“What is your name?” asked Bauge of his new workman when they set forth the next morning to the fields.

“You may call me Bolverk,” answered Odin.

“Will one name be enough for all nine of you?” said Bauge with a disagreeable curling of his upper lip.

“I will not burden your giant mind with more than one,” Odin answered,—a funny little twinkle in his eye.

The giant gave a furious grunt. He did not quite know whether his new workman was stupid, or, whether under all his seeming meekness, it might not be that he was making fun of him.

Well, Bauge set Bolverk to work, and then, lazy fellow that he was, stretched himself out on a mountain side to watch.

“That new workman of mine,” he bellowed, calling the attention of a neighbor giant to Odin at work in the field; “do you see him down there among the corn? He says he can do nine men’s work.”

“A workman usually thinks himself equal to any nine other workingmen,” roared back the neighbor. “Of course you have agreed to give him nine men’s wages?”

Then the two giants roared with laughter. They thought they had said a very bright thing, and very likely they had. It is only because you and I are mere earth-children that we do not think so too.

As the days went on, Bauge began to laugh less and to wonder more at his strange workman. He worked on quietly from sunrise till sunset. He did not seem to hurry in his work; he did not work over hours. But, strange to say, the work went on, as the workman had promised. No nine men could have done more or could have done it better.

It was harvest time when Odin came; the time when Frey, the god of the fields and of all that grows, glides around among his children and covers them over, or gathers in their wealth and beauty. Like the kind, loving father he is, he whispers to them now of Njord who so soon will come, sweeping across the earth, breathing his cold freezing breath upon all the world, and covering it over with the cold white sheet that kills the flowers and the fruits. He teaches his children to curl themselves up beneath the earth until the cruel Njord is gone. For Njord seeks to kill the tiny leaves and buds, and shrivel the radiant flowers, that, through all the long warm summer days, have lifted their faces so brightly to their good friend, the Sun-god.

Perhaps it was because Frey and Odin worked together that there were such rare crops, and that the harvesting went on so smoothly. Certain it was that all the fields were cleared, the cellars were filled, and all was ready for the long, cold months to come, when cruel Njord was king.

Even Bauge was in good humor. “You are indeed a wonderful workman,” he said to Odin, as the last cellar was fastened and he sat down to rest.

“You are kind,” answered Odin, the funny little twinkle coming again into his eyes. “Perhaps you would be willing to come with me now to your brother, that I may drink from the cask of wine that he keeps so closely guarded in his cellar.”

Bauge began to feel uncomfortable. “He will not allow either you or me to so much as look upon that wine. You cannot have it.”

“Bauge,” said Odin, growing very tall and godlike, his wonderful eyes flashing with a light like fire, “you promised to do all you could to help me. Come and do as I bid you.”

Bauge stared. His first thought was to kill the workman on the spot: but there was a something about him, he hardly knew what, that made him, instead, rise and follow Odin to the brother’s castle.

“Tell me which cellar holds the wine,” said Odin when they had reached the brother’s mountain.

“This one,” answered Bauge.

“Now take this augur. Make a hole with it through the solid wall.”

Bauge obeyed like one in a dream. It was a magic augur. How it worked! How the powdered stone flew in a cloud about his face!

“This is a very—” Bauge stopped. What had become of his workman? Not a soul was in sight. Odin had disappeared. And to this day the giant never knew what became of him, nor does his brother know who stole his wine from the cellar.

The stupid Bauge stood staring, now at the augur, now at the hole in the wall. He saw a little worm climb up the wall and disappear through the hole. That is all he ever saw or ever knew.

The little worm laughed to itself as it crept in out of sight. “You are very stupid, Bauge, not to know me.”

Reaching the inner side of the wall, the little worm stopped to look about. There stood the cask; and beside it sat the daughter of the giant. “Poor girl,” said Odin—I mean, said the worm—to himself. “It is a bitter fate to be doomed to sit forever in this wretched dungeon watching your father’s stolen treasure. But be happy. Soon you will be free. There will be no wine to watch.”

The young giantess must have heard his words. For she looked up. There, just in front of the hole, the ray of light falling full upon his golden hair, stood a most beautiful youth. He looked so kindly upon her, and his eyes were so full of pity!

Her heart went out to him at once.

“I am very tired,” said he gently. “So very tired. I have come a long, long distance. My home is far from here. I cannot tell you how far—but very, very far. If you would give me just one draught from the cask of wine.”

The poor girl, grateful for the sound of a friendly voice, and for the sight of a human face, arose and lifted the lid for him.

Odin leaned over the cask. He put his lips to the wine and drank.

“You are very thirsty,” said the giantess.

“Very,” answered Odin, drinking on and on.

“You are very thirsty,” said the giantess again.

“Very,” answered Odin, still drinking on and on and on.

“You are very thirsty,” said the giantess again; this time louder, her voice filled with fear.

“Very,” answered Odin, still drinking on and on and on and on. Nor did he stop till every drop was gone and the cask stood dry and empty.

The young giantess, realizing all too late that the wine was stolen, ran to the cellar gateway, shouting as only a giant can shout for help.

The gateway flew open. In rushed the giants, Bauge and his brother.

“The wine! the wine!” they cried.

“Stolen, stolen!” sobbed the giantess, her sobs shaking even the solid cellar walls.

“The thief! The thief!” cried the giants. “Where is the thief?”

But there was no thief to be found. There stood the empty cask. But the thief? There was no living creature to be seen.

No living creature? I should not have said quite that. For there arose from a darkened corner of the cellar a beautiful, great white bird. Its wings brushed against the sides of the gateway as it passed. Then higher and higher, up, up, far, far away beyond the sea, above the clouds it soared, nor rested till its great wings beat against the golden bars of the shining gates of Asgard.