, Fin,” said Oonagh, “I’d not be saying much about courage. The best thing for you is to do as I tell you, and trust me to get you out of this scrape as I’ve pulled you through many before.”

So Fin said no word more, but sat down on the hill and pitched cliffs into the valley to steady his quaking limbs.

Oonagh went about her plans. First she worked a charm by drawing nine threads of nine different colors. For this she always did when she wanted to know how to succeed in anything important. Next she braided them in three braids of three colors each. One she put around her right arm; one around her right ankle; and one around her heart, for then she knew that she could not fail in anything she tried to do.

“Now, Fin,” said she, “will you kindly go to the neighbors’ for me and borrow one-and-twenty iron griddles, the largest and strongest you can get?”

Fin was glad enough of something to do, and hardly were the words from her mouth when off he was, down the hill and over the valley.

Oonagh went into the house and began kneading a great mountain of dough. Into two-and-twenty parts she divided it, each a great round cake the size of a mill-wheel. Scarcely was she done when back came Fin again, clattering and clanking loud enough to be heard ten miles beyond Cullamore. Seven griddles he had in one hand, seven in the other, and seven strung about him in a noisy necklace.

Oonagh took them all, and each she kneaded into the heart of one of her great dough-cakes. Over the fire she baked them and set them all upon the shelf,—two-and-twenty fine loaves of bread, one-and-twenty with griddles inside and one with no griddle at all.

Next morning she was up before daylight; and so for that matter was Fin, fidgeting and fuming, and keeping a sharp lookout down the valley. As for Oonagh, she went about smiling and humming to herself as if it were a May morning.

First she took a great pot of milk and made it into curds and whey. “Fin,” said she, “when Cucullin comes—.” And she told him what he must do with the curds.

“And now,” she said, “help me while I pull out the old cradle.”

With that she put her hand to a cradle the size of an ark, and taking two quilts an acre square began spreading them out and tucking them up inside.

“Don’t be standing about, Fin,” said she, “but go and dress yourself up like a bit of a boy.”

By that time Fin decided that she was daft entirely. But he did as she bid nevertheless, for the fact was he was at his wits’ end, and thought that since Cucullin was to make pulp of him at any rate, it did not much matter how he was dressed.

Up the valley came a roar like thunder. Fin’s house on the top of Knockmany trembled and the cradle inside rocked to and fro.

“That’ll be Cucullin singing to himself on his way up from Granua’s to beat Fin,” said Oonagh.

As for Fin, he turned as white as the childish clothes he was wearing, and trembled from top to toe.

“Not a minute to waste quaking and shaking!” cried Oonagh. “Into the cradle with you, Fin, and a stout heart inside you! Lie quiet now; never forget you’re but a child; and not a word out of you till you see it’s the time.”

Into the cradle clambered Fin, stumbling and grumbling and barking his shins. Oonagh tucked him in.

“Fold up your knees under your chin,” cautioned she. “Not a move now, or you’ll burst the cradle! Close up your eyes; put your thumb in your mouth like an innocent babe fast asleep. Quiet now, and leave Cucullin to me.”

Oonagh smoothed out her apron and patted her hair. Down on the doorstep she sat and began to knit, as cool and airy as the dawn on Knockmany.

Up the hill in three leaps came Cucullin. Such a giant Oonagh had never seen. Half again as tall as Fin he was, with muscles that stood out like small hills. But Oonagh was not one to let herself be surprised. So, while she saw all this beneath her eyelashes, she kept on with her knitting and pretended not to have noticed Cucullin at all.

“A fine morning!” roared Cucullin. “And might this be where Fin M’Coul lives?”

Oonagh looked up. “Indeed it is, my good man,” said she. “Won’t you be sitting?”

“Thank you kindly,” said Cucullin. “Is Fin at home?”

“The pity of it is, he’s not,” said Oonagh. “The fact is, he heard there was a big Scotch giant named Cucullin down at the Causeway looking for him; and nothing would do but off he must be over the hills to meet him. Indeed, for the poor giant’s sake, I hope Fin won’t find him. For with the temper Fin’s in, he’d make paste of him in no time.”

At that Cucullin threw back his great head as if it were some joke Oonagh had made. “Ho, ho, ho!” roared he. “Ho, ho, ho! Make paste of Cucullin, would he? Make paste of Cucullin! Why, why, why, my good woman, I’m Cucullin!”

Oonagh put down her knitting. “Can it be?” cried she. “You, Cucullin!” And with that she gave a clear laugh, as if he were but a wee bit of a man, hardly worth considering.

“Have you ever seen Fin?” asked she, all at once sobering down.

“Why, no,” said Cucullin, “thanks to all the trouble he’s taken to keep himself out of my way.”

Oonagh shook her head. “I thought as much,” said she. “I judged you could never have seen him, to speak as you did. And if you’re fond of your own skin, you’ll pray you may never. Not but what you’re a sturdy fellow of your size, but Fin—”

“Well, well,” cried Cucullin good-naturedly enough, “there’s been never a giant in Ireland could beat me yet. So, now I’ll be off to the Causeway to give Fin his chance.” And with that, up he got, laughing, and took one of his great strides down the hill.

Oonagh rose up too. “Begging your pardon, sir,” she said, “might I ask one favor before you go? The wind’s blowing in at the door, you see, and would you mind turning the house around for me?”

Cucullin stopped where he stood. “Turn the house!” cried he.

“Why, yes,” said Oonagh. “Turn it about, you know, so the wind won’t be blowing in at the door. It’s always what Fin does when he’s at home.”

“Indeed!” thought Cucullin to himself. “This Fin must be more of a lad than they’ve been telling me.” But never a word more did he say. Instead he pulled the middle finger of his right hand till it cracked three times. For it was from that finger all his strength came.

Up the hill he stepped, and putting his great arms around the house, gave a tug and a twist,—and there it was, faced about completely. Fin’s cradle, inside, banged back and forth; Oonagh’s great bread loaves bounced about; the dishes clattered. As for Fin himself, his breath left him entirely, and there he lay, tight squeezed in the cradle, gasping and spluttering, and quite blue with terror.

Cucullin turned to go down the hill again as if he had done nothing unusual at all. But Oonagh curtsied before him.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” said she. “And since you’re so obliging, maybe you’d do another civil turn for me. You see it’s a dry stretch of weather we’ve been having, and there’s scarcely a drop of water from here to Cullamore. But under the rocks hereabout, Fin says there’s a good spring-well; and he was just about to pull them apart to find it when along came the news that you were at the Causeway, and off he dashed. So here we are, still without water; and indeed if you’d take a minute to pull the rocks open for me, truly, I’d feel it a kindness.”

So, she led him to a place, all solid rock for a mile or so. “Now, here’s the spot,” said she.

Cucullin looked at it for a while without speaking. Then he cracked his middle finger nine times, and bending down, tore a cleft a quarter-mile long and four hundred feet deep.

When Oonagh saw that, her courage oozed down to the soles of her shoes. But she was never one to give up anything she had once decided. So, after a moment she said, “I’m much obliged to you, sir. And now, you’ll be coming back to the house with me to take a bite of such humble fare as I can give you.”

