Chapter 77
The Bird of Popular SongIT is winter-time. The earth wears a snowy garment, and
looks like marble hewn out of the rock; the air is bright and
clear; the wind is sharp as a well-tempered sword, and the trees
stand like branches of white coral or blooming almond twigs, and
here it is keen as on the lofty Alps.
The night is splendid in the gleam of the Northern Lights,
and in the glitter of innumerable twinkling stars.
But we sit in the warm room, by the hot stove, and talk
about the old times. And we listen to this story:
By the open sea was a giant's grave; and on the
grave-mound sat at midnight the spirit of the buried hero, who had
been a king. The golden circlet gleamed on his brow, his hair
fluttered in the wind, and he was clad in steel and iron. He bent
his he
