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Last sunday early morning, about six o'clock in the evening, i sailed with all sail set, through the mountains, when suddenly met with two riders in a carriage, sitting astride one mule, and asked them whether they know exactly what time the wedding of bill hannaford, whose funeral was held yesterday in our church. they said they are not sure i better ask grandma grandpa. — where can i find him? i asked. easy, they replied. — he lives in a brick house of solid logs, which stands by itself among sixty exactly the same. — really easy, ' i said. couldn't be any easier, they said. and i went. grandmother's grandfather was a giant, but not a giant, but a giant from a bottle. just that, and he climbed into the bottle. when i arrived, he probably just popped out of the bottle. — how are you? — he asked me. thank you, very well, ' i replied. — do you want breakfast with me? — with great pleasure, ' i replied. he bought me a slice of beer and a pint of cold veal, and the dog sat under the table and picked up the pieces. — shoo! i said to her. — for what? — said the giant. — yesterday she caught me at dinner hare. if you don't believe, come on, i'll show you. and he led me to the garden. at one end of the garden sat a fox in the nest, hatched the eagle's eggs. in the midst of the garden grew the iron apple tree, covered with ripe pears. and at the other end in the basket sat a live hare, which giant ate yesterday for dinner. ran past the deer, and i suddenly remembered that in my pocket is the onion. i loaded it with gunpowder and shot an arrow. up rose a flock of quails. they say i killed eighteen, but i do know that thirty-six, not counting the smoked salmon, which flew at this time over the bridge. and i made the best apple pie you have ever tasted. come, i will treat you !

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