“Indeed,” replied Cucullin, mopping his large red brow, “that’s an invitation I’ll not be refusing. It’s warm work tearing up landscapes and moving houses, and I can’t say that I’m not hungry either.”

So into the house they went; and down before him Oonagh set a side or two of bacon, a mountain of cabbage, and ten or twelve loaves of the bread she had baked the day before.

Cucullin fell to with a will. He finished the bacon and cabbage, picked up a loaf of the bread, and took a huge bite of it. Down came his teeth on the griddle inside.

“Thundering pancakes!” roared he. “What’s this? Here are two of my best teeth out! You call that bread, do you? You call that bread!” And he stamped about the room, howling with fury.

“Indeed, I’m sorry, sir,” said Oonagh. “I should have told you. That’s Fin’s bread that nobody else can manage but himself and the child in the cradle there. I’d not have given it to you, but you seemed a stout little fellow; and indeed since you’re bound to fight Fin, I thought you’d be scorning anything but his own food, too. Here, try this loaf. Perhaps it’ll be softer.”

Cucullin was still hungry, and besides, he was a little touched in his pride by Oonagh’s remarks about Fin’s bread. So he took the new loaf she handed him, and jammed it into his mouth, meaning this time at any rate to get a good bite out of it. Down crashed his jaw on the iron again, and up he jumped roaring.

“Take it away! Take it away!” he bellowed, twice as loud as before. “I’ll not be losing my teeth for Fin’s bread or any other. What kind of jaw has Fin got to crack—”

“Hush! Hush!” cried Oonagh. “Whatever you do, don’t be waking the child in the cradle there.... Oh, indeed, it’s too bad! There he is awake now.”

All this time Fin had been lying cramped up in the cradle. Never a move did he make, except now and then a flicker of his eyelashes just to be peering out at Cucullin sitting and eating up his bacon at the table. A terrible sight it was too: Cucullin’s great fingers as big as trees, reaching, reaching; Cucullin’s great jaws as big as millstones, crushing, crushing. Fin shut his eyes in a hurry, and his heart froze up inside him to think of fighting a giant like that. But when he heard Cucullin howling over Oonagh’s griddle-bread, he couldn’t, even for the terror in him, help a kind of smile creeping across his face. And so, when Oonagh spoke of the baby’s waking, he let out a yell almost as loud as Cucullin’s own.

Cucullin himself stopped his dancing, and turned to see what kind of child it might be that could make a noise like that.

“Boohoo! Boohoo!” howled Fin. “I’m hungry.”

“There, there!” said Oonagh. “Quiet now, my little man. Here’s some bread for you.”

And with that she handed him the one loaf that had no griddle in it. And Fin, grasping it in both hands, ate it down greedily.

Cucullin stared and stared. He forgot his lost teeth entirely, for wonder that such a youngster could devour bread he himself could not even bite. “If the son that’s yet in the cradle can eat bread like that,” thought he, “what must the father be? It’s perhaps as well for me after all that Fin’s at the Causeway.”

“I’d like,” said he to Oonagh, “to have a glimpse of that lad in the cradle. A boy that can manage that bread must be something to look at, too.”

“Indeed you may see him,” said Oonagh. “Get up, darling, and show this good man something that’ll be worthy of your father, Fin M’Coul.”

At that Fin, who was cramped and aching from lying so long bent double, gave a leap, and bounced out, nearly bursting his cradle. Up to Cucullin he went, and seizing him by the hand, started out the door.

“Are you strong?” bellowed he. “Are you as strong as my daddy?”

“Thundering pancakes!” exclaimed Cucullin. “What a voice for a little chap!”

Fin picked up a big white stone. “Are you strong enough,” said he, “to squeeze water out of this?”

Cucullin clenched his hand over it. He squeezed and pressed, and pressed and squeezed till his face grew black and his eyes stood out. But never a drop of water fell from the great white stone. He might rip up rocks and turn houses but to squeeze water from a stone was quite beyond him.

“Would you let me try?” asked Fin.

Cucullin handed it to him. Turning a little, Fin exchanged it for the curds Oonagh had made for him. Then holding them up, he squeezed till the whey, as clear as water, showered down upon the ground.

Cucullin’s face turned white. His knees were knocking; his hands were shaking. “If the son’s like this, what must the father be! And suppose Fin should be coming home!” thought he.

Over to Oonagh he went. “Indeed, indeed, ma’am,” said he, “I thank you kindly for your welcome. It’s a fine, strong son you have. And it’s sorry I am I can’t be waiting to see Fin. But I’ve out-stayed my time already, and it’s back to Scotland I must be going before the tide rises in the Channel.”

And with never a good-by more, the terrible giant Cucullin turned and ran over hill, over dale, through wood, through wave. And never again did he show his face in Ireland.

As for Fin and Oonagh, they never got over laughing in their little house turned wrongside foremost on the top of Knockmany Hill.

—From a Celtic Folk-tale.

Based on Wm. Carleton’s “Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry.”

The terrible giant Cucullin turned and ran over hill, over dale

V
How Jack Found the Giant Riverrath

Here’s a tale of Genius Jack,

Light of foot and quick as whack!—

Jack o’ mountains, Jack o’ plains,

Jack o’ cuteness, Jack o’ brains.

Seymour Barnard.

V
How Jack Found the Giant Riverrath

The king of Ireland was troubled in his mind

The king of Ireland was troubled in his mind. And that was something unusual. For he had as handsome a palace as you would wish to see, a queen as good as she was beautiful, and a fine, strapping son named Jack. The only thing that bothered him was that he could not drive to town without getting his gilt coach wheels spattered.

The horses would plunge spluttering in

Down below the palace, straight across the king’s highway, ran a little river. In the fall when it was almost dry, splashing through it was a nice adventure. The royal coach would roll down the hill with a splendid thud, and dash gurgling through the water. But in the spring it was quite another matter. Going down the hill the coachman would pull on his gilt reins, the coachboys would tuck up their gilt boots, the king would slam down the coach window, and the queen would be ready to faint with excitement. (Only the footmen did not care, for they sat up so high behind, that the water could not reach them no matter how much it splashed.)

Then the horses would plunge spluttering in up to their gilt harnesses, the coach would slip and reel, and the water would come pounding up against the gilt-edged window-panes. Worst of all, when they reached the other side, there would be little black mud spots all over the gilt wheels, all over the gilt sides, all over the shiny door. And that was a sorry way for the king of Ireland to drive down among his subjects.

The king was sitting on his throne, turning it over in his mind when in came his son Jack.

“Good morning, father,” said Jack, bowing with all his might.

But the king was so melancholy and disturbed that he never said a word, but just nodded his head to show that he knew Jack was there.

“Is something troubling you, father?” asked Jack respectfully.

“It’s that river again!” cried the king, puckering his brow till his crown slipped down over his left eye. “What’s the use of having the finest coach in three kingdoms if every time you drive abroad it’s bespotted and bespattered like a common gipsy wagon?”

“Can nothing be done?” asked Jack.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to think,” said the king.

So Jack sat down quietly on the steps of the throne and thought with his father. Just as the clock struck ten, the king had an idea.

“We might put something over the coach,” he said.

“We might put something over the river!” cried Jack. “Why couldn’t we build a bridge?”

