the Handquern grinds and groans; the Chair creaks and cracks; the Door slams and bangs; the Stove smokes and steams; the Axe rives and rends; and the Aspen quivers and quakes. That's why we are pilling and plucking all our feathers off."
"Well, if I can do nothing else, I can tear the brooms asunder," said the man; and with that he fell tearing and tossing the brooms till the birch-twigs flew about east and west.
The goody stood cooking porridge for supper, and saw all this.
"Why, man!" she called out, "what are you tearing the brooms to bits for?"
"Oh!" said the man, "goodman Chanticleer has fallen into the ale-vat and drowned himself; dame Partlet sits sighing and sobbing in the ingle; the Handquern grinds and groans; the Chair cracks and creaks; the Door slams and bangs; the Stove smokes and steams; the Axe rives and rends; the Aspen quivers and quakes; the Birds are pilling and plucking all their feathers off; and that's why I am tearing the besoms to bits."
"So, so!" said the goody; "then I'll dash the porridge over all the walls," and she did it; for she took one spoonful after the other, and dashed it against the walls, so that no one could see what they were made of for very porridge.
That was how they drank the burial ale after goodman Chanticleer, who fell into the brewing-vat and was drowned; and, if you don't believe it, you may set off thither and have a taste both of the ale and the porridge.
