The Wonderful Adventures of
Nils
Selma Lagerloef
Collected by : Hama Hawlery
----------------------
Project Gutenberg’s TheWonderful Adventures of Nils,
by Selma Lagerloef
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Title: The Wonderful Adventures of Nils
Author: Selma Lagerloef
Release Date: February 4, 2004 [EBook #10935]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES of NILS
by
SELMA LAGERLOeF
TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH
BY VELMA SWANSTON HOWARD
CONTENTS
The Boy
Akka from Kebnekaise
The Wonderful Journey of Nils
Glimminge Castle
The Great Crane Dance on Kullaberg
In Rainy Weather
The Stairway with the Three Steps
By Ronneby River
Karlskrona
The Trip to Oeland
Oeland’s Southern Point
The Big Butterfly
Little Karl’s Island
Two Cities
The Legend of Smaland
The Crows
The Old Peasant Woman
From Taberg to Huskvarna
The Big Bird Lake
Ulvasa-Lady
The Homespun Cloth
The Story of Karr and Grayskin
The Wind Witch
The Breaking Up of the Ice
Thumbietot and the Bears
The Flood
Dunfin
Stockholm
Gorgo the Eagle
On Over Gaestrikland
A Day in Haelsingland
In Medelpad
A Morning in Angermanland
Westbottom and Lapland
Osa, the Goose Girl, and Little Mats
With the Laplanders
Homeward Bound
Legends from Haerjedalen
Vermland and Dalsland
The Treasure on the Island
The Journey to Vemminghoeg
Home at Last
The Parting with the Wild Geese
Some of the purely geographical matter in the Swedish
original of the
“Further Adventures of Nils” has been eliminated from
the English
version.
The author has rendered valuable assistance in cutting
certain chapters
and abridging others. Also, with the author’s approval,
cuts have been
made where the descriptive matter was merely of local
interest.
But the story itself is intact.
V.S.H_.
This text was converted to LaTeX by means of Guten-
Mark software (version Aug 18 2013).
The text has been further processed by software in the
iTeX project, by Bill Cheswick.
Contents
1 THE BOY 1
2 THE WILD GEESE 12
3 THE BIG CHECKED CLOTH 24
4 AKKA FROM KEBNEKAISE 31
5 NIGHT 46
6 GOOSE-PLAY 54
7 THEWONDERFUL JOURNEY OF NILS 60
8 GLIMMINGE CASTLE 93
9 THE STORK 99
10 THE RAT CHARMER 111
11 THE GREAT CRANE DANCE ON KULLABERG
117
12 IN RAINY WEATHER 133
13 THE STAIRWAY WITH THE THREE
STEPS 143
14 BY RONNEBY RIVER 150
15 KARLSKRONA 165
16 THE TRIP TO OeLAND 180
17 OeLAND’S SOUTHERN POINT 188
18 THE BIG BUTTERFLY 202
19 LITTLE KARL’S ISLAND 209
20 THE SHEEP 214
21 HELL’S HOLE 223
22 TWO CITIES 230
23 THE LIVING CITY 243
24 THE LEGEND OF SMALAND 251
25 THE CROWS 260
26 KIDNAPPED BY CROWS 268
27 THE CABIN 284
28 THE OLD PEASANT WOMAN 291
29 FROM TABERG TO HUSKVARNA 309
30 THE BIG BIRD LAKE 316
31 THE DECOY-DUCK 327
32 THE LOWERING OF THE LAKE 334
33 ULVASA-LADY 344
34 THE HOMESPUN CLOTH 353
35 THE STORY OF KARR AND GRAYSKIN360
36 GRAYSKIN’S FLIGHT 368
37 HELPLESS, THE WATER-SNAKE 379
38 THE NUN MOTHS 386
39 THE BIG WAR OF THE MOTHS 394
40 RETRIBUTION 404
41 THE WIND WITCH 416
42 MARKET EVE 421
43 THE BREAKING UP OF THE ICE 441
44 THUMBIETOT AND THE BEARS 448
45 THE FLOOD 471
46 THE NEW WATCH-DOG 482
47 DUNFIN 489
48 THE SISTERS 496
49 STOCKHOLM 508
50 GORGO, THE EAGLE 530
51 IN CAPTIVITY 541
52 ON OVER GAeSTRIKLAND 549
53 FOREST DAY 555
54 A DAY IN HAeLSINGLAND 561
55 THE ANIMALS’ NEW YEAR’S EVE 566
56 IN MEDELPAD 583
57 A MORNING IN ANGERMANLAND 593
58 THE FOREST FIRE 599
59 WESTBOTTOM AND LAPLAND 606
60 THE MOVING LANDSCAPE 612
61 THE MEETING 624
62 OSA, THE GOOSE GIRL, AND LITTLE
MATS 629
63 WITH THE LAPLANDERS 642
64 THE NEXT MORNING 646
65 HOMEWARD BOUND! 658
66 LEGENDS FROM HAeRJEDALEN 665
67 VERMLAND AND DALSLAND 682
68 A LITTLE HOMESTEAD 684
69 THE TREASURE ON THE ISLAND 700
70 THE GIFT OF THE WILD GEESE 705
71 THE JOURNEY TO VEMMINGHOeG713
72 HOME AT LAST 718
73 THE PARTING WITH THE WILD GEESE735
74 TABLE OF PRONUNCIATION 740
Chapter 1
THE BOY
THE ELF
Sunday, March twentieth.
Once there was a boy. He was—let us say—something
like fourteen years old; long and loose-jointed and towheaded.
He wasn’t good for much, that boy. His chief
delight was to eat and sleep; and after that—he liked
best to make mischief.
It was a Sunday morning and the boy’s parents were
getting ready to go to church. The boy sat on the edge
of the table, in his shirt sleeves, and thought how lucky
it was that both father and mother were going away,
and the coast would be clear for a couple of hours.
“Good! Now I can take down pop’s gun and fire off
a shot, without anybody’s meddling interference,” he
said to himself.
But it was almost as if father should have guessed the
boy’s thoughts, for just as he was on the threshold—
ready to start—he stopped short, and turned toward
the boy. “Since you won’t come to church with mother
and me,” he said, “the least you can do, is to read the
service at home. Will you promise to do so?” “Yes,”
said the boy, “that I can do easy enough.” And he
thought, of course, that he wouldn’t read any more
than he felt like reading.
The boy thought that never had he seen his mother
so persistent. In a second she was over by the shelf
near the fireplace, and took down Luther’s Commentary
and laid it on the table, in front of the window—
opened at the service for the day. She also opened the
New Testament, and placed it beside the Commentary.
Finally, she drew up the big arm-chair, which
was bought at the parish auction the year before, and
which, as a rule, no one but father was permitted to
occupy.
The boy sat thinking that his mother was giving herself
altogether too much trouble with this spread; for
he had no intention of reading more than a page or so.
But now, for the second time, it was almost as if his
father were able to see right through him. He walked
up to the boy, and said in a severe tone: “Now, remember,
that you are to read carefully! For when we come
back, I shall question you thoroughly; and if you have
skipped a single page, it will not go well with you.”
“The service is fourteen and a half pages long,” said his
mother, just as if she wanted to heap up the measure
of his misfortune. “You’ll have to sit down and begin
the reading at once, if you expect to get through with
it.”
With that they departed. And as the boy stood in
the doorway watching them, he thought that he had
been caught in a trap. “There they go congratulating
themselves, I suppose, in the belief that they’ve hit
upon something so good that I’ll be forced to sit and
hang over the sermon the whole time that they are
away,” thought he.
But his father and mother were certainly not congratulating
themselves upon anything of the sort; but, on
the contrary, they were very much distressed. They
were poor farmers, and their place was not much bigger
than a garden-plot. When they first moved there,
the place couldn’t feed more than one pig and a pair of
chickens; but they were uncommonly industrious and
capable folk—and now they had both cows and geese.
Things had turned out very well for them; and they
would have gone to church that beautiful morning—
satisfied and happy—if they hadn’t had their son to
think of. Father complained that he was dull and lazy;
he had not cared to learn anything at school, and he
was such an all-round good-for-nothing, that he could
barely be made to tend geese. Mother did not deny
that this was true; but she was most distressed because
he was wild and bad; cruel to animals, and ill-willed toward
human beings. “May God soften his hard heart,
and give him a better disposition!” said the mother,
“or else he will be a misfortune, both to himself and to
us.”
The boy stood for a long time and pondered whether
he should read the service or not. Finally, he came
to the conclusion that, this time, it was best to be
obedient. He seated himself in the easy chair, and
began to read. But when he had been rattling away in
an undertone for a little while, this mumbling seemed
to have a soothing effect upon him—and he began to
nod.
It was the most beautiful weather outside! It was only
the twentieth of March; but the boy lived inWest Vemminghoeg
Township, down in Southern Skane, where
the spring was already in full swing. It was not as
yet green, but it was fresh and budding. There was
water in all the trenches, and the colt’s-foot on the
edge of the ditch was in bloom. All the weeds that
grew in among the stones were brown and shiny. The
beech-woods in the distance seemed to swell and grow
thicker with every second. The skies were high—and a
clear blue. The cottage door stood ajar, and the lark’s
trill could be heard in the room. The hens and geese
pattered about in the yard, and the cows, who felt the
spring air away in their stalls, lowed their approval
every now and then.
The boy read and nodded and fought against drowsiness.
“No! I don’t want to fall asleep,” thought he,
“for then I’ll not get through with this thing the whole
forenoon.”
But—somehow—he fell asleep.
He did not know whether he had slept a short while, or
a long while; but he was awakened by hearing a slight
noise back of him.
On the window-sill, facing the boy, stood a small lookingglass;
and almost the entire cottage could be seen in
this. As the boy raised his head, he happened to look
in the glass; and then he saw that the cover to his
mother’s chest had been opened.
His mother owned a great, heavy, iron-bound oak chest,
which she permitted no one but herself to open. Here
she treasured all the things she had inherited from
her mother, and of these she was especially careful.
Here lay a couple of old-time peasant dresses, of red
homespun cloth, with short bodice and plaited shirt,
and a pearl-bedecked breast pin. There were starched
white-linen head-dresses, and heavy silver ornaments
and chains. Folks don’t care to go about dressed like
that in these days, and several times his mother had
thought of getting rid of the old things; but somehow,
she hadn’t had the heart to do it.
Now the boy saw distinctly—in the glass—that the
chest-lid was open. He could not understand how this
had happened, for his mother had closed the chest before
she went away. She never would have left that
precious chest open when he was at home, alone.
He became low-spirited and apprehensive. He was
afraid that a thief had sneaked his way into the cottage.
He didn’t dare to move; but sat still and stared
into the looking-glass.
While he sat there and waited for the thief to make
his appearance, he began to wonder what that dark
shadow was which fell across the edge of the chest. He
looked and looked—and did not want to believe his
eyes. But the thing, which at first seemed shadowy,
became more and more clear to him; and soon he saw
that it was something real. It was no less a thing than
an elf who sat there—astride the edge of the chest!
To be sure, the boy had heard stories about elves, but
he had never dreamed that they were such tiny creatures.
He was no taller than a hand’s breadth—this
one, who sat on the edge of the chest. He had an old,
wrinkled and beardless face, and was dressed in a black
frock coat, knee-breeches and a broad-brimmed black
hat. He was very trim and smart, with his white laces
about the throat and wrist-bands, his buckled shoes,
and the bows on his garters. He had taken from the
chest an embroidered piece, and sat and looked at the
old-fashioned handiwork with such an air of veneration,
that he did not observe the boy had awakened.
The boy was somewhat surprised to see the elf, but,
on the other hand, he was not particularly frightened.
It was impossible to be afraid of one who was so little.
And since the elf was so absorbed in his own thoughts
that he neither saw nor heard, the boy thought that
it would be great fun to play a trick on him; to push
him over into the chest and shut the lid on him, or
something of that kind.
But the boy was not so courageous that he dared to
touch the elf with his hands, instead he looked around
the room for something to poke him with. He let his
gaze wander from the sofa to the leaf-table; from the
leaf-table to the fireplace. He looked at the kettles,
then at the coffee-urn, which stood on a shelf, near
the fireplace; on the water bucket near the door; and
on the spoons and knives and forks and saucers and
plates, which could be seen through the half-open cupboard
door. He looked at his father’s gun, which hung
on the wall, beside the portrait of the Danish royal
family, and on the geraniums and fuchsias, which blossomed
in the window. And last, he caught sight of an
old butterfly-snare that hung on the window frame.
He had hardly set eyes on that butterfly-snare, before
he reached over and snatched it and jumped up and
swung it alongside the edge of the chest. He was himself
astonished at the luck he had. He hardly knew
how he had managed it—but he had actually snared
the elf. The poor little chap lay, head downward, in the
bottom of the long snare, and could not free himself.
The first moment the boy hadn’t the least idea what
he should do with his prize. He was only particular to
swing the snare backward and forward; to prevent the
elf from getting a foothold and clambering up.
The elf began to speak, and begged, oh! so pitifully, for
his freedom. He had brought them good luck—these
many years—he said, and deserved better treatment.
Now, if the boy would set him free, he would give him
an old coin, a silver spoon, and a gold penny, as big as
the case on his father’s silver watch.
The boy didn’t think that this was much of an offer;
but it so happened—that after he had gotten the elf
in his power, he was afraid of him. He felt that he had
entered into an agreement with something weird and
uncanny; something which did not belong to his world,
and he was only too glad to get rid of the horrid thing.
For this reason he agreed at once to the bargain, and
held the snare still, so the elf could crawl out of it.
But when the elf was almost out of the snare, the boy
happened to think that he ought to have bargained for
large estates, and all sorts of good things. He should
at least have made this stipulation: that the elf must
conjure the sermon into his head. “What a fool I was
to let him go!” thought he, and began to shake the
snare violently, so the elf would tumble down again.
But the instant the boy did this, he received such a
stinging box on the ear, that he thought his head would
fly in pieces. He was dashed—first against one wall,
then against the other; he sank to the floor, and lay
there—senseless.
When he awoke, he was alone in the cottage. The
chest-lid was down, and the butterfly-snare hung in
its usual place by the window. If he had not felt how
the right cheek burned, from that box on the ear, he
would have been tempted to believe the whole thing
had been a dream. “At any rate, father and mother
will be sure to insist that it was nothing else,” thought
he. “They are not likely to make any allowances for
that old sermon, on account of the elf. It’s best for me
to get at that reading again,” thought he.
But as he walked toward the table, he noticed something
remarkable. It couldn’t be possible that the cottage
had grown. But why was he obliged to take so
many more steps than usual to get to the table? And
what was the matter with the chair? It looked no bigger
than it did a while ago; but now he had to step on
the rung first, and then clamber up in order to reach
the seat. It was the same thing with the table. He
could not look over the top without climbing to the
arm of the chair.
“What in all the world is this?” said the boy. “I believe
the elf has bewitched both the armchair and the
table—and the whole cottage.”
The Commentary lay on the table and, to all appearances,
it was not changed; but there must have been
something queer about that too, for he could not manage
to read a single word of it, without actually standing
right in the book itself.
He read a couple of lines, and then he chanced to look
up. With that, his glance fell on the looking-glass; and
then he cried aloud: “Look! There’s another one!”
For in the glass he saw plainly a little, little creature
who was dressed in a hood and leather breeches.
“Why, that one is dressed exactly like me!” said the
boy, and clasped his hands in astonishment. But then
he saw that the thing in the mirror did the same thing.
Then he began to pull his hair and pinch his arms and
swing round; and instantly he did the same thing after
him; he, who was seen in the mirror.
The boy ran around the glass several times, to see
if there wasn’t a little man hidden behind it, but he
found no one there; and then he began to shake with
terror. For now he understood that the elf had bewitched
him, and that the creature whose image he
saw in the glass—was he, himself.
Chapter 2
THE WILD GEESE
The boy simply could not make himself believe that he
had been transformed into an elf. “It can’t be anything
but a dream—a queer fancy,” thought he. “If I wait a
few moments, I’ll surely be turned back into a human
being again.”
He placed himself before the glass and closed his eyes.
He opened them again after a couple of minutes, and
then expected to find that it had all passed over—
but it hadn’t. He was—and remained—just as little.
In other respects, he was the same as before.
The thin, straw-coloured hair; the freckles across his
nose; the patches on his leather breeches and the darns
on his stockings, were all like themselves, with this
exception—that they had become diminished.
No, it would do no good for him to stand still and
wait, of this he was certain. He must try something
else. And he thought the wisest thing that he could do
was to try and find the elf, and make his peace with
him.
And while he sought, he cried and prayed and promised
everything he could think of. Nevermore would he
break his word to anyone; never again would he be
naughty; and never, never would he fall asleep again
over the sermon. If he might only be a human being
once more, he would be such a good and helpful and
obedient boy. But no matter how much he promised—
it did not help him the least little bit.
Suddenly he remembered that he had heard his mother
say, all the tiny folk made their home in the cowsheds;
and, at once, he concluded to go there, and
see if he couldn’t find the elf. It was a lucky thing
that the cottage-door stood partly open, for he never
could have reached the bolt and opened it; but now he
slipped through without any difficulty.
When he came out in the hallway, he looked around
for his wooden shoes; for in the house, to be sure,
he had gone about in his stocking-feet. He wondered
how he should manage with these big, clumsy wooden
shoes; but just then, he saw a pair of tiny shoes on
the doorstep. When he observed that the elf had been
so thoughtful that he had also bewitched the wooden
shoes, he was even more troubled. It was evidently his
intention that this affliction should last a long time.
On the wooden board-walk in front of the cottage,
hopped a gray sparrow. He had hardly set eyes on
the boy before he called out: “Teetee! Teetee! Look at
Nils goosey-boy! Look at Thumbietot! Look at Nils
Holgersson Thumbietot!”
Instantly, both the geese and the chickens turned and
stared at the boy; and then they set up a fearful cackling.
“Cock-el-i-coo,” crowed the rooster, “good enough
for him! Cock-el-i-coo, he has pulled my comb.” “Ka,
ka, kada, serves him right!” cried the hens; and with
that they kept up a continuous cackle. The geese got
together in a tight group, stuck their heads together
and asked: “Who can have done this? Who can have
done this?”
But the strangest thing of all was, that the boy understood
what they said. He was so astonished, that he
stood there as if rooted to the doorstep, and listened.
“It must be because I am changed into an elf,” said he.
“This is probably why I understand bird-talk.”
He thought it was unbearable that the hens would not
stop saying that it served him right. He threw a stone
at them and shouted:
“Shut up, you pack!”
But it hadn’t occurred to him before, that he was
no longer the sort of boy the hens need fear. The
whole henyard made a rush for him, and formed a ring
around him; then they all cried at once: “Ka, ka, kada,
served you right! Ka, ka, kada, served you right!”
The boy tried to get away, but the chickens ran after
him and screamed, until he thought he’d lose his
hearing. It is more than likely that he never could
have gotten away from them, if the house cat hadn’t
come along just then. As soon as the chickens saw the
cat, they quieted down and pretended to be thinking
of nothing else than just to scratch in the earth for
worms.
Immediately the boy ran up to the cat. “You dear
pussy!” said he, “you must know all the corners and
hiding places about here? You’ll be a good little kitty
and tell me where I can find the elf.”
The cat did not reply at once. He seated himself,
curled his tail into a graceful ring around his paws—
and stared at the boy. It was a large black cat with
one white spot on his chest. His fur lay sleek and
soft, and shone in the sunlight. The claws were drawn
in, and the eyes were a dull gray, with just a little
narrow dark streak down the centre. The cat looked
thoroughly good-natured and inoffensive.
“I know well enough where the elf lives,” he said in a
soft voice, “but that doesn’t say that I’m going to tell
you about it.”
“Dear pussy, you must tell me where the elf lives!” said
the boy. “Can’t you see how he has bewitched me?”
The cat opened his eyes a little, so that the green
wickedness began to shine forth. He spun round and
purred with satisfaction before he replied. “Shall I perhaps
help you because you have so often grabbed me
by the tail?” he said at last.
Then the boy was furious and forgot entirely how little
and helpless he was now. “Oh! I can pull your tail
again, I can,” said he, and ran toward the cat.
The next instant the cat was so changed that the boy
could scarcely believe it was the same animal. Every
separate hair on his body stood on end. The back was
bent; the legs had become elongated; the claws scraped
the ground; the tail had grown thick and short; the
ears were laid back; the mouth was frothy; and the
eyes were wide open and glistened like sparks of red
fire.
The boy didn’t want to let himself be scared by a cat,
and he took a step forward. Then the cat made one
spring and landed right on the boy; knocked him down
and stood over him—his forepaws on his chest, and his
jaws wide apart—over his throat.
The boy felt how the sharp claws sank through his
vest and shirt and into his skin; and how the sharp
eye-teeth tickled his throat. He shrieked for help, as
loudly as he could, but no one came. He thought surely
that his last hour had come. Then he felt that the cat
drew in his claws and let go the hold on his throat.
“There!” he said, “that will do now. I’ll let you go
this time, for my mistress’s sake. I only wanted you to
know which one of us two has the power now.”
With that the cat walked away—looking as smooth
and pious as he did when he first appeared on the
scene. The boy was so crestfallen that he didn’t say a
word, but only hurried to the cowhouse to look for the
elf.
There were not more than three cows, all told. But
when the boy came in, there was such a bellowing and
such a kick-up, that one might easily have believed
that there were at least thirty.
“Moo, moo, moo,” bellowed Mayrose. “It is well there
is such a thing as justice in this world.”
“Moo, moo, moo,” sang the three of them in unison.
He couldn’t hear what they said, for each one tried to
out-bellow the others.
The boy wanted to ask after the elf, but he couldn’t
make himself heard because the cows were in full uproar.
They carried on as they used to do when he
let a strange dog in on them. They kicked with their
hind legs, shook their necks, stretched their heads, and
measured the distance with their horns.
“Come here, you!” said Mayrose, “and you’ll get a kick
that you won’t forget in a hurry!”
“Come here,” said Gold Lily, “and you shall dance on
my horns!”
“Come here, and you shall taste how it felt when you
threw your wooden shoes at me, as you did last summer!”
bawled Star.
“Come here, and you shall be repaid for that wasp you
let loose in my ear!” growled Gold Lily.
Mayrose was the oldest and the wisest of them, and she
was the very maddest. “Come here!” said she, “that I
may pay you back for the many times that you have
jerked the milk pail away from your mother; and for
all the snares you laid for her, when she came carrying
the milk pails; and for all the tears when she has stood
here and wept over you!”
The boy wanted to tell them how he regretted that
he had been unkind to them; and that never, never—
from now on—should he be anything but good, if they
would only tell him where the elf was. But the cows
didn’t listen to him. They made such a racket that he
began to fear one of them would succeed in breaking
loose; and he thought that the best thing for him to
do was to go quietly away from the cowhouse.
When he came out, he was thoroughly disheartened.
He could understand that no one on the place wanted
to help him find the elf. And little good would it do
him, probably, if the elf were found.
He crawled up on the broad hedge which fenced in
the farm, and which was overgrown with briers and
lichen. There he sat down to think about how it
would go with him, if he never became a human being
again. When father and mother came home from
church, there would be a surprise for them. Yes, a
surprise—it would be all over the land; and people
would come flocking from East Vemminghoeg, and
from Torp, and from Skerup. The whole Vemminghoeg
township would come to stare at him. Perhaps father
and mother would take him with them, and show him
at the market place in Kivik.
No, that was too horrible to think about. He would
rather that no human being should ever see him again.
His unhappiness was simply frightful! No one in all
the world was so unhappy as he. He was no longer a
human being—but a freak.
Little by little he began to comprehend what it meant—
to be no longer human. He was separated from everything
now; he could no longer play with other boys,
he could not take charge of the farm after his parents
were gone; and certainly no girl would think of marrying
him.
He sat and looked at his home. It was a little log house,
which lay as if it had been crushed down to earth,
under the high, sloping roof. The outhouses were also
small; and the patches of ground were so narrow that
a horse could barely turn around on them. But little
and poor though the place was, it was much too good
for him now. He couldn’t ask for any better place than
a hole under the stable floor.
It was wondrously beautiful weather! It budded, and it
rippled, and it murmured, and it twittered—all around
him. But he sat there with such a heavy sorrow. He
should never be happy any more about anything.
Never had he seen the skies as blue as they were today.
Birds of passage came on their travels. They
came from foreign lands, and had travelled over the
East sea, by way of Smygahuk, and were now on their
way North. They were of many different kinds; but he
was only familiar with the wild geese, who came flying
in two long rows, which met at an angle.
Several flocks of wild geese had already flown by. They
flew very high, still he could hear how they shrieked:
“To the hills! Now we’re off to the hills!”
When the wild geese saw the tame geese, who walked
about the farm, they sank nearer the earth, and called:
“Come along! Come along! We’re off to the hills!”
The tame geese could not resist the temptation to raise
their heads and listen, but they answered very sensibly:
“We’re pretty well off where we are. We’re pretty
well off where we are.”
It was, as we have said, an uncommonly fine day, with
an atmosphere that it must have been a real delight to
fly in, so light and bracing. And with each new wild
geese-flock that flew by, the tame geese became more
and more unruly. A couple of times they flapped their
wings, as if they had half a mind to fly along. But
then an old mother-goose would always say to them:
“Now don’t be silly. Those creatures will have to suffer
both hunger and cold.”
There was a young gander whom the wild geese had
fired with a passion for adventure. “If another flock
comes this way, I’ll follow them,” said he.
Then there came a new flock, who shrieked like the
others, and the young gander answered: “Wait a minute!
Wait a minute! I’m coming.”
He spread his wings and raised himself into the air;
but he was so unaccustomed to flying, that he fell to
the ground again.
At any rate, the wild geese must have heard his call,
for they turned and flew back slowly to see if he was
coming.
“Wait, wait!” he cried, and made another attempt to
fly.
All this the boy heard, where he lay on the hedge. “It
would be a great pity,” thought he, “if the big gooseygander
should go away. It would be a big loss to father
and mother if he was gone when they came home from
church.”
When he thought of this, once again he entirely forgot
that he was little and helpless. He took one leap right
down into the goose-flock, and threw his arms around
the neck of the goosey-gander. “Oh, no! You don’t fly
away this time, sir!” cried he.
But just about then, the gander was considering how
he should go to work to raise himself from the ground.
He couldn’t stop to shake the boy off, hence he had to
go along with him—up in the air.
They bore on toward the heights so rapidly, that the
boy fairly gasped. Before he had time to think that
he ought to let go his hold around the gander’s neck,
he was so high up that he would have been killed instantly,
if he had fallen to the ground.
The only thing that he could do to make himself a little
more comfortable, was to try and get upon the gander’s
back. And there he wriggled himself forthwith;
but not without considerable trouble. And it was not
an easy matter, either, to hold himself secure on the
slippery back, between two swaying wings. He had to
dig deep into feathers and down with both hands, to
keep from tumbling to the ground.
Chapter 3
THE BIG CHECKED
CLOTH
The boy had grown so giddy that it was a long while
before he came to himself. The winds howled and beat
against him, and the rustle of feathers and swaying of
wings sounded like a whole storm. Thirteen geese flew
around him, flapping their wings and honking. They
danced before his eyes and they buzzed in his ears. He
didn’t know whether they flew high or low, or in what
direction they were travelling.
After a bit, he regained just enough sense to understand
that he ought to find out where the geese were
taking him. But this was not so easy, for he didn’t
know how he should ever muster up courage enough
to look down. He was sure he’d faint if he attempted
it.
The wild geese were not flying very high because the
new travelling companion could not breathe in the very
thinnest air. For his sake they also flew a little slower
than usual.
At last the boy just made himself cast one glance down
to earth. Then he thought that a great big rug lay
spread beneath him, which was made up of an incredible
number of large and small checks.
“Where in all the world am I now?” he wondered.
He saw nothing but check upon check. Some were
broad and ran crosswise, and some were long and narrow—
all over, there were angles and corners. Nothing was
round, and nothing was crooked.
“What kind of a big, checked cloth is this that I’m
looking down on?” said the boy to himself without
expecting anyone to answer him.
But instantly the wild geese who flew about him called
out: “Fields and meadows. Fields and meadows.”
Then he understood that the big, checked cloth he was
travelling over was the flat land of southern Sweden;
and he began to comprehend why it looked so checked
and multi-coloured. The bright green checks he recognised
first; they were rye fields that had been sown
in the fall, and had kept themselves green under the
winter snows. The yellowish-gray checks were stubblefields—
the remains of the oat-crop which had grown
there the summer before. The brownish ones were old
clover meadows: and the black ones, deserted grazing
lands or ploughed-up fallow pastures. The brown
checks with the yellow edges were, undoubtedly, beechtree
forests; for in these you’ll find the big trees which
grow in the heart of the forest—naked in winter; while
the little beech-trees, which grow along the borders,
keep their dry, yellowed leaves way into the spring.
There were also dark checks with gray centres: these
were the large, built-up estates encircled by the small
cottages with their blackening straw roofs, and their
stone-divided land-plots. And then there were checks
green in the middle with brown borders: these were the
orchards, where the grass-carpets were already turning
green, although the trees and bushes around them were
still in their nude, brown bark.
The boy could not keep from laughing when he saw
how checked everything looked.
But when the wild geese heard him laugh, they called
out—kind o’ reprovingly: “Fertile and good land. Fertile
and good land.”
The boy had already become serious. “To think that
you can laugh; you, who have met with the most terrible
misfortune that can possibly happen to a human
being!” thought he. And for a moment he was
pretty serious; but it wasn’t long before he was laughing
again.
Now that he had grown somewhat accustomed to the
ride and the speed, so that he could think of something
besides holding himself on the gander’s back, he began
to notice how full the air was of birds flying northward.
And there was a shouting and a calling from
flock to flock. “So you came over to-day?” shrieked
some. “Yes,” answered the geese. “How do you think
the spring’s getting on?” “Not a leaf on the trees and
ice-cold water in the lakes,” came back the answer.
When the geese flew over a place where they saw any
tame, half-naked fowl, they shouted: “What’s the name
of this place? What’s the name of this place?” Then
the roosters cocked their heads and answered: “Its
name’s Lillgarde this year—the same as last year.”
Most of the cottages were probably named after their
owners—which is the custom in Skane. But instead
of saying this is “Per Matssons,” or “Ola Bossons,” the
roosters hit upon the kind of names which, to their
way of thinking, were more appropriate. Those who
lived on small farms, and belonged to poor cottagers,
cried: “This place is called Grainscarce.” And those
who belonged to the poorest hut-dwellers screamed:
“The name of this place is Little-to-eat, Little-to-eat,
Little-to-eat.”
The big, well-cared-for farms got high-sounding names
from the roosters—such as Luckymeadows, Eggberga
and Moneyville.
But the roosters on the great landed estates were too
high and mighty to condescend to anything like jesting.
One of them crowed and called out with such gusto
that it sounded as if he wanted to be heard clear up to
the sun: “This is Herr Dybeck’s estate; the same this
year as last year; this year as last year.”
A little further on strutted one rooster who crowed:
“This is Swanholm, surely all the world knows that!”
The boy observed that the geese did not fly straight
forward; but zigzagged hither and thither over the
whole South country, just as though they were glad
to be in Skane again and wanted to pay their respects
to every separate place.
They came to one place where there were a number
of big, clumsy-looking buildings with great, tall chimneys,
and all around these were a lot of smaller houses.
“This is Jordberga Sugar Refinery,” cried the roosters.
The boy shuddered as he sat there on the goose’s back.
He ought to have recognised this place, for it was not
very far from his home.
Here he had worked the year before as a watch boy;
but, to be sure, nothing was exactly like itself when
one saw it like that—from up above.
And think! Just think! Osa the goose girl and little
Mats, who were his comrades last year! Indeed the
boy would have been glad to know if they still were
anywhere about here. Fancy what they would have
said, had they suspected that he was flying over their
heads!
Soon Jordberga was lost to sight, and they travelled
towards Svedala and Skaber Lake and back again over
Goerringe Cloister and Haeckeberga. The boy saw
more of Skane in this one day than he had ever seen
before—in all the years that he had lived.
Whenever the wild geese happened across any tame
geese, they had the best fun! They flew forward very
slowly and called down: “We’re off to the hills. Are
you coming along? Are you coming along?”
But the tame geese answered: “It’s still winter in this
country. You’re out too soon. Fly back! Fly back!”
The wild geese lowered themselves that they might be
heard a little better, and called: “Come along! We’ll
teach you how to fly and swim.”
Then the tame geese got mad and wouldn’t answer
them with a single honk.
The wild geese sank themselves still lower—until they
almost touched the ground—then, quick as lightning,
they raised themselves, just as if they’d been terribly
frightened. “Oh, oh, oh!” they exclaimed. “Those
things were not geese. They were only sheep, they
were only sheep.”
The ones on the ground were beside themselves with
rage and shrieked: “May you be shot, the whole lot o’
you! The whole lot o’ you!”
When the boy heard all this teasing he laughed. Then
he remembered how badly things had gone with him,
and he cried. But the next second, he was laughing
again.
Never before had he ridden so fast; and to ride fast and
recklessly—that he had always liked. And, of course,
he had never dreamed that it could be as fresh and
bracing as it was, up in the air; or that there rose
from the earth such a fine scent of resin and soil. Nor
had he ever dreamed what it could be like—to ride so
high above the earth. It was just like flying away from
sorrow and trouble and annoyances of every kind that
could be thought of.
Chapter 4
AKKA FROM
KEBNEKAISE
EVENING
The big tame goosey-gander that had followed them
up in the air, felt very proud of being permitted to
travel back and forth over the South country with the
wild geese, and crack jokes with the tame birds. But
in spite of his keen delight, he began to tire as the
afternoon wore on. He tried to take deeper breaths and
quicker wing-strokes, but even so he remained several
goose-lengths behind the others.
When the wild geese who flew last, noticed that the
tame one couldn’t keep up with them, they began to
call to the goose who rode in the centre of the angle
and led the procession: “Akka from Kebnekaise! Akka
from Kebnekaise!” “What do you want of me?” asked
the leader. “The white one will be left behind; the
white one will be left behind.” “Tell him it’s easier to
fly fast than slow!” called the leader, and raced on as
before.
The goosey-gander certainly tried to follow the advice,
and increase his speed; but then he became so
exhausted that he sank away down to the drooping
willows that bordered the fields and meadows.
“Akka, Akka, Akka from Kebnekaise!” cried those who
flew last and saw what a hard time he was having.
“What do you want now?” asked the leader—and she
sounded awfully angry. “The white one sinks to the
earth; the white one sinks to the earth.” “Tell him it’s
easier to fly high than low!” shouted the leader, and
she didn’t slow up the least little bit, but raced on as
before.
The goosey-gander tried also to follow this advice; but
when he wanted to raise himself, he became so winded
that he almost burst his breast.
“Akka, Akka!” again cried those who flew last. “Can’t
you let me fly in peace?” asked the leader, and she
sounded even madder than before.
“The white one is ready to collapse.” “Tell him that
he who has not the strength to fly with the flock, can
go back home!” cried the leader. She certainly had no
idea of decreasing her speed—but raced on as before.
“Oh! is that the way the wind blows,” thought the
goosey-gander. He understood at once that the wild
geese had never intended to take him along up to Lapland.
They had only lured him away from home in
sport.
He felt thoroughly exasperated. To think that his
strength should fail him now, so he wouldn’t be able to
show these tramps that even a tame goose was good
for something! But the most provoking thing of all
was that he had fallen in with Akka from Kebnekaise.
Tame goose that he was, he had heard about a leader
goose, named Akka, who was more than a hundred
years old. She had such a big name that the best wild
geese in the world followed her. But no one had such
a contempt for tame geese as Akka and her flock, and
gladly would he have shown them that he was their
equal.
He flew slowly behind the rest, while he deliberated
whether he should turn back or continue. Finally, the
little creature that he carried on his back said: “Dear
Morten Goosey-gander, you know well enough that it
is simply impossible for you, who have never flown,
to go with the wild geese all the way up to Lapland.
Won’t you turn back before you kill yourself?”
But the farmer’s lad was about the worst thing the
goosey-gander knew anything about, and as soon as it
dawned on him that this puny creature actually believed
that he couldn’t make the trip, he decided to
stick it out. “If you say another word about this, I’ll
drop you into the first ditch we ride over!” said he, and
at the same time his fury gave him so much strength
that he began to fly almost as well as any of the others.
It isn’t likely that he could have kept this pace up very
long, neither was it necessary; for, just then, the sun
sank quickly; and at sunset the geese flew down, and
before the boy and the goosey-gander knew what had
happened, they stood on the shores of Vomb Lake.
“They probably intend that we shall spend the night
here,” thought the boy, and jumped down from the
goose’s back.
He stood on a narrow beach by a fair-sized lake. It was
ugly to look upon, because it was almost entirely covered
with an ice-crust that was blackened and uneven
and full of cracks and holes—as spring ice generally is.
The ice was already breaking up. It was loose and
floating and had a broad belt of dark, shiny water all
around it; but there was still enough of it left to spread
chill and winter terror over the place.
On the other side of the lake there appeared to be
an open and light country, but where the geese had
lighted there was a thick pine-growth. It looked as if
the forest of firs and pines had the power to bind the
winter to itself. Everywhere else the ground was bare;
but beneath the sharp pine-branches lay snow that had
been melting and freezing, melting and freezing, until
it was hard as ice.
The boy thought he had struck an arctic wilderness,
and he was so miserable that he wanted to scream. He
was hungry too. He hadn’t eaten a bite the whole day.
But where should he find any food? Nothing eatable
grew on either ground or tree in the month of March.
Yes, where was he to find food, and who would give
him shelter, and who would fix his bed, and who would
protect him from the wild beasts?
For now the sun was away and frost came from the
lake, and darkness sank down from heaven, and terror
stole forward on the twilight’s trail, and in the forest
it began to patter and rustle.
Now the good humour which the boy had felt when
he was up in the air, was gone, and in his misery he
looked around for his travelling companions. He had
no one but them to cling to now.
Then he saw that the goosey-gander was having even
a worse time of it than he. He was lying prostrate on
the spot where he had alighted; and it looked as if he
were ready to die. His neck lay flat against the ground,
his eyes were closed, and his breathing sounded like a
feeble hissing.
“Dear Morten Goosey-Gander,” said the boy, “try to
get a swallow of water! It isn’t two steps to the lake.”
But the goosey-gander didn’t stir.
The boy had certainly been cruel to all animals, and
to the goosey-gander in times gone by; but now he felt
that the goosey-gander was the only comfort he had
left, and he was dreadfully afraid of losing him.
At once the boy began to push and drag him, to get
him into the water, but the goosey-gander was big and
heavy, and it was mighty hard work for the boy; but
at last he succeeded.
The goosey-gander got in head first. For an instant he
lay motionless in the slime, but soon he poked up his
head, shook the water from his eyes and sniffed. Then
he swam, proudly, between reeds and seaweed.
The wild geese were in the lake before him. They had
not looked around for either the goosey-gander or for
his rider, but had made straight for the water. They
had bathed and primped, and now they lay and gulped
half-rotten pond-weed and water-clover.
The white goosey-gander had the good fortune to spy
a perch. He grabbed it quickly, swam ashore with it,
and laid it down in front of the boy. “Here’s a thank
you for helping me into the water,” said he.
It was the first time the boy had heard a friendly word
that day. He was so happy that he wanted to throw
his arms around the goosey-gander’s neck, but he refrained;
and he was also thankful for the gift. At first
he must have thought that it would be impossible to
eat raw fish, and then he had a notion to try it.
He felt to see if he still had his sheath-knife with him;
and, sure enough, there it hung—on the back button
of his trousers, although it was so diminished that it
was hardly as long as a match. Well, at any rate, it
served to scale and cleanse fish with; and it wasn’t long
before the perch was eaten.
When the boy had satisfied his hunger, he felt a little
ashamed because he had been able to eat a raw thing.
“It’s evident that I’m not a human being any longer,
but a real elf,” thought he.
While the boy ate, the goosey-gander stood silently beside
him. But when he had swallowed the last bite, he
said in a low voice: “It’s a fact that we have run across
a stuck-up goose folk who despise all tame birds.”
“Yes, I’ve observed that,” said the boy.
“What a triumph it would be for me if I could follow
them clear up to Lapland, and show them that even a
tame goose can do things!”
“Y-e-e-s,” said the boy, and drawled it out because
he didn’t believe the goosey-gander could ever do it;
yet he didn’t wish to contradict him. “But I don’t
think I can get along all alone on such a journey,”
said the goosey-gander. “I’d like to ask if you couldn’t
come along and help me?” The boy, of course, hadn’t
expected anything but to return to his home as soon as
possible, and he was so surprised that he hardly knew
what he should reply. “I thought that we were enemies,
you and I,” said he. But this the goosey-gander seemed
to have forgotten entirely. He only remembered that
the boy had but just saved his life.
“I suppose I really ought to go home to father and
mother,” said the boy. “Oh! I’ll get you back to
them some time in the fall,” said the goosey-gander. “I
shall not leave you until I put you down on your own
doorstep.”
The boy thought it might be just as well for him if he
escaped showing himself before his parents for a while.
He was not disinclined to favour the scheme, and was
just on the point of saying that he agreed to it—when
they heard a loud rumbling behind them. It was the
wild geese who had come up from the lake—all at one
time—and stood shaking the water from their backs.
After that they arranged themselves in a long row—
with the leader-goose in the centre—and came toward
them.
As the white goosey-gander sized up the wild geese, he
felt ill at ease. He had expected that they should be
more like tame geese, and that he should feel a closer
kinship with them. They were much smaller than he,
and none of them were white. They were all gray with
a sprinkling of brown. He was almost afraid of their
eyes. They were yellow, and shone as if a fire had
been kindled back of them. The goosey-gander had
always been taught that it was most fitting to move
slowly and with a rolling motion, but these creatures
did not walk—they half ran. He grew most alarmed,
however, when he looked at their feet. These were
large, and the soles were torn and ragged-looking. It
was evident that the wild geese never questioned what
they tramped upon. They took no by-paths. They
were very neat and well cared for in other respects,
but one could see by their feet that they were poor
wilderness-folk.
The goosey-gander only had time to whisper to the
boy: “Speak up quickly for yourself, but don’t tell them
who you are!”—before the geese were upon them.
When the wild geese had stopped in front of them, they
curtsied with their necks many times, and the gooseygander
did likewise many more times. As soon as the
ceremonies were over, the leader-goose said: “Now I
presume we shall hear what kind of creatures you are.”
“There isn’t much to tell about me,” said the gooseygander.
“I was born in Skanor last spring. In the fall
I was sold to Holger Nilsson of West Vemminghoeg,
and there I have lived ever since.” “You don’t seem to
have any pedigree to boast of,” said the leader-goose.
“What is it, then, that makes you so high-minded that
you wish to associate with wild geese?” “It may be
because I want to show you wild geese that we tame
ones may also be good for something,” said the gooseygander.
“Yes, it would be well if you could show us
that,” said the leader-goose. “We have already observed
how much you know about flying; but you are
more skilled, perhaps, in other sports. Possibly you
are strong in a swimming match?” “No, I can’t boast
that I am,” said the goosey-gander. It seemed to him
that the leader-goose had already made up her mind
to send him home, so he didn’t much care how he
answered. “I never swam any farther than across a
marl-ditch,” he continued. “Then I presume you’re a
crack sprinter,” said the goose. “I have never seen a
tame goose run, nor have I ever done it myself,” said
the goosey-gander; and he made things appear much
worse than they really were.
The big white one was sure now that the leader-goose
would say that under no circumstances could they take
him along. He was very much astonished when she
said: “You answer questions courageously; and he who
has courage can become a good travelling companion,
even if he is ignorant in the beginning. What do you
say to stopping with us for a couple of days, until we
can see what you are good for?” “That suits me!” said
the goosey-gander—and he was thoroughly happy.
Thereupon the leader-goose pointed with her bill and
said: “But who is that you have with you? I’ve never
seen anything like him before.” “That’s my comrade,”
said the goosey-gander. “He’s been a goose-tender all
his life. He’ll be useful all right to take with us on the
trip.” “Yes, he may be all right for a tame goose,” answered
the wild one. “What do you call him?” “He has
several names,” said the goosey-gander—hesitantly, not
knowing what he should hit upon in a hurry, for he
didn’t want to reveal the fact that the boy had a human
name. “Oh! his name is Thumbietot,” he said at
last. “Does he belong to the elf family?” asked the
leader-goose. “At what time do you wild geese usually
retire?” said the goosey-gander quickly—trying
to evade that last question. “My eyes close of their
own accord about this time.”
One could easily see that the goose who talked with the
gander was very old. Her entire feather outfit was icegray,
without any dark streaks. The head was larger,
the legs coarser, and the feet were more worn than any
of the others. The feathers were stiff; the shoulders
knotty; the neck thin. All this was due to age. It was
only upon the eyes that time had had no effect. They
shone brighter—as if they were younger—than any of
the others!
She turned, very haughtily, toward the goosey-gander.
“Understand, Mr. Tame-goose, that I am Akka from
Kebnekaise! And that the goose who flies nearest me—
to the right—is Iksi from Vassijaure, and the one to the
left, is Kaksi from Nuolja! Understand, also, that the
second right-hand goose is Kolmi from Sarjektjakko,
and the second, left, is Neljae from Svappavaara; and
behind them fly Viisi from Oviksfjaellen and Kuusi
from Sjangeli! And know that these, as well as the
six goslings who fly last—three to the right, and three
to the left—are all high mountain geese of the finest
breed! You must not take us for land-lubbers who
strike up a chance acquaintance with any and everyone!
And you must not think that we permit anyone
to share our quarters, that will not tell us who his
ancestors were.”
When Akka, the leader-goose, talked in this way, the
boy stepped briskly forward. It had distressed him
that the goosey-gander, who had spoken up so glibly
for himself, should give such evasive answers when it
concerned him. “I don’t care to make a secret of who
I am,” said he. “My name is Nils Holgersson. I’m a
farmer’s son, and, until to-day, I have been a human
being; but this morning—” He got no further. As soon
as he had said that he was human the leader-goose
staggered three steps backward, and the rest of them
even farther back. They all extended their necks and
hissed angrily at him.
“I have suspected this ever since I first saw you here on
these shores,” said Akka; “and now you can clear out
of here at once. We tolerate no human beings among
us.”
“It isn’t possible,” said the goosey-gander, meditatively,
“that you wild geese can be afraid of anyone who is so
tiny! By to-morrow, of course, he’ll turn back home.
You can surely let him stay with us overnight. None of
us can afford to let such a poor little creature wander
off by himself in the night—among weasels and foxes!”
The wild goose came nearer. But it was evident that
it was hard for her to master her fear. “I have been
taught to fear everything in human shape—be it big
or little,” said she. “But if you will answer for this one,
and swear that he will not harm us, he can stay with
us to-night. But I don’t believe our night quarters are
suitable either for him or you, for we intend to roost
on the broken ice out here.”
She thought, of course, that the goosey-gander would
be doubtful when he heard this, but he never let on.
“She is pretty wise who knows how to choose such a
safe bed,” said he.
“You will be answerable for his return to his own tomorrow.”
“Then I, too, will have to leave you,” said the gooseygander.
“I have sworn that I would not forsake him.”
“You are free to fly whither you will,” said the leadergoose.
With this, she raised her wings and flew out over the
ice and one after another the wild geese followed her.
The boy was very sad to think that his trip to Lapland
would not come off, and, in the bargain, he was
afraid of the chilly night quarters. “It will be worse
and worse,” said he. “In the first place, we’ll freeze to
death on the ice.”
But the gander was in a good humour. “There’s no
danger,” said he. “Only make haste, I beg of you, and
gather together as much grass and litter as you can
well carry.”
When the boy had his arms full of dried grass, the
goosey-gander grabbed him by the shirt-band, lifted
him, and flew out on the ice, where the wild geese
were already fast asleep, with their bills tucked under
their wings.
“Now spread out the grass on the ice, so there’ll be
something to stand on, to keep me from freezing fast.
You help me and I’ll help you,” said the goosey-gander.
This the boy did. And when he had finished, the
goosey-gander picked him up, once again, by the shirtband,
and tucked him under his wing. “I think you’ll
lie snug and warm there,” said the goosey-gander as
he covered him with his wing.
The boy was so imbedded in down that he couldn’t
answer, and he was nice and comfy. Oh, but he was
tired!—And in less than two winks he was fast asleep.
Chapter 5
NIGHT
It is a fact that ice is always treacherous and not to
be trusted. In the middle of the night the loosened
ice-cake on Vomb Lake moved about, until one corner
of it touched the shore. Now it happened that Mr.
Smirre Fox, who lived at this time in Oevid Cloister
Park—on the east side of the lake—caught a glimpse of
that one corner, while he was out on his night chase.
Smirre had seen the wild geese early in the evening,
and hadn’t dared to hope that he might get at one of
them, but now he walked right out on the ice.
When Smirre was very near to the geese, his claws
scraped the ice, and the geese awoke, flapped their
wings, and prepared for flight. But Smirre was too
quick for them. He darted forward as though he’d been
shot; grabbed a goose by the wing, and ran toward
land again.
But this night the wild geese were not alone on the ice,
for they had a human being among them—little as he
was. The boy had awakened when the goosey-gander
spread his wings. He had tumbled down on the ice and
was sitting there, dazed. He hadn’t grasped the whys
and wherefores of all this confusion, until he caught
sight of a little long-legged dog who ran over the ice
with a goose in his mouth.
In a minute the boy was after that dog, to try and take
the goose away from him. He must have heard the
goosey-gander call to him: “Have a care, Thumbietot!
Have a care!” But the boy thought that such a little
runt of a dog was nothing to be afraid of and he rushed
ahead.