“Gilded Shamrocks!” cried the king. “That’s the very idea. We could ride across as dry and fine as you please.”

So he called the master mason. And that very hour all the masons from far and near began stirring about in great troughs of mortar and lugging building-stones as big as the coach wheels. By sunset there was as neat and stout a little bridge as you would wish to see. And the king and the queen and Jack walked up and down before it, beaming to think how spick and span and shiny they’d be next day, rumbling across it down to the town.

Lugging building stones

In the morning before he got his crown on, the king called for his coach; and the minute breakfast was done, around it drove to the palace door, glittering like a million gold-pieces. Then the queen stepped in, dressed in her shiniest gown, and the king in his best crown, and last of all, Jack, with a fine green feather in his hat. The footmen clambered carefully up on top so as not to rub their bright gilt boots, the coachman touched up the horses, and off they all whirled, as splendid a sight as the sun ever shone on.

Down the hill they rolled with a fine dash, when the horses reared and stopped.

“Dear me! Dear me!” fluttered the queen. “I hope the harness hasn’t broken.”

As big as the coach wheels

The king put his head out the window. “What’s the matter?” he roared.

The two footmen climbed cautiously down, and stood at attention beside the door.

“Begging your Majesty’s pardon,” said the first, “the bridge is down.”

“Thundering waterfalls!” shouted the king. “It can’t be.” And he burst out of the coach, with Jack at his heels.

Sure enough, there was no bridge at all,—just a line of gray stones heaped higgeldy-piggeldy from bank to bank, with the stream running saucily over them as much as to say, “You can’t bridge me! You can’t bridge me!”

“Well,” cried the king, “I’ll be splashed!” And he sent the two footmen off for the master mason as fast as their gilt legs could carry them.

The master mason scratched his head.

“You see your work,” said the king with a great sneer, “—a bridge so strong it has taken the stream a whole night to wash it away!”

The master mason flushed. “Asking your Majesty’s pardon,” he said stolidly, “it couldn’t have been the river. The bridge I built should have stood a hundred years, barring earthquakes.”

“Nonsense! Nonsense!” cried the king irritably. “Build me a bridge that will stand earthquakes, then, and be quick about it too.” And he climbed back into the coach, and drove off home in a very bad humor indeed.

The master mason and his men worked till long past sunset. When they had finished, there was a bridge twice as high, twice as wide, and twice as solid as before.

The next morning the king was up at daybreak calling for his coach and his crown; and before the dewdrops were off the grass, he was driving off with the queen and Jack down the hill toward town. But just as they got to the river, back lunged the horses again, down clambered the gilt footmen, and out burst the king all a-tremble.

Sure enough, the bridge the master mason had built so solid and so strong was nothing but a jagged pile of stones, with the stream gushing impudently between them as if it were the best joke in the world.

The king called for the master mason in a tone that made the gilt footmen scamper; and back they came with him as red and flustered as the king himself.

“Just one more chance for you,” raged the king, shaking his scepter, “to build me a bridge that will last over night. If by to-morrow morning I don’t find as good a bridge here as ever was built in Ireland, I’ll—I’ll have you buried beneath your own stones and mortar.”

“Your Majesty,” cried the master mason tensely, “it can’t be done. There is some enchantment. The bridges I built here were the best in Ireland. The river could never have washed them away. It can’t be done, I say. It can’t—”

But the king had already slammed the coach door and driven violently away. So there was nothing for the master mason to do but to call his men and get to work harder than ever. All day long they drilled great holes in the bed of the stream and set huge rocks in them, one on top of the other. And over those piers from bank to bank they laid a bridge so bulky and so solid that the like of it was never seen before or since.

The master mason and his men worked harder than ever

It was full moonlight by the time the last stone was heaved into place, and the great bridge loomed like an elephant wading in a brook. The workmen picked up their trowels and troughs, and plunged wearily along the road toward home. The master mason stopped for a last look. “Let any magic throw that down!” he cried defiantly, and shook his fist. Then he trudged after the workmen down the road.

There was a creaking of branches beside the river, and a figure, dirk in hand, crawled to the bridge, paused, looked about, then settled itself, leaning back against the bulky stonework. The figure was lost in the shadow of the bank, but every now and again it raised its head into the clear moonlight. It was Jack!

All the time the bridges had been breaking and the king had been fuming and the master mason had been protesting, Jack had been thinking. For Jack had a couple of eyes in his head, and he saw how small and weak the river was, compared to the bridges. So he thought to himself that it would be no wonder after all if the master mason were right, and it was not the river that kicked the bridges down, but some magic or other. Anyway it would do no harm to watch for a night and see what might happen.

So Jack sat there with the moon shining into his eyes, and not a sound anywhere to keep him company but the palace clock now and then counting off the hours into the quiet. But Jack did not mind, for the moonlight had a kind of friendly feeling in it; and in spite of being alone it was more drowsy he felt than frightened.

He might in fact have gone to sleep entirely if all of a sudden there hadn’t come a strange, low gurgle, as if beyond the hills all the rivers were brimming, brimming, brimming. Then it rose with a rush as if they had burst over the hills and were racing, dashing, flooding down to Jack.

The moon went out as if a great black blot had fallen across the sky, and Jack sprang up, all a-tremble, to see if he could make out what was going on. Something swept by him in the dark, showering him with drops like a moist whirlwind. There was a shaking and a shock, and the bridge which had stood so solid and so firm, crumbled with a crash, stone after stone, into the water.

The moon flashed out again into Jack’s eyes, and black beside it against the sky towered a tremendous giant figure. For a moment Jack caught his breath; then suddenly he understood: It was the giant who had made the darkness by stepping in front of the moon; it was the giant who had rushed splashing by him up the river; it was without a doubt the giant who had pulled his father’s bridges down! And there Jack stood in the moonlight at the foot of the giant, gazing up at the top of him, never daring to say a word.

The giant kicked the building stones with his toe, like so many pebbles. Jack got up his courage.

“Oh, giant,” he shouted, “giant!” But not a syllable more could he get out.

The giant stopped his kicking and scanned the ground with his great eyes. Finally he spied Jack.

“Bursting bridges!” he gurgled. “Who are you?”

Jack stood up as tall as he could. “I’m Jack, the king of Ireland’s son,” he cried; “and it’s my father owns this bridge you’ve broken and this river you’ve splashed up.”

“Rippledy-row!” cried the giant, stepping a-straddle of the stream. “So he owned this bridge, did he? But he never owned this river. No, indeed. That’s mine, you know. Always has been, always will be, and I won’t have it bridged. Do you hear?”

“But you can’t say that,” shouted Jack, “for my father rules the whole of Ireland.”

“He may rule Ireland,” granted the giant pleasantly enough, “but he doesn’t rule the rivers. They belong to me, and I won’t have them crossed. All day long I sit in my castle at the ends of the earth, watching the rivers come and go; and every bridge or dam I see, I go at night to tear it down, so that all my rivers can be free, free,—free as I am!”

“But who are you?” cried Jack.

“Oho!” bellowed the giant, “if that’s what you want to know, come here where I can tell you.” And with that he scooped Jack up in one of his mighty fists and held him there just opposite his eyes.

