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.
[Illustration: 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.”
[Illustration: 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._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
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
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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?”
[Illustration: 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.