The wild goose that Smirre Fox tugged after him, heard
the clatter as the boy’s wooden shoes beat against the
ice, and she could hardly believe her ears. “Does that
infant think he can take me away from the fox?” she
wondered. And in spite of her misery, she began to
cackle right merrily, deep down in her windpipe. It
was almost as if she had laughed.
“The first thing he knows, he’ll fall through a crack in
the ice,” thought she.
But dark as the night was, the boy saw distinctly all
the cracks and holes there were, and took daring leaps
over them. This was because he had the elf’s good
eyesight now, and could see in the dark. He saw both
lake and shore just as clearly as if it had been daylight.
Smirre Fox left the ice where it touched the shore. And
just as he was working his way up to the land-edge,
the boy shouted: “Drop that goose, you sneak!”
Smirre didn’t know who was calling to him, and wasted
no time in looking around, but increased his pace. The
fox made straight for the forest and the boy followed
him, with never a thought of the danger he was running.
All he thought about was the contemptuous way
in which he had been received by the wild geese; and
he made up his mind to let them see that a human
being was something higher than all else created.
He shouted, again and again, to that dog, to make him
drop his game. “What kind of a dog are you, who can
steal a whole goose and not feel ashamed of yourself?
Drop her at once! or you’ll see what a beating you’ll
get. Drop her, I say, or I’ll tell your master how you
behave!”
When Smirre Fox saw that he had been mistaken for a
scary dog, he was so amused that he came near dropping
the goose. Smirre was a great plunderer who
wasn’t satisfied with only hunting rats and pigeons in
the fields, but he also ventured into the farmyards to
steal chickens and geese. He knew that he was feared
throughout the district; and anything as idiotic as this
he had not heard since he was a baby.
The boy ran so fast that the thick beech-trees appeared
to be running past him—backward, but he caught up
with Smirre. Finally, he was so close to him that he
got a hold on his tail. “Now I’ll take the goose from
you anyway,” cried he, and held on as hard as ever he
could, but he hadn’t strength enough to stop Smirre.
The fox dragged him along until the dry foliage whirled
around him.
But now it began to dawn on Smirre how harmless
the thing was that pursued him. He stopped short,
put the goose on the ground, and stood on her with
his forepaws, so she couldn’t fly away. He was just
about to bite off her neck—but then he couldn’t resist
the desire to tease the boy a little. “Hurry off and
complain to the master, for now I’m going to bite the
goose to death!” said he.
Certainly the one who was surprised when he saw what
a pointed nose, and heard what a hoarse and angry
voice that dog which he was pursuing had,—was the
boy! But now he was so enraged because the fox had
made fun of him, that he never thought of being frightened.
He took a firmer hold on the tail, braced himself
against a beech trunk; and just as the fox opened his
jaws over the goose’s throat, he pulled as hard as he
could. Smirre was so astonished that he let himself
be pulled backward a couple of steps—and the wild
goose got away. She fluttered upward feebly and heavily.
One wing was so badly wounded that she could
barely use it. In addition to this, she could not see in
the night darkness of the forest but was as helpless as
the blind. Therefore she could in no way help the boy;
so she groped her way through the branches and flew
down to the lake again.
Then Smirre made a dash for the boy. “If I don’t get
the one, I shall certainly have the other,” said he; and
you could tell by his voice how mad he was. “Oh, don’t
you believe it!” said the boy, who was in the best of
spirits because he had saved the goose. He held fast
by the fox-tail, and swung with it—to one side—when
the fox tried to catch him.
There was such a dance in that forest that the dry
beech-leaves fairly flew! Smirre swung round and round,
but the tail swung too; while the boy kept a tight grip
on it, so the fox could not grab him.
The boy was so gay after his success that in the beginning,
he laughed and made fun of the fox. But
Smirre was persevering—as old hunters generally are—
and the boy began to fear that he should be captured
in the end. Then he caught sight of a little, young
beech-tree that had shot up as slender as a rod, that
it might soon reach the free air above the canopy of
branches which the old beeches spread above it.
Quick as a flash, he let go of the fox-tail and climbed
the beech tree. Smirre Fox was so excited that he
continued to dance around after his tail.
“Don’t bother with the dance any longer!” said the
boy.
But Smirre couldn’t endure the humiliation of his failure
to get the better of such a little tot, so he lay down
under the tree, that he might keep a close watch on
him.
The boy didn’t have any too good a time of it where
he sat, astride a frail branch. The young beech did
not, as yet, reach the high branch-canopy, so the boy
couldn’t get over to another tree, and he didn’t dare
to come down again. He was so cold and numb that
he almost lost his hold around the branch; and he was
dreadfully sleepy; but he didn’t dare fall asleep for fear
of tumbling down.
My! but it was dismal to sit in that way the whole
night through, out in the forest! He never before understood
the real meaning of “night.” It was just as if
the whole world had become petrified, and never could
come to life again.
Then it commenced to dawn. The boy was glad that
everything began to look like itself once more; although
the chill was even sharper than it had been during the
night.
Finally, when the sun got up, it wasn’t yellow but red.
The boy thought it looked as though it were angry and
he wondered what it was angry about. Perhaps it was
because the night had made it so cold and gloomy on
earth, while the sun was away.
The sunbeams came down in great clusters, to see what
the night had been up to. It could be seen how everything
blushed—as if they all had guilty consciences.
The clouds in the skies; the satiny beech-limbs; the
little intertwined branches of the forest-canopy; the
hoar-frost that covered the foliage on the ground—
everything grew flushed and red. More and more sunbeams
came bursting through space, and soon the
night’s terrors were driven away, and such a marvellous
lot of living things came forward. The black woodpecker,
with the red neck, began to hammer with its
bill on the branch. The squirrel glided from his nest
with a nut, and sat down on a branch and began to
shell it. The starling came flying with a worm, and
the bulfinch sang in the tree-top.
Then the boy understood that the sun had said to all
these tiny creatures: “Wake up now, and come out
of your nests! I’m here! Now you need be afraid of
nothing.”
The wild-goose call was heard from the lake, as they
were preparing for flight; and soon all fourteen geese
came flying through the forest. The boy tried to call
to them, but they flew so high that his voice couldn’t
reach them. They probably believed the fox had eaten
him up; and they didn’t trouble themselves to look for
him.
The boy came near crying with regret; but the sun
stood up there—orange-coloured and happy—and put
courage into the whole world. “It isn’t worth while,
Nils Holgersson, for you to be troubled about anything,
as long as I’m here,” said the sun.
Chapter 6
GOOSE-PLAY
Monday, March twenty-first.
Everything remained unchanged in the forest—about
as long as it takes a goose to eat her breakfast. But just
as the morning was verging on forenoon, a goose came
flying, all by herself, under the thick tree-canopy. She
groped her way hesitatingly, between the stems and
branches, and flew very slowly. As soon as Smirre Fox
saw her, he left his place under the beech tree, and
sneaked up toward her. The wild goose didn’t avoid
the fox, but flew very close to him. Smirre made a
high jump for her but he missed her; and the goose
went on her way down to the lake.
It was not long before another goose came flying. She
took the same route as the first one; and flew still lower
and slower. She, too, flew close to Smirre Fox, and he
made such a high spring for her, that his ears brushed
her feet. But she, too, got away from him unhurt, and
went her way toward the lake, silent as a shadow.
A little while passed and then there came another wild
goose. She flew still slower and lower; and it seemed
even more difficult for her to find her way between the
beech-branches. Smirre made a powerful spring! He
was within a hair’s breadth of catching her; but that
goose also managed to save herself.
Just after she had disappeared, came a fourth. She
flew so slowly, and so badly, that Smirre Fox thought
he could catch her without much effort, but he was
afraid of failure now, and concluded to let her fly past—
unmolested. She took the same direction the others
had taken; and just as she was come right above
Smirre, she sank down so far that he was tempted to
jump for her. He jumped so high that he touched her
with his tail. But she flung herself quickly to one side
and saved her life.
Before Smirre got through panting, three more geese
came flying in a row. They flew just like the rest, and
Smirre made high springs for them all, but he did not
succeed in catching any one of them.
After that came five geese; but these flew better than
the others. And although it seemed as if they wanted
to lure Smirre to jump, he withstood the temptation.
After quite a long time came one single goose. It was
the thirteenth. This one was so old that she was gray
all over, without a dark speck anywhere on her body.
She didn’t appear to use one wing very well, but flew
so wretchedly and crookedly, that she almost touched
the ground. Smirre not only made a high leap for her,
but he pursued her, running and jumping all the way
down to the lake. But not even this time did he get
anything for his trouble.
When the fourteenth goose came along, it looked very
pretty because it was white. And as its great wings
swayed, it glistened like a light, in the dark forest.
When Smirre Fox saw this one, he mustered all his
resources and jumped half-way up to the tree-canopy.
But the white one flew by unhurt like the rest.
Now it was quiet for a moment under the beeches. It
looked as if the whole wild-goose-flock had travelled
past.
Suddenly Smirre remembered his prisoner and raised
his eyes toward the young beech-tree. And just as he
might have expected—the boy had disappeared.
But Smirre didn’t have much time to think about him;
for now the first goose came back again from the lake
and flew slowly under the canopy. In spite of all his ill
luck, Smirre was glad that she came back, and darted
after her with a high leap. But he had been in too
much of a hurry, and hadn’t taken the time to calculate
the distance, and he landed at one side of the goose.
Then there came still another goose; then a third; a
fourth; a fifth; and so on, until the angle closed in with
the old ice-gray one, and the big white one. They all
flew low and slow. Just as they swayed in the vicinity
of Smirre Fox, they sank down—kind of inviting-like—
for him to take them. Smirre ran after them and made
leaps a couple of fathoms high—but he couldn’t manage
to get hold of a single one of them.
It was the most awful day that Smirre Fox had ever
experienced. The wild geese kept on travelling over his
head. They came and went—came and went. Great
splendid geese who had eaten themselves fat on the
German heaths and grain fields, swayed all day through
the woods, and so close to him that he touched them
many times; yet he was not permitted to appease his
hunger with a single one of them.
The winter was hardly gone yet, and Smirre recalled
nights and days when he had been forced to tramp
around in idleness, with not so much as a hare to hunt,
when the rats hid themselves under the frozen earth;
and when the chickens were all shut up. But all the
winter’s hunger had not been as hard to endure as this
day’s miscalculations.
Smirre was no young fox. He had had the dogs after
him many a time, and had heard the bullets whizz
around his ears. He had lain in hiding, down in the
lair, while the dachshunds crept into the crevices and
all but found him. But all the anguish that Smirre Fox
had been forced to suffer under this hot chase, was not
to be compared with what he suffered every time that
he missed one of the wild geese.
In the morning, when the play began, Smirre Fox had
looked so stunning that the geese were amazed when
they saw him. Smirre loved display. His coat was a
brilliant red; his breast white; his nose black; and his
tail was as bushy as a plume. But when the evening of
this day was come, Smirre’s coat hung in loose folds.
He was bathed in sweat; his eyes were without lustre;
his tongue hung far out from his gaping jaws; and froth
oozed from his mouth.
In the afternoon Smirre was so exhausted that he grew
delirious. He saw nothing before his eyes but flying
geese. He made leaps for sun-spots which he saw on
the ground; and for a poor little butterfly that had
come out of his chrysalis too soon.
The wild geese flew and flew, unceasingly. All day
long they continued to torment Smirre. They were not
moved to pity because Smirre was done up, fevered,
and out of his head. They continued without a let-up,
although they understood that he hardly saw them,
and that he jumped after their shadows.
When Smirre Fox sank down on a pile of dry leaves,
weak and powerless and almost ready to give up the
ghost, they stopped teasing him.
“Now you know, Mr. Fox, what happens to the one
who dares to come near Akka of Kebnekaise!” they
shouted in his ear; and with that they left him in peace.
Chapter 7
THE WONDERFUL
JOURNEY OF NILS
ON THE FARM
Thursday, March twenty-fourth.
Just at that time a thing happened in Skane which
created a good deal of discussion and even got into
the newspapers but which many believed to be a fable,
because they had not been able to explain it.
It was about like this: A lady squirrel had been captured
in the hazelbrush that grew on the shores of
Vomb Lake, and was carried to a farmhouse close by.
All the folks on the farm—both young and old—were
delighted with the pretty creature with the bushy tail,
the wise, inquisitive eyes, and the natty little feet.
They intended to amuse themselves all summer by
watching its nimble movements; its ingenious way of
shelling nuts; and its droll play. They immediately put
in order an old squirrel cage with a little green house
and a wire-cylinder wheel. The little house, which had
both doors and windows, the lady squirrel was to use
as a dining room and bedroom. For this reason they
placed therein a bed of leaves, a bowl of milk and some
nuts. The cylinder wheel, on the other hand, she was
to use as a play-house, where she could run and climb
and swing round.
The people believed that they had arranged things
very comfortably for the lady squirrel, and they were
astonished because she didn’t seem to be contented;
but, instead, she sat there, downcast and moody, in a
corner of her room. Every now and again, she would let
out a shrill, agonised cry. She did not touch the food;
and not once did she swing round on the wheel. “It’s
probably because she’s frightened,” said the farmer
folk. “To-morrow, when she feels more at home, she
will both eat and play.”
Meanwhile, the women folk on the farm were making
preparations for a feast; and just on that day when
the lady squirrel had been captured, they were busy
with an elaborate bake. They had had bad luck with
something: either the dough wouldn’t rise, or else they
had been dilatory, for they were obliged to work long
after dark.
Naturally there was a great deal of excitement and
bustle in the kitchen, and probably no one there took
time to think about the squirrel, or to wonder how she
was getting on. But there was an old grandma in the
house who was too aged to take a hand in the baking;
this she herself understood, but just the same she did
not relish the idea of being left out of the game. She
felt rather downhearted; and for this reason she did
not go to bed but seated herself by the sitting-room
window and looked out.
They had opened the kitchen door on account of the
heat; and through it a clear ray of light streamed out
on the yard; and it became so well lighted out there
that the old woman could see all the cracks and holes
in the plastering on the wall opposite. She also saw
the squirrel cage which hung just where the light fell
clearest. And she noticed how the squirrel ran from her
room to the wheel, and from the wheel to her room, all
night long, without stopping an instant. She thought
it was a strange sort of unrest that had come over the
animal; but she believed, of course, that the strong
light kept her awake.
Between the cow-house and the stable there was a
broad, handsome carriage-gate; this too came within
the light-radius. As the night wore on, the old grandma
saw a tiny creature, no bigger than a hand’s breadth,
cautiously steal his way through the gate. He was
dressed in leather breeches and wooden shoes like any
other working man. The old grandma knew at once
that it was the elf, and she was not the least bit frightened.
She had always heard that the elf kept himself
somewhere about the place, although she had never
seen him before; and an elf, to be sure, brought good
luck wherever he appeared.
As soon as the elf came into the stone-paved yard, he
ran right up to the squirrel cage. And since it hung
so high that he could not reach it, he went over to the
store-house after a rod; placed it against the cage, and
swung himself up—in the same way that a sailor climbs
a rope. When he had reached the cage, he shook the
door of the little green house as if he wanted to open
it; but the old grandma didn’t move; for she knew that
the children had put a padlock on the door, as they
feared that the boys on the neighbouring farms would
try to steal the squirrel. The old woman saw that when
the boy could not get the door open, the lady squirrel
came out to the wire wheel. There they held a long
conference together. And when the boy had listened
to all that the imprisoned animal had to say to him, he
slid down the rod to the ground, and ran out through
the carriage-gate.
The old woman didn’t expect to see anything more of
the elf that night, nevertheless, she remained at the
window. After a few moments had gone by, he returned.
He was in such a hurry that it seemed to her
as though his feet hardly touched the ground; and he
rushed right up to the squirrel cage. The old woman,
with her far-sighted eyes, saw him distinctly; and she
also saw that he carried something in his hands; but
what it was she couldn’t imagine. The thing he carried
in his left hand he laid down on the pavement;
but that which he held in his right hand he took with
him to the cage. He kicked so hard with his wooden
shoes on the little window that the glass was broken.
He poked in the thing which he held in his hand to the
lady squirrel. Then he slid down again, and took up
that which he had laid upon the ground, and climbed
up to the cage with that also. The next instant he ran
off again with such haste that the old woman could
hardly follow him with her eyes.
But now it was the old grandma who could no longer
sit still in the cottage; but who, very slowly, went out
to the back yard and stationed herself in the shadow
of the pump to await the elf’s return. And there was
one other who had also seen him and had become curious.
This was the house cat. He crept along slyly and
stopped close to the wall, just two steps away from
the stream of light. They both stood and waited,
long and patiently, on that chilly March night, and
the old woman was just beginning to think about going
in again, when she heard a clatter on the pavement,
and saw that the little mite of an elf came trotting
along once more, carrying a burden in each hand,
as he had done before. That which he bore squealed
and squirmed. And now a light dawned on the old
grandma. She understood that the elf had hurried
down to the hazel-grove and brought back the lady
squirrel’s babies; and that he was carrying them to
her so they shouldn’t starve to death.
The old grandma stood very still, so as not to disturb
them; and it did not look as if the elf had noticed
her. He was just going to lay one of the babies on
the ground so that he could swing himself up to the
cage with the other one—when he saw the house cat’s
green eyes glisten close beside him. He stood there,
bewildered, with a young one in each hand.
He turned around and looked in all directions; then he
became aware of the old grandma’s presence. Then he
did not hesitate long; but walked forward, stretched
his arms as high as he could reach, for her to take one
of the baby squirrels.
The old grandma did not wish to prove herself unworthy
of the confidence, so she bent down and took the
baby squirrel, and stood there and held it until the
boy had swung himself up to the cage with the other
one. Then he came back for the one he had entrusted
to her care.
The next morning, when the farm folk had gathered
together for breakfast, it was impossible for the old
woman to refrain from telling them of what she had
seen the night before. They all laughed at her, of
course, and said that she had been only dreaming.
There were no baby squirrels this early in the year.
But she was sure of her ground, and begged them to
take a look into the squirrel cage and this they did.
And there lay on the bed of leaves, four tiny halfnaked,
half blind baby squirrels, who were at least a
couple of days old.
When the farmer himself saw the young ones, he said:
“Be it as it may with this; but one thing is certain, we,
on this farm, have behaved in such a manner that we
are shamed before both animals and human beings.”
And, thereupon, he took the mother squirrel and all
her young ones from the cage, and laid them in the old
grandma’s lap. “Go thou out to the hazel-grove with
them,” said he, “and let them have their freedom back
again!”
It was this event that was so much talked about, and
which even got into the newspapers, but which the majority
would not credit because they were not able to
explain how anything like that could have happened.
VITTSKOeVLE
Saturday, March twenty-sixth.
Two days later, another strange thing happened. A
flock of wild geese came flying one morning, and lit on
a meadow down in Eastern Skane not very far from
Vittskoevle manor. In the flock were thirteen wild
geese, of the usual gray variety, and one white gooseygander,
who carried on his back a tiny lad dressed
in yellow leather breeches, green vest, and a white
woollen toboggan hood.
They were now very near the Eastern sea; and on
the meadow where the geese had alighted the soil was
sandy, as it usually is on the sea-coast. It looked as
if, formerly, there had been flying sand in this vicinity
which had to be held down; for in several directions
large, planted pine-woods could be seen.
When the wild geese had been feeding a while, several
children came along, and walked on the edge of
the meadow. The goose who was on guard at once
raised herself into the air with noisy wing-strokes, so
the whole flock should hear that there was danger on
foot. All the wild geese flew upward; but the white
one trotted along on the ground unconcerned. When
he saw the others fly he raised his head and called after
them: “You needn’t fly away from these! They are
only a couple of children!”
The little creature who had been riding on his back,
sat down upon a knoll on the outskirts of the wood
and picked a pine-cone in pieces, that he might get at
the seeds. The children were so close to him that he
did not dare to run across the meadow to the white
one. He concealed himself under a big, dry thistleleaf,
and at the same time gave a warning-cry. But
the white one had evidently made up his mind not to
let himself be scared. He walked along on the ground
all the while; and not once did he look to see in what
direction they were going.
Meanwhile, they turned from the path, walked across
the field, getting nearer and nearer to the gooseygander.
When he finally did look up, they were right
upon him. He was so dumfounded, and became so confused,
he forgot that he could fly, and tried to get out
of their reach by running. But the children followed,
chasing him into a ditch, and there they caught him.
The larger of the two stuck him under his arm and
carried him off.
When the boy, who lay under the thistle-leaf saw this,
he sprang up as if he wanted to take the goosey-gander
away from them; then he must have remembered how
little and powerless he was, for he threw himself on
the knoll and beat upon the ground with his clenched
fists.
The goosey-gander cried with all his might for help:
“Thumbietot, come and help me! Oh, Thumbietot,
come and help me!” The boy began to laugh in the
midst of his distress. “Oh, yes! I’m just the right one
to help anybody, I am!” said he.
Anyway he got up and followed the goosey-gander. “I
can’t help him,” said he, “but I shall at least find out
where they are taking him.”
The children had a good start; but the boy had no
difficulty in keeping them within sight until they came
to a hollow where a brook gushed forth. But here he
was obliged to run alongside of it for some little time,
before he could find a place narrow enough for him to
jump over.
When he came up from the hollow the children had
disappeared. He could see their footprints on a narrow
path which led to the woods, and these he continued
to follow.
Soon he came to a cross-road. Here the children must
have separated, for there were footprints in two directions.
The boy looked now as if all hope had fled. Then
he saw a little white down on a heather-knoll, and he
understood that the goosey-gander had dropped this
by the wayside to let him know in which direction
he had been carried; and therefore he continued his
search. He followed the children through the entire
wood. The goosey-gander he did not see; but wherever
he was likely to miss his way, lay a little white
down to put him right.
The boy continued faithfully to follow the bits of down.
They led him out of the wood, across a couple of meadows,
up on a road, and finally through the entrance
of a broad allee. At the end of the allee there were
gables and towers of red tiling, decorated with bright
borders and other ornamentations that glittered and
shone. When the boy saw that this was some great
manor, he thought he knew what had become of the
goosey-gander. “No doubt the children have carried
the goosey-gander to the manor and sold him there.
By this time he’s probably butchered,” he said to himself.
But he did not seem to be satisfied with anything
less than proof positive, and with renewed courage he
ran forward. He met no one in the allee—and that was
well, for such as he are generally afraid of being seen
by human beings.
The mansion which he came to was a splendid, oldtime
structure with four great wings which inclosed a
courtyard. On the east wing, there was a high arch
leading into the courtyard. This far the boy ran without
hesitation, but when he got there he stopped. He
dared not venture farther, but stood still and pondered
what he should do now.
There he stood, with his finger on his nose, thinking,
when he heard footsteps behind him; and as he turned
around he saw a whole company march up the allee.
In haste he stole behind a water-barrel which stood
near the arch, and hid himself.
Those who came up were some twenty young men from
a folk-high-school, out on a walking tour. They were
accompanied by one of the instructors. When they
were come as far as the arch, the teacher requested
them to wait there a moment, while he went in and
asked if they might see the old castle of Vittskoevle.
The newcomers were warm and tired; as if they had
been on a long tramp. One of them was so thirsty that
he went over to the water-barrel and stooped down to
drink. He had a tin box such as botanists use hanging
about his neck. He evidently thought that this was in
his way, for he threw it down on the ground. With
this, the lid flew open, and one could see that there
were a few spring flowers in it.
The botanist’s box dropped just in front of the boy;
and he must have thought that here was his opportunity
to get into the castle and find out what had
become of the goosey-gander. He smuggled himself
quickly into the box and concealed himself as well as
he could under the anemones and colt’s-foot.
He was hardly hidden before the young man picked the
box up, hung it around his neck, and slammed down
the cover.
Then the teacher came back, and said that they had
been given permission to enter the castle. At first he
conducted them no farther than the courtyard. There
he stopped and began to talk to them about this ancient
structure.
He called their attention to the first human beings who
had inhabited this country, and who had been obliged
to live in mountain-grottoes and earth-caves; in the
dens of wild beasts, and in the brushwood; and that
a very long period had elapsed before they learned to
build themselves huts from the trunks of trees. And
afterward how long had they not been forced to labour
and struggle, before they had advanced from the log
cabin, with its single room, to the building of a castle
with a hundred rooms—like Vittskoevle!
It was about three hundred and fifty years ago that the
rich and powerful built such castles for themselves, he
said. It was very evident that Vittskoevle had been
erected at a time when wars and robbers made it unsafe
in Skane. All around the castle was a deep trench
filled with water; and across this there had been a
bridge in bygone days that could be hoisted up. Over
the gate-arch there is, even to this day, a watch-tower;
and all along the sides of the castle ran sentry-galleries,
and in the corners stood towers with walls a metre
thick. Yet the castle had not been erected in the most
savage war time; for Jens Brahe, who built it, had also
studied to make of it a beautiful and decorative ornament.
If they could see the big, solid stone structure
at Glimminge, which had been built only a generation
earlier, they would readily see that Jans Holgersen
Ulfstand, the builder, hadn’t figured upon anything
else—only to build big and strong and secure, without
bestowing a thought upon making it beautiful and
comfortable. If they visited such castles as Marsvinsholm,
Snogeholm and Oevid’s Cloister—which were
erected a hundred years or so later—they would find
that the times had become less warlike. The gentlemen
who built these places, had not furnished them
with fortifications; but had only taken pains to provide
themselves with great, splendid dwelling houses.
The teacher talked at length—and in detail; and the
boy who lay shut up in the box was pretty impatient;
but he must have lain very still, for the owner of the
box hadn’t the least suspicion that he was carrying
him along.
Finally the company went into the castle. But if the
boy had hoped for a chance to crawl out of that box,
he was deceived; for the student carried it upon him
all the while, and the boy was obliged to accompany
him through all the rooms. It was a tedious tramp.
The teacher stopped every other minute to explain and
instruct.
In one room he found an old fireplace, and before this
he stopped to talk about the different kinds of fireplaces
that had been used in the course of time. The
first indoors fireplace had been a big, flat stone on the
floor of the hut, with an opening in the roof which let
in both wind and rain. The next had been a big stone
hearth with no opening in the roof. This must have
made the hut very warm, but it also filled it with soot
and smoke. When Vittskoevle was built, the people
had advanced far enough to open the fireplace, which,
at that time, had a wide chimney for the smoke; but
it also took most of the warmth up in the air with it.
If that boy had ever in his life been cross and impatient,
he was given a good lesson in patience that day.
It must have been a whole hour now that he had lain
perfectly still.
In the next room they came to, the teacher stopped
before an old-time bed with its high canopy and rich
curtains. Immediately he began to talk about the beds
and bed places of olden days.
The teacher didn’t hurry himself; but then he did not
know, of course, that a poor little creature lay shut
up in a botanist’s box, and only waited for him to
get through. When they came to a room with gilded
leather hangings, he talked to them about how the people
had dressed their walls and ceilings ever since the
beginning of time. And when he came to an old family
portrait, he told them all about the different changes
in dress. And in the banquet halls he described ancient
customs of celebrating weddings and funerals.
Thereupon, the teacher talked a little about the excellent
men and women who had lived in the castle; about
the old Brahes, and the old Barnekows; of Christian
Barnekow, who had given his horse to the king to help
him escape; of Margareta Ascheberg who had been
married to Kjell Barnekow and who, when a widow,
had managed the estates and the whole district for
fifty-three years; of banker Hageman, a farmer’s son
from Vittskoevle, who had grown so rich that he had
bought the entire estate; about the Stjernsvaerds, who
had given the people of Skane better ploughs, which
enabled them to discard the ridiculous old wooden
ploughs that three oxen were hardly able to drag. During
all this, the boy lay still. If he had ever been
mischievous and shut the cellar door on his father or
mother, he understood now how they had felt; for it
was hours and hours before that teacher got through.
At last the teacher went out into the courtyard again.
And there he discoursed upon the tireless labour of
mankind to procure for themselves tools and weapons,
clothes and houses and ornaments. He said that such
an old castle as Vittskoevle was a mile-post on time’s
highway. Here one could see how far the people had
advanced three hundred and fifty years ago; and one
could judge for oneself whether things had gone forward
or backward since their time.
But this dissertation the boy escaped hearing; for the
student who carried him was thirsty again, and stole
into the kitchen to ask for a drink of water. When the
boy was carried into the kitchen, he should have tried
to look around for the goosey-gander. He had begun
to move; and as he did this, he happened to press too
hard against the lid—and it flew open. As botanists’
box-lids are always flying open, the student thought
no more about the matter but pressed it down again.
Then the cook asked him if he had a snake in the box.
“No, I have only a few plants,” the student replied. “It
was certainly something that moved there,” insisted
the cook. The student threw back the lid to show her
that she was mistaken. “See for yourself—if—”
But he got no further, for now the boy dared not stay
in the box any longer, but with one bound he stood
on the floor, and out he rushed. The maids hardly
had time to see what it was that ran, but they hurried
after it, nevertheless.
The teacher still stood and talked when he was interrupted
by shrill cries. “Catch him, catch him!” shrieked
those who had come from the kitchen; and all the
young men raced after the boy, who glided away faster
than a rat. They tried to intercept him at the gate,
but it was not so easy to get a hold on such a little
creature, so, luckily, he got out in the open.
The boy did not dare to run down toward the open
allee, but turned in another direction. He rushed through
the garden into the back yard. All the while the people
raced after him, shrieking and laughing. The poor
little thing ran as hard as ever he could to get out
of their way; but still it looked as though the people
would catch up with him.
As he rushed past a labourer’s cottage, he heard a
goose cackle, and saw a white down lying on the doorstep.
There, at last, was the goosey-gander! He had been
on the wrong track before. He thought no more of
housemaids and men, who were hounding him, but
climbed up the steps—and into the hallway. Farther he
couldn’t come, for the door was locked. He heard how
the goosey-gander cried and moaned inside, but he
couldn’t get the door open. The hunters that were pursuing
him came nearer and nearer, and, in the room,
the goosey-gander cried more and more pitifully. In
this direst of needs the boy finally plucked up courage
and pounded on the door with all his might.
A child opened it, and the boy looked into the room.
In the middle of the floor sat a woman who held the
goosey-gander tight to clip his quill-feathers. It was
her children who had found him, and she didn’t want
to do him any harm. It was her intention to let him
in among her own geese, had she only succeeded in
clipping his wings so he couldn’t fly away. But a worse
fate could hardly have happened to the goosey-gander,
and he shrieked and moaned with all his might.
And a lucky thing it was that the woman hadn’t started
the clipping sooner. Now only two quills had fallen
under the shears’ when the door was opened—and the
boy stood on the door-sill. But a creature like that
the woman had never seen before. She couldn’t believe
anything else but that it was Goa-Nisse himself;
and in her terror she dropped the shears, clasped her
hands—and forgot to hold on to the goosey-gander.
As soon as he felt himself freed, he ran toward the door.
He didn’t give himself time to stop; but, as he ran past
him, he grabbed the boy by the neck-band and carried
him along with him. On the stoop he spread his wings
and flew up in the air; at the same time he made a
graceful sweep with his neck and seated the boy on his
smooth, downy back.
And off they flew—while all Vittskoevle stood and
stared after them.
IN OeVID CLOISTER PARK
All that day, when the wild geese played with the fox,
the boy lay and slept in a deserted squirrel nest. When
he awoke, along toward evening, he felt very uneasy.
“Well, now I shall soon be sent home again! Then
I’ll have to exhibit myself before father and mother,”
thought he. But when he looked up and saw the wild
geese, who lay and bathed in Vomb Lake—not one of
them said a word about his going. “They probably
think the white one is too tired to travel home with
me to-night,” thought the boy.
The next morning the geese were awake at daybreak,
long before sunrise. Now the boy felt sure that he’d
have to go home; but, curiously enough, both he and
the white goosey-gander were permitted to follow the
wild ones on their morning tour. The boy couldn’t
comprehend the reason for the delay, but he figured it
out in this way, that the wild geese did not care to send
the goosey-gander on such a long journey until they
had both eaten their fill. Come what might, he was
only glad for every moment that should pass before he
must face his parents.
The wild geese travelled over Oevid’s Cloister estate
which was situated in a beautiful park east of the lake,
and looked very imposing with its great castle; its well
planned court surrounded by low walls and pavilions;
its fine old-time garden with covered arbours, streams
and fountains; its wonderful trees, trimmed bushes,
and its evenly mown lawns with their beds of beautiful
spring flowers.
When the wild geese rode over the estate in the early
morning hour there was no human being about. When
they had carefully assured themselves of this, they lowered
themselves toward the dog kennel, and shouted:
“What kind of a little hut is this? What kind of a little
hut is this?”
Instantly the dog came out of his kennel—furiously
angry—and barked at the air.
“Do you call this a hut, you tramps! Can’t you see that
this is a great stone castle? Can’t you see what fine
terraces, and what a lot of pretty walls and windows
and great doors it has, bow, wow, wow, wow? Don’t
you see the grounds, can’t you see the garden, can’t
you see the conservatories, can’t you see the marble
statues? You call this a hut, do you? Do huts have
parks with beech-groves and hazel-bushes and trailing
vines and oak trees and firs and hunting-grounds filled
with game, wow, wow, wow? Do you call this a hut?
Have you seen huts with so many outhouses around
them that they look like a whole village? You must
know of a lot of huts that have their own church and
their own parsonage; and that rule over the district
and the peasant homes and the neighbouring farms
and barracks, wow, wow, wow? Do you call this a hut?
To this hut belong the richest possessions in Skane, you
beggars! You can’t see a bit of land, from where you
hang in the clouds, that does not obey commands from
this hut, wow, wow, wow!”
All this the dog managed to cry out in one breath; and
the wild geese flew back and forth over the estate, and
listened to him until he was winded. But then they
cried: “What are you so mad about? We didn’t ask
about the castle; we only wanted to know about your
kennel, stupid!”
When the boy heard this joke, he laughed; then a
thought stole in on him which at once made him serious.
“Think how many of these amusing things you
would hear, if you could go with the wild geese through
the whole country, all the way up to Lapland!” said
he to himself. “And just now, when you are in such a
bad fix, a trip like that would be the best thing you
could hit upon.”
The wild geese travelled to one of the wide fields, east
of the estate, to eat grass-roots, and they kept this up
for hours. In the meantime, the boy wandered in the
great park which bordered the field. He hunted up a
beech-nut grove and began to look up at the bushes,
to see if a nut from last fall still hung there. But again
and again the thought of the trip came over him, as
he walked in the park. He pictured to himself what a
fine time he would have if he went with the wild geese.
To freeze and starve: that he believed he should have
to do often enough; but as a recompense, he would
escape both work and study.
As he walked there, the old gray leader-goose came up
to him, and asked if he had found anything eatable.
No, that he hadn’t, he replied, and then she tried to
help him. She couldn’t find any nuts either, but she
discovered a couple of dried blossoms that hung on a
brier-bush. These the boy ate with a good relish. But
he wondered what mother would say, if she knew that
he had lived on raw fish and old winter-dried blossoms.
When the wild geese had finally eaten themselves full,
they bore off toward the lake again, where they amused
themselves with games until almost dinner time.
The wild geese challenged the white goosey-gander to
take part in all kinds of sports. They had swimming
races, running races, and flying races with him. The
big tame one did his level best to hold his own, but
the clever wild geese beat him every time. All the
while, the boy sat on the goosey-gander’s back and encouraged
him, and had as much fun as the rest. They
laughed and screamed and cackled, and it was remarkable
that the people on the estate didn’t hear them.
When the wild geese were tired of play, they flew out
on the ice and rested for a couple of hours. The afternoon
they spent in pretty much the same way as
the forenoon. First, a couple of hours feeding, then
bathing and play in the water near the ice-edge until
sunset, when they immediately arranged themselves
for sleep.
“This is just the life that suits me,” thought the boy
when he crept in under the gander’s wing. “But tomorrow,
I suppose I’ll be sent home.”
Before he fell asleep, he lay and thought that if he
might go along with the wild geese, he would escape
all scoldings because he was lazy. Then he could cut
loose every day, and his only worry would be to get
something to eat. But he needed so little nowadays;
and there would always be a way to get that.
So he pictured the whole scene to himself; what he
should see, and all the adventures that he would be
in on. Yes, it would be something different from the
wear and tear at home. “If I could only go with the
wild geese on their travels, I shouldn’t grieve because
I’d been transformed,” thought the boy.
He wasn’t afraid of anything—except being sent home;
but not even on Wednesday did the geese say anything
to him about going. That day passed in the same
way as Tuesday; and the boy grew more and more
contented with the outdoor life. He thought that he
had the lovely Oevid Cloister park—which was as large
as a forest—all to himself; and he wasn’t anxious to go
back to the stuffy cabin and the little patch of ground
there at home.
OnWednesday he believed that the wild geese thought
of keeping him with them; but on Thursday he lost
hope again.
Thursday began just like the other days; the geese fed
on the broad meadows, and the boy hunted for food in
the park. After a while Akka came to him, and asked
if he had found anything to eat. No, he had not; and
then she looked up a dry caraway herb, that had kept
all its tiny seeds intact.
When the boy had eaten, Akka said that she thought
he ran around in the park altogether too recklessly.
She wondered if he knew how many enemies he had
to guard against—he, who was so little. No, he didn’t
know anything at all about that. Then Akka began to
enumerate them for him.
Whenever he walked in the park, she said, that he must
look out for the fox and the marten; when he came to
the shores of the lake, he must think of the otters;
as he sat on the stone wall, he must not forget the
weasels, who could creep through the smallest holes;
and if he wished to lie down and sleep on a pile of
leaves, he must first find out if the adders were not
sleeping their winter sleep in the same pile. As soon
as he came out in the open fields, he should keep an
eye out for hawks and buzzards; for eagles and falcons
that soared in the air. In the bramble-bush he could
be captured by the sparrow-hawks; magpies and crows
were found everywhere and in these he mustn’t place
any too much confidence. As soon as it was dusk, he
must keep his ears open and listen for the big owls,
who flew along with such soundless wing-strokes that
they could come right up to him before he was aware
of their presence.
When the boy heard that there were so many who
were after his life, he thought that it would be simply
impossible for him to escape. He was not particularly
afraid to die, but he didn’t like the idea of being eaten
up, so he asked Akka what he should do to protect
himself from the carnivorous animals.
Akka answered at once that the boy should try to get
on good terms with all the small animals in the woods
and fields: with the squirrel-folk, and the hare-family;
with bullfinches and the titmice and woodpeckers and
larks. If he made friends with them, they could warn
him against dangers, find hiding places for him, and
protect him.
But later in the day, when the boy tried to profit by
this counsel, and turned to Sirle Squirrel to ask for his
protection, it was evident that he did not care to help
him. “You surely can’t expect anything from me, or
the rest of the small animals!” said Sirle. “Don’t you
think we know that you are Nils the goose boy, who
tore down the swallow’s nest last year, crushed the
starling’s eggs, threw baby crows in the marl-ditch,
caught thrushes in snares, and put squirrels in cages?
You just help yourself as well as you can; and you may
be thankful that we do not form a league against you,
and drive you back to your own kind!”
This was just the sort of answer the boy would not have
let go unpunished, in the days when he was Nils the
goose boy. But now he was only fearful lest the wild
geese, too, had found out how wicked he could be. He
had been so anxious for fear he wouldn’t be permitted
to stay with the wild geese, that he hadn’t dared to
get into the least little mischief since he joined their
company. It was true that he didn’t have the power
to do much harm now, but, little as he was, he could
have destroyed many birds’ nests, and crushed many
eggs, if he’d been in a mind to. Now he had been good.
He hadn’t pulled a feather from a goose-wing, or given
anyone a rude answer; and every morning when he
called upon Akka he had always removed his cap and
bowed.
All day Thursday he thought it was surely on account
of his wickedness that the wild geese did not
care to take him along up to Lapland. And in the
evening, when he heard that Sirle Squirrel’s wife had
been stolen, and her children were starving to death,
he made up his mind to help them. And we have already
been told how well he succeeded.
When the boy came into the park on Friday, he heard
the bulfinches sing in every bush, of how Sirle Squirrel’s
wife had been carried away from her children by
cruel robbers, and how Nils, the goose boy, had risked
his life among human beings, and taken the little squirrel
children to her.
“And who is so honoured in Oevid Cloister park now,
as Thumbietot!” sang the bullfinch; “he, whom all
feared when he was Nils the goose boy? Sirle Squirrel
will give him nuts; the poor hares are going to play
with him; the small wild animals will carry him on
their backs, and fly away with him when Smirre Fox
approaches. The titmice are going to warn him against
the hawk, and the finches and larks will sing of his valour.”
The boy was absolutely certain that both Akka and the
wild geese had heard all this. But still Friday passed
and not one word did they say about his remaining
with them.
Until Saturday the wild geese fed in the fields around
Oevid, undisturbed by Smirre Fox.
But on Saturday morning, when they came out in the
meadows, he lay in wait for them, and chased them
from one field to another, and they were not allowed
to eat in peace. When Akka understood that he didn’t
intend to leave them in peace, she came to a decision
quickly, raised herself into the air and flew with her
flock several miles away, over Faers’ plains and Linderoedsosen’s
hills. They did not stop before they had
arrived in the district of Vittskoevle.
But at Vittskoevle the goosey-gander was stolen, and
how it happened has already been related. If the boy
had not used all his powers to help him he would never
again have been found.
On Saturday evening, as the boy came back to Vomb
Lake with the goosey-gander, he thought that he had
done a good day’s work; and he speculated a good deal
on what Akka and the wild geese would say to him.
The wild geese were not at all sparing in their praises,
but they did not say the word he was longing to hear.
Then Sunday came again. A whole week had gone by
since the boy had been bewitched, and he was still just
as little.
But he didn’t appear to be giving himself any extra
worry on account of this thing. On Sunday afternoon
he sat huddled together in a big, fluffy osierbush,
down by the lake, and blew on a reed-pipe. All
around him there sat as many finches and bullfinches
and starlings as the bush could well hold—who sang
songs which he tried to teach himself to play. But the
boy was not at home in this art. He blew so false
that the feathers raised themselves on the little musicmasters
and they shrieked and fluttered in their despair.
The boy laughed so heartily at their excitement,
that he dropped his pipe.
He began once again, and that went just as badly.
Then all the little birds wailed: “To-day you play worse
than usual, Thumbietot! You don’t take one true note!
Where are your thoughts, Thumbietot?”
“They are elsewhere,” said the boy—and this was true.
He sat there and pondered how long he would be allowed
to remain with the wild geese; or if he should be
sent home perhaps to-day.
Finally the boy threw down his pipe and jumped from
the bush. He had seen Akka, and all the wild geese,
coming toward him in a long row. They walked so
uncommonly slow and dignified-like, that the boy immediately
understood that now he should learn what
they intended to do with him.
When they stopped at last, Akka said: “You may well
have reason to wonder at me, Thumbietot, who have
not said thanks to you for saving me from Smirre Fox.
But I am one of those who would rather give thanks
by deeds than words. I have sent word to the elf that
bewitched you. At first he didn’t want to hear anything
about curing you; but I have sent message upon
message to him, and told him how well you have conducted
yourself among us. He greets you, and says,
that as soon as you turn back home, you shall be human
again.”
But think of it! Just as happy as the boy had been
when the wild geese began to speak, just that miserable
was he when they had finished. He didn’t say a
word, but turned away and wept.
“What in all the world is this?” said Akka. “It looks
as though you had expected more of me than I have
offered you.”
But the boy was thinking of the care-free days and the
banter; and of adventure and freedom and travel, high
above the earth, that he should miss, and he actually
bawled with grief. “I don’t want to be human,” said
he. “I want to go with you to Lapland.” “I’ll tell you
something,” said Akka. “That elf is very touchy, and
I’m afraid that if you do not accept his offer now, it
will be difficult for you to coax him another time.”
It was a strange thing about that boy—as long as he
had lived, he had never cared for anyone. He had
not cared for his father or mother; not for the school
teacher; not for his school-mates; nor for the boys in
the neighbourhood. All that they had wished to have
him do—whether it had been work or play—he had
only thought tiresome. Therefore there was no one
whom he missed or longed for.
The only ones that he had come anywhere near agreeing
with, were Osa, the goose girl, and little Mats—a
couple of children who had tended geese in the fields,
like himself. But he didn’t care particularly for them
either. No, far from it! “I don’t want to be human,”
bawled the boy. “I want to go with you to Lapland.
That’s why I’ve been good for a whole week!” “I don’t
want to forbid you to come along with us as far as you
like,” said Akka, “but think first if you wouldn’t rather
go home again. A day may come when you will regret
this.”
“No,” said the boy, “that’s nothing to regret. I have
never been as well off as here with you.”
“Well then, let it be as you wish,” said Akka.
“Thanks!” said the boy, and he felt so happy that he
had to cry for very joy—just as he had cried before
from sorrow.
Chapter 8
GLIMMINGE CASTLE
BLACK RATS AND GRAY
RATS
In south-eastern Skane—not far from the sea there is
an old castle called Glimminge. It is a big and substantial
stone house; and can be seen over the plain for
miles around. It is not more than four stories high; but
it is so ponderous that an ordinary farmhouse, which
stands on the same estate, looks like a little children’s
playhouse in comparison.
The big stone house has such thick ceilings and partitions
that there is scarcely room in its interior for
anything but the thick walls. The stairs are narrow,
the entrances small; and the rooms few. That the walls
might retain their strength, there are only the fewest
number of windows in the upper stories, and none at
all are found in the lower ones. In the old war times,
the people were just as glad that they could shut themselves
up in a strong and massive house like this, as one
is nowadays to be able to creep into furs in a snapping
cold winter. But when the time of peace came, they
did not care to live in the dark and cold stone halls
of the old castle any longer. They have long since
deserted the big Glimminge castle, and moved into
dwelling places where the light and air can penetrate.
At the time when Nils Holgersson wandered around
with the wild geese, there were no human beings in
Glimminge castle; but for all that, it was not without
inhabitants. Every summer there lived a stork couple
in a large nest on the roof. In a nest in the attic lived
a pair of gray owls; in the secret passages hung bats;
in the kitchen oven lived an old cat; and down in the
cellar there were hundreds of old black rats.
Rats are not held in very high esteem by other animals;
but the black rats at Glimminge castle were an
exception. They were always mentioned with respect,
because they had shown great valour in battle with
their enemies; and much endurance under the great
misfortunes which had befallen their kind. They nominally
belong to a rat-folk who, at one time, had been
very numerous and powerful, but who were now dying
out. During a long period of time, the black rats
owned Skane and the whole country. They were found
in every cellar; in every attic; in larders and cowhouses
and barns; in breweries and flour-mills; in churches and
castles; in every man-constructed building. But now
they were banished from all this—and were almost exterminated.
Only in one and another old and secluded
place could one run across a few of them; and nowhere
were they to be found in such large numbers as in
Glimminge castle.
When an animal folk die out, it is generally the human
kind who are the cause of it; but that was not the case
in this instance. The people had certainly struggled
with the black rats, but they had not been able to
do them any harm worth mentioning. Those who had
conquered them were an animal folk of their own kind,
who were called gray rats.
These gray rats had not lived in the land since time
immemorial, like the black rats, but descended from a
couple of poor immigrants who landed in Malmoe from
a Libyan sloop about a hundred years ago. They were
homeless, starved-out wretches who stuck close to the
harbour, swam among the piles under the bridges, and
ate refuse that was thrown in the water. They never
ventured into the city, which was owned by the black
rats.
But gradually, as the gray rats increased in number
they grew bolder. At first they moved over to some
waste places and condemned old houses which the black
rats had abandoned. They hunted their food in gutters
and dirt heaps, and made the most of all the rubbish
that the black rats did not deign to take care of. They
were hardy, contented and fearless; and within a few
years they had become so powerful that they undertook
to drive the black rats out of Malmoe. They took
from them attics, cellars and storerooms, starved them
out or bit them to death for they were not at all afraid
of fighting.
When Malmoe was captured, they marched forward
in small and large companies to conquer the whole
country. It is almost impossible to comprehend why
the black rats did not muster themselves into a great,
united war-expedition to exterminate the gray rats,
while these were still few in numbers. But the black
rats were so certain of their power that they could not
believe it possible for them to lose it. They sat still on
their estates, and in the meantime the gray rats took
from them farm after farm, city after city. They were
starved out, forced out, rooted out. In Skane they had
not been able to maintain themselves in a single place
except Glimminge castle.
The old castle had such secure walls and such few rat
passages led through these, that the black rats had
managed to protect themselves, and to prevent the
gray rats from crowding in. Night after night, year
after year, the struggle had continued between the aggressors
and the defenders; but the black rats had kept
faithful watch, and had fought with the utmost contempt
for death, and, thanks to the fine old house,
they had always conquered.
It will have to be acknowledged that as long as the
black rats were in power they were as much shunned
by all other living creatures as the gray rats are in our
day—and for just cause; they had thrown themselves
upon poor, fettered prisoners, and tortured them; they
had ravished the dead; they had stolen the last turnip
from the cellars of the poor; bitten off the feet of sleeping
geese; robbed eggs and chicks from the hens; and
committed a thousand depredations. But since they
had come to grief, all this seemed to have been forgotten;
and no one could help but marvel at the last of a
race that had held out so long against its enemies.
The gray rats that lived in the courtyard at Glimminge
and in the vicinity, kept up a continuous warfare and
tried to watch out for every possible chance to capture
the castle. One would fancy that they should
have allowed the little company of black rats to occupy
Glimminge castle in peace, since they themselves had
acquired all the rest of the country; but you may be
sure this thought never occurred to them. They were
wont to say that it was a point of honour with them
to conquer the black rats at some time or other. But
those who were acquainted with the gray rats must
have known that it was because the human kind used
Glimminge castle as a grain store-house that the gray
ones could not rest before they had taken possession
of the place.
