In the days when the world was jollier than it is now, there were three giants in Germany. Their names were Grosskopf, Grossmund, and Grosshand, and they lived on the top of a mountain.

No more contented family could be imagined. Their home was airy; yet only one giant-step below, there flowed the good water of the river Rhine. When it came to food, their wants were simple, for from one year’s end to the other they ate nothing but oatmeal porridge. As for the work, they had it so well arranged that each one did for the others what he best could. Grosshand did the cooking; Grossmund did the talking; and Grosskopf did the thinking. What more could be desired? When they were hungry, there was Grosshand to stir up the porridge; when they were dull there was Grossmund to tell stories and make them merry; when they were in a scrape, there was Grosskopf to find a way out.

Even the mountain did its share. For besides giving the giants a home, it kept up a fire that never went out over which they cooked their porridge. It was at any rate a rather unusual mountain. Instead of being rough and craggy and rising to a sharp, uncomfortable point, it was smooth and green, and the top was hollowed out in a wide, deep bowl. Right in the middle of the bowl was the spot, some forty feet across, that served as the giants’ stove. No matter how it snowed, no matter how it rained, no matter how the wind blew, that spot was always red hot, glowing with the great fire shut up inside the mountain.

Many a cook might have envied Grosshand. All he had to do was to set the porridge on the stove and turn peacefully over to snore the night out. In the morning, the minute the giants blinked their eyes open, there would be their porridge steaming up into the sunlight ready to be eaten. After breakfast his task was no harder. He had but to put on more porridge, and be off with his brothers for the fun of the day. At night when they came wading wearily back, down the river Rhine, they would see, miles off, the gust of smoke against the sunset that meant a hot supper at home. And so they were soon fed when they were hungry, and no one could ever complain that the meals were late.

In fact there would have been nothing at all to grumble about had it not been for the pots. Now, any one who had looked into the giants’ cupboard would have thought it well equipped indeed. There were big pots and little pots, deep pots and shallow pots, wide pots and narrow pots, iron pots and brass pots, pots with handles, pots with covers, pots with legs, pots for boiling, pots for frying, pots for stewing, and just plain pots.

The trouble was that all the pots, big and little, wide and narrow, deep and shallow, spread out on the stove together, held scarcely enough porridge for the giants’ breakfast. Then too, the pots were getting old. They had been handed down for generations in the giants’ family, and as every one of them had been used every day for more years than you could count, they began gradually from sheer old age to wear out.

Grosshand puttered and patched. He mended a hole here and added a handle there. He stopped up cracks and soldered edges. But finally, in spite of all his care, two or three of the weaker ones dropped completely to pieces. Then matters were desperate indeed. Grosshand filled the remaining pots to overflowing; and the giants stuck in their spoons with great deliberation so that it should seem as if there were quite as much porridge as usual. Nevertheless, they were worried. It began to look as if they would soon be unable to cook all their porridge at once.

Every evening after supper they sat on their mountain top, around the rim of the wide bowl above their stove, and talked things over. That is, Grossmund talked; as for the others, they sat gravely by and listened. For, since Grossmund was sure to say everything they could possibly have said themselves, there seemed no need of wearying their tongues. But, no matter how long or how late the talk went on, it seemed that they never came to any conclusion. The pots were going, that was clear; and something must be done, that was still clearer. But what that something was, no one of the giants, and least of all Grossmund, could say.

The day the fourth pot gave out, the giants’ faces were longer than ever. To-morrow one of them would have to do without part of his porridge. Grossmund’s words came slowly after supper. Grosskopf bent his head on his hands, trying to think. Grosshand sprawled his long body down the mountain-side and absently snapped off the smaller trees with his thumb and forefinger.

“If only we had something else to cook in!” cried Grossmund for the twentieth time.

“If only we had something else to cook in!” echoed Grosshand sleepily.

Grosskopf said nothing whatever. He was enveloped in that remote and august air he always assumed when using his mind. Finally he held up his hand for silence.

“Let me think,” he said.

Grossmund scrambled up and stretched his arms and his legs and his great mouth in one tremendous yawn. Grosshand clattered among his pots getting ready the morning’s porridge. But Grosskopf towered motionless into the twilight.

Grossmund and Grosshand settled themselves for the night. They sprawled flat on their backs down the mountain side, and began promptly and lustily to snore. The moon came up from the valley and glistened in the dewdrops that covered Grosskopf’s hair. The stars blinked faintly. There was not a sound but the slow rumbling of his brothers’ snores. But Grosskopf did not move. He sat, cheek on hand, still thinking.

