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And then the blue-eyed Norseman told A Saga of the days of old. "There is," said he, "a wondrous book Of Legends in the old Norse tongue, Of the dead kings of Norroway Legends that once were told or sung In many a smoky fireside nook Of Iceland, in the ancient day, By wandering Saga-man or Scald; 'Heimskringla' is the volume called; And he who looks may find therein The story that I now begin."
So you see it is a nest within a nest, a whole nest of nests; like Vishnu Sarma's fables, or Scheherazade's stories, you can never find where one leaves off and another begins, they shut so one into the other. No wonder the children and philosophers are they who ask, whether the egg comes from the bird, or the bird from the egg. Yes, it is a Heimskringla, a world-circle, a home-circle, this nest.
Then there is the story of Beowulf the Saxon going out to sea in his burning ship to die. 'Oh, Mr Borrow! that isn't a Saxon story at all. It is in the Heimskringla! It is told of Hakon of Norway. Then, I asked him about the gipsies and their language, and if they were certainly Aryans?
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