Chapter 9
THE STORK
Monday, March twenty-eighth.
Early one morning the wild geese who stood and slept
on the ice in Vomb Lake were awakened by long calls
from the air. “Trirop, Trirop!” it sounded, “Trianut,
the crane, sends greetings to Akka, the wild goose, and
her flock. To-morrow will be the day of the great crane
dance on Kullaberg.”
Akka raised her head and answered at once: “Greetings
and thanks! Greetings and thanks!”
With that, the cranes flew farther; and the wild geese
heard them for a long while—where they travelled and
called out over every field, and every wooded hill: “Trianut
sends greetings. To-morrow will be the day of the
great crane dance on Kullaberg.”
The wild geese were very happy over this invitation.
“You’re in luck,” they said to the white goosey-gander,
“to be permitted to attend the great crane dance on
Kullaberg!” “Is it then so remarkable to see cranes
dance?” asked the goosey-gander. “It is something
that you have never even dreamed about!” replied the
wild geese.
“Now we must think out what we shall do with Thumbietot
to-morrow—so that no harm can come to him,
while we run over to Kullaberg,” said Akka. “Thumbietot
shall not be left alone!” said the goosey-gander.
“If the cranes won’t let him see their dance, then I’ll
stay with him.”
“No human being has ever been permitted to attend
the Animal’s Congress, at Kullaberg,” said Akka, “and
I shouldn’t dare to take Thumbietot along. But We’ll
discuss this more at length later in the day. Now we
must first and foremost think about getting something
to eat.”
With that Akka gave the signal to adjourn. On this
day she also sought her feeding-place a good distance
away, on Smirre Fox’s account, and she didn’t alight
until she came to the swampy meadows a little south
of Glimminge castle.
All that day the boy sat on the shores of a little pond,
and blew on reed-pipes. He was out of sorts because
he shouldn’t see the crane dance, and he just couldn’t
say a word, either to the goosey-gander, or to any of
the others.
It was pretty hard that Akka should still doubt him.
When a boy had given up being human, just to travel
around with a few wild geese, they surely ought to understand
that he had no desire to betray them. Then,
too, they ought to understand that when he had renounced
so much to follow them, it was their duty to
let him see all the wonders they could show him.
“I’ll have to speak my mind right out to them,” thought
he. But hour after hour passed, still he hadn’t come
round to it. It may sound remarkable—but the boy
had actually acquired a kind of respect for the old
leader-goose. He felt that it was not easy to pit his
will against hers.
On one side of the swampy meadow, where the wild
geese fed, there was a broad stone hedge. Toward
evening when the boy finally raised his head, to speak
to Akka, his glance happened to rest on this hedge.
He uttered a little cry of surprise, and all the wild
geese instantly looked up, and stared in the same direction.
At first, both the geese and the boy thought that
all the round, gray stones in the hedge had acquired
legs, and were starting on a run; but soon they saw
that it was a company of rats who ran over it. They
moved very rapidly, and ran forward, tightly packed,
line upon line, and were so numerous that, for some
time, they covered the entire stone hedge.
The boy had been afraid of rats, even when he was a
big, strong human being. Then what must his feelings
be now, when he was so tiny that two or three of them
could overpower him? One shudder after another travelled
down his spinal column as he stood and stared
at them.
But strangely enough, the wild geese seemed to feel
the same aversion toward the rats that he did. They
did not speak to them; and when they were gone, they
shook themselves as if their feathers had been mudspattered.
“Such a lot of gray rats abroad!” said Iksi from Vassipaure.
“That’s not a good omen.”
The boy intended to take advantage of this opportunity
to say to Akka that he thought she ought to let
him go with them to Kullaberg, but he was prevented
anew, for all of a sudden a big bird came down in the
midst of the geese.
One could believe, when one looked at this bird, that
he had borrowed body, neck and head from a little
white goose. But in addition to this, he had procured
for himself large black wings, long red legs, and
a thick bill, which was too large for the little head, and
weighed it down until it gave him a sad and worried
look.
Akka at once straightened out the folds of her wings,
and curtsied many times as she approached the stork.
She wasn’t specially surprised to see him in Skane so
early in the spring, because she knew that the male
storks are in the habit of coming in good season to take
a look at the nest, and see that it hasn’t been damaged
during the winter, before the female storks go to the
trouble of flying over the East sea. But she wondered
very much what it might signify that he sought her
out, since storks prefer to associate with members of
their own family.
“I can hardly believe that there is anything wrong with
your house, Herr Ermenrich,” said Akka.
It was apparent now that it is true what they say: a
stork can seldom open his bill without complaining.
But what made the thing he said sound even more
doleful was that it was difficult for him to speak out.
He stood for a long time and only clattered with his
bill; afterward he spoke in a hoarse and feeble voice.
He complained about everything: the nest—which was
situated at the very top of the roof-tree at Glimminge
castle—had been totally destroyed by winter storms;
and no food could he get any more in Skane. The
people of Skane were appropriating all his possessions.
They dug out his marshes and laid waste his swamps.
He intended to move away from this country, and never
return to it again.
While the stork grumbled, Akka, the wild goose who
had neither home nor protection, could not help thinking
to herself: “If I had things as comfortable as you
have, Herr Ermenrich, I should be above complaining.
You have remained a free and wild bird; and still you
stand so well with human beings that no one will fire
a shot at you, or steal an egg from your nest.” But
all this she kept to herself. To the stork she only remarked,
that she couldn’t believe he would be willing
to move from a house where storks had resided ever
since it was built.
Then the stork suddenly asked the geese if they had
seen the gray rats who were marching toward Glimminge
castle. When Akka replied that she had seen
the horrid creatures, he began to tell her about the
brave black rats who, for years, had defended the castle.
“But this night Glimminge castle will fall into the
gray rats’ power,” sighed the stork.
“And why just this night, Herr Ermenrich?” asked
Akka.
“Well, because nearly all the black rats went over to
Kullaberg last night,” said the stork, “since they had
counted on all the rest of the animals also hurrying
there. But you see that the gray rats have stayed at
home; and now they are mustering to storm the castle
to-night, when it will be defended by only a few old
creatures who are too feeble to go over to Kullaberg.
They’ll probably accomplish their purpose. But I have
lived here in harmony with the black rats for so many
years, that it does not please me to live in a place
inhabited by their enemies.”
Akka understood now that the stork had become so
enraged over the gray rats’ mode of action, that he
had sought her out as an excuse to complain about
them. But after the manner of storks, he certainly
had done nothing to avert the disaster. “Have you sent
word to the black rats, Herr Ermenrich?” she asked.
“No,” replied the stork, “that wouldn’t be of any use.
Before they can get back, the castle will be taken.”
“You mustn’t be so sure of that, Herr Ermenrich,” said
Akka. “I know an old wild goose, I do, who will gladly
prevent outrages of this kind.”
When Akka said this, the stork raised his head and
stared at her. And it was not surprising, for Akka had
neither claws nor bill that were fit for fighting; and, in
the bargain, she was a day bird, and as soon as it grew
dark she fell helplessly asleep, while the rats did their
fighting at night.
But Akka had evidently made up her mind to help the
black rats. She called Iksi from Vassijaure, and ordered
him to take the wild geese over to Vonib Lake; and
when the geese made excuses, she said authoritatively:
“I believe it will be best for us all that you obey me. I
must fly over to the big stone house, and if you follow
me, the people on the place will be sure to see us, and
shoot us down. The only one that I want to take with
me on this trip is Thumbietot. He can be of great
service to me because he has good eyes, and can keep
awake at night.”
The boy was in his most contrary mood that day. And
when he heard what Akka said, he raised himself to his
full height and stepped forward, his hands behind him
and his nose in the air, and he intended to say that he,
most assuredly, did not wish to take a hand in the fight
with gray rats. She might look around for assistance
elsewhere.
But the instant the boy was seen, the stork began to
move. He had stood before, as storks generally stand,
with head bent downward and the bill pressed against
the neck. But now a gurgle was heard deep down in
his windpipe; as though he would have laughed. Quick
as a flash, he lowered the bill, grabbed the boy, and
tossed him a couple of metres in the air. This feat
he performed seven times, while the boy shrieked and
the geese shouted: “What are you trying to do, Herr
Ermenrich? That’s not a frog. That’s a human being,
Herr Ermenrich.”
Finally the stork put the boy down entirely unhurt.
Thereupon he said to Akka, “I’ll fly back to Glimminge
castle now, mother Akka. All who live there were very
much worried when I left. You may be sure they’ll
be very glad when I tell them that Akka, the wild
goose, and Thumbietot, the human elf, are on their
way to rescue them.” With that the stork craned his
neck, raised his wings, and darted off like an arrow
when it leaves a well-drawn bow. Akka understood
that he was making fun of her, but she didn’t let it
bother her. She waited until the boy had found his
wooden shoes, which the stork had shaken off; then
she put him on her back and followed the stork. On
his own account, the boy made no objection, and said
not a word about not wanting to go along. He had
become so furious with the stork, that he actually sat
and puffed. That long, red-legged thing believed he
was of no account just because he was little; but he
would show him what kind of a man Nils Holgersson
from West Vemminghoeg was.
A couple of moments later Akka stood in the storks’
nest. It had a wheel for foundation, and over this
lay several grass-mats, and some twigs. The nest was
so old that many shrubs and plants had taken root up
there; and when the mother stork sat on her eggs in the
round hole in the middle of the nest, she not only had
the beautiful outlook over a goodly portion of Skane
to enjoy, but she had also the wild brier-blossoms and
house-leeks to look upon.
Both Akka and the boy saw immediately that something
was going on here which turned upside down the
most regular order. On the edge of the stork-nest sat
two gray owls, an old, gray-streaked cat, and a dozen
old, decrepit rats with protruding teeth and watery
eyes. They were not exactly the sort of animals one
usually finds living peaceably together.
Not one of them turned around to look at Akka, or to
bid her welcome. They thought of nothing except to
sit and stare at some long, gray lines, which came into
sight here and there—on the winter-naked meadows.
All the black rats were silent. One could see that they
were in deep despair, and probably knew that they
could neither defend their own lives nor the castle.
The two owls sat and rolled their big eyes, and twisted
their great, encircling eyebrows, and talked in hollow,
ghost-like voices, about the awful cruelty of the gray
rats, and that they would have to move away from
their nest, because they had heard it said of them that
they spared neither eggs nor baby birds. The old graystreaked
cat was positive that the gray rats would bite
him to death, since they were coming into the castle
in such great numbers, and he scolded the black rats
incessantly. “How could you be so idiotic as to let your
best fighters go away?” said he. “How could you trust
the gray rats? It is absolutely unpardonable!”
The twelve black rats did not say a word. But the
stork, despite his misery, could not refrain from teasing
the cat. “Don’t worry so, Monsie house-cat!” said he.
“Can’t you see that mother Akka and Thumbietot have
come to save the castle? You can be certain that they’ll
succeed. Now I must stand up to sleep—and I do so
with the utmost calm. To-morrow, when I awaken,
there won’t be a single gray rat in Glimminge castle.”
The boy winked at Akka, and made a sign—as the
stork stood upon the very edge of the nest, with one
leg drawn up, to sleep—that he wanted to push him
down to the ground; but Akka restrained him. She did
not seem to be the least bit angry. Instead, she said
in a confident tone of voice: “It would be pretty poor
business if one who is as old as I am could not manage
to get out of worse difficulties than this. If only Mr.
and Mrs. Owl, who can stay awake all night, will fly
off with a couple of messages for me, I think that all
will go well.”
Both owls were willing. Then Akka bade the gentleman
owl that he should go and seek the black rats
who had gone off, and counsel them to hurry home
immediately. The lady owl she sent to Flammea, the
steeple-owl, who lived in Lund cathedral, with a commission
which was so secret that Akka only dared to
confide it to her in a whisper.
Chapter 10
THE RAT CHARMER
It was getting on toward midnight when the gray rats
after a diligent search succeeded in finding an open airhole
in the cellar. This was pretty high upon the wall;
but the rats got up on one another’s shoulders, and
it wasn’t long before the most daring among them sat
in the air-hole, ready to force its way into Glimminge
castle, outside whose walls so many of its forebears
had fallen.
The gray rat sat still for a moment in the hole, and
waited for an attack from within. The leader of the
defenders was certainly away, but she assumed that
the black rats who were still in the castle wouldn’t
surrender without a struggle. With thumping heart
she listened for the slightest sound, but everything remained
quiet. Then the leader of the gray rats plucked
up courage and jumped down in the coal-black cellar.
One after another of the gray rats followed the leader.
They all kept very quiet; and all expected to be ambushed
by the black rats. Not until so many of them
had crowded into the cellar that the floor couldn’t hold
any more, did they venture farther.
Although they had never before been inside the building,
they had no difficulty in finding their way. They
soon found the passages in the walls which the black
rats had used to get to the upper floors. Before they
began to clamber up these narrow and steep steps,
they listened again with great attention. They felt
more frightened because the black rats held themselves
aloof in this way, than if they had met them in open
battle. They could hardly believe their luck when they
reached the first story without any mishaps.
Immediately upon their entrance the gray rats caught
the scent of the grain, which was stored in great bins
on the floor. But it was not as yet time for them to
begin to enjoy their conquest. They searched first,
with the utmost caution, through the sombre, empty
rooms. They ran up in the fireplace, which stood on
the floor in the old castle kitchen, and they almost
tumbled into the well, in the inner room. Not one of
the narrow peep-holes did they leave uninspected, but
they found no black rats. When this floor was wholly
in their possession, they began, with the same caution,
to acquire the next. Then they had to venture on a
bold and dangerous climb through the walls, while,
with breathless anxiety, they awaited an assault from
the enemy. And although they were tempted by the
most delicious odour from the grain bins, they forced
themselves most systematically to inspect the old-time
warriors’ pillar-propped kitchen; their stone table, and
fireplace; the deep window-niches, and the hole in the
floor—which in olden time had been opened to pour
down boiling pitch on the intruding enemy.
All this time the black rats were invisible. The gray
ones groped their way to the third story, and into the
lord of the castle’s great banquet hall—which stood
there cold and empty, like all the other rooms in the
old house. They even groped their way to the upper
story, which had but one big, barren room. The only
place they did not think of exploring was the big storknest
on the roof—where, just at this time, the lady owl
awakened Akka, and informed her that Flammea, the
steeple owl, had granted her request, and had sent her
the thing she wished for.
Since the gray rats had so conscientiously inspected
the entire castle, they felt at ease. They took it for
granted that the black rats had flown, and didn’t intend
to offer any resistance; and, with light hearts,
they ran up into the grain bins.
But the gray rats had hardly swallowed the first wheatgrains,
before the sound of a little shrill pipe was heard
from the yard. The gray rats raised their heads, listened
anxiously, ran a few steps as if they intended to
leave the bin, then they turned back and began to eat
once more.
Again the pipe sounded a sharp and piercing note—
and now something wonderful happened. One rat, two
rats—yes, a whole lot of rats left the grain, jumped
from the bins and hurried down cellar by the shortest
cut, to get out of the house. Still there were many gray
rats left. These thought of all the toil and trouble it
had cost them to win Glimminge castle, and they did
not want to leave it. But again they caught the tones
from the pipe, and had to follow them. With wild
excitement they rushed up from the bins, slid down
through the narrow holes in the walls, and tumbled
over each other in their eagerness to get out.
In the middle of the courtyard stood a tiny creature,
who blew upon a pipe. All round him he had a whole
circle of rats who listened to him, astonished and fascinated;
and every moment brought more. Once he
took the pipe from his lips—only for a second—put his
thumb to his nose and wiggled his fingers at the gray
rats; and then it looked as if they wanted to throw
themselves on him and bite him to death; but as soon
as he blew on his pipe they were in his power.
When the tiny creature had played all the gray rats
out of Glimminge castle, he began to wander slowly
from the courtyard out on the highway; and all the
gray rats followed him, because the tones from that
pipe sounded so sweet to their ears that they could
not resist them.
The tiny creature walked before them and charmed
them along with him, on the road to Vallby. He led
them into all sorts of crooks and turns and bends—on
through hedges and down into ditches—and wherever
he went they had to follow. He blew continuously on
his pipe, which appeared to be made from an animal’s
horn, although the horn was so small that, in our days,
there were no animals from whose foreheads it could
have been broken. No one knew, either, who had made
it. Flammea, the steeple-owl, had found it in a niche,
in Lund cathedral. She had shown it to Bataki, the
raven; and they had both figured out that this was the
kind of horn that was used in former times by those
who wished to gain power over rats and mice. But
the raven was Akka’s friend; and it was from him she
had learned that Flammea owned a treasure like this.
And it was true that the rats could not resist the pipe.
The boy walked before them and played as long as the
starlight lasted—and all the while they followed him.
He played at daybreak; he played at sunrise; and the
whole time the entire procession of gray rats followed
him, and were enticed farther and farther away from
the big grain loft at Glimminge castle.
Chapter 11
THE GREAT CRANE
DANCE ON
KULLABERG
Tuesday, March twenty-ninth.
Although there are many magnificent buildings in Skane,
it must be acknowledged that there’s not one among
them that has such pretty walls as old Kullaberg.
Kullaberg is low and rather long. It is not by any
means a big or imposing mountain. On its broad summit
you’ll find woods and grain fields, and one and another
heather-heath. Here and there, round heatherknolls
and barren cliffs rise up. It is not especially
pretty up there. It looks a good deal like all the other
upland places in Skane.
He who walks along the path which runs across the
middle of the mountain, can’t help feeling a little disappointed.
Then he happens, perhaps, to turn away
from the path, and wanders off toward the mountain’s
sides and looks down over the bluffs; and then, all at
once, he will discover so much that is worth seeing, he
hardly knows how he’ll find time to take in the whole
of it. For it happens that Kullaberg does not stand on
the land, with plains and valleys around it, like other
mountains; but it has plunged into the sea, as far out
as it could get. Not even the tiniest strip of land lies
below the mountain to protect it against the breakers;
but these reach all the way up to the mountain walls,
and can polish and mould them to suit themselves.
This is why the walls stand there as richly ornamented
as the sea and its helpmeet, the wind, have been able
to effect. You’ll find steep ravines that are deeply chiselled
in the mountain’s sides; and black crags that have
become smooth and shiny under the constant lashing
of the winds. There are solitary rock-columns that
spring right up out of the water, and dark grottoes
with narrow entrances. There are barren, perpendicular
precipices, and soft, leaf-clad inclines. There are
small points, and small inlets, and small rolling stones
that are rattlingly washed up and down with every
dashing breaker. There are majestic cliff-arches that
project over the water. There are sharp stones that are
constantly sprayed by a white foam; and others that
mirror themselves in unchangeable dark-green still water.
There are giant troll-caverns shaped in the rock,
and great crevices that lure the wanderer to venture
into the mountain’s depths—all the way to Kullman’s
Hollow.
And over and around all these cliffs and rocks crawl entangled
tendrils and weeds. Trees grow there also, but
the wind’s power is so great that trees have to transform
themselves into clinging vines, that they may get
a firm hold on the steep precipices. The oaks creep
along on the ground, while their foliage hangs over
them like a low ceiling; and long-limbed beeches stand
in the ravines like great leaf-tents.
These remarkable mountain walls, with the blue sea
beneath them, and the clear penetrating air above
them, is what makes Kullaberg so dear to the people
that great crowds of them haunt the place every day as
long as the summer lasts. But it is more difficult to tell
what it is that makes it so attractive to animals, that
every year they gather there for a big play-meeting.
This is a custom that has been observed since time
immemorial; and one should have been there when the
first sea-wave was dashed into foam against the shore,
to be able to explain just why Kullaberg was chosen
as a rendezvous, in preference to all other places.
When the meeting is to take place, the stags and roebucks
and hares and foxes and all the other four-footers
make the journey to Kullaberg the night before, so as
not to be observed by the human beings. Just before
sunrise they all march up to the playground, which
is a heather-heath on the left side of the road, and
not very far from the mountain’s most extreme point.
The playground is inclosed on all sides by round knolls,
which conceal it from any and all who do not happen
to come right upon it. And in the month of March it
is not at all likely that any pedestrians will stray off
up there. All the strangers who usually stroll around
on the rocks, and clamber up the mountain’s sides the
fall storms have driven away these many months past.
And the lighthouse keeper out there on the point; the
old fru on the mountain farm, and the mountain peasant
and his house-folk go their accustomed ways, and
do not run about on the desolate heather-fields.
When the four-footers have arrived on the playground,
they take their places on the round knolls. Each animal
family keeps to itself, although it is understood
that, on a day like this, universal peace reigns, and no
one need fear attack. On this day a little hare might
wander over to the foxes’ hill, without losing as much
as one of his long ears. But still the animals arrange
themselves into separate groups. This is an old custom.
After they have all taken their places, they begin to
look around for the birds. It is always beautiful weather
on this day. The cranes are good weather prophets,
and would not call the animals together if they expected
rain. Although the air is clear, and nothing
obstructs the vision, the four-footers see no birds. This
is strange. The sun stands high in the heavens, and
the birds should already be on their way.
But what the animals, on the other hand, observe, is
one and another little dark cloud that comes slowly
forward over the plain. And look! one of these clouds
comes gradually along the coast of Oeresund, and up
toward Kullaberg. When the cloud has come just over
the playground it stops, and, simultaneously, the entire
cloud begins to ring and chirp, as if it was made
of nothing but tone. It rises and sinks, rises and sinks,
but all the while it rings and chirps. At last the whole
cloud falls down over a knoll—all at once—and the
next instant the knoll is entirely covered with gray
larks, pretty red-white-gray bulfinches, speckled starlings
and greenish-yellow titmice.
Soon after that, another cloud comes over the plain.
This stops over every bit of land; over peasant cottage
and palace; over towns and cities; over farms and railway
stations; over fishing hamlets and sugar refineries.
Every time it stops, it draws to itself a little whirling
column of gray dust-grains from the ground. In this
way it grows and grows. And at last, when it is all
gathered up and heads for Kullaberg, it is no longer a
cloud but a whole mist, which is so big that it throws
a shadow on the ground all the way from Hoeganaes to
Moelle. When it stops over the playground it hides the
sun; and for a long while it had to rain gray sparrows
on one of the knolls, before those who had been flying
in the innermost part of the mist could again catch a
glimpse of the daylight.
But still the biggest of these bird-clouds is the one
which now appears. This has been formed of birds who
have travelled from every direction to join it. It is dark
bluish-gray, and no sun-ray can penetrate it. It is full
of the ghastliest noises, the most frightful shrieks, the
grimmest laughter, and most ill-luck-boding croaking!
All on the playground are glad when it finally resolves
itself into a storm of fluttering and croaking: of crows
and jackdaws and rooks and ravens.
Thereupon not only clouds are seen in the heavens, but
a variety of stripes and figures. Then straight, dotted
lines appear in the East and Northeast. These are
forest-birds from Goeinge districts: black grouse and
wood grouse who come flying in long lines a couple of
metres apart. Swimming-birds that live around Maklaeppen,
just out of Falsterbo, now come floating over
Oeresund in many extraordinary figures: in triangular
and long curves; in sharp hooks and semicircles.
To the great reunion held the year that Nils Holgersson
travelled around with the wild geese, came Akka and
her flock—later than all the others. And that was
not to be wondered at, for Akka had to fly over the
whole of Skane to get to Kullaberg. Beside, as soon as
she awoke, she had been obliged to go out and hunt
for Thumbietot, who, for many hours, had gone and
played to the gray rats, and lured them far away from
Glimminge castle. Mr. Owl had returned with the
news that the black rats would be at home immediately
after sunrise; and there was no longer any danger in
letting the steeple-owl’s pipe be hushed, and to give
the gray rats the liberty to go where they pleased.
But it was not Akka who discovered the boy where
he walked with his long following, and quickly sank
down over him and caught him with the bill and swung
into the air with him, but it was Herr Ermenrich, the
stork! For Herr Ermenrich had also gone out to look
for him; and after he had borne him up to the storknest,
he begged his forgiveness for having treated him
with disrespect the evening before.
This pleased the boy immensely, and the stork and he
became good friends. Akka, too, showed him that she
felt very kindly toward him; she stroked her old head
several times against his arms, and commended him
because he had helped those who were in trouble.
But this one must say to the boy’s credit: that he did
not want to accept praise which he had not earned.
“No, mother Akka,” he said, “you mustn’t think that I
lured the gray rats away to help the black ones. I only
wanted to show Herr Ermenrich that I was of some
consequence.”
He had hardly said this before Akka turned to the
stork and asked if he thought it was advisable to take
Thumbietot along to Kullaberg. “I mean, that we can
rely on him as upon ourselves,” said she. The stork at
once advised, most enthusiastically, that Thumbietot
be permitted to come along. “Certainly you shall take
Thumbietot along to Kullaberg, mother Akka,” said
he. “It is fortunate for us that we can repay him for
all that he has endured this night for our sakes. And
since it still grieves me to think that I did not conduct
myself in a becoming manner toward him the other
evening, it is I who will carry him on my back—all the
way to the meeting place.”
There isn’t much that tastes better than to receive
praise from those who are themselves wise and capable;
and the boy had certainly never felt so happy as he did
when the wild goose and the stork talked about him
in this way.
Thus the boy made the trip to Kullaberg, riding storkback.
Although he knew that this was a great honour,
it caused him much anxiety, for Herr Ermenrich was
a master flyer, and started off at a very different pace
from the wild geese. While Akka flew her straight way
with even wing-strokes, the stork amused himself by
performing a lot of flying tricks. Now he lay still in
an immeasurable height, and floated in the air without
moving his wings, now he flung himself downward with
such sudden haste that it seemed as though he would
fall to the ground, helpless as a stone; now he had
lots of fun flying all around Akka, in great and small
circles, like a whirlwind. The boy had never been on
a ride of this sort before; and although he sat there all
the while in terror, he had to acknowledge to himself
that he had never before known what a good flight
meant.
Only a single pause was made during the journey, and
that was at Vomb Lake when Akka joined her travelling
companions, and called to them that the gray
rats had been vanquished. After that, the travellers
flew straight to Kullaberg.
There they descended to the knoll reserved for the
wild geese; and as the boy let his glance wander from
knoll to knoll, he saw on one of them the many-pointed
antlers of the stags; and on another, the gray herons’
neck-crests. One knoll was red with foxes, one was
gray with rats; one was covered with black ravens
who shrieked continually, one with larks who simply
couldn’t keep still, but kept on throwing themselves in
the air and singing for very joy.
Just as it has ever been the custom on Kullaberg, it
was the crows who began the day’s games and frolics
with their flying-dance. They divided themselves into
two flocks, that flew toward each other, met, turned,
and began all over again. This dance had many repetitions,
and appeared to the spectators who were not
familiar with the dance as altogether too monotonous.
The crows were very proud of their dance, but all the
others were glad when it was over. It appeared to
the animals about as gloomy and meaningless as the
winter-storms’ play with the snow-flakes. It depressed
them to watch it, and they waited eagerly for something
that should give them a little pleasure.
They did not have to wait in vain, either; for as soon as
the crows had finished, the hares came running. They
dashed forward in a long row, without any apparent
order. In some of the figures, one single hare came;
in others, they ran three and four abreast. They had
all raised themselves on two legs, and they rushed forward
with such rapidity that their long ears swayed
in all directions. As they ran, they spun round, made
high leaps and beat their forepaws against their hindpaws
so that they rattled. Some performed a long succession
of somersaults, others doubled themselves up
and rolled over like wheels; one stood on one leg and
swung round; one walked upon his forepaws. There
was no regulation whatever, but there was much that
was droll in the hares’ play; and the many animals who
stood and watched them began to breathe faster. Now
it was spring; joy and rapture were advancing. Winter
was over; summer was coming. Soon it was only play
to live.
When the hares had romped themselves out, it was the
great forest birds’ turn to perform. Hundreds of woodgrouse
in shining dark-brown array, and with bright
red eyebrows, flung themselves up into a great oak that
stood in the centre of the playground. The one who
sat upon the topmost branch fluffed up his feathers,
lowered his wings, and lifted his tail so that the white
covert-feathers were seen. Thereupon he stretched his
neck and sent forth a couple of deep notes from his
thick throat. “Tjack, tjack, tjack,” it sounded. More
than this he could not utter. It only gurgled a few
times way down in the throat. Then he closed his eyes
and whispered: “Sis, sis, sis. Hear how pretty! Sis, sis,
sis.” At the same time he fell into such an ecstasy that
he no longer knew what was going on around him.
While the first wood grouse was sissing, the three nearest—
under him—began to sing; and before they had finished
their song, the ten who sat lower down joined
in; and thus it continued from branch to branch, until
the entire hundred grouse sang and gurgled and
sissed. They all fell into the same ecstasy during their
song, and this affected the other animals like a contagious
transport. Lately the blood had flowed lightly
and agreeably; now it began to grow heavy and hot.
“Yes, this is surely spring,” thought all the animal folk.
“Winter chill has vanished. The fires of spring burn
over the earth.”
When the black grouse saw that the brown grouse were
having such success, they could no longer keep quiet.
As there was no tree for them to light on, they rushed
down on the playground, where the heather stood so
high that only their beautifully turned tail-feathers
and their thick bills were visible—and they began to
sing: “Orr, orr, orr.”
Just as the black grouse began to compete with the
brown grouse, something unprecedented happened. While
all the animals thought of nothing but the grousegame,
a fox stole slowly over to the wild geese’s knoll.
He glided very cautiously, and came way up on the
knoll before anyone noticed him. Suddenly a goose
caught sight of him; and as she could not believe that
a fox had sneaked in among the geese for any good
purpose, she began to cry: “Have a care, wild geese!
Have a care!” The fox struck her across the throat—
mostly, perhaps, because he wanted to make her keep
quiet—but the wild geese had already heard the cry
and they all raised themselves in the air. And when
they had flown up, the animals saw Smirre Fox standing
on the wild geese’s knoll, with a dead goose in his
mouth.
But because he had in this way broken the play-day’s
peace, such a punishment was meted out to Smirre
Fox that, for the rest of his days, he must regret he
had not been able to control his thirst for revenge, but
had attempted to approach Akka and her flock in this
manner.
He was immediately surrounded by a crowd of foxes,
and doomed in accordance with an old custom, which
demands that whosoever disturbs the peace on the
great play-day, must go into exile. Not a fox wished to
lighten the sentence, since they all knew that the instant
they attempted anything of the sort, they would
be driven from the playground, and would nevermore
be permitted to enter it. Banishment was pronounced
upon Smirre without opposition. He was forbidden to
remain in Skane. He was banished from wife and kindred;
from hunting grounds, home, resting places and
retreats, which he had hitherto owned; and he must
tempt fortune in foreign lands. So that all foxes in
Skane should know that Smirre was outlawed in the
district, the oldest of the foxes bit off his right earlap.
As soon as this was done, all the young foxes began
to yowl from blood-thirst, and threw themselves on
Smirre. For him there was no alternative except to
take flight; and with all the young foxes in hot pursuit,
he rushed away from Kullaberg.
All this happened while black grouse and brown grouse
were going on with their games. But these birds lose
themselves so completely in their song, that they neither
hear nor see. Nor had they permitted themselves
to be disturbed.
The forest birds’ contest was barely over, before the
stags from Haeckeberga came forward to show their
wrestling game. There were several pairs of stags who
fought at the same time. They rushed at each other
with tremendous force, struck their antlers dashingly
together, so that their points were entangled; and tried
to force each other backward. The heather-heaths
were torn up beneath their hoofs; the breath came like
smoke from their nostrils; out of their throats strained
hideous bellowings, and the froth oozed down on their
shoulders.
On the knolls round about there was breathless silence
while the skilled stag-wrestlers clinched. In all
the animals new emotions were awakened. Each and
all felt courageous and, strong; enlivened by returning
powers; born again with the spring; sprightly, and
ready for all kinds of adventures. They felt no enmity
toward each other, although, everywhere, wings were
lifted, neck-feathers raised and claws sharpened. If
the stags from Haeckeberga had continued another instant,
a wild struggle would have arisen on the knolls,
for all had been gripped with a burning desire to show
that they too were full of life because the winter’s impotence
was over and strength surged through their
bodies.
But the stags stopped wrestling just at the right moment,
and instantly a whisper went from knoll to knoll:
“The cranes are coming!”
And then came the gray, dusk-clad birds with plumes
in their wings, and red feather-ornaments on their necks.
The big birds with their tall legs, their slender throats,
their small heads, came gliding down the knoll with
an abandon that was full of mystery. As they glided
forward they swung round—half flying, half dancing.
With wings gracefully lifted, they moved with an inconceivable
rapidity. There was something marvellous
and strange about their dance. It was as though
gray shadows had played a game which the eye could
scarcely follow. It was as if they had learned it from
the mists that hover over desolate morasses. There
was witchcraft in it. All those who had never before
been on Kullaberg understood why the whole meeting
took its name from the crane’s dance. There was wildness
in it; but yet the feeling which it awakened was
a delicious longing. No one thought any more about
struggling. Instead, both the winged and those who
had no wings, all wanted to raise themselves eternally,
lift themselves above the clouds, seek that which was
hidden beyond them, leave the oppressive body that
dragged them down to earth and soar away toward the
infinite.
Such longing after the unattainable, after the hidden
mysteries back of this life, the animals felt only once
a year; and this was on the day when they beheld the
great crane dance.
Chapter 12
IN RAINY WEATHER
Wednesday, March thirtieth.
It was the first rainy day of the trip. As long as the
wild geese had remained in the vicinity of Vomb Lake,
they had had beautiful weather; but on the day when
they set out to travel farther north, it began to rain,
and for several hours the boy had to sit on the gooseback,
soaking wet, and shivering with the cold.
In the morning when they started, it had been clear
and mild. The wild geese had flown high up in the
air—evenly, and without haste—with Akka at the head
maintaining strict discipline, and the rest in two oblique
lines back of her. They had not taken the time to shout
any witty sarcasms to the animals on the ground; but,
as it was simply impossible for them to keep perfectly
silent, they sang out continually—in rhythm with the
wing-strokes—their usual coaxing call: “Where are you?
Here am I. Where are you? Here am I.”
They all took part in this persistent calling, and only
stopped, now and then, to show the goosey-gander the
landmarks they were travelling over. The places on
this route included Linderoedsosen’s dry hills, Ovesholm’s
manor, Christianstad’s church steeple, Baeckaskog’s
royal castle on the narrow isthmus between Oppmann’s
lake and Ivoe’s lake, Ryss mountain’s steep precipice.
It had been a monotonous trip, and when the rainclouds
made their appearance the boy thought it was
a real diversion. In the old days, when he had only
seen a rain-cloud from below, he had imagined that
they were gray and disagreeable; but it was a very
different thing to be up amongst them. Now he saw
distinctly that the clouds were enormous carts, which
drove through the heavens with sky-high loads. Some
of them were piled up with huge, gray sacks, some
with barrels; some were so large that they could hold
a whole lake; and a few were filled with big utensils and
bottles which were piled up to an immense height. And
when so many of them had driven forward that they
filled the whole sky, it appeared as though someone
had given a signal, for all at once, water commenced
to pour down over the earth, from utensils, barrels,
bottles and sacks.
Just as the first spring-showers pattered against the
ground, there arose such shouts of joy from all the
small birds in groves and pastures, that the whole air
rang with them and the boy leaped high where he sat.
“Now we’ll have rain. Rain gives us spring; spring gives
us flowers and green leaves; green leaves and flowers
give us worms and insects; worms and insects give us
food; and plentiful and good food is the best thing
there is,” sang the birds.
The wild geese, too, were glad of the rain which came
to awaken the growing things from their long sleep,
and to drive holes in the ice-roofs on the lakes. They
were not able to keep up that seriousness any longer,
but began to send merry calls over the neighbourhood.
When they flew over the big potato patches, which
are so plentiful in the country around Christianstad—
and which still lay bare and black—they screamed:
“Wake up and be useful! Here comes something that
will awaken you. You have idled long enough now.”
When they saw people who hurried to get out of the
rain, they reproved them saying: “What are you in
such a hurry about? Can’t you see that it’s raining
rye-loaves and cookies?”
It was a big, thick mist that moved northward briskly,
and followed close upon the geese. They seemed to
think that they dragged the mist along with them;
and, just now, when they saw great orchards beneath
them, they called out proudly: “Here we come with
anemones; here we come with roses; here we come with
apple blossoms and cherry buds; here we come with
peas and beans and turnips and cabbages. He who
wills can take them. He who wills can take them.”
Thus it had sounded while the first showers fell, and
when all were still glad of the rain. But when it continued
to fall the whole afternoon, the wild geese grew
impatient, and cried to the thirsty forests around Ivoes
lake: “Haven’t you got enough yet? Haven’t you got
enough yet?”
The heavens were growing grayer and grayer and the
sun hid itself so well that one couldn’t imagine where
it was. The rain fell faster and faster, and beat harder
and harder against the wings, as it tried to find its
way between the oily outside feathers, into their skins.
The earth was hidden by fogs; lakes, mountains, and
woods floated together in an indistinct maze, and the
landmarks could not be distinguished. The flight became
slower and slower; the joyful cries were hushed;
and the boy felt the cold more and more keenly.
But still he had kept up his courage as long as he had
ridden through the air. And in the afternoon, when
they had lighted under a little stunted pine, in the middle
of a large morass, where all was wet, and all was
cold; where some knolls were covered with snow, and
others stood up naked in a puddle of half-melted icewater,
even then, he had not felt discouraged, but ran
about in fine spirits, and hunted for cranberries and
frozen whortleberries. But then came evening, and
darkness sank down on them so close, that not even
such eyes as the boy’s could see through it; and all the
wilderness became so strangely grim and awful. The
boy lay tucked in under the goosey-gander’s wing, but
could not sleep because he was cold and wet. He heard
such a lot of rustling and rattling and stealthy steps
and menacing voices, that he was terror-stricken and
didn’t know where he should go. He must go somewhere,
where there was light and heat, if he wasn’t
going to be entirely scared to death.
“If I should venture where there are human beings, just
for this night?” thought the boy. “Only so I could sit
by a fire for a moment, and get a little food. I could
go back to the wild geese before sunrise.”
He crept from under the wing and slid down to the
ground. He didn’t awaken either the goosey-gander or
any of the other geese, but stole, silently and unobserved,
through the morass.
He didn’t know exactly where on earth he was: if he
was in Skane, in Smaland, or in Blekinge. But just before
he had gotten down in the morass, he had caught
a glimpse of a large village, and thither he directed
his steps. It wasn’t long, either, before he discovered
a road; and soon he was on the village street, which
was long, and had planted trees on both sides, and was
bordered with garden after garden.
The boy had come to one of the big cathedral towns,
which are so common on the uplands, but can hardly
be seen at all down in the plain.
The houses were of wood, and very prettily constructed.
Most of them had gables and fronts, edged with carved
mouldings, and glass doors, with here and there a
coloured pane, opening on verandas. The walls were
painted in light oil-colours; the doors and windowframes
shone in blues and greens, and even in reds.
While the boy walked about and viewed the houses,
he could hear, all the way out to the road, how the
people who sat in the warm cottages chattered and
laughed. The words he could not distinguish, but he
thought it was just lovely to hear human voices. “I
wonder what they would say if I knocked and begged
to be let in,” thought he.
This was, of course, what he had intended to do all
along, but now that he saw the lighted windows, his
fear of the darkness was gone. Instead, he felt again
that shyness which always came over him now when
he was near human beings. “I’ll take a look around
the town for a while longer,” thought he, “before I ask
anyone to take me in.”
On one house there was a balcony. And just as the
boy walked by, the doors were thrown open, and a
yellow light streamed through the fine, sheer curtains.
Then a pretty young fru came out on the balcony and
leaned over the railing. “It’s raining; now we shall soon
have spring,” said she. When the boy saw her he felt a
strange anxiety. It was as though he wanted to weep.
For the first time he was a bit uneasy because he had
shut himself out from the human kind.
Shortly after that he walked by a shop. Outside the
shop stood a red corn-drill. He stopped and looked
at it; and finally crawled up to the driver’s place, and
seated himself. When he had got there, he smacked
with his lips and pretended that he sat and drove. He
thought what fun it would be to be permitted to drive
such a pretty machine over a grainfield. For a moment
he forgot what he was like now; then he remembered it,
and jumped down quickly from the machine. Then a
greater unrest came over him. After all, human beings
were very wonderful and clever.
He walked by the post-office, and then he thought of all
the newspapers which came every day, with news from
all the four corners of the earth. He saw the apothecary’s
shop and the doctor’s home, and he thought
about the power of human beings, which was so great
that they were able to battle with sickness and death.
He came to the church. Then he thought how human
beings had built it, that they might hear about another
world than the one in which they lived, of God
and the resurrection and eternal life. And the longer
he walked there, the better he liked human beings.
It is so with children that they never think any farther
ahead than the length of their noses. That which
lies nearest them, they want promptly, without caring
what it may cost them. Nils Holgersson had not understood
what he was losing when he chose to remain
an elf; but now he began to be dreadfully afraid that,
perhaps, he should never again get back to his right
form.
How in all the world should he go to work in order
to become human? This he wanted, oh! so much, to
know.
He crawled up on a doorstep, and seated himself in the
pouring rain and meditated. He sat there one whole
hour—two whole hours, and he thought so hard that
his forehead lay in furrows; but he was none the wiser.
It seemed as though the thoughts only rolled round
and round in his head. The longer he sat there, the
more impossible it seemed to him to find any solution.
“This thing is certainly much too difficult for one who
has learned as little as I have,” he thought at last. “It
will probably wind up by my having to go back among
human beings after all. I must ask the minister and
the doctor and the schoolmaster and others who are
learned, and may know a cure for such things.”
This he concluded that he would do at once, and shook
himself—for he was as wet as a dog that has been in
a water-pool.
Just about then he saw that a big owl came flying
along, and alighted on one of the trees that bordered
the village street. The next instant a lady owl, who
sat under the cornice of the house, began to call out:
“Kivitt, Kivitt! Are you at home again, Mr. Gray
Owl? What kind of a time did you have abroad?”
“Thank you, Lady Brown Owl. I had a very comfortable
time,” said the gray owl. “Has anything out of the
ordinary happened here at home during my absence?”
“Not here in Blekinge, Mr. Gray Owl; but in Skane
a marvellous thing has happened! A boy has been
transformed by an elf into a goblin no bigger than a
squirrel; and since then he has gone to Lapland with
a tame goose.”
“That’s a remarkable bit of news, a remarkable bit of
news. Can he never be human again, Lady Brown
Owl? Can he never be human again?”
“That’s a secret, Mr. Gray Owl; but you shall hear it
just the same. The elf has said that if the boy watches
over the goosey-gander, so that he comes home safe
and sound, and—”
“What more, Lady Brown Owl? What more? What
more?”
“Fly with me up to the church tower, Mr. Gray Owl,
and you shall hear the whole story! I fear there may
be someone listening down here in the street.” With
that, the owls flew their way; but the boy flung his
cap in the air, and shouted: “If I only watch over the
goosey-gander, so that he gets back safe and sound,
then I shall become a human being again. Hurrah!
Hurrah! Then I shall become a human being again!”
He shouted “hurrah” until it was strange that they did
not hear him in the houses—but they didn’t, and he
hurried back to the wild geese, out in the wet morass,
as fast as his legs could carry him.
Chapter 13
THE STAIRWAY
WITH THE THREE
STEPS
Thursday, March thirty-first.
The following day the wild geese intended to travel
northward through Allbo district, in Smaland. They
sent Iksi and Kaksi to spy out the land. But when they
returned, they said that all the water was frozen, and
all the land was snow-covered. “We may as well remain
where we are,” said the wild geese. “We cannot travel
over a country where there is neither water nor food.”
“If we remain where we are, we may have to wait here
until the next moon,” said Akka. “It is better to go
eastward, through Blekinge, and see if we can’t get to
Smaland by way of Moere, which lies near the coast,
and has an early spring.”
Thus the boy came to ride over Blekinge the next day.
Now, that it was light again, he was in a merry mood
once more, and could not comprehend what had come
over him the night before. He certainly didn’t want to
give up the journey and the outdoor life now.
There lay a thick fog over Blekinge. The boy couldn’t
see how it looked out there. “I wonder if it is a good, or
a poor country that I’m riding over,” thought he, and
tried to search his memory for the things which he had
heard about the country at school. But at the same
time he knew well enough that this was useless, as he
had never been in the habit of studying his lessons.
At once the boy saw the whole school before him. The
children sat by the little desks and raised their hands;
the teacher sat in the lectern and looked displeased;
and he himself stood before the map and should answer
some question about Blekinge, but he hadn’t a word to
say. The schoolmaster’s face grew darker and darker
for every second that passed, and the boy thought the
teacher was more particular that they should know
their geography, than anything else. Now he came
down from the lectern, took the pointer from the boy,
and sent him back to his seat. “This won’t end well,”
the boy thought then.
But the schoolmaster had gone over to a window, and
had stood there for a moment and looked out, and
then he had whistled to himself once. Then he had
gone up into the lectern and said that he would tell
them something about Blekinge. And that which he
then talked about had been so amusing that the boy
had listened. When he only stopped and thought for
a moment, he remembered every word.
“Smaland is a tall house with spruce trees on the roof,”
said the teacher, “and leading up to it is a broad stairway
with three big steps; and this stairway is called
Blekinge. It is a stairway that is well constructed. It
stretches forty-two miles along the frontage of Smaland
house, and anyone who wishes to go all the way down
to the East sea, by way of the stairs, has twenty-four
miles to wander.
“A good long time must have elapsed since the stairway
was built. Both days and years have gone by since the
steps were hewn from gray stones and laid down—
evenly and smoothly—for a convenient track between
Smaland and the East sea.
“Since the stairway is so old, one can, of course, understand
that it doesn’t look just the same now, as it
did when it was new. I don’t know how much they
troubled themselves about such matters at that time;
but big as it was, no broom could have kept it clean.
After a couple of years, moss and lichen began to grow
on it. In the autumn dry leaves and dry grass blew
down over it; and in the spring it was piled up with
falling stones and gravel. And as all these things were
left there to mould, they finally gathered so much soil
on the steps that not only herbs and grass, but even
bushes and trees could take root there.
“But, at the same time, a great disparity has arisen
between the three steps. The topmost step, which lies
nearest Smaland, is mostly covered with poor soil and
small stones, and no trees except birches and birdcherry
and spruce—which can stand the cold on the
heights, and are satisfied with little—can thrive up
there. One understands best how poor and dry it
is there, when one sees how small the field-plots are,
that are ploughed up from the forest lands; and how
many little cabins the people build for themselves; and
how far it is between the churches. But on the middle
step there is better soil, and it does not lie bound
down under such severe cold, either. This one can
see at a glance, since the trees are both higher and
of finer quality. There you’ll find maple and oak and
linden and weeping-birch and hazel trees growing, but
no cone-trees to speak of. And it is still more noticeable
because of the amount of cultivated land that you
will find there; and also because the people have built
themselves great and beautiful houses. On the middle
step, there are many churches, with large towns
around them; and in every way it makes a better and
finer appearance than the top step.
“But the very lowest step is the best of all. It is covered
with good rich soil; and, where it lies and bathes in
the sea, it hasn’t the slightest feeling of the Smaland
chill. Beeches and chestnut and walnut trees thrive
down here; and they grow so big that they tower above
the church-roofs. Here lie also the largest grain-fields;
but the people have not only timber and farming to
live upon, but they are also occupied with fishing and
trading and seafaring. For this reason you will find
the most costly residences and the prettiest churches
here; and the parishes have developed into villages and
cities.
“But this is not all that is said of the three steps. For
one must realise that when it rains on the roof of the
big Smaland house, or when the snow melts up there,
the water has to go somewhere; and then, naturally,
a lot of it is spilled over the big stairway. In the beginning
it probably oozed over the whole stairway, big
as it was; then cracks appeared in it, and, gradually,
the water has accustomed itself to flow alongside of it,
in well dug-out grooves. And water is water, whatever
one does with it. It never has any rest. In one
place it cuts and files away, and in another it adds to.
Those grooves it has dug into vales, and the walls of
the vales it has decked with soil; and bushes and trees
and vines have clung to them ever since—so thick, and
in such profusion, that they almost hide the stream of
water that winds its way down there in the deep. But
when the streams come to the landings between the
steps, they throw themselves headlong over them; this
is why the water comes with such a seething rush, that
it gathers strength with which to move mill-wheels and
machinery—these, too, have sprung up by every waterfall.
“But this does not tell all that is said of the land with
the three steps. It must also be told that up in the
big house in Smaland there lived once upon a time a
giant, who had grown very old. And it fatigued him
in his extreme age, to be forced to walk down that
long stairway in order to catch salmon from the sea.
To him it seemed much more suitable that the salmon
should come up to him, where he lived.
“Therefore, he went up on the roof of his great house;
and there he stood and threw stones down into the
East sea. He threw them with such force that they
flew over the whole of Blekinge and dropped into the
sea. And when the stones came down, the salmon got
so scared that they came up from the sea and fled
toward the Blekinge streams; ran through the rapids;
flung themselves with high leaps over the waterfalls,
and stopped.
“How true this is, one can see by the number of islands
and points that lie along the coast of Blekinge, and
which are nothing in the world but the big stones that
the giant threw.
“One can also tell because the salmon always go up in
the Blekinge streams and work their way up through
rapids and still water, all the way to Smaland.
“That giant is worthy of great thanks and much honour
from the Blekinge people; for salmon in the streams,
and stone-cutting on the island—that means work which
gives food to many of them even to this day.”
Chapter 14
BY RONNEBY RIVER
Friday, April first.
Neither the wild geese nor Smirre Fox had believed
that they should ever run across each other after they
had left Skane. But now it turned out so that the wild
geese happened to take the route over Blekinge and
thither Smirre Fox had also gone.
