Mysingr took with him the quern, Grotti, with Fenia and Menia, and ordered them to grind salt.  About midnight they asked Mysingr whether he had salt enough.  On his ordering them to go on grinding, they went on a little longer till the ship sank under the weight of the salt.  A whirlpool was produced, where the waves are sucked up by the mill-eye, and the waters of the sea have been salt ever since.

THE LOST BELL.

A shepherd’s boy, belonging to Patzig, about half a mile from Bergen, where there are great numbers of underground people in the hills, found one morning a little silver bell on the green heath among the giants’ graves, and fastened it on him.  It happened to be the bell belonging to the cap of one of the little brown ones, who had lost it while he was dancing, and did not immediately miss it or observe that it was no longer tinkling in his cap.  He had gone down into the hill without his bell, and, having discovered his loss, was filled with melancholy, for the worst thing that can befall the underground people is to lose their cap, or their shoes; but even to lose the bell from their caps, or the buckle from their belts, is no trifle to them.  Whoever loses his bell must pass some sleepless nights, for not a wink of sleep can he get till he has recovered it.

The little fellow was in the greatest trouble, and looked and searched about everywhere.  But how could he learn who had the bell? for only on a very few days in the year may they come up to daylight, nor can they then appear in their true form.  He had turned himself into every form of birds, beasts, and men, and he had sung and groaned and lamented about his bell, but not the slightest tidings or trace of tidings had he been able to get.  Most unfortunately for him, the shepherd’s boy had left Patzig the very day he found the little bell, and he was now keeping sheep at Unrich, near Gingst, so that it was not till many a day after, and then by mere chance, that the little underground fellow recovered his bell, and with it his peace of mind.

He had thought it not unlikely that a raven, or a crow, or a jackdaw, or a magpie, had found his bell, and from its thievish disposition, which attracts it to anything bright and shining, had carried it into its nest.  With this thought he turned himself into a beautiful little bird, and searched all the nests in the island, and he’d sang before all kinds of birds to see if they had found what he had lost, and could restore to him his sleep.  He had, however, been able to learn nothing from the birds.  As he now, one evening, was flying over the waters of Ralov and the fields of Unrich, the shepherd’s boy, whose name was John Schlagenteufel (Smite-devil), happened to be keeping his sheep there at the very time.  Several of the sheep had bells about their necks, and they tinkled merrily when the boy’s dog set them trotting.  The little bird who was flying over them thought of his bell, and sang in a melancholy tone——­