Chapter III: Part TWO: How the Bakers Wished They Hadn’t 251 (2)

“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.

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.

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._

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?”

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.

“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.

“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.

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 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.”

“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.”_

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. 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.

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.