So far he had kept himself in the northern parts of the
province; and since he had not as yet seen any manor
parks, or hunting grounds filled with game and dainty
young deer, he was more disgruntled than he could say.
One afternoon, when Smirre tramped around in the
desolate forest district of Mellanbygden, not far from
Ronneby River, he saw a flock of wild geese fly through
the air. Instantly he observed that one of the geese was
white and then he knew, of course, with whom he had
to deal.
Smirre began immediately to hunt the geese—just as
much for the pleasure of getting a good square meal,
as for the desire to be avenged for all the humiliation
that they had heaped upon him. He saw that
they flew eastward until they came to Ronneby River.
Then they changed their course, and followed the river
toward the south. He understood that they intended
to seek a sleeping-place along the river-banks, and he
thought that he should be able to get hold of a pair
of them without much trouble. But when Smirre finally
discovered the place where the wild geese had
taken refuge, he observed they had chosen such a wellprotected
spot, that he couldn’t get near.
Ronneby River isn’t any big or important body of water;
nevertheless, it is just as much talked of, for the
sake of its pretty shores. At several points it forces its
way forward between steep mountain-walls that stand
upright out of the water, and are entirely overgrown
with honeysuckle and bird-cherry, mountain-ash and
osier; and there isn’t much that can be more delightful
than to row out on the little dark river on a pleasant
summer day, and look upward on all the soft green
that fastens itself to the rugged mountain-sides.
But now, when the wild geese and Smirre came to the
river, it was cold and blustery spring-winter; all the
trees were nude, and there was probably no one who
thought the least little bit about whether the shore
was ugly or pretty. The wild geese thanked their good
fortune that they had found a sand-strip large enough
for them to stand upon, on a steep mountain wall. In
front of them rushed the river, which was strong and
violent in the snow-melting time; behind them they
had an impassable mountain rock wall, and overhanging
branches screened them. They couldn’t have it
better.
The geese were asleep instantly; but the boy couldn’t
get a wink of sleep. As soon as the sun had disappeared
he was seized with a fear of the darkness,
and a wilderness-terror, and he longed for human beings.
Where he lay—tucked in under the goose-wing—
he could see nothing, and only hear a little; and he
thought if any harm came to the goosey-gander, he
couldn’t save him.
Noises and rustlings were heard from all directions,
and he grew so uneasy that he had to creep from under
the wing and seat himself on the ground, beside the
goose.
Long-sighted Smirre stood on the mountain’s summit
and looked down upon the wild geese. “You may as
well give this pursuit up first as last,” he said to himself.
“You can’t climb such a steep mountain; you can’t
swim in such a wild torrent; and there isn’t the tiniest
strip of land below the mountain which leads to
the sleeping-place. Those geese are too wise for you.
Don’t ever bother yourself again to hunt them!”
But Smirre, like all foxes, had found it hard to give
up an undertaking already begun, and so he lay down
on the extremest point of the mountain edge, and did
not take his eyes off the wild geese. While he lay and
watched them, he thought of all the harm they had
done him. Yes, it was their fault that he had been
driven from Skane, and had been obliged to move to
poverty-stricken Blekinge. He worked himself up to
such a pitch, as he lay there, that he wished the wild
geese were dead, even if he, himself, should not have
the satisfaction of eating them.
When Smirre’s resentment had reached this height, he
heard rasping in a large pine that grew close to him,
and saw a squirrel come down from the tree, hotly
pursued by a marten. Neither of them noticed Smirre;
and he sat quietly and watched the chase, which went
from tree to tree. He looked at the squirrel, who moved
among the branches as lightly as though he’d been able
to fly. He looked at the marten, who was not as skilled
at climbing as the squirrel, but who still ran up and
along the branches just as securely as if they had been
even paths in the forest. “If I could only climb half as
well as either of them,” thought the fox, “those things
down there wouldn’t sleep in peace very long!”
As soon as the squirrel had been captured, and the
chase was ended, Smirre walked over to the marten,
but stopped two steps away from him, to signify that
he did not wish to cheat him of his prey. He greeted
the marten in a very friendly manner, and wished
him good luck with his catch. Smirre chose his words
well—as foxes always do. The marten, on the contrary,
who, with his long and slender body, his fine head, his
soft skin, and his light brown neck-piece, looked like
a little marvel of beauty—but in reality was nothing
but a crude forest dweller—hardly answered him. “It
surprises me,” said Smirre, “that such a fine hunter
as you are should be satisfied with chasing squirrels
when there is much better game within reach.” Here
he paused; but when the marten only grinned impudently
at him, he continued: “Can it be possible that
you haven’t seen the wild geese that stand under the
mountain wall? or are you not a good enough climber
to get down to them?”
This time he had no need to wait for an answer. The
marten rushed up to him with back bent, and every
separate hair on end. “Have you seen wild geese?” he
hissed. “Where are they? Tell me instantly, or I’ll bite
your neck off!” “No! you must remember that I’m
twice your size—so be a little polite. I ask nothing
better than to show you the wild geese.”
The next instant the marten was on his way down the
steep; and while Smirre sat and watched how he swung
his snake-like body from branch to branch, he thought:
“That pretty tree-hunter has the wickedest heart in all
the forest. I believe that the wild geese will have me
to thank for a bloody awakening.”
But just as Smirre was waiting to hear the geese’s
death-rattle, he saw the marten tumble from branch to
branch—and plump into the river so the water splashed
high. Soon thereafter, wings beat loudly and strongly
and all the geese went up in a hurried flight.
Smirre intended to hurry after the geese, but he was so
curious to know how they had been saved, that he sat
there until the marten came clambering up. That poor
thing was soaked in mud, and stopped every now and
then to rub his head with his forepaws. “Now wasn’t
that just what I thought—that you were a booby, and
would go and tumble into the river?” said Smirre,
contemptuously.
“I haven’t acted boobyishly. You don’t need to scold
me,” said the marten. “I sat—all ready—on one of
the lowest branches and thought how I should manage
to tear a whole lot of geese to pieces, when a little
creature, no bigger than a squirrel, jumped up and
threw a stone at my head with such force, that I fell
into the water; and before I had time to pick myself
up—”
The marten didn’t have to say any more. He had no
audience. Smirre was already a long way off in pursuit
of the wild geese.
In the meantime Akka had flown southward in search
of a new sleeping-place. There was still a little daylight;
and, beside, the half-moon stood high in the
heavens, so that she could see a little. Luckily, she
was well acquainted in these parts, because it had happened
more than once that she had been wind-driven
to Blekinge when she travelled over the East sea in the
spring.
She followed the river as long as she saw it winding
through the moon-lit landscape like a black, shining
snake. In this way she came way down to Djupafors—
where the river first hides itself in an underground
channel—and then clear and transparent, as though
it were made of glass, rushes down in a narrow cleft,
and breaks into bits against its bottom in glittering
drops and flying foam. Below the white falls lay a few
stones, between which the water rushed away in a wild
torrent cataract. Here mother Akka alighted. This
was another good sleeping-place—especially this late
in the evening, when no human beings moved about.
At sunset the geese would hardly have been able to
camp there, for Djupafors does not lie in any wilderness.
On one side of the falls is a paper factory; on the
other—which is steep, and tree-grown—is Djupadal’s
park, where people are always strolling about on the
steep and slippery paths to enjoy the wild stream’s
rushing movement down in the ravine.
It was about the same here as at the former place;
none of the travellers thought the least little bit that
they had come to a pretty and well-known place. They
thought rather that it was ghastly and dangerous to
stand and sleep on slippery, wet stones, in the middle
of a rumbling waterfall. But they had to be content,
if only they were protected from carnivorous animals.
The geese fell asleep instantly, while the boy could find
no rest in sleep, but sat beside them that he might
watch over the goosey-gander.
After a while, Smirre came running along the rivershore.
He spied the geese immediately where they
stood out in the foaming whirlpools, and understood
that he couldn’t get at them here, either. Still he
couldn’t make up his mind to abandon them, but seated
himself on the shore and looked at them. He felt very
much humbled, and thought that his entire reputation
as a hunter was at stake.
All of a sudden, he saw an otter come creeping up from
the falls with a fish in his mouth. Smirre approached
him but stopped within two steps of him, to show him
that he didn’t wish to take his game from him.
“You’re a remarkable one, who can content yourself
with catching a fish, while the stones are covered with
geese!” said Smirre. He was so eager, that he hadn’t
taken the time to arrange his words as carefully as he
was wont to do. The otter didn’t turn his head once
in the direction of the river. He was a vagabond—like
all otters—and had fished many times by Vomb Lake,
and probably knew Smirre Fox. “I know very well how
you act when you want to coax away a salmon-trout,
Smirre,” said he.
“Oh! is it you, Gripe?” said Smirre, and was delighted;
for he knew that this particular otter was a
quick and accomplished swimmer. “I don’t wonder
that you do not care to look at the wild geese, since
you can’t manage to get out to them.” But the otter,
who had swimming-webs between his toes, and a stiff
tail—which was as good as an oar—and a skin that
was water-proof, didn’t wish to have it said of him
that there was a waterfall that he wasn’t able to manage.
He turned toward the stream; and as soon as he
caught sight of the wild geese, he threw the fish away,
and rushed down the steep shore and into the river.
If it had been a little later in the spring, so that the
nightingales in Djupafors had been at home, they would
have sung for many a day of Gripe’s struggle with the
rapid. For the otter was thrust back by the waves
many times, and carried down river; but he fought his
way steadily up again. He swam forward in still water;
he crawled over stones, and gradually came nearer the
wild geese. It was a perilous trip, which might well
have earned the right to be sung by the nightingales.
Smirre followed the otter’s course with his eyes as well
as he could. At last he saw that the otter was in the
act of climbing up to the wild geese. But just then it
shrieked shrill and wild. The otter tumbled backward
into the water, and dashed away as if he had been
a blind kitten. An instant later, there was a great
crackling of geese’s wings. They raised themselves and
flew away to find another sleeping-place.
The otter soon came on land. He said nothing, but
commenced to lick one of his forepaws. When Smirre
sneered at him because he hadn’t succeeded, he broke
out: “It was not the fault of my swimming-art, Smirre.
I had raced all the way over to the geese, and was
about to climb up to them, when a tiny creature came
running, and jabbed me in the foot with some sharp
iron. It hurt so, I lost my footing, and then the current
took me.”
He didn’t have to say any more. Smirre was already
far away on his way to the wild geese.
Once again Akka and her flock had to take a night
fly. Fortunately, the moon had not gone down; and
with the aid of its light, she succeeded in finding another
of those sleeping-places which she knew in that
neighbourhood. Again she followed the shining river
toward the south. Over Djupadal’s manor, and over
Ronneby’s dark roofs and white waterfalls she swayed
forward without alighting. But a little south of the
city and not far from the sea, lies Ronneby healthspring,
with its bath house and spring house; with its
big hotel and summer cottages for the spring’s guests.
All these stand empty and desolate in winter—which
the birds know perfectly well; and many are the birdcompanies
who seek shelter on the deserted buildings’
balustrades and balconies during hard storm-times.
Here the wild geese lit on a balcony, and, as usual,
they fell asleep at once. The boy, on the contrary,
could not sleep because he hadn’t cared to creep in
under the goosey-gander’s wing.
The balcony faced south, so the boy had an outlook
over the sea. And since he could not sleep, he sat there
and saw how pretty it looked when sea and land meet,
here in Blekinge.
You see that sea and land can meet in many different
ways. In many places the land comes down toward
the sea with flat, tufted meadows, and the sea meets
the land with flying sand, which piles up in mounds
and drifts. It appears as though they both disliked
each other so much that they only wished to show the
poorest they possessed. But it can also happen that,
when the land comes toward the sea, it raises a wall of
hills in front of it—as though the sea were something
dangerous. When the land does this, the sea comes up
to it with fiery wrath, and beats and roars and lashes
against the rocks, and looks as if it would tear the
land-hill to pieces.
But in Blekinge it is altogether different when sea and
land meet. There the land breaks itself up into points
and islands and islets; and the sea divides itself into
fiords and bays and sounds; and it is, perhaps, this
which makes it look as if they must meet in happiness
and harmony.
Think now first and foremost of the sea! Far out it lies
desolate and empty and big, and has nothing else to
do but to roll its gray billows. When it comes toward
the land, it happens across the first obstacle. This it
immediately overpowers; tears away everything green,
and makes it as gray as itself. Then it meets still
another obstacle. With this it does the same thing.
And still another. Yes, the same thing happens to this
also. It is stripped and plundered, as if it had fallen
into robbers’ hands. Then the obstacles come nearer
and nearer together, and then the sea must understand
that the land sends toward it her littlest children, in
order to move it to pity. It also becomes more friendly
the farther in it comes; rolls its waves less high; moderates
its storms; lets the green things stay in cracks
and crevices; separates itself into small sounds and inlets,
and becomes at last so harmless in the land, that
little boats dare venture out on it. It certainly cannot
recognise itself—so mild and friendly has it grown.
And then think of the hillside! It lies uniform, and
looks the same almost everywhere. It consists of flat
grain-fields, with one and another birch-grove between
them; or else of long stretches of forest ranges. It appears
as if it had thought about nothing but grain and
turnips and potatoes and spruce and pine. Then comes
a sea-fiord that cuts far into it. It doesn’t mind that,
but borders it with birch and alder, just as if it was
an ordinary fresh-water lake. Then still another wave
comes driving in. Nor does the hillside bother itself
about cringing to this, but it, too, gets the same covering
as the first one. Then the fiords begin to broaden
and separate, they break up fields and woods and then
the hillside cannot help but notice them. “I believe it
is the sea itself that is coming,” says the hillside, and
then it begins to adorn itself. It wreathes itself with
blossoms, travels up and down in hills and throws islands
into the sea. It no longer cares about pines and
spruces, but casts them off like old every day clothes,
and parades later with big oaks and lindens and chestnuts,
and with blossoming leafy bowers, and becomes
as gorgeous as a manor-park. And when it meets the
sea, it is so changed that it doesn’t know itself. All
this one cannot see very well until summertime; but,
at any rate, the boy observed how mild and friendly
nature was; and he began to feel calmer than he had
been before, that night. Then, suddenly, he heard a
sharp and ugly yowl from the bath-house park; and
when he stood up he saw, in the white moonlight, a
fox standing on the pavement under the balcony. For
Smirre had followed the wild geese once more. But
when he had found the place where they were quartered,
he had understood that it was impossible to get
at them in any way; then he had not been able to keep
from yowling with chagrin.
When the fox yowled in this manner, old Akka, the
leader-goose, was awakened. Although she could see
nothing, she thought she recognised the voice. “Is it
you who are out to-night, Smirre?” said she. “Yes,”
said Smirre, “it is I; and I want to ask what you geese
think of the night that I have given you?”
“Do you mean to say that it is you who have sent
the marten and otter against us?” asked Akka. “A
good turn shouldn’t be denied,” said Smirre. “You
once played the goose-game with me, now I have begun
to play the fox-game with you; and I’m not inclined
to let up on it so long as a single one of you still lives
even if I have to follow you the world over!”
“You, Smirre, ought at least to think whether it is right
for you, who are weaponed with both teeth and claws,
to hound us in this way; we, who are without defence,”
said Akka.
Smirre thought that Akka sounded scared, and he said
quickly: “If you, Akka, will take that Thumbietot—
who has so often opposed me—and throw him down
to me, I’ll promise to make peace with you. Then
I’ll never more pursue you or any of yours.” “I’m not
going to give you Thumbietot,” said Akka. “From the
youngest of us to the oldest, we would willingly give
our lives for his sake!” “Since you’re so fond of him,”
said Smirre, “I’ll promise you that he shall be the first
among you that I will wreak vengeance upon.”
Akka said no more, and after Smirre had sent up a
few more yowls, all was still. The boy lay all the while
awake. Now it was Akka’s words to the fox that prevented
him from sleeping. Never had he dreamed that
he should hear anything so great as that anyone was
willing to risk life for his sake. From that moment, it
could no longer be said of Nils Holgersson that he did
not care for anyone.
Chapter 15
KARLSKRONA
Saturday, April second.
It was a moonlight evening in Karlskrona—calm and
beautiful. But earlier in the day, there had been rain
and wind; and the people must have thought that the
bad weather still continued, for hardly one of them had
ventured out on the streets.
While the city lay there so desolate, Akka, the wild
goose, and her flock, came flying toward it over Vemmoen
and Pantarholmen. They were out in the late
evening to seek a sleeping place on the islands. They
couldn’t remain inland because they were disturbed by
Smirre Fox wherever they lighted.
When the boy rode along high up in the air, and looked
at the sea and the islands which spread themselves
before him, he thought that everything appeared so
strange and spook-like. The heavens were no longer
blue, but encased him like a globe of green glass. The
sea was milk-white, and as far as he could see rolled
small white waves tipped with silver ripples. In the
midst of all this white lay numerous little islets, absolutely
coal black. Whether they were big or little,
whether they were as even as meadows, or full of cliffs,
they looked just as black. Even dwelling houses and
churches and windmills, which at other times are white
or red, were outlined in black against the green sky.
The boy thought it was as if the earth had been transformed,
and he was come to another world.
He thought that just for this one night he wanted to
be brave, and not afraid—when he saw something that
really frightened him. It was a high cliff island, which
was covered with big, angular blocks; and between
the blocks shone specks of bright, shining gold. He
couldn’t keep from thinking of Maglestone, by Trolle-
Ljungby, which the trolls sometimes raised upon high
gold pillars; and he wondered if this was something
like that.
But with the stones and the gold it might have gone
fairly well, if such a lot of horrid things had not been
lying all around the island. It looked like whales and
sharks and other big sea-monsters. But the boy understood
that it was the sea-trolls, who had gathered
around the island and intended to crawl up on it, to
fight with the land-trolls who lived there. And those
on the land were probably afraid, for he saw how a
big giant stood on the highest point of the island and
raised his arms—as if in despair over all the misfortune
that should come to him and his island.
The boy was not a little terrified when he noticed that
Akka began to descend right over that particular island!
“No, for pity’s sake! We must not light there,”
said he.
But the geese continued to descend, and soon the boy
was astonished that he could have seen things so awry.
In the first place, the big stone blocks were nothing
but houses. The whole island was a city; and
the shining gold specks were street lamps and lighted
window-panes. The giant, who stood highest up on
the island, and raised his arms, was a church with two
cross-towers; all the sea-trolls and monsters, which he
thought he had seen, were boats and ships of every
description, that lay anchored all around the island.
On the side which lay toward the land were mostly
row-boats and sailboats and small coast steamers; but
on the side that faced the sea lay armour-clad battleships;
some were broad, with very thick, slanting
smokestacks; others were long and narrow, and so constructed
that they could glide through the water like
fishes.
Now what city might this be? That, the boy could
figure out because he saw all the battleships. All his
life he had loved ships, although he had had nothing
to do with any, except the galleys which he had sailed
in the road ditches. He knew very well that this city—
where so many battleships lay—couldn’t be any place
but Karlskrona.
The boy’s grandfather had been an old marine; and as
long as he had lived, he had talked of Karlskrona every
day; of the great warship dock, and of all the other
things to be seen in that city. The boy felt perfectly
at home, and he was glad that he should see all this
of which he had heard so much.
But he only had a glimpse of the towers and fortifications
which barred the entrance to the harbour, and
the many buildings, and the shipyard—before Akka
came down on one of the flat church-towers.
This was a pretty safe place for those who wanted to
get away from a fox, and the boy began to wonder if he
couldn’t venture to crawl in under the goosey-gander’s
wing for this one night. Yes, that he might safely do.
It would do him good to get a little sleep. He should
try to see a little more of the dock and the ships after
it had grown light.
The boy himself thought it was strange that he could
keep still and wait until the next morning to see the
ships. He certainly had not slept five minutes before
he slipped out from under the wing and slid down the
lightning-rod and the waterspout all the way down to
the ground.
Soon he stood on a big square which spread itself in
front of the church. It was covered with round stones,
and was just as difficult for him to travel over, as it
is for big people to walk on a tufted meadow. Those
who are accustomed to live in the open—or way out in
the country—always feel uneasy when they come into
a city, where the houses stand straight and forbidding,
and the streets are open, so that everyone can see who
goes there. And it happened in the same way with
the boy. When he stood on the big Karlskrona square,
and looked at the German church, and town hall, and
the cathedral from which he had just descended, he
couldn’t do anything but wish that he was back on
the tower again with the geese.
It was a lucky thing that the square was entirely deserted.
There wasn’t a human being about—unless he
counted a statue that stood on a high pedestal. The
boy gazed long at the statue, which represented a big,
brawny man in a three-cornered hat, long waistcoat,
knee-breeches and coarse shoes, and wondered what
kind of a one he was. He held a long stick in his hand,
and he looked as if he would know how to make use
of it, too—for he had an awfully severe countenance,
with a big, hooked nose and an ugly mouth.
“What is that long-lipped thing doing here?” said the
boy at last. He had never felt so small and insignificant
as he did that night. He tried to jolly himself up a bit
by saying something audacious. Then he thought no
more about the statue, but betook himself to a wide
street which led down to the sea.
But the boy hadn’t gone far before he heard that someone
was following him. Someone was walking behind
him, who stamped on the stone pavement with heavy
footsteps, and pounded on the ground with a hard
stick. It sounded as if the bronze man up in the square
had gone out for a promenade.
The boy listened after the steps, while he ran down
the street, and he became more and more convinced
that it was the bronze man. The ground trembled,
and the houses shook. It couldn’t be anyone but he,
who walked so heavily, and the boy grew panic-stricken
when he thought of what he had just said to him. He
did not dare to turn his head to find out if it really
was he.
“Perhaps he is only out walking for recreation,” thought
the boy. “Surely he can’t be offended with me for the
words I spoke. They were not at all badly meant.”
Instead of going straight on, and trying to get down to
the dock, the boy turned into a side street which led
east. First and foremost, he wanted to get away from
the one who tramped after him.
But the next instant he heard that the bronze man had
switched off to the same street; and then the boy was
so scared that he didn’t know what he would do with
himself. And how hard it was to find any hiding places
in a city where all the gates were closed! Then he saw
on his right an old frame church, which lay a short
distance away from the street in the centre of a large
grove. Not an instant did he pause to consider, but
rushed on toward the church. “If I can only get there,
then I’ll surely be shielded from all harm,” thought he.
As he ran forward, he suddenly caught sight of a man
who stood on a gravel path and beckoned to him.
“There is certainly someone who will help me!” thought
the boy; he became intensely happy, and hurried off in
that direction. He was actually so frightened that the
heart of him fairly thumped in his breast.
But when he came up to the man who stood on the
edge of the gravel path, upon a low pedestal, he was
absolutely thunderstruck. “Surely, it can’t have been
that one who beckoned to me!” thought he; for he saw
that the entire man was made of wood.
He stood there and stared at him. He was a thick-set
man on short legs, with a broad, ruddy countenance,
shiny, black hair and full black beard. On his head
he wore a wooden hat; on his body, a brown wooden
coat; around his waist, a black wooden belt; on his legs
he had wide wooden knee-breeches and wooden stockings;
and on his feet black wooden shoes. He was newly
painted and newly varnished, so that he glistened and
shone in the moonlight. This undoubtedly had a good
deal to do with giving him such a good-natured appearance,
that the boy at once placed confidence in
him.
In his left hand he held a wooden slate, and there the
boy read:
Most humbly I beg you,
Though voice I may lack:
Come drop a penny, do;
But lift my hat!
Oh ho! the man was only a poor-box. The boy felt that
he had been done. He had expected that this should be
something really remarkable. And now he remembered
that grandpa had also spoken of the wooden man, and
said that all the children in Karlskrona were so fond of
him. And that must have been true, for he, too, found
it hard to part with the wooden man. He had something
so old-timy about him, that one could well take
him to be many hundred years old; and at the same
time, he looked so strong and bold, and animated—
just as one might imagine that folks looked in olden
times.
The boy had so much fun looking at the wooden man,
that he entirely forgot the one from whom he was fleeing.
But now he heard him. He turned from the street
and came into the churchyard. He followed him here
too! Where should the boy go?
Just then he saw the wooden man bend down to him
and stretch forth his big, broad hand. It was impossible
to believe anything but good of him; and with one
jump, the boy stood in his hand. The wooden man
lifted him to his hat—and stuck him under it.
The boy was just hidden, and the wooden man had
just gotten his arm in its right place again, when the
bronze man stopped in front of him and banged the
stick on the ground, so that the wooden man shook
on his pedestal. Thereupon the bronze man said in a
strong and resonant voice: “Who might this one be?”
The wooden man’s arm went up, so that it creaked
in the old woodwork, and he touched his hat brim as
he replied: “Rosenbom, by Your Majesty’s leave. Once
upon a time boatswain on the man-of-war, Dristigheten;
after completed service, sexton at the Admiral’s church—
and, lately, carved in wood and exhibited in the churchyard
as a poor-box.”
The boy gave a start when he heard that the wooden
man said “Your Majesty.” For now, when he thought
about it, he knew that the statue on the square represented
the one who had founded the city. It was probably
no less an one than Charles the Eleventh himself,
whom he had encountered.
“He gives a good account of himself,” said the bronze
man. “Can he also tell me if he has seen a little brat
who runs around in the city to-night? He’s an impudent
rascal, if I get hold of him, I’ll teach him manners!”
With that, he again pounded on the ground
with his stick, and looked fearfully angry.
“By Your Majesty’s leave, I have seen him,” said the
wooden man; and the boy was so scared that he commenced
to shake where he sat under the hat and looked
at the bronze man through a crack in the wood. But he
calmed down when the wooden man continued: “Your
Majesty is on the wrong track. That youngster certainly
intended to run into the shipyard, and conceal
himself there.”
“Does he say so, Rosenbom? Well then, don’t stand
still on the pedestal any longer but come with me
and help me find him. Four eyes are better than two,
Rosenbom.”
But the wooden man answered in a doleful voice: “I
would most humbly beg to be permitted to stay where
I am. I look well and sleek because of the paint, but
I’m old and mouldy, and cannot stand moving about.”
The bronze man was not one of those who liked to be
contradicted. “What sort of notions are these? Come
along, Rosenbom!” Then he raised his stick and gave
the other one a resounding whack on the shoulder.
“Does Rosenbom not see that he holds together?”
With that they broke off and walked forward on the
streets of Karlskrona—large and mighty—until they
came to a high gate, which led to the shipyard. Just
outside and on guard walked one of the navy’s jacktars,
but the bronze man strutted past him and kicked
the gate open without the jack-tar’s pretending to notice
it.
As soon as they had gotten into the shipyard, they
saw before them a wide, expansive harbor separated
by pile-bridges. In the different harbour basins, lay the
warships, which looked bigger, and more awe-inspiring
close to, like this, than lately, when the boy had seen
them from up above. “Then it wasn’t so crazy after
all, to imagine that they were sea-trolls,” thought he.
“Where does Rosenbom think it most advisable for us
to begin the search?” said the bronze man.
“Such an one as he could most easily conceal himself
in the hall of models,” replied the wooden man.
On a narrow land-strip which stretched to the right
from the gate, all along the harbour, lay ancient structures.
The bronze man walked over to a building with
low walls, small windows, and a conspicuous roof. He
pounded on the door with his stick until it burst open;
and tramped up a pair of worn-out steps. Soon they
came into a large hall, which was filled with tackled
and full-rigged little ships. The boy understood without
being told, that these were models for the ships
which had been built for the Swedish navy.
There were ships of many different varieties. There
were old men-of-war, whose sides bristled with cannon,
and which had high structures fore and aft, and
their masts weighed down with a network of sails and
ropes. There were small island-boats with rowingbenches
along the sides; there were undecked cannon
sloops and richly gilded frigates, which were models of
the ones the kings had used on their travels. Finally,
there were also the heavy, broad armour-plated ships
with towers and cannon on deck—such as are in use
nowadays; and narrow, shining torpedo boats which
resembled long, slender fishes.
When the boy was carried around among all this, he
was awed. “Fancy that such big, splendid ships have
been built here in Sweden!” he thought to himself.
He had plenty of time to see all that was to be seen
in there; for when the bronze man saw the models, he
forgot everything else. He examined them all, from the
first to the last, and asked about them. And Rosenbom,
the boatswain on the Dristigheten, told as much
as he knew of the ships’ builders, and of those who
had manned them; and of the fates they had met.
He told them about Chapman and Puke and Trolle;
of Hoagland and Svensksund—all the way along until
1809—after that he had not been there.
Both he and the bronze man had the most to say about
the fine old wooden ships. The new battleships they
didn’t exactly appear to understand.
“I can hear that Rosenbom doesn’t know anything
about these new-fangled things,” said the bronze man.
“Therefore, let us go and look at something else; for
this amuses me, Rosenbom.”
By this time he had entirely given up his search for
the boy, who felt calm and secure where he sat in the
wooden hat.
Thereupon both men wandered through the big establishment:
sail-making shops, anchor smithy, machine
and carpenter shops. They saw the mast sheers and
the docks; the large magazines, the arsenal, the ropebridge
and the big discarded dock, which had been
blasted in the rock. They went out upon the pilebridges,
where the naval vessels lay moored, stepped
on board and examined them like two old sea-dogs;
wondered; disapproved; approved; and became indignant.
The boy sat in safety under the wooden hat, and heard
all about how they had laboured and struggled in this
place, to equip the navies which had gone out from
here. He heard how life and blood had been risked;
how the last penny had been sacrificed to build the
warships; how skilled men had strained all their powers,
in order to perfect these ships which had been
their fatherland’s safeguard. A couple of times the
tears came to the boy’s eyes, as he heard all this.
And the very last, they went into an open court, where
the galley models of old men-of-war were grouped; and
a more remarkable sight the boy had never beheld; for
these models had inconceivably powerful and terrorstriking
faces. They were big, fearless and savage:
filled with the same proud spirit that had fitted out
the great ships. They were from another time than
his. He thought that he shrivelled up before them.
But when they came in here, the bronze man said to
the wooden man: “Take off thy hat, Rosenbom, for
those that stand here! They have all fought for the
fatherland.”
And Rosenbom—like the bronze man—had forgotten
why they had begun this tramp. Without thinking, he
lifted the wooden hat from his head and shouted:
“I take off my hat to the one who chose the harbour
and founded the shipyard and recreated the navy; to
the monarch who has awakened all this into life!”
“Thanks, Rosenbom! That was well spoken. Rosenbom
is a fine man. But what is this, Rosenbom?”
For there stood Nils Holgersson, right on the top of
Rosenbom’s bald pate. He wasn’t afraid any longer;
but raised his white toboggan hood, and shouted: “Hurrah
for you, Longlip!”
The bronze man struck the ground hard with his stick;
but the boy never learned what he had intended to do
for now the sun ran up, and, at the same time, both
the bronze man and the wooden man vanished—as if
they had been made of mists. While he still stood
and stared after them, the wild geese flew up from
the church tower, and swayed back and forth over the
city. Instantly they caught sight of Nils Holgersson;
and then the big white one darted down from the sky
and fetched him.
Chapter 16
THE TRIP TO
OeLAND
Sunday, April third.
The wild geese went out on a wooded island to feed.
There they happened to run across a few gray geese,
who were surprised to see them—since they knew very
well that their kinsmen, the wild geese, usually travel
over the interior of the country.
They were curious and inquisitive, and wouldn’t be
satisfied with less than that the wild geese should tell
them all about the persecution which they had to endure
from Smirre Fox. When they had finished, a gray
goose, who appeared to be as old and as wise as Akka
herself, said: “It was a great misfortune for you that
Smirre Fox was declared an outlaw in his own land.
He’ll be sure to keep his word, and follow you all the
way up to Lapland. If I were in your place, I shouldn’t
travel north over Smaland, but would take the outside
route over Oeland instead, so that he’ll be thrown off
the track entirely. To really mislead him, you must remain
for a couple of days on Oeland’s southern point.
There you’ll find lots of food and lots of company. I
don’t believe you’ll regret it, if you go over there.”
It was certainly very sensible advice, and the wild geese
concluded to follow it. As soon as they had eaten
all they could hold, they started on the trip to Oeland.
None of them had ever been there before, but the
gray goose had given them excellent directions. They
only had to travel direct south until they came to a
large bird-track, which extended all along the Blekinge
coast. All the birds who had winter residences by the
West sea, and who now intended to travel to Finland
and Russia, flew forward there—and, in passing, they
were always in the habit of stopping at Oeland to rest.
The wild geese would have no trouble in finding guides.
That day it was perfectly still and warm—like a summer’s
day—the best weather in the world for a sea trip.
The only grave thing about it was that it was not quite
clear, for the sky was gray and veiled. Here and there
were enormous mist-clouds which hung way down to
the sea’s outer edge, and obstructed the view.
When the travellers had gotten away from the wooded
island, the sea spread itself so smooth and mirror-like,
that the boy as he looked down thought the water had
disappeared. There was no longer any earth under
him. He had nothing but mist and sky around him. He
grew very dizzy, and held himself tight on the gooseback,
more frightened than when he sat there for the
first time. It seemed as though he couldn’t possibly
hold on; he must fall in some direction.
It was even worse when they reached the big birdtrack,
of which the gray goose had spoken. Actually,
there came flock after flock flying in exactly the same
direction. They seemed to follow a fixed route. There
were ducks and gray geese, surf-scoters and guillemots,
loons and pin-tail ducks and mergansers and grebes
and oyster-catchers and sea-grouse. But now, when
the boy leaned forward, and looked in the direction
where the sea ought to lie, he saw the whole bird procession
reflected in the water. But he was so dizzy
that he didn’t understand how this had come about:
he thought that the whole bird procession flew with
their bellies upside down. Still he didn’t wonder at
this so much, for he did not himself know which was
up, and which was down.
The birds were tired out and impatient to get on. None
of them shrieked or said a funny thing, and this made
everything seem peculiarly unreal.
“Think, if we have travelled away from the earth!” he
said to himself. “Think, if we are on our way up to
heaven!”
He saw nothing but mists and birds around him, and
began to look upon it as reasonable that they were
travelling heaven-ward. He was glad, and wondered
what he should see up there. The dizziness passed all
at once. He was so exceedingly happy at the thought
that he was on his way to heaven and was leaving this
earth.
Just about then he heard a couple of loud shots, and
saw two white smoke-columns ascend.
There was a sudden awakening, and an unrest among
the birds. “Hunters! Hunters!” they cried. “Fly high!
Fly away!”
Then the boy saw, finally, that they were travelling all
the while over the sea-coast, and that they certainly
were not in heaven. In a long row lay small boats filled
with hunters, who fired shot upon shot. The nearest
bird-flocks hadn’t noticed them in time. They had
flown too low. Several dark bodies sank down toward
the sea; and for every one that fell, there arose cries of
anguish from the living.
It was strange for one who had but lately believed
himself in heaven, to wake up suddenly to such fear
and lamentation. Akka shot toward the heights as fast
as she could, and the flock followed with the greatest
possible speed. The wild geese got safely out of the
way, but the boy couldn’t get over his amazement.
“To think that anyone could wish to shoot upon such
as Akka and Yksi and Kaksi and the goosey-gander
and the others! Human beings had no conception of
what they did.”
So it bore on again, in the still air, and everything
was as quiet as heretofore—with the exception that
some of the tired birds called out every now and then:
“Are we not there soon? Are you sure we’re on the
right track?” Hereupon, those who flew in the centre
answered: “We are flying straight to Oeland; straight
to Oeland.”
The gray geese were tired out, and the loons flew
around them. “Don’t be in such a rush!” cried the
ducks. “You’ll eat up all the food before we get there.”
“Oh! there’ll be enough for both you and us,” answered
the loons.
Before they had gotten so far that they saw Oeland,
there came a light wind against them. It brought with
it something that resembled immense clouds of white
smoke—just as if there was a big fire somewhere.
When the birds saw the first white spiral haze, they
became uneasy and increased their speed. But that
which resembled smoke blew thicker and thicker, and
at last it enveloped them altogether. They smelled no
smoke; and the smoke was not dark and dry, but white
and damp. Suddenly the boy understood that it was
nothing but a mist.
When the mist became so thick that one couldn’t see
a goose-length ahead, the birds began to carry on like
real lunatics. All these, who before had travelled forward
in such perfect order, began to play in the mist.
They flew hither and thither, to entice one another
astray. “Be careful!” they cried. “You’re only travelling
round and round. Turn back, for pity’s sake!
You’ll never get to Oeland in this way.”
They all knew perfectly well where the island was, but
they did their best to lead each other astray. “Look
at those wagtails!” rang out in the mist. “They are
going back toward the North Sea!” “Have a care, wild
geese!” shrieked someone from another direction. “If
you continue like this, you’ll get clear up to Ruegen.”
There was, of course, no danger that the birds who
were accustomed to travel here would permit themselves
to be lured in a wrong direction. But the ones
who had a hard time of it were the wild geese. The
jesters observed that they were uncertain as to the way,
and did all they could to confuse them.
“Where do you intend to go, good people?” called a
swan. He came right up to Akka, and looked sympathetic
and serious.
“We shall travel to Oeland; but we have never been
there before,” said Akka. She thought that this was a
bird to be trusted.
“It’s too bad,” said the swan. “They have lured you in
the wrong direction. You’re on the road to Blekinge.
Now come with me, and I’ll put you right!”
And so he flew off with them; and when he had taken
them so far away from the track that they heard no
calls, he disappeared in the mist.
They flew around for a while at random. They had
barely succeeded in finding the birds again, when a
duck approached them. “It’s best that you lie down
on the water until the mist clears,” said the duck. “It
is evident that you are not accustomed to look out for
yourselves on journeys.”
Those rogues succeeded in making Akka’s head swim.
As near as the boy could make out, the wild geese flew
round and round for a long time.
“Be careful! Can’t you see that you are flying up and
down?” shouted a loon as he rushed by. The boy
positively clutched the goosey-gander around the neck.
This was something which he had feared for a long
time.
No one can tell when they would have arrived, if they
hadn’t heard a rolling and muffled sound in the distance.
Then Akka craned her neck, snapped hard with her
wings, and rushed on at full speed. Now she had something
to go by. The gray goose had told her not to light
on Oeland’s southern point, because there was a cannon
there, which the people used to shoot the mist
with. Now she knew the way, and now no one in the
world should lead her astray again.
Chapter 17
OeLAND’S
SOUTHERN POINT
April third to sixth.
On the most southerly part of Oeland lies a royal
demesne, which is called Ottenby. It is a rather large
estate which extends from shore to shore, straight across
the island; and it is remarkable because it has always
been a haunt for large bird-companies. In the seventeenth
century, when the kings used to go over to
Oeland to hunt, the entire estate was nothing but
a deer park. In the eighteenth century there was a
stud there, where blooded race-horses were bred; and
a sheep farm, where several hundred sheep were maintained.
In our days you’ll find neither blooded horses
nor sheep at Ottenby. In place of them live great herds
of young horses, which are to be used by the cavalry.
In all the land there is certainly no place that could be
a better abode for animals. Along the extreme eastern
shore lies the old sheep meadow, which is a mile and a
half long, and the largest meadow in all Oeland, where
animals can graze and play and run about, as free as
if they were in a wilderness. And there you will find
the celebrated Ottenby grove with the hundred-yearold
oaks, which give shade from the sun, and shelter
from the severe Oeland winds. And we must not forget
the long Ottenby wall, which stretches from shore
to shore, and separates Ottenby from the rest of the
island, so that the animals may know how far the old
royal demesne extends, and be careful about getting in
on other ground, where they are not so well protected.
You’ll find plenty of tame animals at Ottenby, but
that isn’t all. One could almost believe that the wild
ones also felt that on an old crown property both
the wild and the tame ones can count upon shelter
and protection—since they venture there in such great
numbers.
Besides, there are still a few stags of the old descent
left; and burrow-ducks and partridges love to live there,
and it offers a resting place, in the spring and late summer,
for thousands of migratory birds. Above all, it
is the swampy eastern shore below the sheep meadow,
where the migratory birds alight, to rest and feed.
When the wild geese and Nils Holgersson had finally
found their way to Oeland, they came down, like all
the rest, on the shore near the sheep meadow. The
mist lay thick over the island, just as it had over the
sea. But still the boy was amazed at all the birds
which he discerned, only on the little narrow stretch
of shore which he could see.
It was a low sand-shore with stones and pools, and a
lot of cast-up sea-weed. If the boy had been permitted
to choose, it isn’t likely that he would have thought
of alighting there; but the birds probably looked upon
this as a veritable paradise. Ducks and geese walked
about and fed on the meadow; nearer the water, ran
snipe, and other coast-birds. The loons lay in the
sea and fished, but the life and movement was upon
the long sea-weed banks along the coast. There the
birds stood side by side close together and picked grubworms—
which must have been found there in limitless
quantities for it was very evident that there was never
any complaint over a lack of food.
The great majority were going to travel farther, and
had only alighted to take a short rest; and as soon as
the leader of a flock thought that his comrades had
recovered themselves sufficiently he said, “If you are
ready now, we may as well move on.”
“No, wait, wait! We haven’t had anything like enough,”
said the followers.
“You surely don’t believe that I intend to let you eat
so much that you will not be able to move?” said the
leader, and flapped his wings and started off. Along
the outermost sea-weed banks lay a flock of swans.
They didn’t bother about going on land, but rested
themselves by lying and rocking on the water. Now
and then they dived down with their necks and brought
up food from the sea-bottom. When they had gotten
hold of anything very good, they indulged in loud
shouts that sounded like trumpet calls.
When the boy heard that there were swans on the
shoals, he hurried out to the sea-weed banks. He had
never before seen wild swans at close range. He had
luck on his side, so that he got close up to them.
The boy was not the only one who had heard the
swans. Both the wild geese and the gray geese and
the loons swam out between the banks, laid themselves
in a ring around the swans and stared at them.
The swans ruffled their feathers, raised their wings like
sails, and lifted their necks high in the air. Occasionally
one and another of them swam up to a goose, or
a great loon, or a diving-duck, and said a few words.
And then it appeared as though the one addressed
hardly dared raise his bill to reply.
But then there was a little loon—a tiny mischievous
baggage—who couldn’t stand all this ceremony. He
dived suddenly, and disappeared under the water’s
edge. Soon after that, one of the swans let out a
scream, and swam off so quickly that the water foamed.
Then he stopped and began to look majestic once
more. But soon, another one shrieked in the same
way as the first one, and then a third.
The little loon wasn’t able to stay under water any
longer, but appeared on the water’s edge, little and
black and venomous. The swans rushed toward him;
but when they saw what a poor little thing it was, they
turned abruptly—as if they considered themselves too
good to quarrel with him. Then the little loon dived
again, and pinched their feet. It certainly must have
hurt; and the worst of it was, that they could not
maintain their dignity. At once they took a decided
stand. They began to beat the air with their wings
so that it thundered; came forward a bit—as though
they were running on the water—got wind under their
wings, and raised themselves.
When the swans were gone they were greatly missed;
and those who had lately been amused by the little
loon’s antics scolded him for his thoughtlessness.
The boy walked toward land again. There he stationed
himself to see how the pool-snipe played. They resembled
small storks; like these, they had little bodies,
long legs and necks, and light, swaying movements;
only they were not gray, but brown. They stood in a
long row on the shore where it was washed by waves.
As soon as a wave rolled in, the whole row ran backward;
as soon as it receded, they followed it. And they
kept this up for hours.
The showiest of all the birds were the burrow-ducks.
They were undoubtedly related to the ordinary ducks;
for, like these, they too had a thick-set body, broad
bill, and webbed feet; but they were much more elaborately
gotten up. The feather dress, itself, was white;
around their necks they wore a broad gold band; the
wing-mirror shone in green, red, and black; and the
wing-edges were black, and the head was dark green
and shimmered like satin.
As soon as any of these appeared on the shore, the
others said: “Now, just look at those things! They
know how to tog themselves out.” “If they were not
so conspicuous, they wouldn’t have to dig their nests
in the earth, but could lay above ground, like anyone
else,” said a brown mallard-duck. “They may try as
much as they please, still they’ll never get anywhere
with such noses,” said a gray goose. And this was
actually true. The burrow-ducks had a big knob on
the base of the bill, which spoiled their appearance.
Close to the shore, sea-gulls and sea-swallows moved
forward on the water and fished. “What kind of fish are
you catching?” asked a wild goose. “It’s a stickleback.
It’s Oeland stickleback. It’s the best stickleback in the
world,” said a gull. “Won’t you taste of it?” And he
flew up to the goose, with his mouth full of the little
fishes, and wanted to give her some. “Ugh! Do you
think that I eat such filth?” said the wild goose.
The next morning it was just as cloudy. The wild
geese walked about on the meadow and fed; but the
boy had gone to the seashore to gather mussels. There
were plenty of them; and when he thought that the
next day, perhaps, they would be in some place where
they couldn’t get any food at all, he concluded that
he would try to make himself a little bag, which he
could fill with mussels. He found an old sedge on the
meadow, which was strong and tough; and out of this
he began to braid a knapsack. He worked at this for
several hours, but he was well satisfied with it when it
was finished.
At dinner time all the wild geese came running and
asked him if he had seen anything of the white gooseygander.
“No, he has not been with me,” said the boy.
“We had him with us all along until just lately,” said
Akka, “but now we no longer know where he’s to be
found.”
The boy jumped up, and was terribly frightened. He
asked if any fox or eagle had put in an appearance, or
if any human being had been seen in the neighbourhood.
But no one had noticed anything dangerous.
The goosey-gander had probably lost his way in the
mist.
But it was just as great a misfortune for the boy, in
whatever way the white one had been lost, and he
started off immediately to hunt for him. The mist
shielded him, so that he could run wherever he wished
without being seen, but it also prevented him from
seeing. He ran southward along the shore—all the way
down to the lighthouse and the mist cannon on the
island’s extreme point. It was the same bird confusion
everywhere, but no goosey-gander. He ventured over
to Ottenby estate, and he searched every one of the
old, hollow oaks in Ottenby grove, but he saw no trace
of the goosey-gander.
He searched until it began to grow dark. Then he had
to turn back again to the eastern shore. He walked
with heavy steps, and was fearfully blue. He didn’t
know what would become of him if he couldn’t find
the goosey-gander. There was no one whom he could
spare less.
But when he wandered over the sheep meadow, what
was that big, white thing that came toward him in the
mist if it wasn’t the goosey-gander? He was all right,
and very glad that, at last, he had been able to find
his way back to the others. The mist had made him so
dizzy, he said, that he had wandered around on the big
meadow all day long. The boy threw his arms around
his neck, for very joy, and begged him to take care of
himself, and not wander away from the others. And
he promised, positively, that he never would do this
again. No, never again.
But the next morning, when the boy went down to the
beach and hunted for mussels, the geese came running
and asked if he had seen the goosey-gander. No, of
course he hadn’t. “Well, then the goosey-gander was
lost again. He had gone astray in the mist, just as he
had done the day before.”
The boy ran off in great terror and began to search.
He found one place where the Ottenby wall was so
tumble-down that he could climb over it. Later, he
went about, first on the shore which gradually widened
and became so large that there was room for fields
and meadows and farms—then up on the flat highland,
which lay in the middle of the island, and where there
were no buildings except windmills, and where the turf
was so thin that the white cement shone under it.
Meanwhile, he could not find the goosey-gander; and
as it drew on toward evening, and the boy must return
to the beach, he couldn’t believe anything but that his
travelling companion was lost. He was so depressed,
he did not know what to do with himself.
He had just climbed over the wall again when he heard
a stone crash down close beside him. As he turned to
see what it was, he thought that he could distinguish
something that moved on a stone pile which lay close to
the wall. He stole nearer, and saw the goosey-gander
come trudging wearily over the stone pile, with several
long fibres in his mouth. The goosey-gander didn’t see
the boy, and the boy did not call to him, but thought it
advisable to find out first why the goosey-gander time
and again disappeared in this manner.
And he soon learned the reason for it. Up in the stone
pile lay a young gray goose, who cried with joy when
the goosey-gander came. The boy crept near, so that
he heard what they said; then he found out that the
gray goose had been wounded in one wing, so that she
could not fly, and that her flock had travelled away
from her, and left her alone. She had been near death’s
door with hunger, when the white goosey-gander had
heard her call, the other day, and had sought her out.
Ever since, he had been carrying food to her. They
had both hoped that she would be well before they left
the island, but, as yet, she could neither fly nor walk.
She was very much worried over this, but he comforted
her with the thought that he shouldn’t travel for a long
time. At last he bade her good-night, and promised to
come the next day.
The boy let the goosey-gander go; and as soon as he
was gone, he stole, in turn, up to the stone heap. He
was angry because he had been deceived, and now he
wanted to say to that gray goose that the gooseygander
was his property. He was going to take the
boy up to Lapland, and there would be no talk of his
staying here on her account. But now, when he saw
the young gray goose close to, he understood, not only
why the goosey-gander had gone and carried food to
her for two days, but also why he had not wished to
mention that he had helped her. She had the prettiest
little head; her feather-dress was like soft satin, and
the eyes were mild and pleading.
When she saw the boy, she wanted to run away; but the
left wing was out of joint and dragged on the ground,
so that it interfered with her movements.
“You mustn’t be afraid of me,” said the boy, and didn’t
look nearly so angry as he had intended to appear.
“I’m Thumbietot, Morten Goosey-gander’s comrade,”
he continued. Then he stood there, and didn’t know
what he wanted to say.
Occasionally one finds something among animals which
makes one wonder what sort of creatures they really
are. One is almost afraid that they may be transformed
human beings. It was something like this with
the gray goose. As soon as Thumbietot said who he
was, she lowered her neck and head very charmingly
before him, and said in a voice that was so pretty that
he couldn’t believe it was a goose who spoke: “I am
very glad that you have come here to help me. The
white goosey-gander has told me that no one is as wise
and as good as you.”
