When the gods went on a
journey they travelled fast and hard, for they were strong, active
spirits who loved nothing so much as hard work, hard blows, storm,
peril, and struggle. There were no roads through the country over which
they made their way, only high mountains to be climbed by rocky paths,
deep valleys into which the sun hardly looked during half the year, and
swift-rushing streams, cold as ice, and treacherous to the surest foot
and the strongest arm. Not a bird flew through the air, not an animal
sprang through the trees. It was as still as a desert. The gods walked
on and on, getting more tired and hungry at every step. The sun was
sinking low over the steep, pine-crested mountains, and the travellers
had neither breakfasted nor dined. Even Odin was beginning to feel the
pangs of hunger, like the most ordinary mortal, when suddenly, entering
a little valley, the famished gods came upon a herd of cattle. It was
the work of a minute to kill a great ox and to have the carcass
swinging in a huge pot over a roaring fire.
But never were gods so unlucky before! In spite of their hunger, the pot
would not boil. They piled on the wood until the great flames crackled
and licked the pot with their fiery tongues, but every time the cover
was lifted there was the meat just as raw as when it was put in. It is
easy to imagine that the travellers were not in very good humour.
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