begins with the Asa-folk, and has as much to do with the gods
as with my kinsmen the dwarfs. It happened long ago, when the world was
young, and the elf-folk had not yet lost all their ancient glory.

Sif, as you all know, is Thor's young wife, and she is very fair. It is
said, too, that she is as gentle and lovable as her husband is rude
and strong; and that while he rides noisily through storm and wind,
furiously fighting the foes of the mid-world, she goes quietly about,
lifting up the down-trodden, and healing the broken-hearted. In the
summer season, when the Thunderer has driven the Storm-giants back to
their mist-hidden mountain homes, and the black clouds have been rolled
away, and piled upon each other in the far east, Sif comes gleefully
tripping through the meadows, raising up the bruised flowers, and with
smiles calling the frightened birds from their hiding-places to frolic
and sing in the fresh sunshine again. The growing fields and the
grassy mountain slopes are hers; and the rustling green leaves, and the
sparkling dewdrops, and the sweet odors of spring blossoms, and the glad
songs of the summer-time, follow in her footsteps.

Sif, as I have said, is very fair; and, at the time of my story, there
was one thing of which she was a trifle vain. That was her long silken
hair, which fell in glossy waves almost to her feet. On calm, warm days,
she liked to sit by the side of some still pool, and gaze at her own
beauty pictured in the water below, while, like the sea-maidens of old
AEgir's kingdom, she combed and braided her rich, flowing tresses.
And in all the mid-world nothing has ever been seen so like the golden
sunbeams as was Sif's silken hair.

At that time the cunning Mischief-maker, Loki, was still living with the
Asa-folk. And, as you well know, this evil worker was never pleased save
when he was plotting trouble for those who were better than himself.
He liked to meddle with business which was not his own, and was always
trying to mar the pleasures of others. His tricks and jokes were seldom
of the harmless kind, and yet great good sometimes grew out of them.

When Loki saw how proud Sif was of her long hair, and how much time
she spent in combing and arranging it, he planned a very cruel piece of
mischief. He hid himself in a little rocky cavern, near the pool where
Sif was wont to sit, and slily watched her all the morning as she
braided and unbraided her flowing silken locks. At last, overcom