She said this with such dignity, that the boy grew
really embarrassed. “This surely can’t be any bird,”
thought he. “It is certainly some bewitched princess.”
He was filled with a desire to help her, and ran his
hand under the feathers, and felt along the wing-bone.
The bone was not broken, but there was something
wrong with the joint. He got his finger down into the
empty cavity. “Be careful, now!” he said; and got a
firm grip on the bone-pipe and fitted it into the place
where it ought to be. He did it very quickly and well,
considering it was the first time that he had attempted
anything of the sort. But it must have hurt very much,
for the poor young goose uttered a single shrill cry, and
then sank down among the stones without showing a
sign of life.
The boy was terribly frightened. He had only wished
to help her, and now she was dead. He made a big
jump from the stone pile, and ran away. He thought
it was as though he had murdered a human being.
The next morning it was clear and free from mist, and
Akka said that now they should continue their travels.
All the others were willing to go, but the white
goosey-gander made excuses. The boy understood well
enough that he didn’t care to leave the gray goose.
Akka did not listen to him, but started off.
The boy jumped up on the goosey-gander’s back, and
the white one followed the flock—albeit slowly and unwillingly.
The boy was mighty glad that they could fly
away from the island. He was conscience-stricken on
account of the gray goose, and had not cared to tell
the goosey-gander how it had turned out when he had
tried to cure her. It would probably be best if Morten
goosey-gander never found out about this, he thought,
though he wondered, at the same time, how the white
one had the heart to leave the gray goose.
But suddenly the goosey-gander turned. The thought
of the young gray goose had overpowered him. It could
go as it would with the Lapland trip: he couldn’t go
with the others when he knew that she lay alone and
ill, and would starve to death.
With a few wing-strokes he was over the stone pile;
but then, there lay no young gray goose between the
stones. “Dunfin! Dunfin! Where art thou?” called the
goosey-gander.
“The fox has probably been here and taken her,” thought
the boy. But at that moment he heard a pretty voice
answer the goosey-gander. “Here am I, goosey-gander;
here am I! I have only been taking a morning bath.”
And up from the water came the little gray goose—
fresh and in good trim—and told how Thumbietot had
pulled her wing into place, and that she was entirely
well, and ready to follow them on the journey.
The drops of water lay like pearl-dew on her shimmery
satin-like feathers, and Thumbietot thought once again
that she was a real little princess.
Chapter 18
THE BIG
BUTTERFLY
Wednesday, April sixth.
The geese travelled alongside the coast of the long island,
which lay distinctly visible under them. The boy
felt happy and light of heart during the trip. He was
just as pleased and well satisfied as he had been glum
and depressed the day before, when he roamed around
down on the island, and hunted for the goosey-gander.
He saw now that the interior of the island consisted of
a barren high plain, with a wreath of fertile land along
the coast; and he began to comprehend the meaning
of something which he had heard the other evening.
He had just seated himself to rest a bit by one of the
many windmills on the highland, when a couple of
shepherds came along with the dogs beside them, and
a large herd of sheep in their train. The boy had not
been afraid because he was well concealed under the
windmill stairs. But as it turned out, the shepherds
came and seated themselves on the same stairway, and
then there was nothing for him to do but to keep perfectly
still.
One of the shepherds was young, and looked about as
folks do mostly; the other was an old queer one. His
body was large and knotty, but the head was small,
and the face had sensitive and delicate features. It
appeared as though the body and head didn’t want to
fit together at all.
One moment he sat silent and gazed into the mist,
with an unutterably weary expression. Then he began
to talk to his companion. Then the other one took
out some bread and cheese from his knapsack, to eat
his evening meal. He answered scarcely anything, but
listened very patiently, just as if he were thinking: “I
might as well give you the pleasure of letting you chatter
a while.”
“Now I shall tell you something, Eric,” said the old
shepherd. “I have figured out that in former days,
when both human beings and animals were much larger
than they are now, that the butterflies, too, must have
been uncommonly large. And once there was a butterfly
that was many miles long, and had wings as wide
as seas. Those wings were blue, and shone like silver,
and so gorgeous that, when the butterfly was out flying,
all the other animals stood still and stared at it.
It had this drawback, however, that it was too large.
The wings had hard work to carry it. But probably all
would have gone very well, if the butterfly had been
wise enough to remain on the hillside. But it wasn’t; it
ventured out over the East sea. And it hadn’t gotten
very far before the storm came along and began to tear
at its wings. Well, it’s easy to understand, Eric, how
things would go when the East sea storm commenced
to wrestle with frail butterfly-wings. It wasn’t long before
they were torn away and scattered; and then, of
course, the poor butterfly fell into the sea. At first it
was tossed backward and forward on the billows, and
then it was stranded upon a few cliff-foundations outside
of Smaland. And there it lay—as large and long
as it was.
“Now I think, Eric, that if the butterfly had dropped
on land, it would soon have rotted and fallen apart.
But since it fell into the sea, it was soaked through and
through with lime, and became as hard as a stone. You
know, of course, that we have found stones on the shore
which were nothing but petrified worms. Now I believe
that it went the same way with the big butterfly-body.
I believe that it turned where it lay into a long, narrow
mountain out in the East sea. Don’t you?”
He paused for a reply, and the other one nodded to
him. “Go on, so I may hear what you are driving at,”
said he.
“And mark you, Eric, that this very Oeland, upon
which you and I live, is nothing else than the old
butterfly-body. If one only thinks about it, one can observe
that the island is a butterfly. Toward the north,
the slender fore-body and the round head can be seen,
and toward the south, one sees the back-body—which
first broadens out, and then narrows to a sharp point.”
Here he paused once more and looked at his companion
rather anxiously to see how he would take this
assertion. But the young man kept on eating with the
utmost calm, and nodded to him to continue.
“As soon as the butterfly had been changed into a limestone
rock, many different kinds of seeds of herbs and
trees came travelling with the winds, and wanted to
take root on it. It was a long time before anything but
sedge could grow there. Then came sheep sorrel, and
the rock-rose and thorn-brush. But even to-day there
is not so much growth on Alvaret, that the mountain
is well covered, but it shines through here and there.
And no one can think of ploughing and sowing up here,
where the earth-crust is so thin. But if you will admit
that Alvaret and the strongholds around it, are
made of the butterfly-body, then you may well have
the right to question where that land which lies beneath
the strongholds came from.”
“Yes, it is just that,” said he who was eating. “That I
should indeed like to know.”
“Well, you must remember that Oeland has lain in the
sea for a good many years, and in the course of time all
the things which tumble around with the waves—seaweed
and sand and clams—have gathered around it,
and remained lying there. And then, stone and gravel
have fallen down from both the eastern and western
strongholds. In this way the island has acquired broad
shores, where grain and flowers and trees can grow.
“Up here, on the hard butterfly-back, only sheep and
cows and little horses go about. Only lapwings and
plover live here, and there are no buildings except
windmills and a few stone huts, where we shepherds
crawl in. But down on the coast lie big villages and
churches and parishes and fishing hamlets and a whole
city.”
He looked questioningly at the other one. This one had
finished his meal, and was tying the food-sack together.
“I wonder where you will end with all this,” said he.
“It is only this that I want to know,” said the shepherd,
as he lowered his voice so that he almost whispered the
words, and looked into the mist with his small eyes,
which appeared to be worn out from spying after all
that which does not exist. “Only this I want to know:
if the peasants who live on the built-up farms beneath
the strongholds, or the fishermen who take the small
herring from the sea, or the merchants in Borgholm,
or the bathing guests who come here every summer,
or the tourists who wander around in Borgholm’s old
castle ruin, or the sportsmen who come here in the
fall to hunt partridges, or the painters who sit here on
Alvaret and paint the sheep and windmills—I should
like to know if any of them understand that this island
has been a butterfly which flew about with great
shimmery wings.”
“Ah!” said the young shepherd, suddenly. “It should
have occurred to some of them, as they sat on the
edge of the stronghold of an evening, and heard the
nightingales trill in the groves below them, and looked
over Kalmar Sound, that this island could not have
come into existence in the same way as the others.”
“I want to ask,” said the old one, “if no one has had
the desire to give wings to the windmills—so large that
they could reach to heaven, so large that they could
lift the whole island out of the sea and let it fly like a
butterfly among butterflies.”
“It may be possible that there is something in what
you say,” said the young one; “for on summer nights,
when the heavens widen and open over the island, I
have sometimes thought that it was as if it wanted to
raise itself from the sea, and fly away.”
But when the old one had finally gotten the young one
to talk, he didn’t listen to him very much. “I would
like to know,” the old one said in a low tone, “if anyone
can explain why one feels such a longing up here on
Alvaret. I have felt it every day of my life; and I think
it preys upon each and every one who must go about
here. I want to know if no one else has understood
that all this wistfulness is caused by the fact that the
whole island is a butterfly that longs for its wings.”
Chapter 19
LITTLE KARL’S
ISLAND
THE STORM
Friday, April eighth.
The wild geese had spent the night on Oeland’s northern
point, and were now on their way to the continent.
A strong south wind blew over Kalmar Sound, and
they had been thrown northward. Still they worked
their way toward land with good speed. But when
they were nearing the first islands a powerful rumbling
was heard, as if a lot of strong-winged birds had come
flying; and the water under them, all at once, became
perfectly black. Akka drew in her wings so suddenly
that she almost stood still in the air. Thereupon, she
lowered herself to light on the edge of the sea. But before
the geese had reached the water, the west storm
caught up with them. Already, it drove before it fogs,
salt scum and small birds; it also snatched with it the
wild geese, threw them on end, and cast them toward
the sea.
It was a rough storm. The wild geese tried to turn
back, time and again, but they couldn’t do it and
were driven out toward the East sea. The storm had
already blown them past Oeland, and the sea lay before
them—empty and desolate. There was nothing
for them to do but to keep out of the water.
When Akka observed that they were unable to turn
back she thought that it was needless to let the storm
drive them over the entire East sea. Therefore she
sank down to the water. Now the sea was raging,
and increased in violence with every second. The seagreen
billows rolled forward, with seething foam on
their crests. Each one surged higher than the other.
It was as though they raced with each other, to see
which could foam the wildest. But the wild geese were
not afraid of the swells. On the contrary, this seemed
to afford them much pleasure. They did not strain
themselves with swimming, but lay and let themselves
be washed up with the wave-crests, and down in the
water-dales, and had just as much fun as children in
a swing. Their only anxiety was that the flock should
be separated. The few land-birds who drove by, up in
the storm, cried with envy: “There is no danger for
you who can swim.”
But the wild geese were certainly not out of all danger.
In the first place, the rocking made them helplessly
sleepy. They wished continually to turn their heads
backward, poke their bills under their wings, and go
to sleep. Nothing can be more dangerous than to fall
asleep in this way; and Akka called out all the while:
“Don’t go to sleep, wild geese! He that falls asleep will
get away from the flock. He that gets away from the
flock is lost.”
Despite all attempts at resistance one after another
fell asleep; and Akka herself came pretty near dozing
off, when she suddenly saw something round and dark
rise on the top of a wave. “Seals! Seals! Seals!” cried
Akka in a high, shrill voice, and raised herself up in
the air with resounding wing-strokes. It was just at the
crucial moment. Before the last wild goose had time
to come up from the water, the seals were so close to
her that they made a grab for her feet.
Then the wild geese were once more up in the storm
which drove them before it out to sea. No rest did it
allow either itself or the wild geese; and no land did
they see—only desolate sea.
They lit on the water again, as soon as they dared
venture. But when they had rocked upon the waves for
a while, they became sleepy again. And when they fell
asleep, the seals came swimming. If old Akka had not
been so wakeful, not one of them would have escaped.
All day the storm raged; and it caused fearful havoc
among the crowds of little birds, which at this time
of year were migrating. Some were driven from their
course to foreign lands, where they died of starvation;
others became so exhausted that they sank down in the
sea and were drowned. Many were crushed against the
cliff-walls, and many became a prey for the seals.
The storm continued all day, and, at last, Akka began
to wonder if she and her flock would perish. They
were now dead tired, and nowhere did they see any
place where they might rest. Toward evening she no
longer dared to lie down on the sea, because now it
filled up all of a sudden with large ice-cakes, which
struck against each other, and she feared they should
be crushed between these. A couple of times the wild
geese tried to stand on the ice-crust; but one time the
wild storm swept them into the water; another time,
the merciless seals came creeping up on the ice.
At sundown the wild geese were once more up in the
air. They flew on—fearful for the night. The darkness
seemed to come upon them much too quickly this
night—which was so full of dangers.
It was terrible that they, as yet, saw no land. How
would it go with them if they were forced to stay out
on the sea all night? They would either be crushed
between the ice-cakes or devoured by seals or separated
by the storm.
The heavens were cloud-bedecked, the moon hid itself,
and the darkness came quickly. At the same time all
nature was filled with a horror which caused the most
courageous hearts to quail. Distressed bird-travellers’
cries had sounded over the sea all day long, without
anyone having paid the slightest attention to them; but
now, when one no longer saw who it was that uttered
them, they seemed mournful and terrifying. Down on
the sea, the ice-drifts crashed against each other with
a loud rumbling noise. The seals tuned up their wild
hunting songs. It was as though heaven and earth
were, about to clash.
Chapter 20
THE SHEEP
The boy sat for a moment and looked down into the
sea. Suddenly he thought that it began to roar louder
than ever. He looked up. Right in front of him—only
a couple of metres away—stood a rugged and bare
mountain-wall. At its base the waves dashed into a
foaming spray. The wild geese flew straight toward
the cliff, and the boy did not see how they could avoid
being dashed to pieces against it. Hardly had he wondered
that Akka hadn’t seen the danger in time, when
they were over by the mountain. Then he also noticed
that in front of them was the half-round entrance to
a grotto. Into this the geese steered; and the next
moment they were safe.
The first thing the wild geese thought of—before they
gave themselves time to rejoice over their safety—was
to see if all their comrades were also harboured. Yes,
there were Akka, Iksi, Kolmi, Nelja, Viisi, Knusi, all
the six goslings, the goosey-gander, Dunfin and Thumbietot;
but Kaksi from Nuolja, the first left-hand goose,
was missing—and no one knew anything about her
fate.
When the wild geese discovered that no one but Kaksi
had been separated from the flock, they took the matter
lightly. Kaksi was old and wise. She knew all their
byways and their habits, and she, of course, would
know how to find her way back to them.
Then the wild geese began to look around in the cave.
Enough daylight came in through the opening, so that
they could see the grotto was both deep and wide.
They were delighted to think they had found such a
fine night harbour, when one of them caught sight of
some shining, green dots, which glittered in a dark
corner. “These are eyes!” cried Akka. “There are big
animals in here.” They rushed toward the opening,
but Thumbietot called to them: “There is nothing to
run away from! It’s only a few sheep who are lying
alongside the grotto wall.”
When the wild geese had accustomed themselves to
the dim daylight in the grotto, they saw the sheep
very distinctly. The grown-up ones might be about
as many as there were geese; but beside these there
were a few little lambs. An old ram with long, twisted
horns appeared to be the most lordly one of the flock.
The wild geese went up to him with much bowing and
scraping. “Well met in the wilderness!” they greeted,
but the big ram lay still, and did not speak a word of
welcome.
Then the wild geese thought that the sheep were displeased
because they had taken shelter in their grotto.
“It is perhaps not permissible that we have come in
here?” said Akka. “But we cannot help it, for we are
wind-driven. We have wandered about in the storm
all day, and it would be very good to be allowed to
stop here to-night.” After that a long time passed before
any of the sheep answered with words; but, on the
other hand, it could be heard distinctly that a pair of
them heaved deep sighs. Akka knew, to be sure, that
sheep are always shy and peculiar; but these seemed to
have no idea of how they should conduct themselves.
Finally an old ewe, who had a long and pathetic face
and a doleful voice, said: “There isn’t one among us
that refuses to let you stay; but this is a house of
mourning, and we cannot receive guests as we did in
former days.” “You needn’t worry about anything of
that sort,” said Akka. “If you knew what we have endured
this day, you would surely understand that we
are satisfied if we only get a safe spot to sleep on.”
When Akka said this, the old ewe raised herself. “I
believe that it would be better for you to fly about
in the worst storm than to stop here. But, at least,
you shall not go from here before we have had the
privilege of offering you the best hospitality which the
house affords.”
She conducted them to a hollow in the ground, which
was filled with water. Beside it lay a pile of bait and
husks and chaff; and she bade them make the most of
these. “We have had a severe snow-winter this year, on
the island,” she said. “The peasants who own us came
out to us with hay and oaten straw, so we shouldn’t
starve to death. And this trash is all there is left of
the good cheer.”
The geese rushed to the food instantly. They thought
that they had fared well, and were in their best humour.
They must have observed, of course, that the
sheep were anxious; but they knew how easily scared
sheep generally are, and didn’t believe there was any
actual danger on foot. As soon as they had eaten, they
intended to stand up to sleep as usual. But then the
big ram got up, and walked over to them. The geese
thought that they had never seen a sheep with such
big and coarse horns. In other respects, also, he was
noticeable. He had a high, rolling forehead, intelligent
eyes, and a good bearing—as though he were a proud
and courageous animal.
“I cannot assume the responsibility of letting you geese
remain, without telling you that it is unsafe here,” said
he. “We cannot receive night guests just now.” At last
Akka began to comprehend that this was serious. “We
shall go away, since you really wish it,” said she. “But
won’t you tell us first, what it is that troubles you? We
know nothing about it. We do not even know where we
are.” “This is Little Karl’s Island!” said the ram. “It
lies outside of Gottland, and only sheep and seabirds
live here.” “Perhaps you are wild sheep?” said Akka.
“We’re not far removed from it,” replied the ram. “We
have nothing to do with human beings. It’s an old
agreement between us and some peasants on a farm
in Gottland, that they shall supply us with fodder in
case we have snow-winter; and as a recompense they
are permitted to take away those of us who become
superfluous. The island is small, so it cannot feed very
many of us. But otherwise we take care of ourselves
all the year round, and we do not live in houses with
doors and locks, but we reside in grottoes like these.”
“Do you stay out here in the winter as well?” asked
Akka, surprised. “We do,” answered the ram. “We
have good fodder up here on the mountain, all the
year around.” “I think it sounds as if you might have
it better than other sheep,” said Akka. “But what is
the misfortune that has befallen you?” “It was bitter
cold last winter. The sea froze, and then three foxes
came over here on the ice, and here they have been
ever since. Otherwise, there are no dangerous animals
here on the island.” “Oh, oh! do foxes dare to attack
such as you?” “Oh, no! not during the day; then I
can protect myself and mine,” said the ram, shaking
his horns. “But they sneak upon us at night when we
sleep in the grottoes. We try to keep awake, but one
must sleep some of the time; and then they come upon
us. They have already killed every sheep in the other
grottoes, and there were herds that were just as large
as mine.”
“It isn’t pleasant to tell that we are so helpless,” said
the old ewe. “We cannot help ourselves any better than
if we were tame sheep.” “Do you think that they will
come here to-night?” asked Akka. “There is nothing
else in store for us,” answered the old ewe. “They were
here last night, and stole a lamb from us. They’ll
be sure to come again, as long as there are any of us
alive. This is what they have done in the other places.”
“But if they are allowed to keep this up, you’ll become
entirely exterminated,” said Akka. “Oh! it won’t be
long before it is all over with the sheep on Little Karl’s
Island,” said the ewe.
Akka stood there hesitatingly. It was not pleasant, by
any means, to venture out in the storm again, and it
wasn’t good to remain in a house where such guests
were expected. When she had pondered a while, she
turned to Thumbietot. “I wonder if you will help us,
as you have done so many times before,” said she. Yes,
that he would like to do, he replied. “It is a pity for
you not to get any sleep!” said the wild goose, “but I
wonder if you are able to keep awake until the foxes
come, and then to awaken us, so we may fly away.” The
boy was so very glad of this—for anything was better
than to go out in the storm again—so he promised
to keep awake. He went down to the grotto opening,
crawled in behind a stone, that he might be shielded
from the storm, and sat down to watch.
When the boy had been sitting there a while, the storm
seemed to abate. The sky grew clear, and the moonlight
began to play on the waves. The boy stepped to
the opening to look out. The grotto was rather high
up on the mountain. A narrow path led to it. It was
probably here that he must await the foxes.
As yet he saw no foxes; but, on the other hand, there
was something which, for the moment, terrified him
much more. On the land-strip below the mountain
stood some giants, or other stone-trolls—or perhaps
they were actual human beings. At first he thought
that he was dreaming, but now he was positive that he
had not fallen asleep. He saw the big men so distinctly
that it couldn’t be an illusion. Some of them stood on
the land-strip, and others right on the mountain just
as if they intended to climb it. Some had big, thick
heads; others had no heads at all. Some were onearmed,
and some had humps both before and behind.
He had never seen anything so extraordinary.
The boy stood and worked himself into a state of panic
because of those trolls, so that he almost forgot to keep
his eye peeled for the foxes. But now he heard a claw
scrape against a stone. He saw three foxes coming
up the steep; and as soon as he knew that he had
something real to deal with, he was calm again, and
not the least bit scared. It struck him that it was a
pity to awaken only the geese, and to leave the sheep to
their fate. He thought he would like to arrange things
some other way.
He ran quickly to the other end of the grotto, shook
the big ram’s horns until he awoke, and, at the same
time, swung himself upon his back. “Get up, sheep,
and well try to frighten the foxes a bit!” said the boy.
He had tried to be as quiet as possible, but the foxes
must have heard some noise; for when they came up to
the mouth of the grotto they stopped and deliberated.
“It was certainly someone in there that moved,” said
one. “I wonder if they are awake.” “Oh, go ahead, you!”
said another. “At all events, they can’t do anything to
us.”
When they came farther in, in the grotto, they stopped
and sniffed. “Who shall we take to-night?” whispered
the one who went first. “To-night we will take the big
ram,” said the last. “After that, we’ll have easy work
with the rest.”
The boy sat on the old ram’s back and saw how they
sneaked along. “Now butt straight forward!” whispered
the boy. The ram butted, and the first fox was
thrust—top over tail—back to the opening. “Now butt
to the left!” said the boy, and turned the big ram’s
head in that direction. The ram measured a terrific
assault that caught the second fox in the side. He
rolled around several times before he got to his feet
again and made his escape. The boy had wished that
the third one, too, might have gotten a bump, but this
one had already gone.
“Now I think that they’ve had enough for to-night,”
said the boy. “I think so too,” said the big ram. “Now
lie down on my back, and creep into the wool! You
deserve to have it warm and comfortable, after all the
wind and storm that you have been out in.”
Chapter 21
HELL’S HOLE
The next day the big ram went around with the boy
on his back, and showed him the island. It consisted
of a single massive mountain. It was like a large house
with perpendicular walls and a flat roof. First the ram
walked up on the mountain-roof and showed the boy
the good grazing lands there, and he had to admit that
the island seemed to be especially created for sheep.
There wasn’t much else than sheep-sorrel and such little
spicy growths as sheep are fond of that grew on the
mountain.
But indeed there was something beside sheep fodder
to look at, for one who had gotten well up on the
steep. To begin with, the largest part of the sea—
which now lay blue and sunlit, and rolled forward in
glittering swells—was visible. Only upon one and another
point, did the foam spray up. To the east lay
Gottland, with even and long-stretched coast; and to
the southwest lay Great Karl’s Island, which was built
on the same plan as the little island. When the ram
walked to the very edge of the mountain roof, so the
boy could look down the mountain walls, he noticed
that they were simply filled with birds’ nests; and in
the blue sea beneath him, lay surf-scoters and eiderducks
and kittiwakes and guillemots and razor-bills—
so pretty and peaceful—busying themselves with fishing
for small herring.
“This is really a favoured land,” said the boy. “You
live in a pretty place, you sheep.” “Oh, yes! it’s pretty
enough here,” said the big ram. It was as if he wished
to add something; but he did not, only sighed. “If you
go about here alone you must look out for the crevices
which run all around the mountain,” he continued after
a little. And this was a good warning, for there were
deep and broad crevices in several places. The largest
of them was called Hell’s Hole. That crevice was many
fathoms deep and nearly one fathom wide. “If anyone
fell down there, it would certainly be the last of him,”
said the big ram. The boy thought it sounded as if he
had a special meaning in what he said.
Then he conducted the boy down to the narrow strip
of shore. Now he could see those giants which had
frightened him the night before, at close range. They
were nothing but tall rock-pillars. The big ram called
them “cliffs.” The boy couldn’t see enough of them.
He thought that if there had ever been any trolls who
had turned into stone they ought to look just like that.
Although it was pretty down on the shore, the boy
liked it still better on the mountain height. It was
ghastly down here; for everywhere they came across
dead sheep. It was here that the foxes had held their
orgies. He saw skeletons whose flesh had been eaten,
and bodies that were half-eaten, and others which they
had scarcely tasted, but had allowed to lie untouched.
It was heart-rending to see how the wild beasts had
thrown themselves upon the sheep just for sport—just
to hunt them and tear them to death.
The big ram did not pause in front of the dead, but
walked by them in silence. But the boy, meanwhile,
could not help seeing all the horror.
Then the big ram went up on the mountain height
again; but when he was there he stopped and said: “If
someone who is capable and wise could see all the misery
which prevails here, he surely would not be able
to rest until these foxes had been punished.” “The
foxes must live, too,” said the boy. “Yes,” said the big
ram, “those who do not tear in pieces more animals
than they need for their sustenance, they may as well
live. But these are felons.” “The peasants who own
the island ought to come here and help you,” insisted
the boy. “They have rowed over a number of times,”
replied the ram, “but the foxes always hid themselves
in the grottoes and crevices, so they could not get near
them, to shoot them.” “You surely cannot mean, father,
that a poor little creature like me should be able
to get at them, when neither you nor the peasants have
succeeded in getting the better of them.” “He that is
little and spry can put many things to rights,” said the
big ram.
They talked no more about this, and the boy went over
and seated himself among the wild geese who fed on
the highland. Although he had not cared to show his
feelings before the ram, he was very sad on the sheep’s
account, and he would have been glad to help them. “I
can at least talk with Akka and Morten goosey-gander
about the matter,” thought he. “Perhaps they can help
me with a good suggestion.”
A little later the white goosey-gander took the boy on
his back and went over the mountain plain, and in the
direction of Hell’s Hole at that.
He wandered, care-free, on the open mountain roof—
apparently unconscious of how large and white he was.
He didn’t seek protection behind tufts, or any other
protuberances, but went straight ahead. It was strange
that he was not more careful, for it was apparent that
he had fared badly in yesterday’s storm. He limped on
his right leg, and the left wing hung and dragged as if
it might be broken.
He acted as if there were no danger, pecked at a grassblade
here and another there, and did not look about
him in any direction. The boy lay stretched out full
length on the goose-back, and looked up toward the
blue sky. He was so accustomed to riding now, that
he could both stand and lie down on the goose-back.
When the goosey-gander and the boy were so carefree,
they did not observe, of course, that the three
foxes had come up on the mountain plain.
And the foxes, who knew that it was well-nigh impossible
to take the life of a goose on an open plain,
thought at first that they wouldn’t chase after the
goosey-gander. But as they had nothing else to do,
they finally sneaked down on one of the long passes,
and tried to steal up to him. They went about it
so cautiously that the goosey-gander couldn’t see a
shadow of them.
They were not far off when the goosey-gander made
an attempt to raise himself into the air. He spread his
wings, but he did not succeed in lifting himself. When
the foxes seemed to grasp the fact that he couldn’t fly,
they hurried forward with greater eagerness than before.
They no longer concealed themselves in the cleft,
but came up on the highland. They hurried as fast as
they could, behind tufts and hollows, and came nearer
and nearer the goosey-gander—without his seeming to
notice that he was being hunted. At last the foxes were
so near that they could make the final leap. Simultaneously,
all three threw themselves with one long jump
at the goosey-gander.
But still at the last moment he must have noticed
something, for he ran out of the way, so the foxes
missed him. This, at any rate, didn’t mean very much,
for the goosey-gander only had a couple of metres
headway, and, in the bargain, he limped. Anyway,
the poor thing ran ahead as fast as he could.
The boy sat upon the goose-back—backward—and shrieked
and called to the foxes. “You have eaten yourselves too
fat on mutton, foxes. You can’t catch up with a goose
even.” He teased them so that they became crazed
with rage and thought only of rushing forward.
The white one ran right straight to the big cleft. When
he was there, he made one stroke with his wings, and
got over. Just then the foxes were almost upon him.
The goosey-gander hurried on with the same haste as
before, even after he had gotten across Hell’s Hole.
But he had hardly been running two metres before the
boy patted him on the neck, and said: “Now you can
stop, goosey-gander.”
At that instant they heard a number of wild howls
behind them, and a scraping of claws, and heavy falls.
But of the foxes they saw nothing more.
The next morning the lighthouse keeper on Great Karl’s
Island found a bit of bark poked under the entrancedoor,
and on it had been cut, in slanting, angular letters:
“The foxes on the little island have fallen down
into Hell’s Hole. Take care of them!”
And this the lighthouse keeper did, too.
Chapter 22
TWO CITIES
THE CITY AT THE BOTTOM
OF THE SEA
Saturday, April ninth.
It was a calm and clear night. The wild geese did
not trouble themselves to seek shelter in any of the
grottoes, but stood and slept upon the mountain top;
and the boy had lain down in the short, dry grass
beside the geese.
It was bright moonlight that night; so bright that it
was difficult for the boy to go to sleep. He lay there
and thought about just how long he had been away
from home; and he figured out that it was three weeks
since he had started on the trip. At the same time he
remembered that this was Easter-eve.
“It is to-night that all the witches come home from
Blakulla,” thought he, and laughed to himself. For he
was just a little afraid of both the sea-nymph and the
elf, but he didn’t believe in witches the least little bit.
If there had been any witches out that night, he should
have seen them, to be sure. It was so light in the
heavens that not the tiniest black speck could move in
the air without his seeing it.
While the boy lay there with his nose in the air and
thought about this, his eye rested on something lovely!
The moon’s disc was whole and round, and rather high,
and over it a big bird came flying. He did not fly past
the moon, but he moved just as though he might have
flown out from it. The bird looked black against the
light background, and the wings extended from one
rim of the disc to the other. He flew on, evenly, in
the same direction, and the boy thought that he was
painted on the moon’s disc. The body was small, the
neck long and slender, the legs hung down, long and
thin. It couldn’t be anything but a stork.
A couple of seconds later Herr Ermenrich, the stork,
lit beside the boy. He bent down and poked him with
his bill to awaken him.
Instantly the boy sat up. “I’m not asleep, Herr Ermenrich,”
he said. “How does it happen that you are out
in the middle of the night, and how is everything at
Glimminge castle? Do you want to speak with mother
Akka?”
“It’s too light to sleep to-night,” answered Herr Ermenrich.
“Therefore I concluded to travel over here to
Karl’s Island and hunt you up, friend Thumbietot. I
learned from the seamew that you were spending the
night here. I have not as yet moved over to Glimminge
castle, but am still living at Pommern.”
The boy was simply overjoyed to think that Herr Ermenrich
had sought him out. They chatted about all
sorts of things, like old friends. At last the stork asked
the boy if he wouldn’t like to go out riding for a while
on this beautiful night.
Oh, yes! that the boy wanted to do, if the stork would
manage it so that he got back to the wild geese before
sunrise. This he promised, so off they went.
Again Herr Ermenrich flew straight toward the moon.
They rose and rose; the sea sank deep down, but the
flight went so light and easy that it seemed almost as
if the boy lay still in the air.
When Herr Ermenrich began to descend, the boy thought
that the flight had lasted an unreasonably short time.
They landed on a desolate bit of seashore, which was
covered with fine, even sand. All along the coast ran a
row of flying-sand drifts, with lyme-grass on their tops.
They were not very high, but they prevented the boy
from seeing any of the island.
Herr Ermenrich stood on a sand-hill, drew up one leg
and bent his head backward, so he could stick his bill
under the wing. “You can roam around on the shore for
a while,” he said to Thumbietot, “while I rest myself.
But don’t go so far away but what you can find your
way back to me again!”
To start with, the boy intended to climb a sand-hill
and see how the land behind it looked. But when he
had walked a couple of paces, he stubbed the toe of
his wooden shoe against something hard. He stooped
down, and saw that a small copper coin lay on the
sand, and was so worn with verdigris that it was almost
transparent. It was so poor that he didn’t even bother
to pick it up, but only kicked it out of the way.
But when he straightened himself up once more he
was perfectly astounded, for two paces away from him
stood a high, dark wall with a big, turreted gate.
The moment before, when the boy bent down, the sea
lay there—shimmering and smooth, while now it was
hidden by a long wall with towers and battlements.
Directly in front of him, where before there had been
only a few sea-weed banks, the big gate of the wall
opened.
The boy probably understood that it was a spectreplay
of some sort; but this was nothing to be afraid
of, thought he. It wasn’t any dangerous trolls, or any
other evil—such as he always dreaded to encounter
at night. Both the wall and the gate were so beautifully
constructed that he only desired to see what there
might be back of them. “I must find out what this can
be,” thought he, and went in through the gate.
In the deep archway there were guards, dressed in brocaded
and purred suits, with long-handled spears beside
them, who sat and threw dice. They thought only
of the game, and took no notice of the boy who hurried
past them quickly.
Just within the gate he found an open space, paved
with large, even stone blocks. All around this were
high and magnificent buildings; and between these
opened long, narrow streets. On the square—facing
the gate—it fairly swarmed with human beings. The
men wore long, fur-trimmed capes over satin suits;
plume-bedecked hats sat obliquely on their heads; on
their chests hung superb chains. They were all so regally
gotten up that the whole lot of them might have
been kings.
The women went about in high head-dresses and long
robes with tight-fitting sleeves. They, too, were beautifully
dressed, but their splendour was not to be compared
with that of the men.
This was exactly like the old story-book which mother
took from the chest—only once—and showed to him.
The boy simply couldn’t believe his eyes.
But that which was even more wonderful to look upon
than either the men or the women, was the city itself.
Every house was built in such a way that a gable faced
the street. And the gables were so highly ornamented,
that one could believe they wished to compete with
each other as to which one could show the most beautiful
decorations.
When one suddenly sees so much that is new, he cannot
manage to treasure it all in his memory. But at
least the boy could recall that he had seen stairway
gables on the various landings, which bore images of
the Christ and his Apostles; gables, where there were
images in niche after niche all along the wall; gables
that were inlaid with multi-coloured bits of glass, and
gables that were striped and checked with white and
black marble. As the boy admired all this, a sudden
sense of haste came over him. “Anything like this my
eyes have never seen before. Anything like this, they
would never see again,” he said to himself. And he
began to run in toward the city—up one street, and
down another.
The streets were straight and narrow, but not empty
and gloomy, as they were in the cities with which he
was familiar. There were people everywhere. Old
women sat by their open doors and spun without a
spinning-wheel—only with the help of a shuttle. The
merchants’ shops were like market-stalls—opening on
the street. All the hand-workers did their work out
of doors. In one place they were boiling crude oil;
in another tanning hides; in a third there was a long
rope-walk.
If only the boy had had time enough he could have
learned how to make all sorts of things. Here he saw
how armourers hammered out thin breast-plates; how
turners tended their irons; how the shoemakers soled
soft, red shoes; how the gold-wire drawers twisted gold
thread, and how the weavers inserted silver and gold
into their weaving.
But the boy did not have the time to stay. He just
rushed on, so that he could manage to see as much as
possible before it would all vanish again.
The high wall ran all around the city and shut it in, as
a hedge shuts in a field. He saw it at the end of every
street—gable-ornamented and crenelated. On the top
of the wall walked warriors in shining armour; and
when he had run from one end of the city to the other,
he came to still another gate in the wall. Outside of
this lay the sea and harbour. The boy saw oldentime
ships, with rowing-benches straight across, and
high structures fore and aft. Some lay and took on
cargo, others were just casting anchor. Carriers and
merchants hurried around each other. All over, it was
life and bustle.
But not even here did he seem to have the time to
linger. He rushed into the city again; and now he came
up to the big square. There stood the cathedral with
its three high towers and deep vaulted arches filled
with images. The walls had been so highly decorated
by sculptors that there was not a stone without its
own special ornamentation. And what a magnificent
display of gilded crosses and gold-trimmed altars and
priests in golden vestments, shimmered through the
open gate! Directly opposite the church there was a
house with a notched roof and a single slender, skyhigh
tower. That was probably the courthouse. And
between the courthouse and the cathedral, all around
the square, stood the beautiful gabled houses with
their multiplicity of adornments.
The boy had run himself both warm and tired. He
thought that now he had seen the most remarkable
things, and therefore he began to walk more leisurely.
The street which he had turned into now was surely the
one where the inhabitants purchased their fine clothing.
He saw crowds of people standing before the little
stalls where the merchants spread brocades, stiff
satins, heavy gold cloth, shimmery velvet, delicate veiling,
and laces as sheer as a spider’s web.
Before, when the boy ran so fast, no one had paid
any attention to him. The people must have thought
that it was only a little gray rat that darted by them.
But now, when he walked down the street, very slowly,
one of the salesmen caught sight of him, and began to
beckon to him.
At first the boy was uneasy and wanted to hurry out of
the way, but the salesman only beckoned and smiled,
and spread out on the counter a lovely piece of satin
damask as if he wanted to tempt him.
The boy shook his head. “I will never be so rich that
I can buy even a metre of that cloth,” thought he.
But now they had caught sight of him in every stall, all
along the street. Wherever he looked stood a salesman
and beckoned to him. They left their costly wares, and
thought only of him. He saw how they hurried into the
most hidden corner of the stall to fetch the best that
they had to sell, and how their hands trembled with
eagerness and haste as they laid it upon the counter.
When the boy continued to go on, one of the merchants
jumped over the counter, caught hold of him, and
spread before him silver cloth and woven tapestries,
which shone with brilliant colours.
The boy couldn’t do anything but laugh at him. The
salesman certainly must understand that a poor little
creature like him couldn’t buy such things. He
stood still and held out his two empty hands, so they
would understand that he had nothing and let him go
in peace.
But the merchant raised a finger and nodded and pushed
the whole pile of beautiful things over to him.
“Can he mean that he will sell all this for a gold piece?”
wondered the boy.
The merchant brought out a tiny worn and poor coin—
the smallest that one could see—and showed it to him.
And he was so eager to sell that he increased his pile
with a pair of large, heavy, silver goblets.
Then the boy began to dig down in his pockets. He
knew, of course, that he didn’t possess a single coin,
but he couldn’t help feeling for it.
All the other merchants stood still and tried to see
how the sale would come off, and when they observed
that the boy began to search in his pockets, they flung
themselves over the counters, filled their hands full of
gold and silver ornaments, and offered them to him.
And they all showed him that what they asked in payment
was just one little penny.
But the boy turned both vest and breeches pockets
inside out, so they should see that he owned nothing.
Then tears filled the eyes of all these regal merchants,
who were so much richer than he. At last he was moved
because they looked so distressed, and he pondered if
he could not in some way help them. And then he
happened to think of the rusty coin, which he had but
lately seen on the strand.
He started to run down the street, and luck was with
him so that he came to the self-same gate which he
had happened upon first. He dashed through it, and
commenced to search for the little green copper penny
which lay on the strand a while ago.
He found it too, very promptly; but when he had
picked it up, and wanted to run back to the city with
it—he saw only the sea before him. No city wall, no
gate, no sentinels, no streets, no houses could now be
seen—only the sea.
The boy couldn’t help that the tears came to his eyes.
He had believed in the beginning, that that which he
saw was nothing but an hallucination, but this he had
already forgotten. He only thought about how pretty
everything was. He felt a genuine, deep sorrow because
the city had vanished.
That moment Herr Ermenrich awoke, and came up
to him. But he didn’t hear him, and the stork had
to poke the boy with his bill to attract attention to
himself. “I believe that you stand here and sleep just
as I do,” said Herr Ermenrich.
“Oh, Herr Ermenrich!” said the boy. “What was that
city which stood here just now?”
“Have you seen a city?” said the stork. “You have slept
and dreamt, as I say.”
“No! I have not dreamt,” said Thumbietot, and he told
the stork all that he had experienced.
Then Herr Ermenrich said: “For my part, Thumbietot,
I believe that you fell asleep here on the strand and
dreamed all this.
“But I will not conceal from you that Bataki, the raven,
who is the most learned of all birds, once told me that
in former times there was a city on this shore, called
Vineta. It was so rich and so fortunate, that no city
has ever been more glorious; but its inhabitants, unluckily,
gave themselves up to arrogance and love of
display. As a punishment for this, says Bataki, the
city of Vineta was overtaken by a flood, and sank into
the sea. But its inhabitants cannot die, neither is their
city destroyed. And one night in every hundred years,
it rises in all its splendour up from the sea, and remains
on the surface just one hour.”
“Yes, it must be so,” said Thumbietot, “for this I have
seen.”
“But when the hour is up, it sinks again into the sea,
if, during that time, no merchant in Vineta has sold
anything to a single living creature. If you, Thumbietot,
only had had an ever so tiny coin, to pay the
merchants, Vineta might have remained up here on
the shore; and its people could have lived and died
like other human beings.”
“Herr Ermenrich,” said the boy, “now I understand why
you came and fetched me in the middle of the night.
It was because you believed that I should be able to
save the old city. I am so sorry it didn’t turn out as
you wished, Herr Ermenrich.”
He covered his face with his hands and wept. It wasn’t
easy to say which one looked the more disconsolate—
the boy, or Herr Ermenrich.
Chapter 23
THE LIVING CITY
Monday, April eleventh.
On the afternoon of Easter Monday, the wild geese
and Thumbietot were on the wing. They travelled over
Gottland.
The large island lay smooth and even beneath them.
The ground was checked just as it was in Skane and
there were many churches and farms. But there was
this difference, however, that there were more leafy
meadows between the fields here, and then the farms
were not built up with small houses. And there were no
large manors with ancient tower-ornamented castles.
The wild geese had taken the route over Gottland on
account of Thumbietot. He had been altogether unlike
himself for two days, and hadn’t spoken a cheerful
word. This was because he had thought of nothing but
that city which had appeared to him in such a strange
way. He had never seen anything so magnificent and
royal, and he could not be reconciled with himself for
having failed to save it. Usually he was not chickenhearted,
but now he actually grieved for the beautiful
buildings and the stately people.
Both Akka and the goosey-gander tried to convince
Thumbietot that he had been the victim of a dream,
or an hallucination, but the boy wouldn’t listen to anything
of that sort. He was so positive that he had really
seen what he had seen, that no one could move
him from this conviction. He went about so disconsolate
that his travelling companions became uneasy for
him.
Just as the boy was the most depressed, old Kaksi
came back to the flock. She had been blown toward
Gottland, and had been compelled to travel over the
whole island before she had learned through some crows
that her comrades were on Little Karl’s Island. When
Kaksi found out what was wrong with Thumbietot,
she said impulsively:
“If Thumbietot is grieving over an old city, we’ll soon
be able to comfort him. Just come along, and I’ll take
you to a place that I saw yesterday! You will not need
to be distressed very long.”
Thereupon the geese had taken farewell of the sheep,
and were on their way to the place which Kaksi wished
to show Thumbietot. As blue as he was, he couldn’t
keep from looking at the land over which he travelled,
as usual.
He thought it looked as though the whole island had in
the beginning been just such a high, steep cliff as Karl’s
Island—though much bigger of course. But afterward,
it had in some way been flattened out. Someone had
taken a big rolling-pin and rolled over it, as if it had
been a lump of dough. Not that the island had become
altogether flat and even, like a bread-cake, for it wasn’t
like that. While they had travelled along the coast, he
had seen white lime walls with grottoes and crags, in
several directions; but in most of the places they were
levelled, and sank inconspicuously down toward the
sea.
In Gottland they had a pleasant and peaceful holiday
afternoon. It turned out to be mild spring weather;
the trees had large buds; spring blossoms dressed the
ground in the leafy meadows; the poplars’ long, thin
pendants swayed; and in the little gardens, which one
finds around every cottage, the gooseberry bushes were
green.
The warmth and the spring-budding had tempted the
people out into the gardens and roads, and wherever
a number of them were gathered together they were
playing. It was not the children alone who played, but
the grown-ups also. They were throwing stones at a
given point, and they threw balls in the air with such
exact aim that they almost touched the wild geese. It
looked cheerful and pleasant to see big folks at play;
and the boy certainly would have enjoyed it, if he had
been able to forget his grief because he had failed to
save the city.
Anyway, he had to admit that this was a lovely trip.
There was so much singing and sound in the air. Little
children played ring games, and sang as they played.
The Salvation Army was out. He saw a lot of people
dressed in black and red—sitting upon a wooded hill,
playing on guitars and brass instruments. On one road
came a great crowd of people. They were Good Templars
who had been on a pleasure trip. He recognized
them by the big banners with the gold inscriptions
which waved above them. They sang song after song
as long as he could hear them.
After that the boy could never think of Gottland without
thinking of the games and songs at the same time.
He had been sitting and looking down for a long while;
but now he happened to raise his eyes. No one can
describe his amazement. Before he was aware of it,
the wild geese had left the interior of the island and
gone westward—toward the sea-coast. Now the wide,
blue sea lay before him. However, it was not the sea
that was remarkable, but a city which appeared on the
sea-shore.
The boy came from the east, and the sun had just begun
to go down in the west. When he came nearer the
city, its walls and towers and high, gabled houses and
churches stood there, perfectly black, against the light
evening sky. He couldn’t see therefore what it really
looked like, and for a couple of moments he believed
that this city was just as beautiful as the one he had
seen on Easter night.
When he got right up to it, he saw that it was both
like and unlike that city from the bottom of the sea.
There was the same contrast between them, as there
is between a man whom one sees arrayed in purple
and jewels one day, and on another day one sees him
dressed in rags.
Yes, this city had probably, once upon a time, been
like the one which he sat and thought about. This
one, also, was enclosed by a wall with towers and gates.
But the towers in this city, which had been allowed to
remain on land, were roofless, hollow and empty. The
gates were without doors; sentinels and warriors had
disappeared. All the glittering splendour was gone.
There was nothing left but the naked, gray stone skeleton.
When the boy came farther into the city, he saw that
the larger part of it was made up of small, low houses;
but here and there were still a few high gabled houses
and a few cathedrals, which were from the olden time.
The walls of the gabled houses were whitewashed, and
entirely without ornamentation; but because the boy
had so lately seen the buried city, he seemed to understand
how they had been decorated: some with statues,
and others with black and white marble. And it
was the same with the old cathedrals; the majority of
them were roofless with bare interiors. The window
openings were empty, the floors were grass-grown, and
ivy clambered along the walls. But now he knew how
they had looked at one time; that they had been covered
with images and paintings; that the chancel had
had trimmed altars and gilded crosses, and that their
priests had moved about, arrayed in gold vestments.
The boy saw also the narrow streets, which were almost
deserted on holiday afternoons. He knew, he did,
what a stream of stately people had once upon a time
sauntered about on them. He knew that they had been
like large workshops—filled with all sorts of workmen.
But that which Nils Holgersson did not see was, that
the city—even to-day—was both beautiful and remarkable.
He saw neither the cheery cottages on the side
streets, with their black walls, and white bows and red
pelargoniums behind the shining window-panes, nor
the many pretty gardens and avenues, nor the beauty
in the weed-clad ruins. His eyes were so filled with the
preceding glory, that he could not see anything good
in the present.
The wild geese flew back and forth over the city a couple
of times, so that Thumbietot might see everything.
Finally they sank down on the grass-grown floor of a
cathedral ruin to spend the night.
When they had arranged themselves for sleep, Thumbietot
was still awake and looked up through the open
arches, to the pale pink evening sky. When he had
been sitting there a while, he thought he didn’t want
to grieve any more because he couldn’t save the buried
city.
No, that he didn’t want to do, now that he had seen
this one. If that city, which he had seen, had not sunk
into the sea again, then it would perhaps become as dilapidated
as this one in a little while. Perhaps it could
not have withstood time and decay, but would have
stood there with roofless churches and bare houses and
desolate, empty streets—just like this one. Then it was
better that it should remain in all its glory down in the
deep.
“It was best that it happened as it happened,” thought
he. “If I had the power to save the city, I don’t believe
that I should care to do it.” Then he no longer grieved
over that matter.
And there are probably many among the young who
think in the same way. But when people are old, and
have become accustomed to being satisfied with little,
then they are more happy over the Visby that exists,
than over a magnificent Vineta at the bottom of the
sea.
Chapter 24
THE LEGEND OF
SMALAND
Tuesday, April twelfth.
The wild geese had made a good trip over the sea,
and had lighted in Tjust Township, in northern Smaland.
That township didn’t seem able to make up its
mind whether it wanted to be land or sea. Fiords ran
in everywhere, and cut the land up into islands and
peninsulas and points and capes. The sea was so forceful
that the only things which could hold themselves
above it were hills and mountains. All the lowlands
were hidden away under the water exterior.
It was evening when the wild geese came in from the
sea; and the land with the little hills lay prettily between
the shimmering fiords. Here and there, on the
islands, the boy saw cabins and cottages; and the farther
inland he came, the bigger and better became the
dwelling houses. Finally, they grew into large, white
manors. Along the shores there was generally a border
of trees; and within this lay field-plots, and on the
tops of the little hills there were trees again. He could
not help but think of Blekinge. Here again was a place
where land and sea met, in such a pretty and peaceful
sort of way, just as if they tried to show each other the
best and loveliest which they possessed.
The wild geese alighted upon a limestone island a good
way in on Goose-fiord. With the first glance at the
shore they observed that spring had made rapid strides
while they had been away on the islands. The big, fine
trees were not as yet leaf-clad, but the ground under
them was brocaded with white anemones, gagea, and
blue anemones.
