So busy were they all, that they neither stopped nor looked up when Loki
came into their hall, but all kept hammering and blowing and working, as
if their lives depended upon their being always busy.

After Loki had curiously watched their movements for some time, he spoke
to the dwarf whose forge was nearest to him, and made known his errand.
But the little fellow was fashioning a flashing diamond, which he called
the Mountain of Light; and he scarcely looked up as he answered,--

"I do not work in gold. Go to Ivald's sons: they will make whatever you
wish."

To Ivald's sons, then, in the farthest and brightest corner of the hall,
Loki went. They very readily agreed to make the golden hair for Sif,
and they began the work at once. A lump of purest gold was brought, and
thrown into the glowing furnace; and it was melted and drawn, and melted
and drawn, seven times. Then it was given to a little brown elf with
merry, twinkling eyes, who carried it with all speed to another part of
the great hall, where the dwarfs' pretty wives were spinning. One of
the little women took the yellow lump from the elf's hands, and laid it,
like flax, upon her spinning-wheel. Then she sat down and began to spin;
and, as she span, the dwarf-wives sang a strange, sweet song of the old,
old days when the dwarf-folk ruled the world. And the tiny brown elves
danced gleefully around the spinner, and the thousand little anvils rang
out a merry chorus to the music of the singers. And the yellow gold was
twisted into threads, and the threads ran into hair softer than silk,
and finer than gossamer. And at last the dwarf-woman held in her hand
long golden tresses ten times more beautiful than the amber locks that
Loki had cut from Sif's fair head. When Ivald's sons, proud of their
skill, gave the rare treasure to the Mischief-maker, Loki smiled as if
he were well pleased; but in his heart he was angry because the dwarfs
had made so fair a piece of workmanship. Then he said,--

"This is, indeed, very handsome, and will be very becoming to Sif. Oh,
what an uproar was made about those flaxen tresses that she loved so
well! And that reminds me that her husband, the gruff old Giant-killer,
wants a hammer. I promised to get him one; and, if I fail, he will
doubtless be rude with me. I pray you make such a hammer as will be of
most use to him in fighting the Jotuns, and you may win favor both for
yourselves and me."

"Not now," said the elder of Ivald's