THE EIGHT- FOOTED SLIPPER 4 1 



lieve that aught of joy would ever come to them 

 again. 



And other things sorrowed, too. The trees 

 bent their heads, and the leaves upon them fell 

 withered to the ground. The meadows doffed 

 their green summer coats and dressed them- 

 selves in sober suits of russet. The birds forgot 

 to sing. The small creatures of the woods hid 

 themselves in the ground or in the hollow trunks 

 of the trees. The cicadas no longer made merry 

 in the groves. The music of the busy world was 

 hushed. Nowhere could be heard the sound of 

 the spindle or the loom, of ax or flail, of the har- 

 vesters' song, of the huntsmen's horn, of the 

 warriors' battle-cry ; but only the dull thud of the 

 waves beating against the shore, or the wild 

 whistling of the winds among the dead branches 

 of the trees. 



In the King's high halls Balder's mother la- 

 mented his untimely fate, and his sisters were 

 beside themselves with grief. Odin, with his 

 blue hood pulled down over his face, sat silent 

 in the twilight and listened to the moaning of 

 the sea. He was not only troubled because of the 

 death of his son, but the sadness of the world op- 

 pressed him. What if the universal grief should 