When the wild geese saw the flower-carpet they feared
that they had lingered too long in the southern part
of the country. Akka said instantly that there was no
time in which to hunt up any of the stopping places
in Smaland. By the next morning they must travel
northward, over Oestergoetland.
The boy should then see nothing of Smaland, and this
grieved him. He had heard more about Smaland than
he had about any other province, and he had longed
to see it with his own eyes.
The summer before, when he had served as goose-boy
with a farmer in the neighbourhood of Jordberga, he
had met a pair of Smaland children, almost every day,
who also tended geese. These children had irritated
him terribly with their Smaland.
It wasn’t fair to say that Osa, the goose-girl, had annoyed
him. She was much too wise for that. But the
one who could be aggravating with a vengeance was
her brother, little Mats.
“Have you heard, Nils Goose-boy, how it went when
Smaland and Skane were created?” he would ask, and
if Nils Holgersson said no, he began immediately to
relate the old joke-legend.
“Well, it was at that time when our Lord was creating
the world. While he was doing his best work, Saint
Peter came walking by. He stopped and looked on,
and then he asked if it was hard to do. ’Well, it isn’t
exactly easy,’ said our Lord. Saint Peter stood there a
little longer, and when he noticed how easy it was to
lay out one landscape after another, he too wanted to
try his hand at it. ’Perhaps you need to rest yourself
a little,’ said Saint Peter, ’I could attend to the work
in the meantime for you.’ But this our Lord did not
wish. ’I do not know if you are so much at home in this
art that I can trust you to take hold where I leave off,’
he answered. Then Saint Peter was angry, and said
that he believed he could create just as fine countries
as our Lord himself.
“It happened that our Lord was just then creating
Smaland. It wasn’t even half-ready but it looked as
though it would be an indescribably pretty and fertile
land. It was difficult for our Lord to say no to Saint
Peter, and aside from this, he thought very likely that
a thing so well begun no one could spoil. Therefore
he said: If you like, we will prove which one of us two
understands this sort of work the better. You, who
are only a novice, shall go on with this which I have
begun, and I will create a new land.’ To this Saint
Peter agreed at once; and so they went to work—each
one in his place.
“Our Lord moved southward a bit, and there he undertook
to create Skane. It wasn’t long before he was
through with it, and soon he asked if Saint Peter had
finished, and would come and look at his work. ’I had
mine ready long ago,’ said Saint Peter; and from the
sound of his voice it could be heard how pleased he
was with what he had accomplished.
“When Saint Peter saw Skane, he had to acknowledge
that there was nothing but good to be said of that land.
It was a fertile land and easy to cultivate, with wide
plains wherever one looked, and hardly a sign of hills.
It was evident that our Lord had really contemplated
making it such that people should feel at home there.
’Yes, this is a good country,’ said Saint Peter, ‘but I
think that mine is better.’ ’Then we’ll take a look at
it,’ said our Lord.
“The land was already finished in the north and east
when Saint Peter began the work, but the southern
and western parts; and the whole interior, he had created
all by himself. Now when our Lord came up there,
where Saint Peter had been at work, he was so horrified
that he stopped short and exclaimed: ’What on
earth have you been doing with this land, Saint Peter?’
“Saint Peter, too, stood and looked around—perfectly
astonished. He had had the idea that nothing could be
so good for a land as a great deal of warmth. Therefore
he had gathered together an enormous mass of stones
and mountains, and erected a highland, and this he
had done so that it should be near the sun, and receive
much help from the sun’s heat. Over the stone-heaps
he had spread a thin layer of soil, and then he had
thought that everything was well arranged.
“But while he was down in Skane, a couple of heavy
showers had come up, and more was not needed to
show what his work amounted to. When our Lord
came to inspect the land, all the soil had been washed
away, and the naked mountain foundation shone forth
all over. Where it was about the best, lay clay and
heavy gravel over the rocks, but it looked so poor that
it was easy to understand that hardly anything except
spruce and juniper and moss and heather could grow
there. But what there was plenty of was water. It had
filled up all the clefts in the mountain; and lakes and
rivers and brooks; these one saw everywhere, to say
nothing of swamps and morasses, which spread over
large tracts. And the most exasperating thing of all
was, that while some tracts had too much water, it
was so scarce in others, that whole fields lay like dry
moors, where sand and earth whirled up in clouds with
the least little breeze.
“‘What can have been your meaning in creating such a
land as this?’ said our Lord. Saint Peter made excuses,
and declared he had wished to build up a land so high
that it should have plenty of warmth from the sun.
‘But then you will also get much of the night chill,’ said
our Lord, ’for that too comes from heaven. I am very
much afraid the little that can grow here will freeze.’
“This, to be sure, Saint Peter hadn’t thought about.
“‘Yes, here it will be a poor and frost-bound land,’ said
our Lord, ’it can’t be helped.” ’
When little Mats had gotten this far in his story, Osa,
the goose-girl, protested: “I cannot bear, little Mats, to
hear you say that it is so miserable in Smaland,” said
she. “You forget entirely how much good soil there is
there. Only think of Moere district, by Kalmar Sound!
I wonder where you’ll find a richer grain region. There
are fields upon fields, just like here in Skane. The soil is
so good that I cannot imagine anything that couldn’t
grow there.”
“I can’t help that,” said little Mats. “I’m only relating
what others have said before.”
“And I have heard many say that there is not a more
beautiful coast land than Tjust. Think of the bays
and islets, and the manors, and the groves!” said
Osa. “Yes, that’s true enough,” little Mats admitted.
“And don’t you remember,” continued Osa, “the school
teacher said that such a lively and picturesque district
as that bit of Smaland which lies south of Lake Vettern
is not to be found in all Sweden? Think of the beautiful
sea and the yellow coast-mountains, and of Grenna
and Joenkoeping, with its match factory, and think
of Huskvarna, and all the big establishments there!”
“Yes, that’s true enough,” said little Mats once again.
“And think of Visingsoe, little Mats, with the ruins
and the oak forests and the legends! Think of the
valley through which Eman flows, with all the villages
and flour-mills and sawmills, and the carpenter shops!”
“Yes, that is true enough,” said little Mats, and looked
troubled.
All of a sudden he had looked up. “Now we are pretty
stupid,” said he. “All this, of course, lies in our Lord’s
Smaland, in that part of the land which was already
finished when Saint Peter undertook the job. It’s only
natural that it should be pretty and fine there. But
in Saint Peter’s Smaland it looks as it says in the legend.
And it wasn’t surprising that our Lord was distressed
when he saw it,” continued little Mats, as he
took up the thread of his story again. “Saint Peter
didn’t lose his courage, at all events, but tried to comfort
our Lord. ‘Don’t be so grieved over this!’ said he.
’Only wait until I have created people who can till the
swamps and break up fields from the stone hills.’
“That was the end of our Lord’s patience—and he said:
’No! you can go down to Skane and make the Skaninge,
but the Smalander I will create myself.’ And so our
Lord created the Smalander, and made him quickwitted
and contented and happy and thrifty and enterprising
and capable, that he might be able to get
his livelihood in his poor country.”
Then little Mats was silent; and if Nils Holgersson had
also kept still, all would have gone well; but he couldn’t
possibly refrain from asking how Saint Peter had succeeded
in creating the Skaninge.
“Well, what do you think yourself?” said little Mats,
and looked so scornful that Nils Holgersson threw himself
upon him, to thrash him. But Mats was only a little
tot, and Osa, the goose-girl, who was a year older
than he, ran forward instantly to help him. Goodnatured
though she was, she sprang like a lion as soon
as anyone touched her brother. And Nils Holgersson
did not care to fight a girl, but turned his back, and
didn’t look at those Smaland children for the rest of
the day.
Chapter 25
THE CROWS
THE EARTHEN CROCK
In the southwest corner of Smaland lies a township
called Sonnerbo. It is a rather smooth and even country.
And one who sees it in winter, when it is covered
with snow, cannot imagine that there is anything
under the snow but garden-plots, rye-fields and clovermeadows
as is generally the case in flat countries. But,
in the beginning of April when the snow finally melts
away in Sonnerbo, it is apparent that that which lies
hidden under it is only dry, sandy heaths, bare rocks,
and big, marshy swamps. There are fields here and
there, to be sure, but they are so small that they
are scarcely worth mentioning; and one also finds a
few little red or gray farmhouses hidden away in some
beech-coppice—almost as if they were afraid to show
themselves.
Where Sonnerbo township touches the boundaries of
Halland, there is a sandy heath which is so far-reaching
that he who stands upon one edge of it cannot look
across to the other. Nothing except heather grows on
the heath, and it wouldn’t be easy either to coax other
growths to thrive there. To start with one would have
to uproot the heather; for it is thus with heather: although
it has only a little shrunken root, small shrunken
branches, and dry, shrunken leaves it fancies that it’s
a tree. Therefore it acts just like real trees—spreads
itself out in forest fashion over wide areas; holds together
faithfully, and causes all foreign growths that
wish to crowd in upon its territory to die out.
The only place on the heath where the heather is not
all-powerful, is a low, stony ridge which passes over it.
There you’ll find juniper bushes, mountain ash, and a
few large, fine oaks. At the time when Nils Holgersson
travelled around with the wild geese, a little cabin
stood there, with a bit of cleared ground around it.
But the people who had lived there at one time, had,
for some reason or other, moved away. The little cabin
was empty, and the ground lay unused.
When the tenants left the cabin they closed the damper,
fastened the window-hooks, and locked the door. But
no one had thought of the broken window-pane which
was only stuffed with a rag. After the showers of a
couple of summers, the rag had moulded and shrunk,
and, finally, a crow had succeeded in poking it out.
The ridge on the heather-heath was really not as desolate
as one might think, for it was inhabited by a large
crow-folk. Naturally, the crows did not live there all
the year round. They moved to foreign lands in the
winter; in the autumn they travelled from one grainfield
to another all over Goetaland, and picked grain;
during the summer, they spread themselves over the
farms in Sonnerbo township, and lived upon eggs and
berries and birdlings; but every spring, when nesting
time came, they came back to the heather-heath.
The one who had poked the rag from the window was
a crow-cock named Garm Whitefeather; but he was
never called anything but Fumle or Drumle, or out
and out Fumle-Drumle, because he always acted awkwardly
and stupidly, and wasn’t good for anything except
to make fun of. Fumle-Drumle was bigger and
stronger than any of the other crows, but that didn’t
help him in the least; he was—and remained—a butt
for ridicule. And it didn’t profit him, either, that he
came from very good stock. If everything had gone
smoothly, he should have been leader for the whole
flock, because this honour had, from time immemorial,
belonged to the oldest Whitefeather. But long
before Fumle-Drumle was born, the power had gone
from his family, and was now wielded by a cruel wild
crow, named Wind-Rush.
This transference of power was due to the fact that
the crows on crow-ridge desired to change their manner
of living. Possibly there are many who think that
everything in the shape of crow lives in the same way;
but this is not so. There are entire crow-folk who
lead honourable lives—that is to say, they only eat
grain, worms, caterpillars, and dead animals; and there
are others who lead a regular bandit’s life, who throw
themselves upon baby-hares and small birds, and plunder
every single bird’s nest they set eyes on.
The ancient Whitefeathers had been strict and temperate;
and as long as they had led the flock, the
crows had been compelled to conduct themselves in
such a way that other birds could speak no ill of them.
But the crows were numerous, and poverty was great
among them. They didn’t care to go the whole length
of living a strictly moral life, so they rebelled against
the Whitefeathers, and gave the power to Wind-Rush,
who was the worst nest-plunderer and robber that
could be imagined—if his wife, Wind-Air, wasn’t worse
still. Under their government the crows had begun to
lead such a life that now they were more feared than
pigeon-hawks and leech-owls.
Naturally, Fumle-Drumle had nothing to say in the
flock. The crows were all of the opinion that he did
not in the least take after his forefathers, and that he
wouldn’t suit as a leader. No one would have mentioned
him, if he hadn’t constantly committed fresh
blunders. A few, who were quite sensible, sometimes
said perhaps it was lucky for Fumle-Drumle that he
was such a bungling idiot, otherwise Wind-Rush and
Wind-Air would hardly have allowed him—who was of
the old chieftain stock—to remain with the flock.
Now, on the other hand, they were rather friendly toward
him, and willingly took him along with them on
their hunting expeditions. There all could observe how
much more skilful and daring they were than he.
None of the crows knew that it was Fumle-Drumle who
had pecked the rag out of the window; and had they
known of this, they would have been very much astonished.
Such a thing as daring to approach a human
being’s dwelling, they had never believed of him. He
kept the thing to himself very carefully; and he had his
own good reasons for it. Wind-Rush always treated
him well in the daytime, and when the others were
around; but one very dark night, when the comrades
sat on the night branch, he was attacked by a couple of
crows and nearly murdered. After that he moved every
night, after dark, from his usual sleeping quarters
into the empty cabin.
Now one afternoon, when the crows had put their nests
in order on crow-ridge, they happened upon a remarkable
find. Wind-Rush, Fumle-Drumle, and a couple of
others had flown down into a big hollow in one corner
of the heath. The hollow was nothing but a gravelpit,
but the crows could not be satisfied with such a
simple explanation; they flew down in it continually,
and turned every single sand-grain to get at the reason
why human beings had digged it. While the crows
were pottering around down there, a mass of gravel
fell from one side. They rushed up to it, and had
the good fortune to find amongst the fallen stones and
stubble—a large earthen crock, which was locked with
a wooden clasp! Naturally they wanted to know if
there was anything in it, and they tried both to peck
holes in the crock, and to bend up the clasp, but they
had no success.
They stood perfectly helpless and examined the crock,
when they heard someone say: “Shall I come down and
assist you crows?” They glanced up quickly. On the
edge of the hollow sat a fox and blinked down at them.
He was one of the prettiest foxes—both in colour and
form—that they had ever seen. The only fault with
him was that he had lost an ear.
“If you desire to do us a service,” said Wind-Rush, “we
shall not say nay.” At the same time, both he and the
others flew up from the hollow. Then the fox jumped
down in their place, bit at the jar, and pulled at the
lock—but he couldn’t open it either.
“Can you make out what there is in it?” said Wind-
Rush. The fox rolled the jar back and forth, and listened
attentively. “It must be silver money,” said he.
This was more than the crows had expected. “Do you
think it can be silver?” said they, and their eyes were
ready to pop out of their heads with greed; for remarkable
as it may sound, there is nothing in the world
which crows love as much as silver money.
“Hear how it rattles!” said the fox and rolled the crock
around once more. “Only I can’t understand how we
shall get at it.” “That will surely be impossible,” said
the crows. The fox stood and rubbed his head against
his left leg, and pondered. Now perhaps he might succeed,
with the help of the crows, in becoming master
of that little imp who always eluded him. “Oh! I know
someone who could open the crock for you,” said the
fox. “Then tell us! Tell us!” cried the crows; and they
were so excited that they tumbled down into the pit.
“That I will do, if you’ll first promise me that you will
agree to my terms,” said he.
Then the fox told the crows about Thumbietot, and
said that if they could bring him to the heath he would
open the crock for them. But in payment for this counsel,
he demanded that they should deliver Thumbietot
to him, as soon as he had gotten the silver money for
them. The crows had no reason to spare Thumbietot,
so agreed to the compact at once. It was easy enough
to agree to this; but it was harder to find out where
Thumbietot and the wild geese were stopping.
Wind-Rush himself travelled away with fifty crows,
and said that he should soon return. But one day
after another passed without the crows on crow-ridge
seeing a shadow of him.
Chapter 26
KIDNAPPED BY
CROWS
Wednesday, April thirteenth.
The wild geese were up at daybreak, so they should
have time to get themselves a bite of food before starting
out on the journey toward Oestergoetland. The
island in Goosefiord, where they had slept, was small
and barren, but in the water all around it were growths
which they could eat their fill upon. It was worse for
the boy, however. He couldn’t manage to find anything
eatable.
As he stood there hungry and drowsy, and looked
around in all directions, his glance fell upon a pair of
squirrels, who played upon the wooded point, directly
opposite the rock island. He wondered if the squirrels
still had any of their winter supplies left, and asked
the white goosey-gander to take him over to the point,
that he might beg them for a couple of hazelnuts.
Instantly the white one swam across the sound with
him; but as luck would have it the squirrels had so
much fun chasing each other from tree to tree, that
they didn’t bother about listening to the boy. They
drew farther into the grove. He hurried after them,
and was soon out of the goosey-gander’s sight—who
stayed behind and waited on the shore.
The boy waded forward between some white anemonestems—
which were so high they reached to his chin—
when he felt that someone caught hold of him from
behind, and tried to lift him up. He turned round and
saw that a crow had grabbed him by the shirt-band.
He tried to break loose, but before this was possible,
another crow ran up, gripped him by the stocking, and
knocked him over.
If Nils Holgersson had immediately cried for help, the
white goosey-gander certainly would have been able to
save him; but the boy probably thought that he could
protect himself, unaided, against a couple of crows. He
kicked and struck out, but the crows didn’t let go their
hold, and they soon succeeded in raising themselves
into the air with him. To make matters worse, they
flew so recklessly that his head struck against a branch.
He received a hard knock over the head, it grew black
before his eyes, and he lost consciousness.
When he opened his eyes once more, he found himself
high above the ground. He regained his senses slowly;
at first he knew neither where he was, nor what he
saw. When he glanced down, he saw that under him
was spread a tremendously big woolly carpet, which
was woven in greens and reds, and in large irregular
patterns. The carpet was very thick and fine, but he
thought it was a pity that it had been so badly used. It
was actually ragged; long tears ran through it; in some
places large pieces were torn away. And the strangest
of all was that it appeared to be spread over a mirror
floor; for under the holes and tears in the carpet shone
bright and glittering glass.
The next thing the boy observed was that the sun
unrolled itself in the heavens. Instantly, the mirrorglass
under the holes and tears in the carpet began to
shimmer in red and gold. It looked very gorgeous, and
the boy was delighted with the pretty colour-scheme,
although he didn’t exactly understand what it was that
he saw. But now the crows descended, and he saw
at once that the big carpet under him was the earth,
which was dressed in green and brown cone-trees and
naked leaf-trees, and that the holes and tears were
shining fiords and little lakes.
He remembered that the first time he had travelled
up in the air, he had thought that the earth in Skane
looked like a piece of checked cloth. But this country
which resembled a torn carpet—what might this be?
He began to ask himself a lot of questions. Why wasn’t
he sitting on the goosey-gander’s back? Why did a
great swarm of crows fly around him? And why was
he being pulled and knocked hither and thither so that
he was about to break to pieces?
Then, all at once, the whole thing dawned on him. He
had been kidnapped by a couple of crows. The white
goosey-gander was still on the shore, waiting, and today
the wild geese were going to travel to Oestergoetland.
He was being carried southwest; this he understood
because the sun’s disc was behind him. The big
forest-carpet which lay beneath him was surely Smaland.
“What will become of the goosey-gander now, when I
cannot look after him?” thought the boy, and began
to call to the crows to take him back to the wild geese
instantly. He wasn’t at all uneasy on his own account.
He believed that they were carrying him off simply in
a spirit of mischief.
The crows didn’t pay the slightest attention to his exhortations,
but flew on as fast as they could. After a
bit, one of them flapped his wings in a manner which
meant: “Look out! Danger!” Soon thereafter they
came down in a spruce forest, pushed their way between
prickly branches to the ground, and put the boy
down under a thick spruce, where he was so well concealed
that not even a falcon could have sighted him.
Fifty crows surrounded him, with bills pointed toward
him to guard him. “Now perhaps I may hear, crows,
what your purpose is in carrying me off”, said he. But
he was hardly permitted to finish the sentence before
a big crow hissed at him: “Keep still! or I’ll bore your
eyes out.”
It was evident that the crow meant what she said; and
there was nothing for the boy to do but obey. So he
sat there and stared at the crows, and the crows stared
at him.
The longer he looked at them, the less he liked them.
It was dreadful how dusty and unkempt their feather
dresses were—as though they knew neither baths nor
oiling. Their toes and claws were grimy with driedin
mud, and the corners of their mouths were covered
with food drippings. These were very different birds
from the wild geese—that he observed. He thought
they had a cruel, sneaky, watchful and bold appearance,
just like cut-throats and vagabonds.
“It is certainly a real robber-band that I’ve fallen in
with,” thought he.
Just then he heard the wild geese’s call above him.
“Where are you? Here am I. Where are you? Here am
I.”
He understood that Akka and the others had gone out
to search for him; but before he could answer them the
big crow who appeared to be the leader of the band
hissed in his ear: “Think of your eyes!” And there was
nothing else for him to do but to keep still.
The wild geese may not have known that he was so
near them, but had just happened, incidentally, to
travel over this forest. He heard their call a couple
of times more, then it died away. “Well, now you’ll
have to get along by yourself, Nils Holgersson,” he said
to himself. “Now you must prove whether you have
learned anything during these weeks in the open.”
A moment later the crows gave the signal to break
up; and since it was still their intention, apparently,
to carry him along in such a way that one held on to
his shirt-band, and one to a stocking, the boy said: “Is
there not one among you so strong that he can carry
me on his back? You have already travelled so badly
with me that I feel as if I were in pieces. Only let me
ride! I’ll not jump from the crow’s back, that I promise
you.”
“Oh! you needn’t think that we care how you have it,”
said the leader. But now the largest of the crows—a
dishevelled and uncouth one, who had a white feather
in his wing—came forward and said: “It would certainly
be best for all of us, Wind-Rush, if Thumbietot
got there whole, rather than half, and therefore, I
shall carry him on my back.” “If you can do it, Fumle-
Drumle, I have no objection,” said Wind-Rush. “But
don’t lose him!”
With this, much was already gained, and the boy actually
felt pleased again. “There is nothing to be gained
by losing my grit because I have been kidnapped by
the crows,” thought he. “I’ll surely be able to manage
those poor little things.”
The crows continued to fly southwest, over Smaland.
It was a glorious morning—sunny and calm; and the
birds down on the earth were singing their best love
songs. In a high, dark forest sat the thrush himself
with drooping wings and swelling throat, and struck
up tune after tune. “How pretty you are! How pretty
you are! How pretty you are!” sang he. “No one is so
pretty. No one is so pretty. No one is so pretty.” As
soon as he had finished this song, he began it all over
again.
But just then the boy rode over the forest; and when
he had heard the song a couple of times, and marked
that the thrush knew no other, he put both hands
up to his mouth as a speaking trumpet, and called
down: “We’ve heard all this before. We’ve heard all
this before.” “Who is it? Who is it? Who is it? Who
makes fun of me?” asked the thrush, and tried to catch
a glimpse of the one who called. “It is Kidnappedby-
Crows who makes fun of your song,” answered the
boy. At that, the crow-chief turned his head and said:
“Be careful of your eyes, Thumbietot!” But the boy
thought, “Oh! I don’t care about that. I want to show
you that I’m not afraid of you!”
Farther and farther inland they travelled; and there
were woods and lakes everywhere. In a birch-grove
sat the wood-dove on a naked branch, and before him
stood the lady-dove. He blew up his feathers, cocked
his head, raised and lowered his body, until the breastfeathers
rattled against the branch. All the while he
cooed: “Thou, thou, thou art the loveliest in all the
forest. No one in the forest is so lovely as thou, thou,
thou!”
But up in the air the boy rode past, and when he
heard Mr. Dove he couldn’t keep still. “Don’t you
believe him! Don’t you believe him!” cried he.
“Who, who, who is it that lies about me?” cooed
Mr. Dove, and tried to get a sight of the one who
shrieked at him. “It is Caught-by-Crows that lies about
you,” replied the boy. Again Wind-Rush turned his
head toward the boy and commanded him to shut up,
but Fumle-Drumle, who was carrying him, said: “Let
him chatter, then all the little birds will think that
we crows have become quick-witted and funny birds.”
“Oh! they’re not such fools, either,” said Wind-Rush;
but he liked the idea just the same, for after that he
let the boy call out as much as he liked.
They flew mostly over forests and woodlands, but there
were churches and parishes and little cabins in the outskirts
of the forest. In one place they saw a pretty
old manor. It lay with the forest back of it, and the
sea in front of it; had red walls and a turreted roof;
great sycamores about the grounds, and big, thick
gooseberry-bushes in the orchard. On the top of the
weathercock sat the starling, and sang so loud that
every note was heard by the wife, who sat on an egg
in the heart of a pear tree. “We have four pretty little
eggs,” sang the starling. “We have four pretty little
round eggs. We have the whole nest filled with fine
eggs.”
When the starling sang the song for the thousandth
time, the boy rode over the place. He put his hands
up to his mouth, as a pipe, and called: “The magpie
will get them. The magpie will get them.”
“Who is it that wants to frighten me?” asked the starling,
and flapped his wings uneasily. “It is Capturedby-
Crows that frightens you,” said the boy. This time
the crow-chief didn’t attempt to hush him up. Instead,
both he and his flock were having so much fun
that they cawed with satisfaction.
The farther inland they came, the larger were the lakes,
and the more plentiful were the islands and points.
And on a lake-shore stood a drake and kowtowed before
the duck. “I’ll be true to you all the days of my
life. I’ll be true to you all the days of my life,” said the
drake. “It won’t last until the summer’s end,” shrieked
the boy. “Who are you?” called the drake. “My name’s
Stolen-by-Crows,” shrieked the boy.
At dinner time the crows lighted in a food-grove. They
walked about and procured food for themselves, but
none of them thought about giving the boy anything.
Then Fumle-Drumle came riding up to the chief with
a dog-rose branch, with a few dried buds on it. “Here’s
something for you, Wind-Rush,” said he. “This is
pretty food, and suitable for you.” Wind-Rush sniffed
contemptuously. “Do you think that I want to eat
old, dry buds?” said he. “And I who thought that you
would be pleased with them!” said Fumle-Drumle; and
threw away the dog-rose branch as if in despair. But it
fell right in front of the boy, and he wasn’t slow about
grabbing it and eating until he was satisfied.
When the crows had eaten, they began to chatter.
“What are you thinking about, Wind-Rush? You are
so quiet to-day,” said one of them to the leader. “I’m
thinking that in this district there lived, once upon a
time, a hen, who was very fond of her mistress; and in
order to really please her, she went and laid a nest full
of eggs, which she hid under the store-house floor. The
mistress of the house wondered, of course, where the
hen was keeping herself such a long time. She searched
for her, but did not find her. Can you guess, Longbill,
who it was that found her and the eggs?”
“I think I can guess it, Wind-Rush, but when you have
told about this, I will tell you something like it. Do
you remember the big, black cat in Hinneryd’s parish
house? She was dissatisfied because they always took
the new-born kittens from her, and drowned them.
Just once did she succeed in keeping them concealed,
and that was when she had laid them in a haystack, out
doors. She was pretty well pleased with those young
kittens, but I believe that I got more pleasure out of
them than she did.”
Now they became so excited that they all talked at
once. “What kind of an accomplishment is that—to
steal little kittens?” said one. “I once chased a young
hare who was almost full-grown. That meant to follow
him from covert to covert.” He got no further before
another took the words from him. “It may be fun,
perhaps, to annoy hens and cats, but I find it still more
remarkable that a crow can worry a human being. I
once stole a silver spoon—”
But now the boy thought he was too good to sit and
listen to such gabble. “Now listen to me, you crows!”
said he. “I think you ought to be ashamed of yourselves
to talk about all your wickedness. I have lived amongst
wild geese for three weeks, and of them I have never
heard or seen anything but good. You must have a
bad chief, since he permits you to rob and murder in
this way. You ought to begin to lead new lives, for I
can tell you that human beings have grown so tired of
your wickedness they are trying with all their might to
root you out. And then there will soon be an end of
you.”
When Wind-Rush and the crows heard this, they were
so furious that they intended to throw themselves upon
him and tear him in pieces. But Fumle-Drumle laughed
and cawed, and stood in front of him. “Oh, no, no!”
said he, and seemed absolutely terrified. “What think
you that Wind-Air will say if you tear Thumbietot
in pieces before he has gotten that silver money for
us?” “It has to be you, Fumle-Drumle, that’s afraid
of women-folk,” said Rush. But, at any rate, both he
and the others left Thumbietot in peace.
Shortly after that the crows went further. Until now
the boy thought that Smaland wasn’t such a poor
country as he had heard. Of course it was woody
and full of mountain-ridges, but alongside the islands
and lakes lay cultivated grounds, and any real desolation
he hadn’t come upon. But the farther inland
they came, the fewer were the villages and cottages.
Toward the last, he thought that he was riding over a
veritable wilderness where he saw nothing but swamps
and heaths and juniper-hills.
The sun had gone down, but it was still perfect daylight
when the crows reached the large heather-heath.
Wind-Rush sent a crow on ahead, to say that he had
met with success; and when it was known, Wind-Air,
with several hundred crows from Crow-Ridge, flew to
meet the arrivals. In the midst of the deafening cawing
which the crows emitted, Fumle-Drumle said to the
boy: “You have been so comical and so jolly during the
trip that I am really fond of you. Therefore I want to
give you some good advice. As soon as we light, you’ll
be requested to do a bit of work which may seem very
easy to you; but beware of doing it!”
Soon thereafter Fumle-Drumle put Nils Holgersson down
in the bottom of a sandpit. The boy flung himself
down, rolled over, and lay there as though he was simply
done up with fatigue. Such a lot of crows fluttered
about him that the air rustled like a wind-storm, but
he didn’t look up.
“Thumbietot,” said Wind-Rush, “get up now! You
shall help us with a matter which will be very easy
for you.”
The boy didn’t move, but pretended to be asleep.
Then Wind-Rush took him by the arm, and dragged
him over the sand to an earthen crock of old-time
make, that was standing in the pit. “Get up, Thumbietot,”
said he, “and open this crock!” “Why can’t you
let me sleep?” said the boy. “I’m too tired to do anything
to-night. Wait until to-morrow!”
“Open the crock!” said Wind-Rush, shaking him. “How
shall a poor little child be able to open such a crock?
Why, it’s quite as large as I am myself.” “Open it!”
commanded Wind-Rush once more, “or it will be a
sorry thing for you.” The boy got up, tottered over
to the crock, fumbled the clasp, and let his arms fall.
“I’m not usually so weak,” said he. “If you will only
let me sleep until morning, I think that I’ll be able to
manage with that clasp.”
But Wind-Rush was impatient, and he rushed forward
and pinched the boy in the leg. That sort of treatment
the boy didn’t care to suffer from a crow. He jerked
himself loose quickly, ran a couple of paces backward,
drew his knife from the sheath, and held it extended
in front of him. “You’d better be careful!” he cried to
Wind-Rush.
This one too was so enraged that he didn’t dodge the
danger. He rushed at the boy, just as though he’d
been blind, and ran so straight against the knife, that
it entered through his eye into the head. The boy drew
the knife back quickly, but Wind-Rush only struck out
with his wings, then he fell down—dead.
“Wind-Rush is dead! The stranger has killed our chieftain,
Wind-Rush!” cried the nearest crows, and then
there was a terrible uproar. Some wailed, others cried
for vengeance. They all ran or fluttered up to the boy,
with Fumle-Drumle in the lead. But he acted badly as
usual. He only fluttered and spread his wings over the
boy, and prevented the others from coming forward
and running their bills into him.
The boy thought that things looked very bad for him
now. He couldn’t run away from the crows, and there
was no place where he could hide. Then he happened
to think of the earthen crock. He took a firm hold
on the clasp, and pulled it off. Then he hopped into
the crock to hide in it. But the crock was a poor hiding
place, for it was nearly filled to the brim with little,
thin silver coins. The boy couldn’t get far enough
down, so he stooped and began to throw out the coins.
Until now the crows had fluttered around him in a
thick swarm and pecked at him, but when he threw
out the coins they immediately forgot their thirst for
vengeance, and hurried to gather the money. The boy
threw out handfuls of it, and all the crows—yes, even
Wind-Air herself—picked them up. And everyone who
succeeded in picking up a coin ran off to the nest with
the utmost speed to conceal it.
When the boy had thrown out all the silver pennies
from the crock he glanced up. Not more than a single
crow was left in the sandpit. That was Fumle-Drumle,
with the white feather in his wing; he who had carried
Thumbietot. “You have rendered me a greater service
than you understand,” said the crow—with a very different
voice, and a different intonation than the one he
had used heretofore—“and I want to save your life. Sit
down on my back, and I’ll take you to a hiding place
where you can be secure for to-night. To-morrow, I’ll
arrange it so that you will get back to the wild geese.”
Chapter 27
THE CABIN
Thursday, April fourteenth.
The following morning when the boy awoke, he lay in
a bed. When he saw that he was in a house with four
walls around him, and a roof over him, he thought that
he was at home. “I wonder if mother will come soon
with some coffee,” he muttered to himself where he
lay half-awake. Then he remembered that he was in
a deserted cabin on the crow-ridge, and that Fumle-
Drumle with the white feather had borne him there
the night before.
The boy was sore all over after the journey he had
made the day before, and he thought it was lovely to
lie still while he waited for Fumle-Drumle who had
promised to come and fetch him.
Curtains of checked cotton hung before the bed, and he
drew them aside to look out into the cabin. It dawned
upon him instantly that he had never seen the mate
to a cabin like this. The walls consisted of nothing but
a couple of rows of logs; then the roof began. There
was no interior ceiling, so he could look clear up to
the roof-tree. The cabin was so small that it appeared
to have been built rather for such as he than for real
people. However, the fireplace and chimney were so
large, he thought that he had never seen larger. The
entrance door was in a gable-wall at the side of the
fireplace, and was so narrow that it was more like a
wicket than a door. In the other gable-wall he saw a
low and broad window with many panes. There was
scarcely any movable furniture in the cabin. The bench
on one side, and the table under the window, were
also stationary—also the big bed where he lay, and
the many-coloured cupboard.
The boy could not help wondering who owned the
cabin, and why it was deserted. It certainly looked
as though the people who had lived there expected to
return. The coffee-urn and the gruel-pot stood on the
hearth, and there was some wood in the fireplace; the
oven-rake and baker’s peel stood in a corner; the spinning
wheel was raised on a bench; on the shelf over the
window lay oakum and flax, a couple of skeins of yarn,
a candle, and a bunch of matches.
Yes, it surely looked as if those who had lived there
had intended to come back. There were bed-clothes on
the bed; and on the walls there still hung long strips
of cloth, upon which three riders named Kasper, Melchior,
and Baltasar were painted. The same horses and
riders were pictured many times. They rode around
the whole cabin, and continued their ride even up toward
the joists.
But in the roof the boy saw something which brought
him to his senses in a jiffy. It was a couple of loaves
of big bread-cakes that hung there upon a spit. They
looked old and mouldy, but it was bread all the same.
He gave them a knock with the oven-rake and one piece
fell to the floor. He ate, and stuffed his bag full. It
was incredible how good bread was, anyway.
He looked around the cabin once more, to try and
discover if there was anything else which he might find
useful to take along. “I may as well take what I need,
since no one else cares about it,” thought he. But most
of the things were too big and heavy. The only things
that he could carry might be a few matches perhaps.
He clambered up on the table, and swung with the help
of the curtains up to the window-shelf. While he stood
there and stuffed the matches into his bag, the crow
with the white feather came in through the window.
“Well here I am at last,” said Fumle-Drumle as he lit
on the table. “I couldn’t get here any sooner because
we crows have elected a new chieftain in Wind-Rush’s
place.” “Whom have you chosen?” said the boy. “Well,
we have chosen one who will not permit robbery and
injustice. We have elected Garm Whitefeather, lately
called Fumle-Drumle,” answered he, drawing himself
up until he looked absolutely regal. “That was a good
choice,” said the boy and congratulated him. “You
may well wish me luck,” said Garm; then he told the
boy about the time they had had with Wind-Rush and
Wind-Air.
During this recital the boy heard a voice outside the
window which he thought sounded familiar. “Is he
here?”—inquired the fox. “Yes, he’s hidden in there,”
answered a crow-voice. “Be careful, Thumbietot!” cried
Garm. “Wind-Air stands without with that fox who
wants to eat you.” More he didn’t have time to say,
for Smirre dashed against the window. The old, rotten
window-frame gave way, and the next second Smirre
stood upon the window-table. Garm Whitefeather,
who didn’t have time to fly away, he killed instantly.
Thereupon he jumped down to the floor, and looked
around for the boy. He tried to hide behind a big
oakum-spiral, but Smirre had already spied him, and
was crouched for the final spring. The cabin was so
small, and so low, the boy understood that the fox
could reach him without the least difficulty. But just
at that moment the boy was not without weapons of
defence. He struck a match quickly, touched the curtains,
and when they were in flames, he threw them
down upon Smirre Fox. When the fire enveloped the
fox, he was seized with a mad terror. He thought no
more about the boy, but rushed wildly out of the cabin.
But it looked as if the boy had escaped one danger
to throw himself into a greater one. From the tuft of
oakum which he had flung at Smirre the fire had spread
to the bed-hangings. He jumped down and tried to
smother it, but it blazed too quickly now. The cabin
was soon filled with smoke, and Smirre Fox, who had
remained just outside the window, began to grasp the
state of affairs within. “Well, Thumbietot,” he called
out, “which do you choose now: to be broiled alive
in there, or to come out here to me? Of course, I
should prefer to have the pleasure of eating you; but
in whichever way death meets you it will be dear to
me.”
The boy could not think but what the fox was right,
for the fire was making rapid headway. The whole bed
was now in a blaze, and smoke rose from the floor;
and along the painted wall-strips the fire crept from
rider to rider. The boy jumped up in the fireplace,
and tried to open the oven door, when he heard a key
which turned around slowly in the lock. It must be
human beings coming. And in the dire extremity in
which he found himself, he was not afraid, but only
glad. He was already on the threshold when the door
opened. He saw a couple of children facing him; but
how they looked when they saw the cabin in flames,
he took no time to find out; but rushed past them into
the open.
He didn’t dare run far. He knew, of course, that Smirre
Fox lay in wait for him, and he understood that he
must remain near the children. He turned round to
see what sort of folk they were, but he hadn’t looked
at them a second before he ran up to them and cried:
“Oh, good-day, Osa goose-girl! Oh, good-day, little
Mats!”
For when the boy saw those children he forgot entirely
where he was. Crows and burning cabin and talking
animals had vanished from his memory. He was walking
on a stubble-field, in West Vemminghoeg, tending
a goose-flock; and beside him, on the field, walked
those same Smaland children, with their geese. As
soon as he saw them, he ran up on the stone-hedge and
shouted: “Oh, good-day, Osa goose-girl! Oh, good-day,
little Mats!”
But when the children saw such a little creature coming
up to them with outstretched hands, they grabbed
hold of each other, took a couple of steps backward,
and looked scared to death.
When the boy noticed their terror he woke up and
remembered who he was. And then it seemed to him
that nothing worse could happen to him than that
those children should see how he had been bewitched.
Shame and grief because he was no longer a human
being overpowered him. He turned and fled. He knew
not whither.
But a glad meeting awaited the boy when he came
down to the heath. For there, in the heather, he
spied something white, and toward him came the white
goosey-gander, accompanied by Dunfin. When the
white one saw the boy running with such speed, he
thought that dreadful fiends were pursuing him. He
flung him in all haste upon his back and flew off with
him.
Chapter 28
THE OLD PEASANT
WOMAN
Thursday, April fourteenth.
Three tired wanderers were out in the late evening in
search of a night harbour. They travelled over a poor
and desolate portion of northern Smaland. But the
sort of resting place which they wanted, they should
have been able to find; for they were no weaklings
who asked for soft beds or comfortable rooms. “If one
of these long mountain-ridges had a peak so high and
steep that a fox couldn’t in any way climb up to it,
then we should have a good sleeping-place,” said one
of them. “If a single one of the big swamps was thawed
out, and was so marshy and wet that a fox wouldn’t
dare venture out on it, this, too, would be a right good
night harbour,” said the second. “If the ice on one of
the large lakes we travel past were loose, so that a fox
could not come out on it, then we should have found
just what we are seeking,” said the third.
The worst of it was that when the sun had gone down,
two of the travellers became so sleepy that every second
they were ready to fall to the ground. The third
one, who could keep himself awake, grew more and
more uneasy as night approached. “Then it was a misfortune
that we came to a land where lakes and swamps
are frozen, so that a fox can get around everywhere.
In other places the ice has melted away; but now we’re
well up in the very coldest Smaland, where spring has
not as yet arrived. I don’t know how I shall ever manage
to find a good sleeping-place! Unless I find some
spot that is well protected, Smirre Fox will be upon us
before morning.”
He gazed in all directions, but he saw no shelter where
he could lodge. It was a dark and chilly night, with
wind and drizzle. It grew more terrible and disagreeable
around him every second.
This may sound strange, perhaps, but the travellers
didn’t seem to have the least desire to ask for houseroom
on any farm. They had already passed many
parishes without knocking at a single door. Little hillside
cabins on the outskirts of the forests, which all
poor wanderers are glad to run across, they took no
notice of either. One might almost be tempted to say
they deserved to have a hard time of it, since they did
not seek help where it was to be had for the asking.
But finally, when it was so dark that there was scarcely
a glimmer of light left under the skies and the two
who needed sleep journeyed on in a kind of half-sleep,
they happened into a farmyard which was a long way
off from all neighbours. And not only did it lie there
desolate, but it appeared to be uninhabited as well. No
smoke rose from the chimney; no light shone through
the windows; no human being moved on the place.
When the one among the three who could keep awake,
saw the place, he thought: “Now come what may, we
must try to get in here. Anything better we are not
likely to find.”
Soon after that, all three stood in the house-yard. Two
of them fell asleep the instant they stood still, but the
third looked about him eagerly, to find where they
could get under cover. It was not a small farm. Beside
the dwelling house and stable and smoke-house,
there were long ranges with granaries and storehouses
and cattlesheds. But it all looked awfully poor and dilapidated.
The houses had gray, moss-grown, leaning
walls, which seemed ready to topple over. In the roofs
were yawning holes, and the doors hung aslant on broken
hinges. It was apparent that no one had taken the
trouble to drive a nail into a wall on this place for a
long time.
Meanwhile, he who was awake had figured out which
house was the cowshed. He roused his travelling companions
from their sleep, and conducted them to the
cowshed door. Luckily, this was not fastened with anything
but a hook, which he could easily push up with
a rod. He heaved a sigh of relief at the thought that
they should soon be in safety. But when the cowshed
door swung open with a sharp creaking, he heard a
cow begin to bellow. “Are you coming at last, mistress?”
said she. “I thought that you didn’t propose
to give me any supper to-night.”
The one who was awake stopped in the doorway, absolutely
terrified when he discovered that the cowshed
was not empty. But he soon saw that there was not
more than one cow, and three or four chickens; and
then he took courage again. “We are three poor travellers
who want to come in somewhere, where no fox
can assail us, and no human being capture us,” said
he. “We wonder if this can be a good place for us.” “I
cannot believe but what it is,” answered the cow. “To
be sure the walls are poor, but the fox does not walk
through them as yet; and no one lives here except an
old peasant woman, who isn’t at all likely to make a
captive of anyone. But who are you?” she continued,
as she twisted in her stall to get a sight of the newcomers.
“I am Nils Holgersson from Vemminghoeg, who
has been transformed into an elf,” replied the first of
the incomers, “and I have with me a tame goose, whom
I generally ride, and a gray goose.” “Such rare guests
have never before been within my four walls,” said the
cow, “and you shall be welcome, although I would have
preferred that it had been my mistress, come to give
me my supper.”
The boy led the geese into the cowshed, which was
rather large, and placed them in an empty manger,
where they fell asleep instantly. For himself, he made
a little bed of straw and expected that he, too, should
go to sleep at once.
But this was impossible, for the poor cow, who hadn’t
had her supper, wasn’t still an instant. She shook her
flanks, moved around in the stall, and complained of
how hungry she was. The boy couldn’t get a wink of
sleep, but lay there and lived over all the things that
had happened to him during these last days.
He thought of Osa, the goose-girl, and little Mats,
whom he had encountered so unexpectedly; and he
fancied that the little cabin which he had set on fire
must have been their old home in Smaland. Now he
recalled that he had heard them speak of just such a
cabin, and of the big heather-heath which lay below
it. Now Osa and Mats had wandered back there to
see their old home again, and then, when they had
reached it, it was in flames.
It was indeed a great sorrow which he had brought
upon them, and it hurt him very much. If he ever again
became a human being, he would try to compensate
them for the damage and miscalculation.
Then his thoughts wandered to the crows. And when
he thought of Fumle-Drumle who had saved his life,
and had met his own death so soon after he had been
elected chieftain, he was so distressed that tears filled
his eyes. He had had a pretty rough time of it these last
few days. But, anyway, it was a rare stroke of luck that
the goosey-gander and Dunfin had found him. The
goosey-gander had said that as soon as the geese discovered
that Thumbietot had disappeared, they had
asked all the small animals in the forest about him.
They soon learned that a flock of Smaland crows had
carried him off. But the crows were already out of
sight, and whither they had directed their course no
one had been able to say. That they might find the
boy as soon as possible, Akka had commanded the
wild geese to start out—two and two—in different directions,
to search for him. But after a two days’
hunt, whether or not they had found him, they were
to meet in northwestern Smaland on a high mountaintop,
which resembled an abrupt, chopped-off tower,
and was called Taberg. After Akka had given them
the best directions, and described carefully how they
should find Taberg, they had separated.
The white goosey-gander had chosen Dunfin as travelling
companion, and they had flown about hither and
thither with the greatest anxiety for Thumbietot. During
this ramble they had heard a thrush, who sat in a
tree-top, cry and wail that someone, who called himself
Kidnapped-by-Crows, had made fun of him. They
had talked with the thrush, and he had shown them
in which direction that Kidnapped-by-Crows had travelled.
Afterward, they had met a dove-cock, a starling
and a drake; they had all wailed about a little culprit
who had disturbed their song, and who was named
Caught-by-Crows, Captured-by-Crows, and Stolen-by-
Crows. In this way, they were enabled to trace Thumbietot
all the way to the heather-heath in Sonnerbo township.
As soon as the goosey-gander and Dunfin had found
Thumbietot, they had started toward the north, in
order to reach Taberg. But it had been a long road to
travel, and the darkness was upon them before they
had sighted the mountain top. “If we only get there
by to-morrow, surely all our troubles will be over,”
thought the boy, and dug down into the straw to have
it warmer. All the while the cow fussed and fumed
in the stall. Then, all of a sudden, she began to talk
to the boy. “Everything is wrong with me,” said the
cow. “I am neither milked nor tended. I have no night
fodder in my manger, and no bed has been made under
me. My mistress came here at dusk, to put things in
order for me, but she felt so ill, that she had to go in
soon again, and she has not returned.”
“It’s distressing that I should be little and powerless,”
said the boy. “I don’t believe that I am able to help
you.” “You can’t make me believe that you are powerless
because you are little,” said the cow. “All the
elves that I’ve ever heard of, were so strong that they
could pull a whole load of hay and strike a cow dead
with one fist.” The boy couldn’t help laughing at the
cow. “They were a very different kind of elf from me,”
said he. “But I’ll loosen your halter and open the door
for you, so that you can go out and drink in one of the
pools on the place, and then I’ll try to climb up to the
hayloft and throw down some hay in your manger.”
“Yes, that would be some help,” said the cow.
The boy did as he had said; and when the cow stood
with a full manger in front of her, he thought that
at last he should get some sleep. But he had hardly
crept down in the bed before she began, anew, to talk
to him.
“You’ll be clean put out with me if I ask you for one
thing more,” said the cow. “Oh, no I won’t, if it’s only
something that I’m able to do,” said the boy. “Then I
will ask you to go into the cabin, directly opposite, and
find out how my mistress is getting along. I fear some
misfortune has come to her.” “No! I can’t do that,”
said the boy. “I dare not show myself before human
beings.” “’Surely you’re not afraid of an old and sick
woman,” said the cow. “But you do not need to go
into the cabin. Just stand outside the door and peep
in through the crack!” “Oh! if that is all you ask of
me, I’ll do it of course,” said the boy.
With that he opened the cowshed door and went out
in the yard. It was a fearful night! Neither moon nor
stars shone; the wind blew a gale, and the rain came
down in torrents. And the worst of all was that seven
great owls sat in a row on the eaves of the cabin. It was
awful just to hear them, where they sat and grumbled
at the weather; but it was even worse to think what
would happen to him if one of them should set eyes on
him. That would be the last of him.
“Pity him who is little!” said the boy as he ventured
out in the yard. And he had a right to say this, for
he was blown down twice before he got to the house:
once the wind swept him into a pool, which was so
deep that he came near drowning. But he got there
nevertheless.
He clambered up a pair of steps, scrambled over a
threshold, and came into the hallway. The cabin door
was closed, but down in one corner a large piece had
been cut away, that the cat might go in and out. It
was no difficulty whatever for the boy to see how things
were in the cabin.
He had hardly cast a glance in there before he staggered
back and turned his head away. An old, grayhaired
woman lay stretched out on the floor within.
She neither moved nor moaned; and her face shone
strangely white. It was as if an invisible moon had
thrown a feeble light over it.
The boy remembered that when his grandfather had
died, his face had also become so strangely white-like.
And he understood that the old woman who lay on the
cabin floor must be dead. Death had probably come
to her so suddenly that she didn’t even have time to
lie down on her bed.
As he thought of being alone with the dead in the
middle of the dark night, he was terribly afraid. He
threw himself headlong down the steps, and rushed
back to the cowshed.
When he told the cow what he had seen in the cabin,
she stopped eating. “So my mistress is dead,” said she.
“Then it will soon be over for me as well.” “There will
always be someone to look out for you,” said the boy
comfortingly. “Ah! you don’t know,” said the cow,
“that I am already twice as old as a cow usually is
before she is laid upon the slaughter-bench. But then
I do not care to live any longer, since she, in there, can
come no more to care for me.”