The moon went high and bright, and slowly pale and paler. The whole sky became light and the stars went out. Down in the farmyards the cocks began to stir. Then the sun looked up and shone red on the great tufts of Grosskopf’s hair till it glowed like a forest-fire. But Grosskopf did not raise his eyes.

It was morning in good earnest. The porridge steamed up in a savory, white cloud straight to Grosskopf’s nose. But he did not turn his head. He gazed steadily through it down into the wide abyss that held the stove. It was still dark in there, and for steam and shadow not even Grosskopf’s big eyes could make out the hundreds of pots marshaled at the bottom. It seemed as if the great bowl itself were one steaming pot of porridge.

Suddenly, Grosskopf sprang up. With one leap he cleared the abyss, steam and all, and came down on the other side. He capered, he shouted, he shook his snoring brothers. He had an idea at last.

“Grosshand! Grossmund!” he cried. “I have it. We must have a big pot. No more little pots. A big pot that will cover our stove!”

Grosshand rubbed his eyes and stared. But Grossmund was never at a loss, and could talk even in his sleep.

“Why, yes,” he said. “A big pot. A pot to fit our stove. A pot to hold all our porridge.”

“Yes, yes,” cried Grosskopf. “We must plan. We must measure. We must get some one to make it.”

“But first,” said Grossmund, “we must eat.”

Grosshand scrambled over to the stove and began to hand up the porridge. And as they ate, they talked so fast of the new pot that no one had time to notice that there was less porridge than usual.

“It must be as wide as the stove,” said Grosshand.

“It must be as deep as the bowl,” said Grosskopf.

“It must be as big as our appetites,” said Grossmund.

And then after some consideration they came to the satisfactory conclusion that a pot as wide as the stove and as deep as the bowl would be just the right size to a spoonful to satisfy their hunger.

The minute breakfast was over, the measuring began. Grosshand did the reaching around. Grossmund did the calling off. Grosskopf did the writing down. There was not a tape-measure on the whole mountain, and so Grosshand used his belt instead. He clambered down into the bowl and laid his belt once, twice, nearly three times along the edge of the stove.

“Two and a half,” called Grossmund, peering down.

And Grosskopf, sitting crosslegged near by, scratched “two and a half” with a sharpened tree trunk on his spoon.

Measuring as he came, Grosshand climbed the bowl. Grossmund counted, Grosskopf wrote, and the measuring was done.

“But who will make the pot?” asked Grossmund.

“A blacksmith,” said Grosshand.

“Herr Klinkerklanker,” said Grosskopf.

Grosshand put on his belt; Grosskopf took his spoon; Grossmund cut a walking-stick. And they stepped off gaily, arm in arm, across the river Rhine.

Eisenburg, where Herr Klinkerklanker lived, was but a step from the river, and when the giants got there, they walked carefully, single file. They were kindly fellows at heart and went out of their way, through roads and over gardens, to avoid crushing the houses. Nevertheless when the townsfolk saw the huge shapes making for their very dooryards, they scurried in alarm. Horses shied, drivers ran, dogs dodged, geese flapped, mothers called, doors slammed. Every chick and child scampered indoors as fast as its legs could run.

It was not that they had never seen the giants before. Every day the great figures went splashing by up the Rhine, and they hardly turned to look. And many an evening when more smoke than usual came from the mountain, the housewives would glance up from their knitting to remark that the giants’ porridge was burning. They were used to the giants and had a kind of distant affection for them, as they had for the hills and the river. But it is one thing to love a river when it is still, and quite another when it comes sweeping down over your house. And so when the giants, colossal-limbed and thunder-voiced, came tramping through the town, it was an entirely different matter. For years such a thing had not occurred. The oldest grandfather of all could not remember when they had come before.

As for the giants themselves, they had not the least idea of the commotion they were causing. They plodded along, talking and singing in their big bass voices, and took not the slightest notice of all the screaming and scrambling going on about their feet. Grosskopf was ahead, and when he came to the market-place, he stepped in and stopped. Grosshand stepped in too; but when it came Grossmund’s turn, there was not room enough left for him; so he had to stand a-straddle, one foot in and one foot out in the field behind the guild-hall.

“And now,” said Grossmund, “which is Herr Klinkerklanker’s house?”

The giants looked around. There were hundreds of roofs, but they were all just alike,—some larger, to be sure, and some smaller, but all steep, red-tiled, and peaked, with a great chimney-pot above. Herr Klinkerklanker’s might be one, and it might be another. There was not the least way of telling.

“We must ask some one,” said Grossmund.

But there was no one to ask. Every soul was safely locked indoors.