“Now!” he cried. “Listen:

He who frees the streams I am,

Bursting bridge and splint’ring dam;

For the floods I plow the path,—

Raging, roaring, Riverrath!”

And as he said that, the giant’s voice grew deeper and fuller till it seemed to flood out and fill the air. Jack braced himself against it, but it swept and swirled around him till he drooped limp over Riverrath’s great thumb. But he didn’t lose his wits for all that, and every other minute he kept saying to himself, “I mustn’t let him down me, I mustn’t let him drown me.” Only “down” and “drown” were somehow mixed up in his mind, and which it was he meant he couldn’t himself be quite sure.

“But, but, but,” he gasped as soon as he was able to straighten up again, “you’ve only said your name. You haven’t told me where you come from, where you live, or anything.”

The giant threw back his head with a roar. “That’s just it!” he gurgled. “You’re to come and find out. Anybody else whose father had tried to bridge my river I’d have felt it my duty to drown. But I like you, Jack. You have a steady head on your shoulders. You’re not afraid even of me. And I’ll give you a year and a day to find my castle. It’s a weary walk, but if you get there you’ll never want any good thing more,—that I’ll promise you. But if you don’t,”—and here the giant’s voice grew deep and troubled,—“if you don’t, why then

Your father’s castle, coach, and crown,

Queen and country I will drown!”

There was a sudden brightening in the sky, and Jack felt himself set down with a bump upon the grassy bank. The next moment a chilly spray beat in his face and trickled down his neck. He looked up to see the giant Riverrath with his garments dripping and fluttering, dashing up the river and off toward the pale moon.

“Which way is your castle?” shouted Jack.

“At the ends of the earth,” called the giant. And Jack could hear his mighty laughter gurgling up among the hills.

He drooped limp over Riverrath’s great thumb

For some minutes Jack sat gazing at the sunrise, thinking it all over. Then he picked himself up, and ran pell-mell to the palace. There was the king already up, standing before the mirror putting on his crown. And there was the queen ready to go out with him in the coach.

“Father! Mother!” cried Jack. “I must go upon a journey.”

“Of course, of course,” said the king. “You’re going to drive with us to town.”

“Oh, not that!” cried Jack. “I have to go to the ends of the earth to find the giant Riverrath.”

“And who is he?” asked the king.

“The giant who pulls your bridges down,” said Jack; and he told them all about it.

“It’s nonsense,” said the king decidedly. “Here the palace has stood three hundred years, and here it will stand for all your giants. However,” he added a little nervously, “if you’re determined, Jack, I suppose you may as well go to find him.”

As for the queen, as soon as she saw how things were turning out, she ran to the pantry and set the four-and-twenty dairy maids to putting up a lunch for Jack. “For,” said she, “he may be gone a year and a day, and I don’t want my son to go hungry.”

So Jack chose a good stout staff for a walking stick, slung his lunch across his back, and set off for the ends of the earth. His father and mother watched from the palace tower till his green feather was lost to sight behind the hills.

All day long Jack walked up hill and down, in and out, by field and farm, through market and town, past castle and cottage. And everywhere he stopped to ask his way. But the queer part was that though every one had heard of the ends of the earth, no one could tell him just where they lay. There was no scholar who had ever seen them on a map and no traveler who had been so far.

Jack set off for the ends of the earth

“Oh, yes,” people would say wisely and nod their heads, “the ends of the earth! Every one has heard of them, of course, but just where they are or how you would go to get there, that I can’t say.”

So Jack kept on for a week and a month, knocking and knocking at all the house doors, without finding any one to tell him the way. And every day his lunch grew smaller, his shoes grew thinner, and his feather which had stood up so fine and straight, drooped more and more. But his heart inside him beat as happy and as high as on the morning he said good-by to his father and his mother. And he whistled so cheerily that the housewives would smile as he passed, and say, “There’s a brave lad coming home from a journey.”

Everywhere he stopped to ask his way

Late one afternoon Jack found himself on a wide, sandy plain that stretched as far as he could see. There were no house doors at which to knock and no travelers of whom to inquire the way. It was quite lonely and still. Ahead on the far horizon inky turrets appeared against the setting sun. They belonged to a castle standing alone upon a high rock. Beyond it was only sky. The sand seemed to reach the cliff, and stop in a sudden firm line. The hope and joy in Jack almost choked him. What could this be but the ends of the earth and the castle of the giant Riverrath?

“Oh, yes,” they said, “the ends of the earth!”

The dark began to come, and it was the last edge of twilight when Jack reached the great black cliff where the castle stood. He felt about, but the rock was steep and jagged whichever way he turned. So he scrambled up on his hands and knees. At the end of an hour or so he found himself, scratched and breathless, under the huge wall of the castle. In the dim starlight a few feet away he could make out an iron grating with bars as thick as tree trunks.

Inky turrets

“That is the castle gate,” thought Jack. So he beat upon it with his staff. The massive iron resounded through the dark. But when the noise died down, the castle loomed as silent as before. Jack whacked at the bars again, blow after blow, till he could hear the echoes go booming down the hall inside. There was the loud, slow grating of a lock, the opening of a great door, and a light as big and bright as the moon came swinging down the corridor, far above Jack’s head.

As soon as his eyes got through blinking, Jack looked up. The other side of the tall grating towered a man as high and wide as the palace at home; but it was not the giant Riverrath. This giant had black hair and black mustaches, and he looked down at Jack by the light of his huge lantern without saying a word.

“Good evening,” said Jack politely, doffing his hat. “Could you tell me the way to the ends of the earth and the castle of giant Riverrath?”

At that the giant’s face broke into dimples as deep as teacups. He rattled the gate open with a noise like thunder, and cried out:

“Flip-flap, flip-flap,

Here’s a cheery, chary chap!

By the map I’ll point the path

To the home of Riverrath.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” gasped Jack. But he didn’t have breath left to say more, for the giant bent down and carried him off through the tall corridor to a vast room all of iron. The ceiling and the walls were iron, and so were the chairs, the table, and the great spits over the fire. The giant set Jack and his lantern both on the table.

“Well, Jack,” he said, “I’m glad to see you, for I haven’t seen a man before for three hundred years.

“As for the ends of the earth,” went on the giant, “wherever they are, I’m sure to find them for you. For I have a map of the whole world hanging on the wall. Only if I get that out, you’ll have to stay all night, for it will take me that long to look it over.”

Jack said that he would like to. So the giant took four or five fine roast pigs from a spit and piled them up on a platter. He and Jack had a very merry supper. After it was done, the giant put on his great iron-bowed spectacles, and spread the map out on the table. Jack walked around on it, all over the pink countries and the yellow, across the blue seas, to the green spot that was Ireland. There he stopped, and showed the giant where his father’s palace was, and the stream where Riverrath had pulled down the bridges. Then he went and lay down in the inglenook while the giant traced out all the names with his great finger.

In the morning when Jack woke up, the giant was just hanging the map up again on the wall.

“Oh, Jack,” said he, “to think that I should have to disappoint you after all! But I’ve been over every word and every letter, and there’s no mention of the ends of the earth on the map at all.”

Jack walked to the green spot that was Ireland

“Never mind,” said Jack, “and thank you kindly.” But he couldn’t help looking a bit downhearted for all he spoke so bravely.

