"Good-day, Mimer," said Odin, entering; "I have come for a drink from
your well."
The giant was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin, his long
white beard falling over his folded arms, and his head nodding; for
Mimer was very old, and he often fell asleep while watching over his
precious spring. He woke with a frown at Odin's words. "You want a drink
from my well, do you?" he growled. "Hey! I let no one drink from my
well."
"Nevertheless, you must let me have a draught from your glittering
horn," insisted Odin, "and I will pay you for it."
"Oho, you will pay me for it, will you?" echoed Mimer, eyeing his
visitor keenly. For now that he was wide awake, his wisdom taught him
that this was no ordinary stranger. "What will you pay for a drink from
my well, and why do you wish it so much?"
"I can see with my eyes all that goes on in heaven and upon earth,"
said Odin, "but I cannot see into the depths of ocean. I lack the hidden
wisdom of the deep--the wit that lies at the bottom of your fountain. My
ravens tell me many secrets; but I would know all. And as for payment,
ask what you will, and I will pledge anything in return for the draught
of wisdom."
Then Mimer's keen glance grew keener. "You are Odin, of the race of
gods," he cried. "We giants are centuries older than you, and our wisdom
which we have treasured during these ages, when we were the only
creatures in all space, is a precious thing.
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