“Yes,” said Little Claus; “I am going to the town with my old
grandmother; she is sitting at the back of the wagon, but I cannot bring her
into the room. Will you take her a glass of mead? but you must speak very
loud, for she cannot hear well.”
“Yes, certainly I will,” replied the landlord; and, pouring out a glass of
mead, he carried it out to the dead grandmother, who sat upright in the cart.
“Here is a glass of mead from your grandson,” said the landlord. The dead
woman did not answer a word, but sat quite still. “Do you not hear?” cried
the landlord as loud as he could; “here is a glass of mead from your
grandson.”
Again and again he bawled it out, but as she did not stir he flew into a
passion, and threw the glass of mead in her face; it struck her on the nose,
and she fell backwards out of the cart, for she was only seated there, not
tied in.
“Hallo!” cried Little Claus, rushing out of the door, and seizing hold of
the landlord by the throat; “you have killed my grandmother; see, here is a
great hole in her forehead.”
“Oh, how unfortunate,” said the landlord, wringing his hands. “This all
comes of my fiery temper. Dear Little Claus, I will give you a bushel of
money; I will bury your grandmother as if she were my own; only keep
silent, or else they will cut off my head, and that would be disagreeable.”
So it happened that Little Claus received another bushel of money, and
the landlord buried his old grandmother as if she had been his own. When
Little Claus reached home again, he immediately sent a boy to Great Claus,
requesting him to lend him a bushel measure. “How is this?” thought Great
Claus; “did I not kill him? I must go and see for myself.” So he went to
Little Claus, and took the bushel measure with him. “How did you get all
this money?” asked Great Claus, staring with wide open eyes at his
neighbor’s treasures.
“You killed my grandmother instead of me,” said Little Claus; “so I have
sold her for a bushel of money.”