“I’ll tell you what,” cried the giant, “there’s still a chance some one might know how to get there. And if any one does, it will be my brother, who lives nine hundred miles from here. For he has a book with the history of the whole world written down in it.”

So the giant took Jack down the steep precipice the other side of the castle, that had seemed to him like the ends of the earth the night before. “Now, Jack,” said the giant, “when I whistle, you start forward, and then you’ll get there all the quicker.”

The giant whistled loud enough to be heard nine hundred miles, and then at every step Jack took, he went the length of ten. And so in scarcely a week’s time, Jack found himself before a great bronze castle shining red in the sunset. He beat with his staff on the tall bronze gate; and a giant, big and ruddy, with glowing hair, came to see who was there.

“Good afternoon,” said Jack. “Could you tell me the way to the ends of the earth and the castle of giant Riverrath?”

The giant beamed all over his great red face, and his eyes shone like coals of fire. He swung open the gate with a glorious clang, and cried:

“Flip-flap, flip-flap,

Here’s a cheery, chary chap;

By the book I’ll point the path

To the home of Riverrath!”

And with that the giant picked Jack up and carried him down a corridor echoing like deep chimes, into a vast room all of bronze. The ceiling, the walls, the table, the chairs, flashed back the firelight like a hundred sunsets. The giant set Jack on the bronze table.

“I’m glad to see you, Jack,” he said, “for I haven’t seen a man before for three hundred years.”

“Why,” cried Jack, “that’s just what your brother said.” And he told the giant all about his visit to the great iron castle.

When he had finished, the giant’s good-natured face grew sober. “Strange,” he said, “that the ends of the earth weren’t down on my brother’s map, when you hear of them every day or so. But I’ll tell you what, Jack: if any one has ever been there, my book will say so, for that has the whole history of the world written down in it. Only if I get that out, you’ll have to stay all night, for it will take me that long to read it through.”

Jack thanked him, and the giant took four or five fine brown pigs from a spit and piled them up on a platter. He and Jack had a merry supper. When the giant talked, his voice echoed about the bronze room as if a hundred great bells were ringing; and when Jack answered, it was like a hundred little bells tinkling back again.

After supper, the giant put on his big bronze-bowed spectacles, and opened his tremendous book at page one. For a while Jack stood on the table beside him and tried to read too. But the lines were so long and so big that before he had finished the first one he had fallen fast asleep.

In the morning when Jack woke up, the giant was just putting the book away again on its shelf. “Jack,” said he, “I’m afraid I’m no more help to you than my brother. For I’ve read through every line and every word of the whole book, and I can’t find that anybody has ever been to the ends of the earth. There is plenty of talk about going, but no one seems ever to get there at all.”

“Never mind,” said Jack, “and thank you kindly.” But he couldn’t help looking a bit downhearted for all he spoke so bravely.

“I’ll tell you what,” cried the giant; “there’s still a chance some one might know how to get there. And if any one does, it will be my brother who lives nine hundred miles from here. For he is master of all the birds of the air.”

So the giant took Jack outside, and whistled loud enough to be heard nine hundred miles. And then at every step Jack took he went the length of ten. So in scarcely a week’s time Jack found himself at noonday before a great golden castle glittering in the sunshine. He knocked with his staff on the high gate; and a giant with golden hair and eyes as blue and gleaming as the noonday sky, came to see who was there.

“Good day,” said Jack politely. “Could you tell me the way to the ends of the earth and the castle of giant Riverrath?”

The giant beamed all over his great happy face, till his eyes and his cheeks and his wide mouth were full of sunny smiles. He swung open the gate, and cried:

“Flip-flap, flip-flap,

Here’s a cheery, chary chap;

From the birds I’ll ask the path

To the home of Riverrath!”

And with that he picked Jack up and carried him through a shining corridor, up hundreds and hundreds of high golden stairs till they came out on a dazzling turret far up against the sky. The giant set Jack down on the wide parapet. “I’m glad to see you, Jack,” he said, “for I haven’t seen a man before for three hundred years.”

“Why,” cried Jack, “that’s just what your brothers said.” And he told the giant all about his visits to the iron castle and the bronze.

“Never mind,” cried the giant cheerily, when Jack had finished. “Birds fly farther than men ever go; and perhaps some of them will have been to the ends of the earth. Anyway we shall soon find out, for I am master of all the birds of the air.”

Jack thanked him, and the giant took from his pocket a great golden whistle and blew it with the sweetest sound, that seemed to pierce the air in all directions. In just a minute the sky was full of flying birds. The eagles and the hawks came first, the gulls and all the birds with long, strong wings; then the swallows, the robins, the blue jays and the doves, and last the parrots and macaws and all the gay birds of the jungle. They lit on the giant’s shoulders, and Jack’s, all over the turret and the castle towers, chattering and cheeping till Jack had to put his fingers in his ears.

When the giant thought they were all there, he blew his whistle for silence.

“Which of you has been to the ends of the earth?” he cried.

But all the birds kept still, for none of them had ever been so far.

And if Jack had been downhearted before, now he was ten times more so, for where to turn next he didn’t know.

As for the giant, he said never a word, but began counting the birds, one by one. “There’s one missing!” he cried at last.

As he spoke there was a loud beating of wings, and Jack looked up to see an eagle ten times larger than any of the others, flying toward them.

“You’re late,” called the giant sternly.

“And a good reason why,” screamed the eagle. “I’ve had twenty times as far to come as any other bird here.”

“Where have you been then?” asked the giant.

“At the ends of the earth,” screeched the eagle, “visiting the giant Riverrath.”

When Jack heard that, he was ready to jump up and hug the eagle; but the giant seemed to have forgotten about Jack’s errand entirely.

“Well, eagle,” he said, “if you have come so far, you must be hungry. Come in and have some lunch.”

So the giant and the eagle went into the castle, and left Jack with all the other birds outside. One by one, they flew away, and Jack was there alone. After a while he heard the giant’s steps again coming up the stairs.

“Now, Jack,” said the giant, “I’ve found out from the eagle about the ends of the earth, and they’re farther than I thought. You never could get there by walking. The only way will be for the eagle to take you. But if he knows it’s you he’s carrying, I’m afraid he might get hungry and eat you. So here’s a bag to put you in, so that he won’t see you at all.”

The giant took out of his pocket a great golden bag, big enough to hold Jack twice over. Jack stepped in and sat down, and the giant drew up the string. “Quiet now,” he said; “don’t let the eagle hear you stirring.”

When the eagle had finished his lunch, he came up on the turret to say good-by. “Oh, eagle,” said the giant, “I wonder if you’d do me a bit of a favor. There’s a bag over there I’m anxious to get to the giant Riverrath; and since you know the way, I thought you’d be good enough to take it for me.”

The eagle grumbled a little about its being so far. But he didn’t dare refuse the giant. So he took the bag in his beak, and flew with it up into the sky.

Jack cut a little hole in the side to look out of. But the eagle flew so fast and so high he could hardly see the earth at all. So they flew for a week or more before Jack felt the eagle going slower. He looked out of the hole again; and sure enough, straight ahead was a great crystal castle with waterfalls tumbling over the walls. Wherever he looked he could see rainbows gleaming through it in the morning sunshine. Beyond it there was nothing at all. So Jack knew he was at the ends of the earth at the castle of the giant Riverrath.