She said nothing more for a while, but the boy observed,
no doubt, that she neither slept nor ate. It
was not long before she began to speak again. “Is she
lying on the bare floor?” she asked. “She is,” said
the boy. “She had a habit of coming out to the cowshed,”
she continued, “and talking about everything
that troubled her. I understood what she said, although
I could not answer her. These last few days
she talked of how afraid she was lest there would be
no one with her when she died. She was anxious for
fear no one should close her eyes and fold her hands
across her breast, after she was dead. Perhaps you’ll go
in and do this?” The boy hesitated. He remembered
that when his grandfather had died, mother had been
very careful about putting everything to rights. He
knew this was something which had to be done. But,
on the other hand, he felt that he didn’t care go to
the dead, in the ghastly night. He didn’t say no; neither
did he take a step toward the cowshed door. For
a couple of seconds the old cow was silent—just as if
she had expected an answer. But when the boy said
nothing, she did not repeat her request. Instead, she
began to talk with him of her mistress.
There was much to tell, first and foremost, about all
the children which she had brought up. They had been
in the cowshed every day, and in the summer they had
taken the cattle to pasture on the swamp and in the
groves, so the old cow knew all about them. They had
been splendid, all of them, and happy and industrious.
A cow knew well enough what her caretakers were good
for.
There was also much to be said about the farm. It
had not always been as poor as it was now. It was
very large—although the greater part of it consisted of
swamps and stony groves. There was not much room
for fields, but there was plenty of good fodder everywhere.
At one time there had been a cow for every
stall in the cowshed; and the oxshed, which was now
empty, had at one time been filled with oxen. And
then there was life and gayety, both in cabin and cowhouse.
When the mistress opened the cowshed door
she would hum and sing, and all the cows lowed with
gladness when they heard her coming.
But the good man had died when the children were
so small that they could not be of any assistance, and
the mistress had to take charge of the farm, and all
the work and responsibility. She had been as strong
as a man, and had both ploughed and reaped. In the
evenings, when she came into the cowshed to milk,
sometimes she was so tired that she wept. Then she
dashed away her tears, and was cheerful again. “It
doesn’t matter. Good times are coming again for me
too, if only my children grow up. Yes, if they only
grow up.”
But as soon as the children were grown, a strange
longing came over them. They didn’t want to stay
at home, but went away to a strange country. Their
mother never got any help from them. A couple of
her children were married before they went away, and
they had left their children behind, in the old home.
And now these children followed the mistress in the
cowshed, just as her own had done. They tended the
cows, and were fine, good folk. And, in the evenings,
when the mistress was so tired out that she could fall
asleep in the middle of the milking, she would rouse
herself again to renewed courage by thinking of them.
“Good times are coming for me, too,” said she—and
shook off sleep—“when once they are grown.”
But when these children grew up, they went away to
their parents in the strange land. No one came back—
no one stayed at home—the old mistress was left alone
on the farm.
Probably she had never asked them to remain with
her. “Think you, Roedlinna, that I would ask them to
stay here with me, when they can go out in the world
and have things comfortable?” she would say as she
stood in the stall with the old cow. “Here in Smaland
they have only poverty to look forward to.”
But when the last grandchild was gone, it was all up
with the mistress. All at once she became bent and
gray, and tottered as she walked; as if she no longer had
the strength to move about. She stopped working. She
did not care to look after the farm, but let everything
go to rack and ruin. She didn’t repair the houses; and
she sold both the cows and the oxen. The only one
that she kept was the old cow who now talked with
Thumbietot. Her she let live because all the children
had tended her.
She could have taken maids and farm-hands into her
service, who would have helped her with the work, but
she couldn’t bear to see strangers around her, since her
own had deserted her. Perhaps she was better satisfied
to let the farm go to ruin, since none of her children
were coming back to take it after she was gone. She
did not mind that she herself became poor, because
she didn’t value that which was only hers. But she
was troubled lest the children should find out how hard
she had it. “If only the children do not hear of this! If
only the children do not hear of this!” she sighed as
she tottered through the cowhouse.
The children wrote constantly, and begged her to come
out to them; but this she did not wish. She didn’t want
to see the land that had taken them from her. She was
angry with it. “It’s foolish of me, perhaps, that I do
not like that land which has been so good for them,”
said she. “But I don’t want to see it.”
She never thought of anything but the children, and of
this—that they must needs have gone. When summer
came, she led the cow out to graze in the big swamp.
All day she would sit on the edge of the swamp, her
hands in her lap; and on the way home she would
say: “You see, Roedlinna, if there had been large, rich
fields here, in place of these barren swamps, then there
would have been no need for them to leave.”
She could become furious with the swamp which spread
out so big, and did no good. She could sit and talk
about how it was the swamp’s fault that the children
had left her.
This last evening she had been more trembly and feeble
than ever before. She could not even do the milking.
She had leaned against the manger and talked about
two strangers who had been to see her, and had asked
if they might buy the swamp. They wanted to drain it,
and sow and raise grain on it. This had made her both
anxious and glad. “Do you hear, Roedlinna,” she had
said, “do you hear they said that grain can grow on
the swamp? Now I shall write to the children to come
home. Now they’ll not have to stay away any longer;
for now they can get their bread here at home.” It was
this that she had gone into the cabin to do—
The boy heard no more of what the old cow said. He
had opened the cowhouse door and gone across the
yard, and in to the dead whom he had but lately been
so afraid of.
It was not so poor in the cabin as he had expected. It
was well supplied with the sort of things one generally
finds among those who have relatives in America. In
a corner there was an American rocking chair; on the
table before the window lay a brocaded plush cover;
there was a pretty spread on the bed; on the walls,
in carved-wood frames, hung the photographs of the
children and grandchildren who had gone away; on the
bureau stood high vases and a couple of candlesticks,
with thick, spiral candles in them.
The boy searched for a matchbox and lighted these
candles, not because he needed more light than he already
had; but because he thought that this was one
way to honour the dead.
Then he went up to her, closed her eyes, folded her
hands across her breast, and stroked back the thin
gray hair from her face.
He thought no more about being afraid of her. He was
so deeply grieved because she had been forced to live
out her old age in loneliness and longing. He, at least,
would watch over her dead body this night.
He hunted up the psalm book, and seated himself to
read a couple of psalms in an undertone. But in the
middle of the reading he paused—because he had begun
to think about his mother and father.
Think, that parents can long so for their children!
This he had never known. Think, that life can be
as though it was over for them when the children are
away! Think, if those at home longed for him in the
same way that this old peasant woman had longed!
This thought made him happy, but he dared not believe
in it. He had not been such a one that anybody
could long for him.
But what he had not been, perhaps he could become.
Round about him he saw the portraits of those who
were away. They were big, strong men and women
with earnest faces. There were brides in long veils, and
gentlemen in fine clothes; and there were children with
waved hair and pretty white dresses. And he thought
that they all stared blindly into vacancy—and did not
want to see.
“Poor you!” said the boy to the portraits. “Your
mother is dead. You cannot make reparation now,
because you went away from her. But my mother is
living!”
Here he paused, and nodded and smiled to himself.
“My mother is living,” said he. “Both father and mother
are living.”
Chapter 29
FROM TABERG TO
HUSKVARNA
Friday, April fifteenth.
The boy sat awake nearly all night, but toward morning
he fell asleep and then he dreamed of his father
and mother. He could hardly recognise them. They
had both grown gray, and had old and wrinkled faces.
He asked how this had come about, and they answered
that they had aged so because they had longed for him.
He was both touched and astonished, for he had never
believed but what they were glad to be rid of him.
When the boy awoke the morning was come, with fine,
clear weather. First, he himself ate a bit of bread which
he found in the cabin; then he gave morning feed to
both geese and cow, and opened the cowhouse door so
that the cow could go over to the nearest farm. When
the cow came along all by herself the neighbours would
no doubt understand that something was wrong with
her mistress. They would hurry over to the desolate
farm to see how the old woman was getting along, and
then they would find her dead body and bury it.
The boy and the geese had barely raised themselves
into the air, when they caught a glimpse of a high
mountain, with almost perpendicular walls, and an
abrupt, broken-off top; and they understood that this
must be Taberg. On the summit stood Akka, with
Yksi and Kaksi, Kolmi and Neljae, Viisi and Knusi,
and all six goslings and waited for them. There was a
rejoicing, and a cackling, and a fluttering, and a calling
which no one can describe, when they saw that
the goosey-gander and Dunfin had succeeded in finding
Thumbietot.
The woods grew pretty high up on Taberg’s sides, but
her highest peak was barren; and from there one could
look out in all directions. If one gazed toward the east,
or south, or west, then there was hardly anything to
be seen but a poor highland with dark spruce-trees,
brown morasses, ice-clad lakes, and bluish mountainridges.
The boy couldn’t keep from thinking it was
true that the one who had created this hadn’t taken
very great pains with his work, but had thrown it together
in a hurry. But if one glanced to the north, it
was altogether different. Here it looked as if it had
been worked out with the utmost care and affection.
In this direction one saw only beautiful mountains, soft
valleys, and winding rivers, all the way to the big Lake
Vettern, which lay ice-free and transparently clear, and
shone as if it wasn’t filled with water but with blue
light.
It was Vettern that made it so pretty to look toward
the north, because it looked as though a blue stream
had risen up from the lake, and spread itself over land
also. Groves and hills and roofs, and the spires of
Joenkoeping City—which shimmered along Vettern’s
shores—lay enveloped in pale blue which caressed the
eye. If there were countries in heaven, they, too, must
be blue like this, thought the boy, and imagined that
he had gotten a faint idea of how it must look in Paradise.
Later in the day, when the geese continued their journey,
they flew up toward the blue valley. They were
in holiday humour; shrieked and made such a racket
that no one who had ears could help hearing them.
This happened to be the first really fine spring day
they had had in this section. Until now, the spring had
done its work under rain and bluster; and now, when
it had all of a sudden become fine weather, the people
were filled with such a longing after summer warmth
and green woods that they could hardly perform their
tasks. And when the wild geese rode by, high above
the ground, cheerful and free, there wasn’t one who did
not drop what he had in hand, and glance at them.
The first ones who saw the wild geese that day were
miners on Taberg, who were digging ore at the mouth
of the mine. When they heard them cackle, they
paused in their drilling for ore, and one of them called
to the birds: “Where are you going? Where are you
going?” The geese didn’t understand what he said,
but the boy leaned forward over the goose-back, and
answered for them: “Where there is neither pick nor
hammer.” When the miners heard the words, they
thought it was their own longing that made the goosecackle
sound like human speech. “Take us along with
you! Take us along with you!” they cried. “Not this
year,” shrieked the boy. “Not this year.”
The wild geese followed Taberg River down toward
Monk Lake, and all the while they made the same
racket. Here, on the narrow land-strip between Monk
and Vettern lakes, lay Joenkoeping with its great factories.
The wild geese rode first over Monksjoe paper
mills. The noon rest hour was just over, and the big
workmen were streaming down to the mill-gate. When
they heard the wild geese, they stopped a moment to
listen to them. “Where are you going? Where are you
going?” called the workmen. The wild geese understood
nothing of what they said, but the boy answered
for them: “There, where there are neither machines nor
steam-boxes.” When the workmen heard the answer,
they believed it was their own longing that made the
goose-cackle sound like human speech. “Take us along
with you!” “Not this year,” answered the boy. “Not
this year.”
Next, the geese rode over the well-known match factory,
which lies on the shores of Vettern—large as a
fortress—and lifts its high chimneys toward the sky.
Not a soul moved out in the yards; but in a large
hall young working-women sat and filled match-boxes.
They had opened a window on account of the beautiful
weather, and through it came the wild geese’s call.
The one who sat nearest the window, leaned out with
a match-box in her hand, and cried: “Where are you
going? Where are you going?” “To that land where
there is no need of either light or matches,” said the
boy. The girl thought that what she had heard was
only goose-cackle; but since she thought she had distinguished
a couple of words, she called out in answer:
“Take me along with you!” “Not this year,” replied the
boy. “Not this year.”
East of the factories rises Joenkoeping, on the most
glorious spot that any city can occupy. The narrow
Vettern has high, steep sand-shores, both on the eastern
and western sides; but straight south, the sandwalls
are broken down, just as if to make room for a
large gate, through which one reaches the lake. And
in the middle of the gate—with mountains to the left,
and mountains to the right, with Monk Lake behind
it, and Vettern in front of it—lies Joenkoeping.
The wild geese travelled forward over the long, narrow
city, and behaved themselves here just as they had
done in the country. But in the city there was no one
who answered them. It was not to be expected that
city folks should stop out in the streets, and call to the
wild geese.
The trip extended further along Vettern’s shores; and
after a little they came to Sanna Sanitarium. Some of
the patients had gone out on the veranda to enjoy the
spring air, and in this way they heard the goose-cackle.
“Where are you going?” asked one of them with such a
feeble voice that he was scarcely heard. “To that land
where there is neither sorrow nor sickness,” answered
the boy. “Take us along with you!” said the sick ones.
“Not this year,” answered the boy. “Not this year.”
When they had travelled still farther on, they came to
Huskvarna. It lay in a valley. The mountains around
it were steep and beautifully formed. A river rushed
along the heights in long and narrow falls. Big workshops
and factories lay below the mountain walls; and
scattered over the valley-bottom were the workingmens’
homes, encircled by little gardens; and in the
centre of the valley lay the schoolhouse. Just as the
wild geese came along, a bell rang, and a crowd of
school children marched out in line. They were so numerous
that the whole schoolyard was filled with them.
“Where are you going? Where are you going?” the children
shouted when they heard the wild geese. “Where
there are neither books nor lessons to be found,” answered
the boy. “Take us along!” shrieked the children.
“Not this year, but next,” cried the boy. “Not this year,
but next.”
Chapter 30
THE BIG BIRD LAKE
JARRO, THE WILD DUCK
On the eastern shore of Vettern lies Mount Omberg;
east of Omberg lies Dagmosse; east of Dagmosse lies
Lake Takern. Around the whole of Takern spreads the
big, even Oestergoeta plain.
Takern is a pretty large lake and in olden times it must
have been still larger. But then the people thought
it covered entirely too much of the fertile plain, so
they attempted to drain the water from it, that they
might sow and reap on the lake-bottom. But they
did not succeed in laying waste the entire lake—which
had evidently been their intention—therefore it still
hides a lot of land. Since the draining the lake has
become so shallow that hardly at any point is it more
than a couple of metres deep. The shores have become
marshy and muddy; and out in the lake, little mudislets
stick up above the water’s surface.
Now, there is one who loves to stand with his feet in the
water, if he can just keep his body and head in the air,
and that is the reed. And it cannot find a better place
to grow upon, than the long, shallow Takern shores,
and around the little mud-islets. It thrives so well that
it grows taller than a man’s height, and so thick that
it is almost impossible to push a boat through it. It
forms a broad green enclosure around the whole lake,
so that it is only accessible in a few places where the
people have taken away the reeds.
But if the reeds shut the people out, they give, in
return, shelter and protection to many other things.
In the reeds there are a lot of little dams and canals
with green, still water, where duckweed and pondweed
run to seed; and where gnat-eggs and blackfish and
worms are hatched out in uncountable masses. And
all along the shores of these little dams and canals,
there are many well-concealed places, where seabirds
hatch their eggs, and bring up their young without
being disturbed, either by enemies or food worries.
An incredible number of birds live in the Takern reeds;
and more and more gather there every year, as it becomes
known what a splendid abode it is. The first
who settled there were the wild ducks; and they still
live there by thousands. But they no longer own the
entire lake, for they have been obliged to share it with
swans, grebes, coots, loons, fen-ducks, and a lot of
others.
Takern is certainly the largest and choicest bird lake
in the whole country; and the birds may count themselves
lucky as long as they own such a retreat. But
it is uncertain just how long they will be in control
of reeds and mud-banks, for human beings cannot forget
that the lake extends over a considerable portion
of good and fertile soil; and every now and then the
proposition to drain it comes up among them. And
if these propositions were carried out, the many thousands
of water-birds would be forced to move from this
quarter.
At the time when Nils Holgersson travelled around
with the wild geese, there lived at Takern a wild duck
named Jarro. He was a young bird, who had only lived
one summer, one fall, and a winter; now, it was his first
spring. He had just returned from South Africa, and
had reached Takern in such good season that the ice
was still on the lake.
One evening, when he and the other young wild ducks
played at racing backward and forward over the lake,
a hunter fired a couple of shots at them, and Jarro
was wounded in the breast. He thought he should die;
but in order that the one who had shot him shouldn’t
get him into his power, he continued to fly as long
as he possibly could. He didn’t think whither he was
directing his course, but only struggled to get far away.
When his strength failed him, so that he could not fly
any farther, he was no longer on the lake. He had
flown a bit inland, and now he sank down before the
entrance to one of the big farms which lie along the
shores of Takern.
A moment later a young farm-hand happened along.
He saw Jarro, and came and lifted him up. But Jarro,
who asked for nothing but to be let die in peace, gathered
his last powers and nipped the farm-hand in the
finger, so he should let go of him.
Jarro didn’t succeed in freeing himself. The encounter
had this good in it at any rate: the farm-hand noticed
that the bird was alive. He carried him very gently
into the cottage, and showed him to the mistress of
the house—a young woman with a kindly face. At
once she took Jarro from the farm-hand, stroked him
on the back and wiped away the blood which trickled
down through the neck-feathers. She looked him over
very carefully; and when she saw how pretty he was,
with his dark-green, shining head, his white neck-band,
his brownish-red back, and his blue wing-mirror, she
must have thought that it was a pity for him to die.
She promptly put a basket in order, and tucked the
bird into it.
All the while Jarro fluttered and struggled to get loose;
but when he understood that the people didn’t intend
to kill him, he settled down in the basket with a sense
of pleasure. Now it was evident how exhausted he was
from pain and loss of blood. The mistress carried the
basket across the floor to place it in the corner by the
fireplace; but before she put it down Jarro was already
fast asleep.
In a little while Jarro was awakened by someone who
nudged him gently. When he opened his eyes he experienced
such an awful shock that he almost lost his
senses. Now he was lost; for there stood the one who
was more dangerous than either human beings or birds
of prey. It was no less a thing than Caesar himself—the
long-haired dog—who nosed around him inquisitively.
How pitifully scared had he not been last summer,
when he was still a little yellow-down duckling, every
time it had sounded over the reed-stems: “Caesar is
coming! Caesar is coming!” When he had seen the
brown and white spotted dog with the teeth-filled jowls
come wading through the reeds, he had believed that
he beheld death itself. He had always hoped that he
would never have to live through that moment when
he should meet Caesar face to face.
But, to his sorrow, he must have fallen down in the
very yard where Caesar lived, for there he stood right
over him. “Who are you?” he growled. “How did you
get into the house? Don’t you belong down among the
reed banks?”
It was with great difficulty that he gained the courage
to answer. “Don’t be angry with me, Caesar, because
I came into the house!” said he. “It isn’t my fault. I
have been wounded by a gunshot. It was the people
themselves who laid me in this basket.”
“Oho! so it’s the folks themselves that have placed you
here,” said Caesar. “Then it is surely their intention
to cure you; although, for my part, I think it would
be wiser for them to eat you up, since you are in their
power. But, at any rate, you are tabooed in the house.
You needn’t look so scared. Now, we’re not down on
Takern.”
With that Caesar laid himself to sleep in front of the
blazing log-fire. As soon as Jarro understood that this
terrible danger was past, extreme lassitude came over
him, and he fell asleep anew.
The next time Jarro awoke, he saw that a dish with
grain and water stood before him. He was still quite
ill, but he felt hungry nevertheless, and began to eat.
When the mistress saw that he ate, she came up and
petted him, and looked pleased. After that, Jarro fell
asleep again. For several days he did nothing but eat
and sleep.
One morning Jarro felt so well that he stepped from
the basket and wandered along the floor. But he hadn’t
gone very far before he keeled over, and lay there.
Then came Caesar, opened his big jaws and grabbed
him. Jarro believed, of course, that the dog was going
to bite him to death; but Caesar carried him back
to the basket without harming him. Because of this,
Jarro acquired such a confidence in the dog Caesar,
that on his next walk in the cottage, he went over to
the dog and lay down beside him. Thereafter Caesar
and he became good friends, and every day, for several
hours, Jarro lay and slept between Caesar’s paws.
But an even greater affection than he felt for Caesar,
did Jarro feel toward his mistress. Of her he had not
the least fear; but rubbed his head against her hand
when she came and fed him. Whenever she went out of
the cottage he sighed with regret; and when she came
back he cried welcome to her in his own language.
Jarro forgot entirely how afraid he had been of both
dogs and humans in other days. He thought now that
they were gentle and kind, and he loved them. He
wished that he were well, so he could fly down to Takern
and tell the wild ducks that their enemies were not
dangerous, and that they need not fear them.
He had observed that the human beings, as well as
Caesar, had calm eyes, which it did one good to look
into. The only one in the cottage whose glance he
did not care to meet, was Clawina, the house cat.
She did him no harm, either, but he couldn’t place
any confidence in her. Then, too, she quarrelled with
him constantly, because he loved human beings. “You
think they protect you because they are fond of you,”
said Clawina. “You just wait until you are fat enough!
Then they’ll wring the neck off you. I know them, I
do.”
Jarro, like all birds, had a tender and affectionate
heart; and he was unutterably distressed when he heard
this. He couldn’t imagine that his mistress would wish
to wring the neck off him, nor could he believe any such
thing of her son, the little boy who sat for hours beside
his basket, and babbled and chattered. He seemed to
think that both of them had the same love for him
that he had for them.
One day, when Jarro and Caesar lay on the usual spot
before the fire, Clawina sat on the hearth and began
to tease the wild duck.
“I wonder, Jarro, what you wild ducks will do next
year, when Takern is drained and turned into grain
fields?” said Clawina. “What’s that you say, Clawina?”
cried Jarro, and jumped up—scared through
and through. “I always forget, Jarro, that you do not
understand human speech, like Caesar and myself,” answered
the cat. “Or else you surely would have heard
how the men, who were here in the cottage yesterday,
said that all the water was going to be drained from
Takern, and that next year the lake-bottom would be
as dry as a house-floor. And now I wonder where you
wild ducks will go.” When Jarro heard this talk he was
so furious that he hissed like a snake. “You are just as
mean as a common coot!” he screamed at Clawina.
“You only want to incite me against human beings.
I don’t believe they want to do anything of the sort.
They must know that Takern is the wild ducks’ property.
Why should they make so many birds homeless
and unhappy? You have certainly hit upon all this to
scare me. I hope that you may be torn in pieces by
Gorgo, the eagle! I hope that my mistress will chop
off your whiskers!”
But Jarro couldn’t shut Clawina up with this outburst.
“So you think I’m lying,” said she. “Ask Caesar, then!
He was also in the house last night. Caesar never lies.”
“Caesar,” said Jarro, “you understand human speech
much better than Clawina. Say that she hasn’t heard
aright! Think how it would be if the people drained
Takern, and changed the lake-bottom into fields! Then
there would be no more pondweed or duck-food for the
grown wild ducks, and no blackfish or worms or gnateggs
for the ducklings. Then the reed-banks would
disappear—where now the ducklings conceal themselves
until they are able to fly. All ducks would be compelled
to move away from here and seek another home. But
where shall they find a retreat like Takern? Caesar,
say that Clawina has not heard aright!”
It was extraordinary to watch Caesar’s behaviour during
this conversation. He had been wide-awake the
whole time before, but now, when Jarro turned to him,
he panted, laid his long nose on his forepaws, and was
sound asleep within the wink of an eyelid.
The cat looked down at Caesar with a knowing smile.
“I believe that Caesar doesn’t care to answer you,” she
said to Jarro. “It is with him as with all dogs; they
will never acknowledge that humans can do any wrong.
But you can rely upon my word, at any rate. I shall
tell you why they wish to drain the lake just now. As
long as you wild ducks still had the power on Takern,
they did not wish to drain it, for, at least, they got
some good out of you; but now, grebes and coots and
other birds who are no good as food, have infested
nearly all the reed-banks, and the people don’t think
they need let the lake remain on their account.”
Jarro didn’t trouble himself to answer Clawina, but
raised his head, and shouted in Caesar’s ear: “Caesar!
You know that on Takern there are still so many
ducks left that they fill the air like clouds. Say it isn’t
true that human beings intend to make all of these
homeless!”
Then Caesar sprang up with such a sudden outburst
at Clawina that she had to save herself by jumping up
on a shelf. “I’ll teach you to keep quiet when I want
to sleep,” bawled Caesar. “Of course I know that there
is some talk about draining the lake this year. But
there’s been talk of this many times before without
anything coming of it. And that draining business is
a matter in which I take no stock whatever. For how
would it go with the game if Takern were laid waste.
You’re a donkey to gloat over a thing like that. What
will you and I have to amuse ourselves with, when
there are no more birds on Takern?”
Chapter 31
THE DECOY-DUCK
Sunday, April seventeenth.
A couple of days later Jarro was so well that he could
fly all about the house. Then he was petted a good
deal by the mistress, and the little boy ran out in the
yard and plucked the first grass-blades for him which
had sprung up. When the mistress caressed him, Jarro
thought that, although he was now so strong that he
could fly down to Takern at any time, he shouldn’t
care to be separated from the human beings. He had
no objection to remaining with them all his life.
But early one morning the mistress placed a halter,
or noose, over Jarro, which prevented him from using
his wings, and then she turned him over to the farmhand
who had found him in the yard. The farm-hand
poked him under his arm, and went down to Takern
with him.
The ice had melted away while Jarro had been ill. The
old, dry fall leaves still stood along the shores and
islets, but all the water-growths had begun to take root
down in the deep; and the green stems had already
reached the surface. And now nearly all the migratory
birds were at home. The curlews’ hooked bills peeped
out from the reeds. The grebes glided about with new
feather-collars around the neck; and the jack-snipes
were gathering straws for their nests.
The farm-hand got into a scow, laid Jarro in the bottom
of the boat, and began to pole himself out on the
lake. Jarro, who had now accustomed himself to expect
only good of human beings, said to Caesar, who
was also in the party, that he was very grateful toward
the farm-hand for taking him out on the lake. But
there was no need to keep him so closely guarded, for
he did not intend to fly away. To this Caesar made no
reply. He was very close-mouthed that morning.
The only thing which struck Jarro as being a bit peculiar
was that the farm-hand had taken his gun along.
He couldn’t believe that any of the good folk in the
cottage would want to shoot birds. And, beside, Caesar
had told him that the people didn’t hunt at this
time of the year. “It is a prohibited time,” he had said,
“although this doesn’t concern me, of course.”
The farm-hand went over to one of the little reedenclosed
mud-islets. There he stepped from the boat,
gathered some old reeds into a pile, and lay down behind
it. Jarro was permitted to wander around on the
ground, with the halter over his wings, and tethered
to the boat, with a long string.
Suddenly Jarro caught sight of some young ducks and
drakes, in whose company he had formerly raced backward
and forward over the lake. They were a long way
off, but Jarro called them to him with a couple of
loud shouts. They responded, and a large and beautiful
flock approached. Before they got there, Jarro
began to tell them about his marvellous rescue, and
of the kindness of human beings. Just then, two shots
sounded behind him. Three ducks sank down in the
reeds—lifeless—and Caesar bounced out and captured
them.
Then Jarro understood. The human beings had only
saved him that they might use him as a decoy-duck.
And they had also succeeded. Three ducks had died
on his account. He thought he should die of shame.
He thought that even his friend Caesar looked contemptuously
at him; and when they came home to the
cottage, he didn’t dare lie down and sleep beside the
dog.
The next morning Jarro was again taken out on the
shallows. This time, too, he saw some ducks. But
when he observed that they flew toward him, he called
to them: “Away! Away! Be careful! Fly in another direction!
There’s a hunter hidden behind the reed-pile.
I’m only a decoy-bird!” And he actually succeeded
in preventing them from coming within shooting distance.
Jarro had scarcely had time to taste of a grass-blade,
so busy was he in keeping watch. He called out his
warning as soon as a bird drew nigh. He even warned
the grebes, although he detested them because they
crowded the ducks out of their best hiding-places. But
he did not wish that any bird should meet with misfortune
on his account. And, thanks to Jarro’s vigilance,
the farm-hand had to go home without firing off a single
shot.
Despite this fact, Caesar looked less displeased than
on the previous day; and when evening came he took
Jarro in his mouth, carried him over to the fireplace,
and let him sleep between his forepaws.
Nevertheless Jarro was no longer contented in the cottage,
but was grievously unhappy. His heart suffered at
the thought that humans never had loved him. When
the mistress, or the little boy, came forward to caress
him, he stuck his bill under his wing and pretended
that he slept.
For several days Jarro continued his distressful watchservice;
and already he was known all over Takern.
Then it happened one morning, while he called as
usual: “Have a care, birds! Don’t come near me! I’m
only a decoy-duck,” that a grebe-nest came floating toward
the shallows where he was tied. This was nothing
especially remarkable. It was a nest from the year
before; and since grebe-nests are built in such a way
that they can move on water like boats, it often happens
that they drift out toward the lake. Still Jarro
stood there and stared at the nest, because it came
so straight toward the islet that it looked as though
someone had steered its course over the water.
As the nest came nearer, Jarro saw that a little human
being—the tiniest he had ever seen—sat in the nest
and rowed it forward with a pair of sticks. And this
little human called to him: “Go as near the water as
you can, Jarro, and be ready to fly. You shall soon be
freed.”
A few seconds later the grebe-nest lay near land, but
the little oarsman did not leave it, but sat huddled up
between branches and straw. Jarro too held himself
almost immovable. He was actually paralysed with
fear lest the rescuer should be discovered.
The next thing which occurred was that a flock of wild
geese came along. Then Jarro woke up to business,
and warned them with loud shrieks; but in spite of
this they flew backward and forward over the shallows
several times. They held themselves so high that they
were beyond shooting distance; still the farm-hand let
himself be tempted to fire a couple of shots at them.
These shots were hardly fired before the little creature
ran up on land, drew a tiny knife from its sheath, and,
with a couple of quick strokes, cut loose Jarro’s halter.
“Now fly away, Jarro, before the man has time to load
again!” cried he, while he himself ran down to the
grebe-nest and poled away from the shore.
The hunter had had his gaze fixed upon the geese, and
hadn’t observed that Jarro had been freed; but Caesar
had followed more carefully that which happened; and
just as Jarro raised his wings, he dashed forward and
grabbed him by the neck.
Jarro cried pitifully; and the boy who had freed him
said quietly to Caesar: “If you are just as honourable
as you look, surely you cannot wish to force a good
bird to sit here and entice others into trouble.”
When Caesar heard these words, he grinned viciously
with his upper lip, but the next second he dropped
Jarro. “Fly, Jarro!” said he. “You are certainly too
good to be a decoy-duck. It wasn’t for this that I
wanted to keep you here; but because it will be lonely
in the cottage without you.”
Chapter 32
THE LOWERING OF
THE LAKE
Wednesday, April twentieth.
It was indeed very lonely in the cottage without Jarro.
The dog and the cat found the time long, when they
didn’t have him to wrangle over; and the housewife
missed the glad quacking which he had indulged in
every time she entered the house. But the one who
longed most for Jarro, was the little boy, Per Ola. He
was but three years old, and the only child; and in
all his life he had never had a playmate like Jarro.
When he heard that Jarro had gone back to Takern
and the wild ducks, he couldn’t be satisfied with this,
but thought constantly of how he should get him back
again.
Per Ola had talked a good deal with Jarro while he lay
still in his basket, and he was certain that the duck understood
him. He begged his mother to take him down
to the lake that he might find Jarro, and persuade him
to come back to them. Mother wouldn’t listen to this;
but the little one didn’t give up his plan on that account.
The day after Jarro had disappeared, Per Ola was running
about in the yard. He played by himself as usual,
but Caesar lay on the stoop; and when mother let the
boy out, she said: “Take care of Per Ola, Caesar!”
Now if all had been as usual, Caesar would also have
obeyed the command, and the boy would have been
so well guarded that he couldn’t have run the least
risk. But Caesar was not like himself these days. He
knew that the farmers who lived along Takern had
held frequent conferences about the lowering of the
lake; and that they had almost settled the matter. The
ducks must leave, and Caesar should nevermore behold
a glorious chase. He was so preoccupied with thoughts
of this misfortune, that he did not remember to watch
over Per Ola.
And the little one had scarcely been alone in the yard a
minute, before he realised that now the right moment
was come to go down to Takern and talk with Jarro.
He opened a gate, and wandered down toward the lake
on the narrow path which ran along the banks. As
long as he could be seen from the house, he walked
slowly; but afterward he increased his pace. He was
very much afraid that mother, or someone else, should
call to him that he couldn’t go. He didn’t wish to
do anything naughty, only to persuade Jarro to come
home; but he felt that those at home would not have
approved of the undertaking.
When Per Ola came down to the lake-shore, he called
Jarro several times. Thereupon he stood for a long
time and waited, but no Jarro appeared. He saw several
birds that resembled the wild duck, but they flew
by without noticing him, and he could understand that
none among them was the right one.
When Jarro didn’t come to him, the little boy thought
that it would be easier to find him if he went out on
the lake. There were several good craft lying along the
shore, but they were tied. The only one that lay loose,
and at liberty, was an old leaky scow which was so unfit
that no one thought of using it. But Per Ola scrambled
up in it without caring that the whole bottom was
filled with water. He had not strength enough to use
the oars, but instead, he seated himself to swing and
rock in the scow. Certainly no grown person would
have succeeded in moving a scow out on Takern in
that manner; but when the tide is high—and ill-luck
to the fore—little children have a marvellous faculty
for getting out to sea. Per Ola was soon riding around
on Takern, and calling for Jarro.
When the old scow was rocked like this—out to sea—
its Cracks opened wider and wider, and the water actually
streamed into it. Per Ola didn’t pay the slightest
attention to this. He sat upon the little bench in front
and called to every bird he saw, and wondered why
Jarro didn’t appear.
At last Jarro caught sight of Per Ola. He heard that
someone called him by the name which he had borne
among human beings, and he understood that the boy
had gone out on Takern to search for him. Jarro was
unspeakably happy to find that one of the humans really
loved him. He shot down toward Per Ola, like an
arrow, seated himself beside him, and let him caress
him. They were both very happy to see each other
again. But suddenly Jarro noticed the condition of
the scow. It was half-filled with water, and was almost
ready to sink. Jarro tried to tell Per Ola that he,
who could neither fly nor swim, must try to get upon
land; but Per Ola didn’t understand him. Then Jarro
did not wait an instant, but hurried away to get help.
Jarro came back in a little while, and carried on his
back a tiny thing, who was much smaller than Per Ola
himself. If he hadn’t been able to talk and move, the
boy would have believed that it was a doll. Instantly,
the little one ordered Per Ola to pick up a long, slender
pole that lay in the bottom of the scow, and try to
pole it toward one of the reed-islands. Per Ola obeyed
him, and he and the tiny creature, together, steered
the scow. With a couple of strokes they were on a
little reed-encircled island, and now Per Ola was told
that he must step on land. And just the very moment
that Per Ola set foot on land, the scow was filled with
water, and sank to the bottom. When Per Ola saw
this he was sure that father and mother would be very
angry with him. He would have started in to cry if
he hadn’t found something else to think about soon;
namely, a flock of big, gray birds, who lighted on the
island. The little midget took him up to them, and
told him their names, and what they said. And this
was so funny that Per Ola forgot everything else.
Meanwhile the folks on the farm had discovered that
the boy had disappeared, and had started to search
for him. They searched the outhouses, looked in the
well, and hunted through the cellar. Then they went
out into the highways and by-paths; wandered to the
neighbouring farm to find out if he had strayed over
there, and searched for him also down by Takern. But
no matter how much they sought they did not find
him.
Caesar, the dog, understood very well that the farmerfolk
were looking for Per Ola, but he did nothing to
lead them on the right track; instead, he lay still as
though the matter didn’t concern him.
Later in the day, Per Ola’s footprints were discovered
down by the boat-landing. And then came the thought
that the old, leaky scow was no longer on the strand.
Then one began to understand how the whole affair
had come about.
The farmer and his helpers immediately took out the
boats and went in search of the boy. They rowed
around on Takern until way late in the evening, without
seeing the least shadow of him. They couldn’t help
believing that the old scow had gone down, and that
the little one lay dead on the lake-bottom.
In the evening, Per Ola’s mother hunted around on
the strand. Everyone else was convinced that the boy
was drowned, but she could not bring herself to believe
this. She searched all the while. She searched
between reeds and bulrushes; tramped and tramped
on the muddy shore, never thinking of how deep her
foot sank, and how wet she had become. She was unspeakably
desperate. Her heart ached in her breast.
She did not weep, but wrung her hands and called for
her child in loud piercing tones.
Round about her she heard swans’ and ducks’ and
curlews’ shrieks. She thought that they followed her,
and moaned and wailed—they too. “Surely, they, too,
must be in trouble, since they moan so,” thought she.
Then she remembered: these were only birds that she
heard complain. They surely had no worries.
It was strange that they did not quiet down after sunset.
But she heard all these uncountable bird-throngs,
which lived along Takern, send forth cry upon cry.
Several of them followed her wherever she went; others
came rustling past on light wings. All the air was filled
with moans and lamentations.
But the anguish which she herself was suffering, opened
her heart. She thought that she was not as far removed
from all other living creatures as people usually
think. She understood much better than ever before,
how birds fared. They had their constant worries for
home and children; they, as she. There was surely not
such a great difference between them and her as she
had heretofore believed.
Then she happened to think that it was as good as
settled that these thousands of swans and ducks and
loons would lose their homes here by Takern. “It will
be very hard for them,” she thought. “Where shall
they bring up their children now?”
She stood still and mused on this. It appeared to be
an excellent and agreeable accomplishment to change
a lake into fields and meadows, but let it be some other
lake than Takern; some other lake, which was not the
home of so many thousand creatures.
She remembered how on the following day the proposition
to lower the lake was to be decided, and she wondered
if this was why her little son had been lost—just
to-day.
Was it God’s meaning that sorrow should come and
open her heart—just to-day—before it was too late to
avert the cruel act?
She walked rapidly up to the house, and began to talk
with her husband about this. She spoke of the lake,
and of the birds, and said that she believed it was
God’s judgment on them both. And she soon found
that he was of the same opinion.
They already owned a large place, but if the lakedraining
was carried into effect, such a goodly portion
of the lake-bottom would fall to their share that their
property would be nearly doubled. For this reason
they had been more eager for the undertaking than
any of the other shore owners. The others had been
worried about expenses, and anxious lest the draining
should not prove any more successful this time than
it was the last. Per Ola’s father knew in his heart
that it was he who had influenced them to undertake
the work. He had exercised all his eloquence, so that
he might leave to his son a farm as large again as his
father had left to him.
He stood and pondered if God’s hand was back of the
fact that Takern had taken his son from him on the day
before he was to draw up the contract to lay it waste.
The wife didn’t have to say many words to him, before
he answered: “It may be that God does not want us
to interfere with His order. I’ll talk with the others
about this to-morrow, and I think we’ll conclude that
all may remain as it is.”
While the farmer-folk were talking this over, Caesar
lay before the fire. He raised his head and listened
very attentively. When he thought that he was sure of
the outcome, he walked up to the mistress, took her by
the skirt, and led her to the door. “But Caesar!” said
she, and wanted to break loose. “Do you know where
Per Ola is?” she exclaimed. Caesar barked joyfully,
and threw himself against the door. She opened it,
and Caesar dashed down toward Takern. The mistress
was so positive he knew where Per Ola was, that she
rushed after him. And no sooner had they reached the
shore than they heard a child’s cry out on the lake.
Per Ola had had the best day of his life, in company
with Thumbietot and the birds; but now he had begun
to cry because he was hungry and afraid of the darkness.
And he was glad when father and mother and
Caesar came for him.
Chapter 33
ULVASA-LADY
THE PROPHECY
Friday, April twenty-second.
One night when the boy lay and slept on an island
in Takern, he was awakened by oar-strokes. He had
hardly gotten his eyes open before there fell such a
dazzling light on them that he began to blink.
At first he couldn’t make out what it was that shone so
brightly out here on the lake; but he soon saw that a
scow with a big burning torch stuck up on a spike, aft,
lay near the edge of the reeds. The red flame from the
torch was clearly reflected in the night-dark lake; and
the brilliant light must have lured the fish, for round
about the flame in the deep a mass of dark specks were
seen, that moved continually, and changed places.
There were two old men in the scow. One sat at the
oars, and the other stood on a bench in the stern and
held in his hand a short spear which was coarsely
barbed. The one who rowed was apparently a poor
fisherman. He was small, dried-up and weather-beaten,
and wore a thin, threadbare coat. One could see that
he was so used to being out in all sorts of weather that
he didn’t mind the cold. The other was well fed and
well dressed, and looked like a prosperous and selfcomplacent
farmer.
“Now, stop!” said the farmer, when they were opposite
the island where the boy lay. At the same time he
plunged the spear into the water. When he drew it
out again, a long, fine eel came with it.
“Look at that!” said he as he released the eel from the
spear. “That was one who was worth while. Now I
think we have so many that we can turn back.”
His comrade did not lift the oars, but sat and looked
around. “It is lovely out here on the lake to-night,”
said he. And so it was. It was absolutely still, so that
the entire water-surface lay in undisturbed rest with
the exception of the streak where the boat had gone
forward. This lay like a path of gold, and shimmered
in the firelight. The sky was clear and dark blue and
thickly studded with stars. The shores were hidden by
the reed islands except toward the west. There Mount
Omberg loomed up high and dark, much more impressive
than usual, and, cut away a big, three-cornered
piece of the vaulted heavens.
The other one turned his head to get the light out of
his eyes, and looked about him. “Yes, it is lovely here
in Oestergylln,” said he. “Still the best thing about
the province is not its beauty.” “Then what is it that’s
best?” asked the oarsman. “That it has always been
a respected and honoured province.” “That may be
true enough.” “And then this, that one knows it will
always continue to be so.” “But how in the world can
one know this?” said the one who sat at the oars.
The farmer straightened up where he stood and braced
himself with the spear. “There is an old story which
has been handed down from father to son in my family;
and in it one learns what will happen to Oestergoetland.”
“Then you may as well tell it to me,” said the
oarsman. “We do not tell it to anyone and everyone,
but I do not wish to keep it a secret from an old comrade.
“At Ulvasa, here in Oestergoetland,” he continued (and
one could tell by the tone of his voice that he talked of
something which he had heard from others, and knew
by heart), “many, many years ago, there lived a lady
who had the gift of looking into the future, and telling
people what was going to happen to them—just as
certainly and accurately as though it had already occurred.
For this she became widely noted; and it is
easy to understand that people would come to her,
both from far and near, to find out what they were
going to pass through of good or evil.
“One day, when Ulvasa-lady sat in her hall and spun,
as was customary in former days, a poor peasant came
into the room and seated himself on the bench near the
door.
“ ‘I wonder what you are sitting and thinking about,
dear lady,’ said the peasant after a little.
“ ‘I am sitting and thinking about high and holy things,’
answered she. ’Then it is not fitting, perhaps, that I
ask you about something which weighs on my heart,’
said the peasant.
“’It is probably nothing else that weighs on your heart
than that you may reap much grain on your field. But
I am accustomed to receive communications from the
Emperor about how it will go with his crown; and from
the Pope, about how it will go with his keys.’ ’Such
things cannot be easy to answer,’ said the peasant.
’I have also heard that no one seems to go from here
without being dissatisfied with what he has heard.’
“When the peasant said this, he saw that Ulvasa-lady
bit her lip, and moved higher up on the bench. ‘So this
is what you have heard about me,’ said she. ’Then
you may as well tempt fortune by asking me about
the thing you wish to know; and you shall see if I can
answer so that you will be satisfied.’
“After this the peasant did not hesitate to state his errand.
He said that he had come to ask how it would go
with Oestergoetland in the future. There was nothing
which was so dear to him as his native province, and
he felt that he should be happy until his dying day if
he could get a satisfactory reply to his query.
“‘Oh! is that all you wish to know,’ said the wise lady;
’then I think that you will be content. For here where
I now sit, I can tell you that it will be like this with
Oestergoetland: it will always have something to boast
of ahead of other provinces.’
“‘Yes, that was a good answer, dear lady,’ said the
peasant, ’and now I would be entirely at peace if I
could only comprehend how such a thing should be
possible.’
“‘Why should it not be possible?’ said Ulvasa-lady.
’Don’t you know that Oestergoetland is already renowned?
Or think you there is any place in Sweden that can
boast of owning, at the same time, two such cloisters
as the ones in Alvastra and Vreta, and such a beautiful
cathedral as the one in Linkoeping?’
“‘That may be so,’ said the peasant. ’But I’m an old
man, and I know that people’s minds are changeable.
I fear that there will come a time when they won’t
want to give us any glory, either for Alvastra or Vreta
or for the cathedral.’
“‘Herein you may be right,’ said Ulvasa-lady, ’but you
need not doubt prophecy on that account. I shall now
build up a new cloister on Vadstena, and that will
become the most celebrated in the North. Thither
both the high and the lowly shall make pilgrimages,
and all shall sing the praises of the province because
it has such a holy place within its confines.’
“The peasant replied that he was right glad to know
this. But he also knew, of course, that everything was
perishable; and he wondered much what would give
distinction to the province, if Vadstena Cloister should
once fall into disrepute.
“‘You are not easy to satisfy,’ said Ulvasa-lady, ’but
surely I can see so far ahead that I can tell you, before
Vadstena Cloister shall have lost its splendour, there
will be a castle erected close by, which will be the
most magnificent of its period. Kings and dukes will
be guests there, and it shall be accounted an honour
to the whole province, that it owns such an ornament.’
“‘This I am also glad to hear,’ said the peasant. ’But
I’m an old man, and I know how it generally turns out
with this world’s glories. And if the castle goes to ruin,
I wonder much what there will be that can attract the
people’s attention to this province.’
“ ‘It’s not a little that you want to know,’ said Ulvasalady,
’but, certainly, I can look far enough into the
future to see that there will be life and movement in the
forests around Finspang. I see how cabins and smithies
arise there, and I believe that the whole province shall
be renowned because iron will be moulded within its
confines.’
“The peasant didn’t deny that he was delighted to
hear this. ’But if it should go so badly that even
Finspang’s foundry went down in importance, then it
would hardly be possible that any new thing could
arise of which Oestergoetland might boast.’
“‘You are not easy to please,’ said Ulvasa-lady, ’but I
can see so far into the future that I mark how, along
the lake-shores, great manors—large as castles—are
built by gentlemen who have carried on wars in foreign
lands. I believe that the manors will bring the
province just as much honour as anything else that I
have mentioned.’
“‘But if there comes a time when no one lauds the
great manors?’ insisted the peasant.
“‘You need not be uneasy at all events,’ said Ulvasalady.
I see how health-springs bubble on Medevi meadows,
by Vaetter’s shores. I believe that the wells at
Medevi will bring the land as much praise as you can
desire.’
“‘That is a mighty good thing to know,’ said the peasant.
’But if there comes a time when people will seek
their health at other springs?’
“‘You must not give yourself any anxiety on that account,’
answered Ulvasa-lady. I see how people dig
and labour, from Motala to Mem. They dig a canal
right through the country, and then Oestergoetland’s
praise is again on everyone’s lips.’
“But, nevertheless, the peasant looked distraught.
“ ‘I see that the rapids in Motala stream begin to draw
wheels,’ said Ulvasa-lady—and now two bright red spots
came to her cheeks, for she began to be impatient—’I
hear hammers resound in Motala, and looms clatter in
Norrkoeping.’
“‘Yes, that’s good to know,’ said the peasant, ’but everything
is perishable, and I’m afraid that even this
can be forgotten, and go into oblivion.’
“When the peasant was not satisfied even now, there
was an end to the lady’s patience. ‘You say that everything
is perishable,’ said she, ’but now I shall still
name something which will always be like itself; and
that is that such arrogant and pig-headed peasants as
you will always be found in this province—until the
end of time.’
“Hardly had Ulvasa-lady said this before the peasant
rose—happy and satisfied—and thanked her for a good
answer. Now, at last, he was satisfied, he said.
“‘Verily, I understand now how you look at it,’ then
said Ulvasa-lady.
“‘Well, I look at it in this way, dear lady,’ said the
peasant, ’that everything which kings and priests and
noblemen and merchants build and accomplish, can
only endure for a few years. But when you tell me
that in Oestergoetland there will always be peasants
who are honour-loving and persevering, then I know
also that it will be able to keep its ancient glory. For
it is only those who go bent under the eternal labour
with the soil, who can hold this land in good repute
and honour—from one time to another.” ’
Chapter 34
THE HOMESPUN
CLOTH
Saturday, April twenty-third.
The boy rode forward—way up in the air. He had
the great Oestergoetland plain under him, and sat and
counted the many white churches which towered above
the small leafy groves around them. It wasn’t long before
he had counted fifty. After that he became confused
and couldn’t keep track of the counting.
Nearly all the farms were built up with large, whitewashed
two-story houses, which looked so imposing
that the boy couldn’t help admiring them. “There
can’t be any peasants in this land,” he said to himself,
“since I do not see any peasant farms.”
Immediately all the wild geese shrieked: “Here the
peasants live like gentlemen. Here the peasants live
like gentlemen.”
On the plains the ice and snow had disappeared, and
the spring work had begun. “What kind of long crabs
are those that creep over the fields?” asked the boy
after a bit. “Ploughs and oxen. Ploughs and oxen,”
answered the wild geese.
