Claus; "or you'll get
beaten." So he crept into a large sack, which had been lying across
the back of one of the oxen.

"Put in a stone," said Great Claus, "or I may not sink."

"Oh, there's not much fear of that," he replied; still he put a
large stone into the bag, and then tied it tightly, and gave it a
push.

"Plump!" In went Great Claus, and immediately sank to the bottom
of the river.

"I'm afraid he will not find any cattle," said Little Claus, and
then he drove his own beasts homewards.

THE LITTLE ELDER-TREE MOTHER

There was once a little boy who had caught cold; he had gone out
and got wet feet. Nobody had the least idea how it had happened; the
weather was quite dry. His mother undressed him, put him to bed, and
ordered the teapot to be brought in, that she might make him a good
cup of tea from the elder-tree blossoms, which is so warming. At the
same time, the kind-hearted old man who lived by himself in the
upper storey of the house came in; he led a lonely life, for he had no
wife and children; but he loved the children of others very much,
and he could tell so many fairy tales and stories, that it was a
pleasure to hear him.

"Now, drink your tea," said the mother; "perhaps you will hear a
story."

"Yes, if I only knew a fresh one," said the old man, and nodded
smilingly. "But how did the little fellow get his wet feet?" he then
asked.

"That," replied the mother, "nobody can understand."

"Will you tell me a story?" asked the boy.

"Yes, if you can tell me as nearly as possible how deep is the
gutter in the little street where you go to school."

"Just half as high as my top-boots," replied the boy; "but then
I must stand in the deepest holes."

"There, now we know where you got your wet feet," said the old
man. "I ought to tell you a story, but the worst of it is, I do not
know any more."

"You can make one up," said the little boy. "Mother says you can
tell a fairy tale about anything you look at or touch."

"That is all very well, but such tales or stories are worth
nothing! No, the right ones come by themselves and knock at my
forehead saying: 'Here I am.'"

"Will not one knock soon?" asked the boy; and the mother smiled
while she put elder-tree blossoms into the teapot and poured boiling
water over them. "Pray, tell me a story."

"Yes, if stories came by themselves; they are so proud, they
only come when they please.--But wait," he said suddenly, "there is
one. Look