The eagle gave a hoarse scream, and Riverrath himself came out of the castle door. “Here’s a bag for you,” said the eagle shortly, setting it down; and flew away again.

So they flew for a week or more

Jack ripped the bag open with his sword, and stepped out at Riverrath’s feet. “Good morning,” he said, and couldn’t help smiling just to think that he had gotten there at last.

“Bursting bridges!” roared Riverrath, “if it isn’t Jack!” And he couldn’t help smiling too, just to think that Jack had found the way. So he gave a kind of yawn behind his hand that ended in a great gurgling laugh. “I knew I liked you, Jack,” said he, “and you’ll find that I’ll keep my word with you too. Now come and see the castle.”

So he took Jack up into the highest tower where he could see the rivers coming and going, and then down to the great middle court where was a fountain fed by all the rivers of the earth. And by that time Jack and the giant were joking together like the best friends in the world.

But the thing Jack liked best in all the castle was not the high fountain nor the wide view but the little slip of a girl who was Riverrath’s daughter. For she was as small as Riverrath was big, and as calm as he was boisterous. When Riverrath walked abroad, the rivers always rose up and roared to greet him; but before the girl, even the wildest and angriest of them would lie down quietly to let her pass over. And because she was so placid and at the same time so joyous, they called her the Daughter of the Fountain.

She had pale pink cheeks and flying hair, and a silver gown with rainbow lights in the folds. And when it came to a race she could usually beat Jack. For he would be so taken up with looking at her that he never could bear to get ahead. So all day long they played together, and at the end they would climb up on Riverrath’s high shoulders and make him take them for a walk. And Jack thought he never in all his life had had so good a time.

But one morning Riverrath came to him. “Jack,” said he, quite soberly, “do you know what to-day is?”

“Why, no,” answered Jack, not much caring.

“Well,” said Riverrath, “to-day your time is up. It’s a year and a day since you started out to find me, and now you must be going back to your father and your mother.”

Then Jack looked sober too, for though he knew quite well that the giant was right, he couldn’t bear to think of going.

“Come, come, Jack,” cried Riverrath kindly. “Don’t be downhearted. If you must go, you must, and that’s the end of it. Come down to the court in just an hour’s time, and you’ll find a boat waiting to take you home. And because I like you, Jack, I’ll give you a guide besides.”

So Jack went and said good-by to the Daughter of the Fountain, got his hat and his staff, and came down to the court just as the giant had told him. Sure enough, there in the pool at the edge of the fountain, was a boat made of a great scallop shell, with a gossamer sail shining silver in the morning sunshine. But there was something silvery in the boat too. Jack looked, but he couldn’t believe his eyes, for there sat the Daughter of the Fountain, looking as roguish and contented as if she were there to stay.

Riverrath beamed all over his great joyous face. “There is your guide in the boat,” said he. And he gathered Jack up with a hug of his big fingers, and put him down in the shell right beside the Daughter of the Fountain.

“And now,” said Riverrath, feeling around in his huge pockets, “here are three presents I want you to leave for me with the three giants who helped you to find me.” So he handed Jack three neat white parcels tied with water-lilies.

“Good-by,” he roared, “good-by. And don’t forget the giant Riverrath. Sometimes I’ll come to visit you, and sometimes you’ll come to visit me.”

Inside was a tiny fountain.

And with that he blew against the sail, and the shell moved quietly out of the pool, through the green grottoes underneath the castle, and out down the rivers of the earth. When the rivers saw that it was the Daughter of the Fountain coming, they lay down and let the shell skim over them faster than any bird could fly.

In a little while Jack saw the great gold castle of the bird giant. He beat with his staff on the gate, and the giant came out to meet them. “Here is a present from the giant Riverrath,” cried Jack.

So the giant untied the water-lilies, and there inside was a tiny fountain which grew and grew until it was a mile wide,—big enough for all the birds of the air to bathe in.

“Thank you, thank you,” called the bird giant. “And good luck to you, Jack!”

In just a few minutes more the shell floated up to the bronze castle. And there was the history giant outside, waiting for them. Jack gave him his present from the giant Riverrath. As he untied it, a nice, wet spring bubbled out, and beside it was a card which read:

“A spring—to make history less dry reading.”

The history giant beamed. “Thank you,” he cried gratefully. “And good luck to you, Jack!”

In scarcely half an hour they came to the map giant sitting on one of the towers of his iron castle. Jack handed Riverrath’s present up to him. Hardly had he begun to open it when the clearest stream Jack had ever seen trickled down over the castle wall. With it was a card which read:

“A crystal brook,—to make geography clearer.”

“Thank you, thank you!” cried the map giant. “And all the school children will thank you too.”

After that Jack and the Daughter of the Fountain skimmed down the rivers for an hour or more before they saw the King of Ireland’s palace. On the bank stood Jack’s father and mother waiting to welcome them. Jack got out and kissed them both; then he gave his hand to the Daughter of the Fountain.

When the king and queen saw what a fine lady Jack’s guide was, they thought they would like to have her for a daughter. “How would you like to marry Jack?” asked the king.

The Daughter of the Fountain said she would not mind in the least. So the king called for his gilt coach, and they all got in and drove toward town. And when the river saw that the Daughter of the Fountain was in the coach, it lay right down, and let them drive over as dry and fine as you please.

Jack and the Daughter of the Fountain went into the church and were married. And all the people cried, “What a fine bride Jack has!”

But the king was so taken up with looking at his coach that he forgot the bride entirely. For on all the gilt wheels, on all the gilt sides, on both the shiny doors was not a single spot of mud! And ever after when the king of Ireland drove down among his subjects, his coach was just as bright and fine as the day it first was gilded.

—Based on Celtic folk-lore.

VI
The Giants’ Pot

Giants, just as oft as not,

Eat their porridge from a pot;

Which is proper and polite,

If the pot is clean and bright:

But the giants we shall mention

Failed to give their pot attention:—

Oh, a daily little rub’ll

Often save a sight of trouble.

Seymour Barnard.

VI
The Giants’ Pot

In the days when the world was jollier than it is now, there were three giants in Germany. Their names were Grosskopf, Grossmund, and Grosshand, and they lived on the top of a mountain.

No more contented family could be imagined. Their home was airy; yet only one giant-step below, there flowed the good water of the river Rhine. When it came to food, their wants were simple, for from one year’s end to the other they ate nothing but oatmeal porridge. As for the work, they had it so well arranged that each one did for the others what he best could. Grosshand did the cooking; Grossmund did the talking; and Grosskopf did the thinking. What more could be desired? When they were hungry, there was Grosshand to stir up the porridge; when they were dull there was Grossmund to tell stories and make them merry; when they were in a scrape, there was Grosskopf to find a way out.

Pots with handles, pots with covers, pots with legs

Even the mountain did its share. For besides giving the giants a home, it kept up a fire that never went out over which they cooked their porridge. It was at any rate a rather unusual mountain. Instead of being rough and craggy and rising to a sharp, uncomfortable point, it was smooth and green, and the top was hollowed out in a wide, deep bowl. Right in the middle of the bowl was the spot, some forty feet across, that served as the giants’ stove. No matter how it snowed, no matter how it rained, no matter how the wind blew, that spot was always red hot, glowing with the great fire shut up inside the mountain.