So the giants considered. They thought and thought, and looked and looked here and there among the silent streets of the town. Suddenly Grosshand pointed. Not a step away, a small bright flame shot up between two houses. It seemed to come from an iron table. Grossmund was nearest. He bent down, picked up the iron with his thumb and forefinger and blew out the fire.

Then Grosskopf had a thought. “Herr Klinkerklanker’s forge!” he said.

Grossmund put the thing down. Then he bent over the red-roofed house beside it. He put his lips to the chimney and whistled.

“Herr Klinkerklanker! Herr Klinkerklanker!” he called as softly as he knew how.

The windows rattled and the door quivered; but there was no answer.

“Herr Klinkerklanker! Herr Klinkerklanker!” he called again.

That time the door opened, and a little figure in a leather apron came slowly down the steps.

“At your service, gentlemen,” he said, and doffed his cap. But he trembled very hard indeed.

Now the giants had been brought up to be polite; and at that they bowed, all together, so low that their heads bumped.

“We want you to make us a pot,” said Grossmund, “a pot to hold all our porridge.”

Herr Klinkerklanker stopped trembling. But he spoke not a word though he opened his mouth wide and wider.

Grosshand held up his belt. “The pot must be as big around as this,” he said, “twice and a half over.”

Herr Klinkerklanker considered. Then he turned toward the house and clapped his hands smartly together.

Out of the door and down the steps, three at once, four at once, five at once, dashed his apprentices, helter-skelter,—some with hammers, some with horseshoes, some with hoes, some with shovels, some with pots,—with everything in all Eisenburg to be made or mended with iron. And so, clattering and stumbling, they came and stood, five-and-twenty strong, before Herr Klinkerklanker.

“Measuring rods, quills, inkhorns,” said he. “And all to the market-place.”

Hoes, hammers, horseshoes, shovels, pots, rattled down in one clanging pile. And the apprentices, two by two, fell in behind Herr Klinkerklanker. And so the giants, all in a hurry, stepped out of the market-place to let them in.

Then there was a bustling indeed. Those who were good at measuring started in on Grosshand’s belt. Those who were good at writing copied the numbers on Grosskopf’s spoon. Those who were good at figuring scribbled and scratched With all their might to find out how much two and a half times Grosshand’s belt might be. As for the rest, Herr Klinkerklanker sent them to knock at all the house doors until they got every bit of iron in town and a hundred lusty men to hammer it.

Not even the giants remained idle. Grosskopf and Grossmund tore wide, flat boulders out of the mountain and set them up for a forge and an anvil in the market-place. Grosshand came rattling back with all his pots swinging in his hands and strung clattering about his neck.

And then giants, hammerers, apprentices, set up such a clinking and a clanking and a puffing and a blowing as never was heard in all Germany before. All day long the great forge flame swept skywards. All day long the five-and-twenty apprentices swung their sledges while Herr Klinkerklanker shouted orders. All day long the hundred hammerers beat and pounded at the glowing iron that was to be the giants’ pot.

All day long Grossmund puffed out his great cheeks and blew to keep up the forge flame. All day long Grosshand lifted the pot from forge to anvil, and back again from anvil to forge. All day long Grosskopf stood quietly by ready to think in case of emergency.

As for the housewives of Eisenburg, they were busy too, with every kettle in all the town a-steam and a-stew with porridge to feed the giants until their own pot should be done. But the children had the most fun, for they had nothing whatever to do but dance about the market-place and watch the hammers swinging and the sparks skyrocketing and the big, slow giants lifting and blowing and thinking.

What with heating and beating, and hammering inside and out, the great iron mass grew gradually taller and taller and bulgier and bulgier, until one day in the middle of the square there stood a black, shiny mountain of a pot. Then there was a holiday, you may be sure. The hundred hammerers, the five-and-twenty apprentices, and even Herr Klinkerklanker himself went dancing about the pot in a jubilant circle. And every man and woman and child in all Eisenburg climbed the high scaffolding and walked round and round the top of the pot, peering down into the black, slippery abyss inside.

Now, the giants were as generous as they were big; and standing in the streets and gardens behind the square, they looked down benevolently at the merrymaking. Then Grossmund called to Herr Klinkerklanker to hold out his apron, and Grosshand who was a good shot, poured into it a continuous stream of gold-pieces,—for the apprentices and the hammerers and all the good housewives who had kept them in porridge. Then when the women had curtsied and the men had bowed and the bells had clanged, and all the people together had shouted, “Huzza for the giants!” Grosshand and Grosskopf picked up the big pot and went swinging off with it across the Rhine, while Grossmund followed, calling good-bys to Eisenburg.

