All of a sudden, though, things began to go badly with the farmer. His
milk curdled in the dairy and his horse kicked the traces on market
day, spilling the load and laming herself into the bargain. The eggs
were addled, and weeds choked and overran his garden, faster than he
could pull them out.
"A troll is at the bottom of this," said the farmer's wife, and to
prove it she led him to the dairy. There, on the white floor, were the
prints in mud of tiny, tiny hob-nailed shoes. The same foot prints
could be seen in the barn near the horse's stall, and that night the
farmer saw a bright little light skipping about in the dusky garden.
Of course he knew what that was, the one shining eye of a troll. So
that was the cause of all his trouble. A troll had come to live on his
farm.
Ordinarily a troll who selects a quiet place like a farm for his home
is a peacefully inclined little man. He wants nothing but a bowl of
porridge set out for him on the cellar steps once in a while, and a
chance to creep in the house and curl up in a chimney corner of a cold
evening, winking and blinking at the fire with his one eye. When a
troll gets into mischief about a place, it is a sure sign that
something has been done to displease him. So the farmer set out to try
to find what he had done to vex the little man.
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