Pots for boiling, pots for stewing

Many a cook might have envied Grosshand. All he had to do was to set the porridge on the stove and turn peacefully over to snore the night out. In the morning, the minute the giants blinked their eyes open, there would be their porridge steaming up into the sunlight ready to be eaten. After breakfast his task was no harder. He had but to put on more porridge, and be off with his brothers for the fun of the day. At night when they came wading wearily back, down the river Rhine, they would see, miles off, the gust of smoke against the sunset that meant a hot supper at home. And so they were soon fed when they were hungry, and no one could ever complain that the meals were late.

Pots for frying

In fact there would have been nothing at all to grumble about had it not been for the pots. Now, any one who had looked into the giants’ cupboard would have thought it well equipped indeed. There were big pots and little pots, deep pots and shallow pots, wide pots and narrow pots, iron pots and brass pots, pots with handles, pots with covers, pots with legs, pots for boiling, pots for frying, pots for stewing, and just plain pots.

The trouble was that all the pots, big and little, wide and narrow, deep and shallow, spread out on the stove together, held scarcely enough porridge for the giants’ breakfast. Then too, the pots were getting old. They had been handed down for generations in the giants’ family, and as every one of them had been used every day for more years than you could count, they began gradually from sheer old age to wear out.

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.

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.

“It must be as wide as the stove,” said Grosshand.

“It must be as deep as the bowl,” said Grosskopf.

“It must be as big as our appetites,” said Grossmund.

And then after some consideration they came to the satisfactory conclusion that a pot as wide as the stove and as deep as the bowl would be just the right size to a spoonful to satisfy their hunger.

The minute breakfast was over, the measuring began. Grosshand did the reaching around. Grossmund did the calling off. Grosskopf did the writing down. There was not a tape-measure on the whole mountain, and so Grosshand used his belt instead. He clambered down into the bowl and laid his belt once, twice, nearly three times along the edge of the stove.

“Two and a half,” called Grossmund, peering down.

And Grosskopf, sitting crosslegged near by, scratched “two and a half” with a sharpened tree trunk on his spoon.

Measuring as he came, Grosshand climbed the bowl. Grossmund counted, Grosskopf wrote, and the measuring was done.

“But who will make the pot?” asked Grossmund.

“A blacksmith,” said Grosshand.

“Herr Klinkerklanker,” said Grosskopf.

Grosshand put on his belt; Grosskopf took his spoon; Grossmund cut a walking-stick. And they stepped off gaily, arm in arm, across the river Rhine.

Eisenburg, where Herr Klinkerklanker lived, was but a step from the river, and when the giants got there, they walked carefully, single file. They were kindly fellows at heart and went out of their way, through roads and over gardens, to avoid crushing the houses. Nevertheless when the townsfolk saw the huge shapes making for their very dooryards, they scurried in alarm. Horses shied, drivers ran, dogs dodged, geese flapped, mothers called, doors slammed. Every chick and child scampered indoors as fast as its legs could run.

It was not that they had never seen the giants before. Every day the great figures went splashing by up the Rhine, and they hardly turned to look. And many an evening when more smoke than usual came from the mountain, the housewives would glance up from their knitting to remark that the giants’ porridge was burning. They were used to the giants and had a kind of distant affection for them, as they had for the hills and the river. But it is one thing to love a river when it is still, and quite another when it comes sweeping down over your house. And so when the giants, colossal-limbed and thunder-voiced, came tramping through the town, it was an entirely different matter. For years such a thing had not occurred. The oldest grandfather of all could not remember when they had come before.

As for the giants themselves, they had not the least idea of the commotion they were causing. They plodded along, talking and singing in their big bass voices, and took not the slightest notice of all the screaming and scrambling going on about their feet. Grosskopf was ahead, and when he came to the market-place, he stepped in and stopped. Grosshand stepped in too; but when it came Grossmund’s turn, there was not room enough left for him; so he had to stand a-straddle, one foot in and one foot out in the field behind the guild-hall.

“And now,” said Grossmund, “which is Herr Klinkerklanker’s house?”

The giants in the market-place

The giants looked around. There were hundreds of roofs, but they were all just alike,—some larger, to be sure, and some smaller, but all steep, red-tiled, and peaked, with a great chimney-pot above. Herr Klinkerklanker’s might be one, and it might be another. There was not the least way of telling.

“We must ask some one,” said Grossmund.

But there was no one to ask. Every soul was safely locked indoors.

So the giants considered. They thought and thought, and looked and looked here and there among the silent streets of the town. Suddenly Grosshand pointed. Not a step away, a small bright flame shot up between two houses. It seemed to come from an iron table. Grossmund was nearest. He bent down, picked up the iron with his thumb and forefinger and blew out the fire.

Then Grosskopf had a thought. “Herr Klinkerklanker’s forge!” he said.

Grossmund put the thing down. Then he bent over the red-roofed house beside it. He put his lips to the chimney and whistled.

“Herr Klinkerklanker! Herr Klinkerklanker!” he called as softly as he knew how.

The windows rattled and the door quivered; but there was no answer.

“Herr Klinkerklanker! Herr Klinkerklanker!” he called again.

That time the door opened, and a little figure in a leather apron came slowly down the steps.

“At your service, gentlemen,” he said, and doffed his cap. But he trembled very hard indeed.

Now the giants had been brought up to be polite; and at that they bowed, all together, so low that their heads bumped.

“We want you to make us a pot,” said Grossmund, “a pot to hold all our porridge.”

Herr Klinkerklanker stopped trembling. But he spoke not a word though he opened his mouth wide and wider.

Grosshand held up his belt. “The pot must be as big around as this,” he said, “twice and a half over.”

Herr Klinkerklanker considered. Then he turned toward the house and clapped his hands smartly together.

Out of the door and down the steps, three at once, four at once, five at once, dashed his apprentices, helter-skelter,—some with hammers, some with horseshoes, some with hoes, some with shovels, some with pots,—with everything in all Eisenburg to be made or mended with iron. And so, clattering and stumbling, they came and stood, five-and-twenty strong, before Herr Klinkerklanker.

“Measuring rods, quills, inkhorns,” said he. “And all to the market-place.”

Three at once

Hoes, hammers, horseshoes, shovels, pots, rattled down in one clanging pile. And the apprentices, two by two, fell in behind Herr Klinkerklanker. And so the giants, all in a hurry, stepped out of the market-place to let them in.

Then there was a bustling indeed. Those who were good at measuring started in on Grosshand’s belt. Those who were good at writing copied the numbers on Grosskopf’s spoon. Those who were good at figuring scribbled and scratched With all their might to find out how much two and a half times Grosshand’s belt might be. As for the rest, Herr Klinkerklanker sent them to knock at all the house doors until they got every bit of iron in town and a hundred lusty men to hammer it.

Four at once

Not even the giants remained idle. Grosskopf and Grossmund tore wide, flat boulders out of the mountain and set them up for a forge and an anvil in the market-place. Grosshand came rattling back with all his pots swinging in his hands and strung clattering about his neck.