The very first thing the giants did when they got back to their mountain-top was to fill their new pot full of porridge and put it on the stove. Sure enough, it was just a fit! So, they sat around and watched the porridge bubble and steam; and the minute it was done, they dipped their spoons in all at once, shut their eyes, opened their mouths, and swallowed very hard, all together. They ate and ate until they had to let out their belts; and then when there was no more porridge left, they licked their spoons and lay back and looked at the new pot.

“It is as wide as the stove,” cried Grosshand.

“It is as deep as the bowl,” said Grosskopf.

“It is as big as our appetites!” cried Grossmund, smacking his lips.

So, meal after meal went joyously by. The giants would put in their spoons, shut their eyes, open their mouths, and swallow all together till the porridge was gone. Then they would lick their spoons, smack their lips, and remark for the hundredth time on the satisfactory size of the pot.

But one day, long before it came time to let out belts, the giants’ spoons brought up no more porridge. They felt here, and they felt there; but the porridge was all gone.

“But I’m still hungry,” cried Grosshand angrily.

“And I’m still hungry,” cried Grosskopf, still angrier.

“And I’m still hungry,” cried Grossmund, angriest of all.

The giants looked at one another. When they began, the pot had been full to overflowing, and now before they were half through, there was no more porridge.

Then Grosskopf had an idea. “Look for a hole,” he said.

Grosshand seized the pot and turned it over. He felt here and he felt there. He twisted it this way and that. But the more he examined, the better he saw that the pot was as firm and sound as the day it was made.

Grosskopf thought again. “The pot has shrunk,” he said.

The giants looked.

“It is as wide as the stove,” said Grosshand.

“It is as deep as the bowl,” said Grosskopf.

“But it’s not as big as our appetites,” wailed Grossmund.

The next day it was just the same. The pot looked as big as ever, and the giants were no hungrier than usual, and yet there was not half enough porridge to go around.

On the third day Grosskopf came to a conclusion. “The thing is bewitched,” he said.

“Herr Klinkerklanker! Herr Klinkerklanker!” roared Grossmund. “Our pot is bewitched.”

And with that Grosshand and Grosskopf seized it and went tearing down the mountain, through the Rhine, and straight to Eisenburg. And all the housewives, all the children, the hundred hammerers, the five-and-twenty apprentices, and Herr Klinkerklanker himself heard Grossmund’s roars, dropped their work and their playthings, and scampered to the market-place as fast as their legs could carry them.

Grosshand laid the pot on its side in the very center of the square. “Herr Klinkerklanker,” he said, “the pot is still as wide as the stove—”

“And as deep as the bowl,” put in Grosskopf.

“And yet we go hungry to bed,” finished Grossmund.

The hundred hammerers shook, the five-and-twenty apprentices trembled; and all the people stood breathless while Herr Klinkerklanker walked slowly all the way around the pot, and then stepped inside. The giants wrinkled their great brows and waited.

Suddenly something echoed and reëchoed inside the pot. The people listened. It was a sound that chuckled and stopped and went on again, and somehow reminded one for all the world—of a laugh.

Then Herr Klinkerklanker stepped to the mouth of the pot and clapped his hands. The apprentices ran to him.

“Hoes!” cried Herr Klinkerklanker.

In a twinkling the five-and-twenty apprentices with their five-and-twenty hoes were in the pot. Then there arose such a scratching and scraping, and a scraping and scratching as never was heard before; and suddenly out of the pot, into the square burst a whole snowstorm of dried porridge.

Herr Klinkerklanker stepped out and bowed to the giants. “Friends,” he said, “if you will wash your pot clean, it will always be the same size.”

And with that hammerers and housewives, apprentices and children broke into a peal of laughter. As for the giants, they were so much relieved, and so good-natured at any rate, that they liked nothing better than a joke on themselves. Grosskopf capered, Grossmund shouted, and Grosshand let fall such a shower of gold-pieces that the Eisenburgers were still scrambling for them a week later.

Every day after that, as soon as a meal was over, the giants gave their pot such a swishing and a swashing in the river Rhine as made the boats take good care to keep out of their way. And so the pot stayed the same satisfactory size, inside as well as out. And the giants, having nothing to trouble them and plenty to eat, grew very fat and contented indeed.

What finally became of Grosshand, Grossmund, and Grosskopf, I cannot tell. For a number of years the Eisenburgers have not seen them. Their pot too seems to have vanished completely. Only the water of the Rhine has never been quite so clear since the giants took to washing out their pot there. And sometimes on a clear evening when the Eisenburgers look up at the mountain and see a trail of smoke against the sunset, they nod wisely, for they know that the faithful fire is still burning, waiting for the giants to come back and cook their porridge.

—Adapted from a Rhine legend.