Grandmother's Grandfather
Last Sunday, early in the morning, around six in the evening, I was sailing full speed through the mountains when I suddenly encountered two riders in a carriage, both mounted on one mule. I asked them if they knew exactly what time Bill Hanniford's wedding was scheduled for—he had been buried yesterday in our church.They replied that they didn’t know for sure and that I should ask my grandmother’s grandfather.
"And where can I find him?" I asked.
"Easier than easy," they said. "He lives in a brick house made of solid logs, standing alone among sixty identical ones."
"Truly easier than easy," I said.
"Couldn’t be simpler," they replied.
And off I went.
Grandmother’s grandfather was a giant, but not just any giant—a giant from a bottle. At the slightest provocation, he would climb into a bottle. When I arrived, he had probably just jumped out of one.
"How are you?" he asked me.
"Thank you, very well," I replied.
"Would you like to have breakfast with me?"
"With great pleasure," I said.
He treated me to a slice of beer and a mug of cold veal, while a dog sat under the table picking up the crumbs.
"Scram!" I said to it.
"Why?" said the giant. "She caught me a hare for dinner yesterday. If you don’t believe me, come, I’ll show you."
And he led me into the garden. At one end of the garden, a fox sat in a nest, hatching eagle eggs. In the middle grew an iron apple tree laden with ripe pears. And at the other end, in a basket, sat the live hare that the giant had eaten for dinner the day before.
A deer ran by, and I suddenly remembered that I had a bow in my pocket. I loaded it with gunpowder and shot an arrow. A flock of quail soared into the air. They say I killed eighteen, but I know for a fact it was thirty-six, not counting the smoked salmon that was flying over the bridge at the time. And I made the best apple pie you’ve ever tasted out of it.
Come over, I’ll treat you!
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