He was too
intent staring at the pixies and his last beautiful cow. He saw them
throw her down, fall on her, and kill her; then with their knives they
ripped her open, and flayed her as clean as a whistle. Then out ran some
of the little people and brought in firewood and made a roaring blaze on
the hearth, and there they cooked the flesh of the cow--they baked and
they boiled, they stewed and they fried.
"Take care," cried one, who seemed to be the king, "let no bone be
broken."
Well, when they had all eaten, and had devoured every scrap of beef on
the cow, they began playing games with the bones, tossing them one to
another. One little leg-bone fell close to the closet door, and the
farmer was so afraid lest the pixies should come there and find him in
their search for the bone, that he put out his hand and drew it in to
him. Then he saw the king stand on the table and say, "Gather the
bones!"
Round and round flew the imps, picking up the bones. "Arrange them,"
said the king; and they placed them all in their proper positions in the
hide of the cow.
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