And then giants, hammerers, apprentices, set up such a clinking and a clanking and a puffing and a blowing as never was heard in all Germany before. All day long the great forge flame swept skywards. All day long the five-and-twenty apprentices swung their sledges while Herr Klinkerklanker shouted orders. All day long the hundred hammerers beat and pounded at the glowing iron that was to be the giants’ pot.

All day long Grossmund puffed out his great cheeks and blew to keep up the forge flame. All day long Grosshand lifted the pot from forge to anvil, and back again from anvil to forge. All day long Grosskopf stood quietly by ready to think in case of emergency.

Five at once

As for the housewives of Eisenburg, they were busy too, with every kettle in all the town a-steam and a-stew with porridge to feed the giants until their own pot should be done. But the children had the most fun, for they had nothing whatever to do but dance about the market-place and watch the hammers swinging and the sparks skyrocketing and the big, slow giants lifting and blowing and thinking.

What with heating and beating, and hammering inside and out, the great iron mass grew gradually taller and taller and bulgier and bulgier, until one day in the middle of the square there stood a black, shiny mountain of a pot. Then there was a holiday, you may be sure. The hundred hammerers, the five-and-twenty apprentices, and even Herr Klinkerklanker himself went dancing about the pot in a jubilant circle. And every man and woman and child in all Eisenburg climbed the high scaffolding and walked round and round the top of the pot, peering down into the black, slippery abyss inside.

Now, the giants were as generous as they were big; and standing in the streets and gardens behind the square, they looked down benevolently at the merrymaking. Then Grossmund called to Herr Klinkerklanker to hold out his apron, and Grosshand who was a good shot, poured into it a continuous stream of gold-pieces,—for the apprentices and the hammerers and all the good housewives who had kept them in porridge. Then when the women had curtsied and the men had bowed and the bells had clanged, and all the people together had shouted, “Huzza for the giants!” Grosshand and Grosskopf picked up the big pot and went swinging off with it across the Rhine, while Grossmund followed, calling good-bys to Eisenburg.

The very first thing the giants did when they got back to their mountain-top was to fill their new pot full of porridge and put it on the stove. Sure enough, it was just a fit! So, they sat around and watched the porridge bubble and steam; and the minute it was done, they dipped their spoons in all at once, shut their eyes, opened their mouths, and swallowed very hard, all together. They ate and ate until they had to let out their belts; and then when there was no more porridge left, they licked their spoons and lay back and looked at the new pot.

“It is as wide as the stove,” cried Grosshand.

“It is as deep as the bowl,” said Grosskopf.

“It is as big as our appetites!” cried Grossmund, smacking his lips.

So, meal after meal went joyously by. The giants would put in their spoons, shut their eyes, open their mouths, and swallow all together till the porridge was gone. Then they would lick their spoons, smack their lips, and remark for the hundredth time on the satisfactory size of the pot.

The apprentices scampered to the market-place.

But one day, long before it came time to let out belts, the giants’ spoons brought up no more porridge. They felt here, and they felt there; but the porridge was all gone.

“But I’m still hungry,” cried Grosshand angrily.

“And I’m still hungry,” cried Grosskopf, still angrier.

“And I’m still hungry,” cried Grossmund, angriest of all.

The giants looked at one another. When they began, the pot had been full to overflowing, and now before they were half through, there was no more porridge.

Then Grosskopf had an idea. “Look for a hole,” he said.

Grosshand seized the pot and turned it over. He felt here and he felt there. He twisted it this way and that. But the more he examined, the better he saw that the pot was as firm and sound as the day it was made.

Grosskopf thought again. “The pot has shrunk,” he said.

The giants looked.

“It is as wide as the stove,” said Grosshand.

“It is as deep as the bowl,” said Grosskopf.

“But it’s not as big as our appetites,” wailed Grossmund.

The next day it was just the same. The pot looked as big as ever, and the giants were no hungrier than usual, and yet there was not half enough porridge to go around.

On the third day Grosskopf came to a conclusion. “The thing is bewitched,” he said.

“Herr Klinkerklanker! Herr Klinkerklanker!” roared Grossmund. “Our pot is bewitched.”

And with that Grosshand and Grosskopf seized it and went tearing down the mountain, through the Rhine, and straight to Eisenburg. And all the housewives, all the children, the hundred hammerers, the five-and-twenty apprentices, and Herr Klinkerklanker himself heard Grossmund’s roars, dropped their work and their playthings, and scampered to the market-place as fast as their legs could carry them.

Grosshand laid the pot on its side in the very center of the square. “Herr Klinkerklanker,” he said, “the pot is still as wide as the stove—”

“And as deep as the bowl,” put in Grosskopf.

“And yet we go hungry to bed,” finished Grossmund.

The hundred hammerers shook, the five-and-twenty apprentices trembled; and all the people stood breathless while Herr Klinkerklanker walked slowly all the way around the pot, and then stepped inside. The giants wrinkled their great brows and waited.

Suddenly something echoed and reëchoed inside the pot. The people listened. It was a sound that chuckled and stopped and went on again, and somehow reminded one for all the world—of a laugh.

Then Herr Klinkerklanker stepped to the mouth of the pot and clapped his hands. The apprentices ran to him.

“Hoes!” cried Herr Klinkerklanker.

In a twinkling the five-and-twenty apprentices with their five-and-twenty hoes were in the pot. Then there arose such a scratching and scraping, and a scraping and scratching as never was heard before; and suddenly out of the pot, into the square burst a whole snowstorm of dried porridge.

Herr Klinkerklanker stepped out and bowed to the giants. “Friends,” he said, “if you will wash your pot clean, it will always be the same size.”

And with that hammerers and housewives, apprentices and children broke into a peal of laughter. As for the giants, they were so much relieved, and so good-natured at any rate, that they liked nothing better than a joke on themselves. Grosskopf capered, Grossmund shouted, and Grosshand let fall such a shower of gold-pieces that the Eisenburgers were still scrambling for them a week later.

Every day after that, as soon as a meal was over, the giants gave their pot such a swishing and a swashing in the river Rhine as made the boats take good care to keep out of their way. And so the pot stayed the same satisfactory size, inside as well as out. And the giants, having nothing to trouble them and plenty to eat, grew very fat and contented indeed.

What finally became of Grosshand, Grossmund, and Grosskopf, I cannot tell. For a number of years the Eisenburgers have not seen them. Their pot too seems to have vanished completely. Only the water of the Rhine has never been quite so clear since the giants took to washing out their pot there. And sometimes on a clear evening when the Eisenburgers look up at the mountain and see a trail of smoke against the sunset, they nod wisely, for they know that the faithful fire is still burning, waiting for the giants to come back and cook their porridge.

—Adapted from a Rhine legend.

VII
The Giant Who Rode on the Ark

The wiry wasp, the bumble bee,

The loon, the linnet and the lark,

The kangaroo and chimpanzee

Were shown a place within the Ark:

The gnawing gnu, the restive roe,

The armadillo none denied;

No one asked the giants, though,

And poor Hurtali rode outside.

Seymour Barnard.

VII
The Giant Who Rode on the Ark