The oxen moved so slowly down on the fields, that one
could scarcely perceive they were in motion, and the
geese shouted to them: “You won’t get there before
next year. You won’t get there before next year.” But
the oxen were equal to the occasion. They raised their
muzzles in the air and bellowed: “We do more good in
an hour than such as you do in a whole lifetime.”
In a few places the ploughs were drawn by horses.
They went along with much more eagerness and haste
than the oxen; but the geese couldn’t keep from teasing
these either. “Ar’n’t you ashamed to be doing
ox-duty?” cried the wild geese. “Ar’n’t you ashamed
yourselves to be doing lazy man’s duty?” the horses
neighed back at them.
But while horses and oxen were at work in the fields,
the stable ram walked about in the barnyard. He
was newly clipped and touchy, knocked over the small
boys, chased the shepherd dog into his kennel, and
then strutted about as though he alone were lord of
the whole place. “Rammie, rammie, what have you
done with your wool?” asked the wild geese, who rode
by up in the air. “That I have sent to Drag’s woollen
mills in Norrkoeping,” replied the ram with a long,
drawn-out bleat. “Rammie, rammie, what have you
done with your horns?” asked the geese. But any
horns the rammie had never possessed, to his sorrow,
and one couldn’t offer him a greater insult than to ask
after them. He ran around a long time, and butted at
the air, so furious was he.
On the country road came a man who drove a flock of
Skane pigs that were not more than a few weeks old,
and were going to be sold up country. They trotted
along bravely, as little as they were, and kept close
together—as if they sought protection. “Nuff, nuff,
nuff, we came away too soon from father and mother.
Nuff, nuff, nuff, how will it go with us poor children?”
said the little pigs. The wild geese didn’t have the
heart to tease such poor little creatures. “It will be
better for you than you can ever believe,” they cried
as they flew past them.
The wild geese were never so merry as when they flew
over a flat country. Then they did not hurry themselves,
but flew from farm to farm, and joked with the
tame animals.
As the boy rode over the plain, he happened to think
of a legend which he had heard a long time ago. He
didn’t remember it exactly, but it was something about
a petticoat—half of which was made of gold-woven velvet,
and half of gray homespun cloth. But the one who
owned the petticoat adorned the homespun cloth with
such a lot of pearls and precious stones that it looked
richer and more gorgeous than the gold-cloth.
He remembered this about the homespun cloth, as he
looked down on Oestergoetland, because it was made
up of a large plain, which lay wedged in between two
mountainous forest-tracts—one to the north, the other
to the south. The two forest-heights lay there, a lovely
blue, and shimmered in the morning light, as if they
were decked with golden veils; and the plain, which
simply spread out one winter-naked field after another,
was, in and of itself, prettier to look upon than gray
homespun.
But the people must have been contented on the plain,
because it was generous and kind, and they had tried
to decorate it in the best way possible. High up—
where the boy rode by—he thought that cities and
farms, churches and factories, castles and railway stations
were scattered over it, like large and small trinkets.
It shone on the roofs, and the window-panes
glittered like jewels. Yellow country roads, shining
railway-tracks and blue canals ran along between the
districts like embroidered loops. Linkoeping lay around
its cathedral like a pearl-setting around a precious
stone; and the gardens in the country were like little
brooches and buttons. There was not much regulation
in the pattern, but it was a display of grandeur which
one could never tire of looking at.
The geese had left Oeberg district, and travelled toward
the east along Goeta Canal. This was also getting
itself ready for the summer. Workmen laid canalbanks,
and tarred the huge lock-gates. They were
working everywhere to receive spring fittingly, even in
the cities. There, masons and painters stood on scaffoldings
and made fine the exteriors of the houses while
maids were cleaning the windows. Down at the harbour,
sailboats and steamers were being washed and
dressed up.
At Norrkoeping the wild geese left the plain, and flew
up toward Kolmarden. For a time they had followed
an old, hilly country road, which wound around cliffs,
and ran forward under wild mountain-walls—when the
boy suddenly let out a shriek. He had been sitting and
swinging his foot back and forth, and one of his wooden
shoes had slipped off.
“Goosey-gander, goosey-gander, I have dropped my
shoe!” cried the boy. The goosey-gander turned about
and sank toward the ground; then the boy saw that
two children, who were walking along the road, had
picked up his shoe. “Goosey-gander, goosey-gander,”
screamed the boy excitedly, “fly upward again! It is
too late. I cannot get my shoe back again.”
Down on the road stood Osa, the goose-girl, and her
brother, little Mats, looking at a tiny wooden shoe
that had fallen from the skies.
Osa, the goose-girl, stood silent a long while, and pondered
over the find. At last she said, slowly and thoughtfully:
“Do you remember, little Mats, that when we
went past Oevid Cloister, we heard that the folks in a
farmyard had seen an elf who was dressed in leather
breeches, and had wooden shoes on his feet, like any
other working man? And do you recollect when we
came to Vittskoevle, a girl told us that she had seen a
Goa-Nisse with wooden shoes, who flew away on the
back of a goose? And when we ourselves came home
to our cabin, little Mats, we saw a goblin who was
dressed in the same way, and who also straddled the
back of a goose—and flew away. Maybe it was the
same one who rode along on his goose up here in the
air and dropped his wooden shoe.”
“Yes, it must have been,” said little Mats.
They turned the wooden shoe about and examined
it carefully—for it isn’t every day that one happens
across a Goa-Nisse’s wooden shoe on the highway.
“Wait, wait, little Mats!” said Osa, the goose-girl.
“There is something written on one side of it.”
“Why, so there is! but they are such tiny letters.”
“Let me see! It says—it says: ‘Nils Holgersson from
W. Vemminghoeg.’ That’s the most wonderful thing
I’ve ever heard!” said little Mats.
Chapter 35
THE STORY OF
KARR AND
GRAYSKIN
KARR
About twelve years before Nils Holgersson started on
his travels with the wild geese there was a manufacturer
at Kolmarden who wanted to be rid of one of his
dogs. He sent for his game-keeper and said to him that
it was impossible to keep the dog because he could not
be broken of the habit of chasing all the sheep and fowl
he set eyes on, and he asked the man to take the dog
into the forest and shoot him.
The game-keeper slipped the leash on the dog to lead
him to a spot in the forest where all the superannuated
dogs from the manor were shot and buried. He was not
a cruel man, but he was very glad to shoot that dog,
for he knew that sheep and chickens were not the only
creatures he hunted. Times without number he had
gone into the forest and helped himself to a hare or a
grouse-chick.
The dog was a little black-and-tan setter. His name
was Karr, and he was so wise he understood all that
was said.
As the game-keeper was leading him through the thickets,
Karr knew only too well what was in store for him.
But this no one could have guessed by his behaviour,
for he neither hung his head nor dragged his tail, but
seemed as unconcerned as ever.
It was because they were in the forest that the dog was
so careful not to appear the least bit anxious.
There were great stretches of woodland on every side of
the factory, and this forest was famed both among animals
and human beings because for many, many years
the owners had been so careful of it that they had begrudged
themselves even the trees needed for firewood.
Nor had they had the heart to thin or train them. The
trees had been allowed to grow as they pleased. Naturally
a forest thus protected was a beloved refuge for
wild animals, which were to be found there in great
numbers. Among themselves they called it Liberty
Forest, and regarded it as the best retreat in the whole
country.
As the dog was being led through the woods he thought
of what a bugaboo he had been to all the small animals
and birds that lived there.
“Now, Karr, wouldn’t they be happy in their lairs if
they only knew what was awaiting you?” he thought,
but at the same time he wagged his tail and barked
cheerfully, so that no one should think that he was
worried or depressed.
“What fun would there have been in living had I not
hunted occasionally?” he reasoned. “Let him who will,
regret; it’s not going to be Karr!”
But the instant the dog said this, a singular change
came over him. He stretched his neck as though he
had a mind to howl. He no longer trotted alongside
the game-keeper, but walked behind him. It was plain
that he had begun to think of something unpleasant.
It was early summer; the elk cows had just given birth
to their young, and, the night before, the dog had
succeeded in parting from its mother an elk calf not
more than five days old, and had driven it down into
the marsh. There he had chased it back and forth
over the knolls—not with the idea of capturing it, but
merely for the sport of seeing how he could scare it.
The elk cow knew that the marsh was bottomless so
soon after the thaw, and that it could not as yet hold
up so large an animal as herself, so she stood on the
solid earth for the longest time, watching! But when
Karr kept chasing the calf farther and farther away,
she rushed out on the marsh, drove the dog off, took
the calf with her, and turned back toward firm land.
Elk are more skilled than other animals in traversing
dangerous, marshy ground, and it seemed as if she
would reach solid land in safety; but when she was
almost there a knoll which she had stepped upon sank
into the mire, and she went down with it. She tried to
rise, but could get no secure foothold, so she sank and
sank. Karr stood and looked on, not daring to move.
When he saw that the elk could not save herself, he ran
away as fast as he could, for he had begun to think of
the beating he would get if it were discovered that he
had brought a mother elk to grief. He was so terrified
that he dared not pause for breath until he reached
home.
It was this that the dog recalled; and it troubled him
in a way very different from the recollection of all his
other misdeeds. This was doubtless because he had
not really meant to kill either the elk cow or her calf,
but had deprived them of life without wishing to do
so.
“But maybe they are alive yet!” thought the dog.
“They were not dead when I ran away; perhaps they
saved themselves.”
He was seized with an irresistible longing to know for
a certainty while yet there was time for him to find
out. He noticed that the game-keeper did not have a
firm hold on the leash; so he made a sudden spring,
broke loose, and dashed through the woods down to
the marsh with such speed that he was out of sight
before the game-keeper had time to level his gun.
There was nothing for the game-keeper to do but to
rush after him. When he got to the marsh he found
the dog standing upon a knoll, howling with all his
might.
The man thought he had better find out the meaning
of this, so he dropped his gun and crawled out over
the marsh on hands and knees. He had not gone far
when he saw an elk cow lying dead in the quagmire.
Close beside her lay a little calf. It was still alive,
but so much exhausted that it could not move. Karr
was standing beside the calf, now bending down and
licking it, now howling shrilly for help.
The game-keeper raised the calf and began to drag
it toward land. When the dog understood that the
calf would be saved he was wild with joy. He jumped
round and round the game-keeper, licking his hands
and barking with delight.
The man carried the baby elk home and shut it up in
a calf stall in the cow shed. Then he got help to drag
the mother elk from the marsh. Only after this had
been done did he remember that he was to shoot Karr.
He called the dog to him, and again took him into the
forest.
The game-keeper walked straight on toward the dog’s
grave; but all the while he seemed to be thinking deeply.
Suddenly he turned and walked toward the manor.
Karr had been trotting along quietly; but when the
game-keeper turned and started for home, he became
anxious. The man must have discovered that it was
he that had caused the death of the elk, and now he
was going back to the manor to be thrashed before he
was shot!
To be beaten was worse than all else! With that
prospect Karr could no longer keep up his spirits, but
hung his head. When he came to the manor he did
not look up, but pretended that he knew no one there.
The master was standing on the stairs leading to the
hall when the game-keeper came forward.
“Where on earth did that dog come from?” he exclaimed.
“Surely it can’t be Karr? He must be dead
this long time!”
Then the man began to tell his master all about the
mother elk, while Karr made himself as little as he
could, and crouched behind the game-keeper’s legs.
Much to his surprise the man had only praise for him.
He said it was plain the dog knew that the elk were in
distress, and wished to save them.
“You may do as you like, but I can’t shoot that dog!”
declared the game-keeper.
Karr raised himself and pricked up his ears. He could
hardly believe that he heard aright. Although he did
not want to show how anxious he had been, he couldn’t
help whining a little. Could it be possible that his life
was to be spared simply because he had felt uneasy
about the elk?
The master thought that Karr had conducted himself
well, but as he did not want the dog, he could not
decide at once what should be done with him.
“If you will take charge of him and answer for his good
behaviour in the future, he may as well live,” he said,
finally.
This the game-keeper was only too glad to do, and
that was how Karr came to move to the game-keeper’s
lodge.
Chapter 36
GRAYSKIN’S FLIGHT
From the day that Karr went to live with the gamekeeper
he abandoned entirely his forbidden chase in
the forest. This was due not only to his having been
thoroughly frightened, but also to the fact that he did
not wish to make the game-keeper angry at him. Ever
since his new master saved his life the dog loved him
above everything else. He thought only of following
him and watching over him. If he left the house, Karr
would run ahead to make sure that the way was clear,
and if he sat at home, Karr would lie before the door
and keep a close watch on every one who came and
went.
When all was quiet at the lodge, when no footsteps
were heard on the road, and the game-keeper was
working in his garden, Karr would amuse himself playing
with the baby elk.
At first the dog had no desire to leave his master even
for a moment. Since he accompanied him everywhere,
he went with him to the cow shed. When he gave the
elk calf its milk, the dog would sit outside the stall and
gaze at it. The game-keeper called the calf Grayskin
because he thought it did not merit a prettier name,
and Karr agreed with him on that point.
Every time the dog looked at it he thought that he
had never seen anything so ugly and misshapen as the
baby elk, with its long, shambly legs, which hung down
from the body like loose stilts. The head was large, old,
and wrinkled, and it always drooped to one side. The
skin lay in tucks and folds, as if the animal had put
on a coat that had not been made for him. Always
doleful and discontented, curiously enough he jumped
up every time Karr appeared as if glad to see him.
The elk calf became less hopeful from day to day, did
not grow any, and at last he could not even rise when
he saw Karr. Then the dog jumped up into the crib to
greet him, and thereupon a light kindled in the eyes
of the poor creature—as if a cherished longing were
fulfilled.
After that Karr visited the elk calf every day, and spent
many hours with him, licking his coat, playing and racing
with him, till he taught him a little of everything
a forest animal should know.
It was remarkable that, from the time Karr began to
visit the elk calf in his stall, the latter seemed more
contented, and began to grow. After he was fairly
started, he grew so rapidly that in a couple of weeks
the stall could no longer hold him, and he had to be
moved into a grove.
When he had been in the grove two months his legs
were so long that he could step over the fence whenever
he wished. Then the lord of the manor gave the
game-keeper permission to put up a higher fence and
to allow him more space. Here the elk lived for several
years, and grew up into a strong and handsome animal.
Karr kept him company as often as he could; but now
it was no longer through pity, for a great friendship
had sprung up between the two. The elk was always
inclined to be melancholy, listless, and, indifferent, but
Karr knew how to make him playful and happy.
Grayskin had lived for five summers on the gamekeeper’s
place, when his owner received a letter from
a zooelogical garden abroad asking if the elk might be
purchased.
The master was pleased with the proposal, the gamekeeper
was distressed, but had not the power to say
no; so it was decided that the elk should be sold. Karr
soon discovered what was in the air and ran over to the
elk to have a chat with him. The dog was very much
distressed at the thought of losing his friend, but the
elk took the matter calmly, and seemed neither glad
nor sorry.
“Do you think of letting them send you away without
offering resistance?” asked Karr.
“What good would it do to resist?” asked Grayskin. “I
should prefer to remain where I am, naturally, but if
I’ve been sold, I shall have to go, of course.”
Karr looked at Grayskin and measured him with his
eyes. It was apparent that the elk was not yet full
grown. He did not have the broad antlers, high hump,
and long mane of the mature elk; but he certainly had
strength enough to fight for his freedom.
“One can see that he has been in captivity all his life,”
thought Karr, but said nothing.
Karr left and did not return to the grove till long past
midnight. By that time he knew Grayskin would be
awake and eating his breakfast.
“Of course you are doing right, Grayskin, in letting
them take you away,” remarked Karr, who appeared
now to be calm and satisfied. “You will be a prisoner
in a large park and will have no responsibilities. It
seems a pity that you must leave here without having
seen the forest. You know your ancestors have a saying
that ’the elk are one with the forest.’ But you haven’t
even been in a forest!”
Grayskin glanced up from the clover which he stood
munching.
“Indeed, I should love to see the forest, but how am I
to get over the fence?” he said with his usual apathy.
“Oh, that is difficult for one who has such short legs!”
said Karr.
The elk glanced slyly at the dog, who jumped the fence
many times a day—little as he was.
He walked over to the fence, and with one spring he
was on the other side, without knowing how it happened.
Then Karr and Grayskin went into the forest. It was
a beautiful moonlight night in late summer; but in
among the trees it was dark, and the elk walked along
slowly.
“Perhaps we had better turn back,” said Karr. “You,
who have never before tramped the wild forest, might
easily break your legs.” Grayskin moved more rapidly
and with more courage.
Karr conducted the elk to a part of the forest where
the pines grew so thickly that no wind could penetrate
them.
“It is here that your kind are in the habit of seeking
shelter from cold and storm,” said Karr. “Here they
stand under the open skies all winter. But you will
fare much better where you are going, for you will
stand in a shed, with a roof over your head, like an
ox.”
Grayskin made no comment, but stood quietly and
drank in the strong, piney air.
“Have you anything more to show me, or have I now
seen the whole forest?” he asked.
Then Karr went with him to a big marsh, and showed
him clods and quagmire.
“Over this marsh the elk take flight when they are in
peril,” said Karr. “I don’t know how they manage it,
but, large and heavy as they are, they can walk here
without sinking. Of course you couldn’t hold yourself
up on such dangerous ground, but then there is no
occasion for you to do so, for you will never be hounded
by hunters.”
Grayskin made no retort, but with a leap he was out
on the marsh, and happy when he felt how the clods
rocked under him. He dashed across the marsh, and
came back again to Karr, without having stepped into
a mudhole.
“Have we seen the whole forest now?” he asked.
“No, not yet,” said Karr.
He next conducted the elk to the skirt of the forest,
where fine oaks, lindens, and aspens grew.
“Here your kind eat leaves and bark, which they consider
the choicest of food; but you will probably get
better fare abroad.”
Grayskin was astonished when he saw the enormous
leaf-trees spreading like a great canopy above him. He
ate both oak leaves and aspen bark.
“These taste deliciously bitter and good!” he remarked.
“Better than clover!”
“Then wasn’t it well that you should taste them once?”
said the dog.
Thereupon he took the elk down to a little forest lake.
The water was as smooth as a mirror, and reflected the
shores, which were veiled in thin, light mists. When
Grayskin saw the lake he stood entranced.
“What is this, Karr?” he asked.
It was the first time that he had seen a lake.
“It’s a large body of water—a lake,” said Karr. “Your
people swim across it from shore to shore. One could
hardly expect you to be familiar with this; but at least
you should go in and take a swim!”
Karr, himself, plunged into the water for a swim. Grayskin
stayed back on the shore for some little time, but finally
followed. He grew breathless with delight as
the cool water stole soothingly around his body. He
wanted it over his back, too, so went farther out. Then
he felt that the water could hold him up, and began to
swim. He swam all around Karr, ducking and snorting,
perfectly at home in the water.
When they were on shore again, the dog asked if they
had not better go home now.
“It’s a long time until morning,” observed Grayskin,
“so we can tramp around in the forest a little longer.”
They went again into the pine wood. Presently they
came to an open glade illuminated by the moonlight,
where grass and flowers shimmered beneath the dew.
Some large animals were grazing on this forest meadow—
an elk bull, several elk cows and a number of elk calves.
When Grayskin caught sight of them he stopped short.
He hardly glanced at the cows or the young ones, but
stared at the old bull, which had broad antlers with
many taglets, a high hump, and a long-haired fur piece
hanging down from his throat.
“What kind of an animal is that?” asked Grayskin in
wonderment.
“He is called Antler-Crown,” said Karr, “and he is your
kinsman. One of these days you, too, will have broad
antlers, like those, and just such a mane; and if you
were to remain in the forest, very likely you, also,
would have a herd to lead.”
“If he is my kinsman, I must go closer and have a
look at him,” said Grayskin. “I never dreamed that an
animal could be so stately!”
Grayskin walked over to the elk, but almost immediately
he came back to Karr, who had remained at the
edge of the clearing.
“You were not very well received, were you?” said
Karr.
“I told him that this was the first time I had run
across any of my kinsmen, and asked if I might walk
with them on their meadow. But they drove me back,
threatening me with their antlers.”
“You did right to retreat,” said Karr. “A young elk bull
with only a taglet crown must be careful about fighting
with an old elk. Another would have disgraced
his name in the whole forest by retreating without resistance,
but such things needn’t worry you who are
going to move to a foreign land.”
Karr had barely finished speaking when Grayskin turned
and walked down to the meadow. The old elk came
toward him, and instantly they began to fight. Their
antlers met and clashed, and Grayskin was driven backward
over the whole meadow. Apparently he did not
know how to make use of his strength; but when he
came to the edge of the forest, he planted his feet on
the ground, pushed hard with his antlers, and began
to force Antler-Crown back.
Grayskin fought quietly, while Antler-Crown puffed
and snorted. The old elk, in his turn, was now being
forced backward over the meadow. Suddenly a loud
crash was heard! A taglet in the old elk’s antlers had
snapped. He tore himself loose, and dashed into the
forest.
Karr was still standing at the forest border when Grayskin
came along.
“Now that you have seen what there is in the forest,”
said Karr, “will you come home with me?”
“Yes, it’s about time,” observed the elk.
Both were silent on the way home. Karr sighed several
times, as if he was disappointed about something;
but Grayskin stepped along—his head in the air—and
seemed delighted over the adventure. He walked ahead
unhesitatingly until they came to the enclosure. There
he paused. He looked in at the narrow pen where he
had lived up till now; saw the beaten ground, the stale
fodder, the little trough where he had drunk water,
and the dark shed in which he had slept.
“The elk are one with the forest!” he cried. Then he
threw back his head, so that his neck rested against
his back, and rushed wildly into the woods.
Chapter 37
HELPLESS, THE
WATER-SNAKE
In a pine thicket in the heart of Liberty Forest, every
year, in the month of August, there appeared a
few grayish-white moths of the kind which are called
nun moths. They were small and few in number, and
scarcely any one noticed them. When they had fluttered
about in the depth of the forest a couple of
nights, they laid a few thousand eggs on the branches
of trees; and shortly afterward dropped lifeless to the
ground.
When spring came, little prickly caterpillars crawled
out from the eggs and began to eat the pine needles.
They had good appetites, but they never seemed to do
the trees any serious harm, because they were hotly
pursued by birds. It was seldom that more than a few
hundred caterpillars escaped the pursuers.
The poor things that lived to be full grown crawled up
on the branches, spun white webs around themselves,
and sat for a couple of weeks as motionless pupae.
During this period, as a rule, more than half of them
were abducted. If a hundred nun moths came forth in
August, winged and perfect, it was reckoned a good
year for them.
This sort of uncertain and obscure existence did the
moths lead for many years in Liberty Forest. There
were no insect folk in the whole country that were so
scarce, and they would have remained quite harmless
and powerless had they not, most unexpectedly, received
a helper.
This fact has some connection with Grayskin’s flight
from the game-keeper’s paddock. Grayskin roamed the
forest that he might become more familiar with the
place. Late in the afternoon he happened to squeeze
through some thickets behind a clearing where the soil
was muddy and slimy, and in the centre of it was a
murky pool. This open space was encircled by tall
pines almost bare from age and miasmic air. Grayskin
was displeased with the place and would have left it
at once had he not caught sight of some bright green
calla leaves which grew near the pool.
As he bent his head toward the calla stalks, he happened
to disturb a big black snake, which lay sleeping
under them. Grayskin had heard Karr speak of the
poisonous adders that were to be found in the forest.
So, when the snake raised its head, shot out its tongue
and hissed at him, he thought he had encountered an
awfully dangerous reptile. He was terrified and, raising
his foot, he struck so hard with his hoof that he
crushed the snake’s head. Then, away he ran in hot
haste!
As soon as Grayskin had gone, another snake, just as
long and as black as the first, came up from the pool.
It crawled over to the dead one, and licked the poor,
crushed-in head.
“Can it be true that you are dead, old Harmless?”
hissed the snake. “We two have lived together so many
years; we two have been so happy with each other, and
have fared so well here in the swamp, that we have
lived to be older than all the other water-snakes in
the forest! This is the worst sorrow that could have
befallen me!”
The snake was so broken-hearted that his long body
writhed as if it had been wounded. Even the frogs,
who lived in constant fear of him, were sorry for him.
“What a wicked creature he must be to murder a poor
water-snake that cannot defend itself!” hissed the snake.
“He certainly deserves a severe punishment. As sure
as my name is Helpless and I’m the oldest water-snake
in the whole forest, I’ll be avenged! I shall not rest
until that elk lies as dead on the ground as my poor
old snake-wife.”
When the snake had made this vow he curled up into
a hoop and began to ponder. One can hardly imagine
anything that would be more difficult for a poor watersnake
than to wreak vengeance upon a big, strong elk;
and old Helpless pondered day and night without finding
any solution.
One night, as he lay there with his vengeance-thoughts,
he heard a slight rustle over his head. He glanced up
and saw a few light nun moths playing in among the
trees.
He followed them with his eyes a long while; then began
to hiss loudly to himself, apparently pleased with
the thought that had occurred to him—then he fell
asleep.
The next morning the water-snake went over to see
Crawlie, the adder, who lived in a stony and hilly part
of Liberty Forest. He told him all about the death
of the old water-snake, and begged that he who could
deal such deadly thrusts would undertake the work of
vengeance. But Crawlie was not exactly disposed to
go to war with an elk.
“If I were to attack an elk,” said the adder, “he would
instantly kill me. Old Harmless is dead and gone, and
we can’t bring her back to life, so why should I rush
into danger on her account?”
When the water-snake got this reply he raised his head
a whole foot from the ground, and hissed furiously:
“Vish vash! Vish vash!” he said. “It’s a pity that you,
who have been blessed with such weapons of defence,
should be so cowardly that you don’t dare use them!”
When the adder heard this, he, too, got angry.
“Crawl away, old Helpless!” he hissed. “The poison is
in my fangs, but I would rather spare one who is said
to be my kinsman.”
But the water-snake did not move from the spot, and
for a long time the snakes lay there hissing abusive
epithets at each other.
When Crawlie was so angry that he couldn’t hiss, but
could only dart his tongue out, the water-snake changed
the subject, and began to talk in a very different tone.
“I had still another errand, Crawlie,” he said, lowering
his voice to a mild whisper. “But now I suppose you
are so angry that you wouldn’t care to help me?”
“If you don’t ask anything foolish of me, I shall certainly
be at your service.”
“In the pine trees down by the swamp live a moth folk
that fly around all night.”
“I know all about them,” remarked Crawlie. “What’s
up with them now?”
“They are the smallest insect family in the forest,” said
Helpless, “and the most harmless, since the caterpillars
content themselves with gnawing only pine needles.”
“Yes, I know,” said Crawlie.
“I’m afraid those moths, will soon be exterminated,”
sighed the water-snake. “There are so many who pick
off the caterpillars in the spring.”
Now Crawlie began to understand that the water-snake
wanted the caterpillars for his own purpose, and he answered
pleasantly:
“Do you wish me to say to the owls that they are to
leave those pine tree worms in peace?”
“Yes, it would be well if you who have some authority
in the forest should do this,” said Helpless.
“I might also drop a good word for the pine needle
pickers among the thrushes?” volunteered the adder.
“I will gladly serve you when you do not demand anything
unreasonable.”
“Now you have given me a good promise, Crawlie,”
said Helpless, “and I’m glad that I came to you.”
Chapter 38
THE NUN MOTHS
One morning—several years later—Karr lay asleep on
the porch. It was in the early summer, the season of
light nights, and it was as bright as day, although the
sun was not yet up. Karr was awakened by some one
calling his name.
“Is it you, Grayskin?” he asked, for he was accustomed
to the elk’s nightly visits. Again he heard the call;
then he recognized Grayskin’s voice, and hastened in
the direction of the sound.
Karr heard the elk’s footfalls in the distance, as he
dashed into the thickest pine wood, and straight through
the brush, following no trodden path. Karr could not
catch up with him, and he had great difficulty in even
following the trail. “Karr, Karri” came the cry, and
the voice was certainly Grayskin’s, although it had a
ring now which the dog had never heard before.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” the dog responded. “Where
are you?”
“Karr, Karr! Don’t you see how it falls and falls?” said
Grayskin.
Then Karr noticed that the pine needles kept dropping
and dropping from the trees, like a steady fall of rain.
“Yes, I see how it falls,” he cried, and ran far into the
forest in search of the elk.
Grayskin kept running through the thickets, while Karr
was about to lose the trail again.
“Karr, Karr!” roared Grayskin; “can’t you scent that
peculiar odour in the forest?”
Karr stopped and sniffed.
He had not thought of it before, but now he remarked
that the pines sent forth a much stronger odour than
usual.
“Yes, I catch the scent,” he said. He did not stop long
enough to find out the cause of it, but hurried on after
Grayskin.
The elk ran ahead with such speed that the dog could
not catch up with him.
“Karr, Karr!” he called; “can’t you hear the crunching
on the pines?” Now his tone was so plaintive it would
have melted a stone.
Karr paused to listen. He heard a faint but distinct
“tap, tap,” on the trees. It sounded like the ticking of
a watch.
“Yes, I hear how it ticks,” cried Karr, and ran no farther.
He understood that the elk did not want him
to follow, but to take notice of something that was
happening in the forest.
Karr was standing beneath the drooping branches of
a great pine. He looked carefully at it; the needles
moved. He went closer and saw a mass of grayish-white
caterpillars creeping along the branches, gnawing off
the needles. Every branch was covered with them.
The crunch, crunch in the trees came from the working
of their busy little jaws. Gnawed-off needles fell to
the ground in a continuous shower, and from the poor
pines there came such a strong odour that the dog
suffered from it.
“What can be the meaning of this?” wondered Karr.
“It’s too bad about the pretty trees! Soon they’ll have
no beauty left.”
He walked from tree to tree, trying with his poor eyesight
to see if all was well with them.
“There’s a pine they haven’t touched,” he thought.
But they had taken possession of it, too. “And here’s
a birch—no, this also! The game-keeper will not be
pleased with this,” observed Karr.
He ran deeper into the thickets, to learn how far the
destruction had spread. Wherever he went, he heard
the same ticking; scented the same odour; saw the
same needle rain. There was no need of his pausing to
investigate. He understood it all by these signs. The
little caterpillars were everywhere. The whole forest
was being ravaged by them!
All of a sudden he came to a tract where there was no
odour, and where all was still.
“Here’s the end of their domain,” thought the dog, as
he paused and glanced about.
But here it was even worse; for the caterpillars had
already done their work, and the trees were needleless.
They were like the dead. The only thing that
covered them was a network of ragged threads, which
the caterpillars had spun to use as roads and bridges.
In there, among the dying trees, Grayskin stood waiting
for Karr.
He was not alone. With him were four old elk—the
most respected in the forest. Karr knew them: They
were Crooked-Back, who was a small elk, but had a
larger hump than the others; Antler-Crown, who was
the most dignified of the elk; Rough-Mane, with the
thick coat; and an old long-legged one, who, up till the
autumn before, when he got a bullet in his thigh, had
been terribly hot-tempered and quarrelsome.
“What in the world is happening to the forest?” Karr
asked when he came up to the elk. They stood with
lowered heads, far protruding upper lips, and looked
puzzled.
“No one can tell,” answered Grayskin. “This insect
family used to be the least hurtful of any in the forest,
and never before have they done any damage. But
these last few years they have been multiplying so fast
that now it appears as if the entire forest would be
destroyed.”
“Yes, it looks bad,” Karr agreed, “but I see that the
wisest animals in the forest have come together to hold
a consultation. Perhaps you have already found some
remedy?”
When the dog said this, Crooked-Back solemnly raised
his heavy head, pricked up his long ears, and spoke:
“We have summoned you hither, Karr, that we may
learn if the humans know of this desolation.”
“No,” said Karr, “no human being ever comes thus far
into the forest when it’s not hunting time. They know
nothing of this misfortune.”
Then Antler-Crown said:
“We who have lived long in the forest do not think that
we can fight this insect pest all by ourselves.”
“After this there will be no peace in the forest!” put
in Rough-Mane.
“But we can’t let the whole Liberty Forest go to rack
and ruin!” protested Big-and-Strong. “We’ll have to
consult the humans; there is no alternative.”
Karr understood that the elk had difficulty in expressing
what they wished to say, and he tried to help them.
“Perhaps you want me to let the people know the conditions
here?” he suggested.
All the old elk nodded their heads.
“It’s most unfortunate that we are obliged to ask help
of human beings, but we have no choice.”
A moment later Karr was on his way home. As he ran
ahead, deeply distressed over all that he had heard and
seen, a big black water-snake approached them.
“Well met in the forest!” hissed the water-snake.
“Well met again!” snarled Karr, and rushed by without
stopping.
The snake turned and tried to catch up to him.
“Perhaps that creature also, is worried about the forest,”
thought Karr, and waited.
Immediately the snake began to talk about the great
disaster.
“There will be an end of peace and quiet in the forest
when human beings are called hither,” said the snake.
“I’m afraid there will,” the dog agreed; “but the oldest
forest dwellers know what they’re about!” he added.
“I think I know a better plan,” said the snake, “if I can
get the reward I wish.”
“Are you not the one whom every one around here calls
old Helpless?” said the dog, sneeringly.
“I’m an old inhabitant of the forest,” said the snake,
“and I know how to get rid of such plagues.”
“If you clear the forest of that pest, I feel sure you can
have anything you ask for,” said Karr.
The snake did not respond to this until he had crawled
under a tree stump, where he was well protected. Then
he said:
“Tell Grayskin that if he will leave Liberty Forest forever,
and go far north, where no oak tree grows, I will
send sickness and death to all the creeping things that
gnaw the pines and spruces!”
“What’s that you say?” asked Karr, bristling up. “What
harm has Grayskin ever done you?”
“He has slain the one whom I loved best,” the snake
declared, “and I want to be avenged.”
Before the snake had finished speaking, Karr made a
dash for him; but the reptile lay safely hidden under
the tree stump.
“Stay where you are!” Karr concluded. “We’ll manage
to drive out the caterpillars without your help.”
Chapter 39
THE BIG WAR OF
THE MOTHS
The following spring, as Karr was dashing through the
forest one morning, he heard some one behind him
calling: “Karr! Karr!”
He turned and saw an old fox standing outside his lair.
“You must tell me if the humans are doing anything
for the forest,” said the fox.
“Yes, you may be sure they are!” said Karr. “They are
working as hard as they can.”
“They have killed off all my kinsfolk, and they’ll be
killing me next,” protested the fox. “But they shall be
pardoned for that if only they save the forest.”
That year Karr never ran into the woods without some
animal’s asking if the humans could save the forest. It
was not easy for the dog to answer; the people themselves
were not certain that they could conquer the
moths. But considering how feared and hated old Kolmarden
had always been, it was remarkable that every
day more than a hundred men went there, to work.
They cleared away the underbrush. They felled dead
trees, lopped off branches from the live ones so that
the caterpillars could not easily crawl from tree to tree;
they also dug wide trenches around the ravaged parts
and put up lime-washed fences to keep them out of
new territory. Then they painted rings of lime around
the trunks of trees to prevent the caterpillars leaving
those they had already stripped. The idea was to force
them to remain where they were until they starved to
death.
The people worked with the forest until far into the
spring. They were hopeful, and could hardly wait for
the caterpillars to come out from their eggs, feeling
certain that they had shut them in so effectually that
most of them would die of starvation.
But in the early summer the caterpillars came out,
more numerous than ever.
They were everywhere! They crawled on the country
roads, on fences, on the walls of the cabins. They wandered
outside the confines of Liberty Forest to other
parts of Kolmarden.
“They won’t stop till all our forests are destroyed!”
sighed the people, who were in great despair, and could
not enter the forest without weeping.
Karr was so sick of the sight of all these creeping, gnawing
things that he could hardly bear to step outside the
door. But one day he felt that he must go and find out
how Grayskin was getting on. He took the shortest cut
to the elk’s haunts, and hurried along—his nose close
to the earth. When he came to the tree stump where
he had met Helpless the year before, the snake was
still there, and called to him:
“Have you told Grayskin what I said to you when last
we met?” asked the water-snake.
Karr only growled and tried to get at him.
“If you haven’t told him, by all means do so!” insisted
the snake. “You must see that the humans know of no
cure for this plague.”
“Neither do you!” retorted the dog, and ran on.
Karr found Grayskin, but the elk was so low-spirited
that he scarcely greeted the dog. He began at once to
talk of the forest.
“I don’t know what I wouldn’t give if this misery were
only at an end!” he said.
“Now I shall tell you that ’tis said you could save the
forest.” Then Karr delivered the water-snake’s message.
“If any one but Helpless had promised this, I should
immediately go into exile,” declared the elk. “But how
can a poor water-snake have the power to work such a
miracle?”
“Of course it’s only a bluff,” said Karr. “Water-snakes
always like to pretend that they know more than other
creatures.”
When Karr was ready to go home, Grayskin accompanied
him part of the way. Presently Karr heard a
thrush, perched on a pine top, cry:
“There goes Grayskin, who has destroyed the forest!
There goes Grayskin, who has destroyed the forest!”
Karr thought that he had not heard correctly, but the
next moment a hare came darting across the path.
When the hare saw them, he stopped, flapped his ears,
and screamed:
“Here comes Grayskin, who has destroyed the forest!”
Then he ran as fast as he could.
“What do they mean by that?” asked Karr.
“I really don’t know,” said Grayskin. “I think that the
small forest animals are displeased with me because I
was the one who proposed that we should ask help of
human beings. When the underbrush was cut down,
all their lairs and hiding places were destroyed.”
They walked on together a while longer, and Karr
heard the same cry coming from all directions:
“There goes Grayskin, who has destroyed the forest!”
Grayskin pretended not to hear it; but Karr understood
why the elk was so downhearted.
“I say, Grayskin, what does the water-snake mean by
saying you killed the one he loved best?”
“How can I tell?” said Grayskin. “You know very well
that I never kill anything.”
Shortly after that they met the four old elk—Crooked-
Back, Antler-Crown, Rough-Mane, and Big-and-Strong,
who were coming along slowly, one after the other.
“Well met in the forest!” called Grayskin.
“Well met in turn!” answered the elk.
“We were just looking for you, Grayskin, to consult
with you about the forest.”
“The fact is,” began Crooked-Back, “we have been informed
that a crime has been committed here, and
that the whole forest is being destroyed because the
criminal has not been punished.”
“What kind of a crime was it?”
“Some one killed a harmless creature that he couldn’t
eat. Such an act is accounted a crime in Liberty Forest.”
“Who could have done such a cowardly thing?” wondered
Grayskin.
“They say that an elk did it, and we were just going
to ask if you knew who it was.”
“No,” said Grayskin, “I have never heard of an elk
killing a harmless creature.”
Grayskin parted from the four old elk, and went on
with Karr. He was silent and walked with lowered
head. They happened to pass Crawlie, the adder, who
lay on his shelf of rock.
“There goes Grayskin, who has destroyed the whole
forest!” hissed Crawlie, like all the rest.
By that time Grayskin’s patience was exhausted. He
walked up to the snake, and raised a forefoot.
“Do you think of crushing me as you crushed the old
water-snake?” hissed Crawlie.
“Did I kill a water-snake?” asked Grayskin, astonished.
“The first day you were in the forest you killed the wife
of poor old Helpless,” said Crawlie.
Grayskin turned quickly from the adder, and continued
his walk with Karr. Suddenly he stopped.
“Karr, it was I who committed that crime! I killed a
harmless creature; therefore it is on my account that
the forest is being destroyed.”
“What are you saying?” Karr interrupted.
“You may tell the water-snake, Helpless, that Grayskin
goes into exile to-night!”
“That I shall never tell him!” protested Karr. “The
Far North is a dangerous country for elk.”
“Do you think that I wish to remain here, when I have
caused a disaster like this?” protested Grayskin.
“Don’t be rash! Sleep over it before you do anything!”
“It was you who taught me that the elk are one with
the forest,” said Grayskin, and so saying he parted
from Karr.
The dog went home alone; but this talk with Grayskin
troubled him, and the next morning he returned to the
forest to seek him, but Grayskin was not to be found,
and the dog did not search long for him. He realized
that the elk had taken the snake at his word, and had
gone into exile.
On his walk home Karr was too unhappy for words!
He could not understand why Grayskin should allow
that wretch of a water-snake to trick him away. He
had never heard of such folly! “What power can that
old Helpless have?”
As Karr walked along, his mind full of these thoughts,
he happened to see the game-keeper, who stood pointing
up at a tree.
“What are you looking at?” asked a man who stood
beside him.
“Sickness has come among the caterpillars,” observed
the game-keeper.
Karr was astonished, but he was even more angered
at the snake’s having the power to keep his word.
Grayskin would have to stay away a long long time,
for, of course, that water-snake would never die.
At the very height of his grief a thought came to Karr
which comforted him a little.
“Perhaps the water-snake won’t live so long, after all!”
he thought. “Surely he cannot always lie protected
under a tree root. As soon as he has cleaned out the
caterpillars, I know some one who is going to bite his
head off!”
It was true that an illness had made its appearance
among the caterpillars. The first summer it did not
spread much. It had only just broken out when it was
time for the larvae to turn into pupae. From the latter
came millions of moths. They flew around in the trees
like a blinding snowstorm, and laid countless numbers
of eggs. An even greater destruction was prophesied
for the following year.
The destruction came not only to the forest, but also
to the caterpillars. The sickness spread quickly from
forest to forest. The sick caterpillars stopped eating,
crawled up to the branches of the trees, and died there.
There was great rejoicing among the people when they
saw them die, but there was even greater rejoicing
among the forest animals.
From day to day the dog Karr went about with savage
glee, thinking of the hour when he might venture to
kill Helpless.
But the caterpillars, meanwhile, had spread over miles
of pine woods. Not in one summer did the disease
reach them all. Many lived to become pupas and
moths.
Grayskin sent messages to his friend Karr by the birds
of passage, to say that he was alive and faring well.
But the birds told Karr confidentially that on several
occasions Grayskin had been pursued by poachers, and
that only with the greatest difficulty had he escaped.
Karr lived in a state of continual grief, yearning, and
anxiety. Yet he had to wait two whole summers more
before there was an end of the caterpillars!
Karr no sooner heard the game-keeper say that the
forest was out of danger than he started on a hunt for
Helpless. But when he was in the thick of the forest
he made a frightful discovery: He could not hunt any
more, he could not run, he could not track his enemy,
and he could not see at all!
During the long years of waiting, old age had overtaken
Karr. He had grown old without having noticed it. He
had not the strength even to kill a water-snake. He was
not able to save his friend Grayskin from his enemy.
Chapter 40
RETRIBUTION
One afternoon Akka from Kebnekaise and her flock
alighted on the shore of a forest lake.
Spring was backward—as it always is in the mountain
districts. Ice covered all the lake save a narrow strip
next the land. The geese at once plunged into the
water to bathe and hunt for food. In the morning Nils
Holgersson had dropped one of his wooden shoes, so
he went down by the elms and birches that grew along
the shore, to look for something to bind around his
foot.
The boy walked quite a distance before he found anything
that he could use. He glanced about nervously,
for he did not fancy being in the forest.
“Give me the plains and the lakes!” he thought. “There
you can see what you are likely to meet. Now, if this
were a grove of little birches, it would be well enough,
for then the ground would be almost bare; but how
people can like these wild, pathless forests is incomprehensible
to me. If I owned this land I would chop
down every tree.”
At last he caught sight of a piece of birch bark, and
just as he was fitting it to his foot he heard a rustle
behind him. He turned quickly. A snake darted from
the brush straight toward him!
The snake was uncommonly long and thick, but the
boy soon saw that it had a white spot on each cheek.
“Why, it’s only a water-snake,” he laughed; “it can’t
harm me.”
But the next instant the snake gave him a powerful
blow on the chest that knocked him down. The boy
was on his feet in a second and running away, but
the snake was after him! The ground was stony and
scrubby; the boy could not proceed very fast; and the
snake was close at his heels.
Then the boy saw a big rock in front of him, and began
to scale it.
“I do hope the snake can’t follow me here!” he thought,
but he had no sooner reached the top of the rock than
he saw that the snake was following him.
Quite close to the boy, on a narrow ledge at the top of
the rock, lay a round stone as large as a man’s head.
As the snake came closer, the boy ran behind the stone,
and gave it a push. It rolled right down on the snake,
drawing it along to the ground, where it landed on its
head.
“That stone did its work well!” thought the boy with
a sigh of relief, as he saw the snake squirm a little, and
then lie perfectly still.
“I don’t think I’ve been in greater peril on the whole
journey,” he said.
He had hardly recovered from the shock when he heard
a rustle above him, and saw a bird circling through the
air to light on the ground right beside the snake. The
bird was like a crow in size and form, but was dressed
in a pretty coat of shiny black feathers.
The boy cautiously retreated into a crevice of the rock.
His adventure in being kidnapped by crows was still
fresh in his memory, and he did not care to show himself
when there was no need of it.
The bird strode back and forth beside the snake’s body,
and turned it over with his beak. Finally he spread his
wings and began to shriek in ear-splitting tones:
“It is certainly Helpless, the water-snake, that lies dead
here!” Once more he walked the length of the snake;
then he stood in a deep study, and scratched his neck
with his foot.
“It isn’t possible that there can be two such big snakes
in the forest,” he pondered. “It must surely be Helpless!”
He was just going to thrust his beak into the snake,
but suddenly checked himself.
“You mustn’t be a numbskull, Bataki!” he remarked to
himself. “Surely you cannot be thinking of eating the
snake until you have called Karr! He wouldn’t believe
that Helpless was dead unless he could see it with his
own eyes.”
The boy tried to keep quiet, but the bird was so ludicrously
solemn, as he stalked back and forth chattering
to himself, that he had to laugh.
The bird heard him, and, with a flap of his wings, he
was up on the rock. The boy rose quickly and walked
toward him.
“Are you not the one who is called Bataki, the raven?
and are you not a friend of Akka from Kebnekaise?”
asked the boy.
The bird regarded him intently; then nodded three
times.
“Surely, you’re not the little chap who flies around with
the wild geese, and whom they call Thumbietot?”
“Oh, you’re not so far out of the way,” said the boy.
“What luck that I should have run across you! Perhaps
you can tell me who killed this water-snake?”
“The stone which I rolled down on him killed him,”
replied the boy, and related how the whole thing happened.
“That was cleverly done for one who is as tiny as you
are!” said the raven. “I have a friend in these parts who
will be glad to know that this snake has been killed,
and I should like to render you a service in return.”
“Then tell me why you are glad the water-snake is
dead,” responded the boy.
“It’s a long story,” said the raven; “you wouldn’t have
the patience to listen to it.”
But the boy insisted that he had, and then the raven
told him the whole story about Karr and Grayskin and
Helpless, the water-snake. When he had finished, the
boy sat quietly for a moment, looking straight ahead.
Then he spoke:
“I seem to like the forest better since hearing this. I
wonder if there is anything left of the old Liberty Forest."’
“Most of it has been destroyed,” said Bataki. “The
trees look as if they had passed through a fire. They’ll
have to be cleared away, and it will take many years
before the forest will be what it once was.”
“That snake deserved his death!” declared the boy.
“But I wonder if it could be possible that he was so
wise he could send sickness to the caterpillars?”
“Perhaps he knew that they frequently became sick in
that way,” intimated Bataki.
“Yes, that may be; but all the same, I must say that
he was a very wily snake.”
The boy stopped talking because he saw the raven was
not listening to him, but sitting with gaze averted.
“Hark!” he said. “Karr is in the vicinity. Won’t he be
happy when he sees that Helpless is dead!”
The boy turned his head in the direction of the sound.
“He’s talking with the wild geese,” he said.
“Oh, you may be sure that he has dragged himself
down to the strand to get the latest news about Grayskin!”
Both the boy and the raven jumped to the ground,
and hastened down to the shore. All the geese had
come out of the lake, and stood talking with an old
dog, who was so weak and decrepit that it seemed as
if he might drop dead at any moment.
“There’s Karr,” said Bataki to the boy. “Let him hear
first what the wild geese have to say to him; later we
shall tell him that the water-snake is dead.”
Presently they heard Akka talking to Karr.
“It happened last year while we were making our usual
spring trip,” remarked the leader-goose. “We started
out one morning—Yksi, Kaksi, and I, and we flew
over the great boundary forests between Dalecarlia
and Haelsingland. Under us we, saw only thick pine
forests. The snow was still deep among the trees, and
the creeks were mostly frozen.
“Suddenly we noticed three poachers down in the forest!
They were on skis, had dogs in leash, carried
knives in their belts, but had no guns.
“As there was a hard crust on the snow, they did not
bother to take the winding forest paths, but skied
straight ahead. Apparently they knew very well where
they must go to find what they were seeking.
“We wild geese flew on, high up in the air, so that the
whole forest under us was visible. When we sighted
the poachers we wanted to find out where the game
was, so we circled up and down, peering through the
trees. Then, in a dense thicket, we saw something
that looked like big, moss-covered rocks, but couldn’t
be rocks, for there was no snow on them.
“We shot down, suddenly, and lit in the centre of the
thicket. The three rocks moved. They were three elk—
a bull and two cows—resting in the bleak forest.
“When we alighted, the elk bull rose and came toward
us. He was the most superb animal we had ever seen.
When he saw that it was only some poor wild geese
that had awakened him, he lay down again.
“‘No, old granddaddy, you mustn’t go back to sleep!’
I cried. ’Flee as fast as you can! There are poachers in
the forest, and they are bound for this very deer fold.’
“‘Thank you, goose mother!’ said the elk. He seemed
to be dropping to sleep while he was speaking. ’But
surely you must know that we elk are under the protection
of the law at this time of the year. Those poachers
are probably out for fox,’ he yawned.
“’There are plenty of fox trails in the forest, but the
poachers are not looking for them. Believe me, old
granddaddy! They know that you are lying here, and
are coming to attack you. They have no guns with
them—only spears and knives—for they dare not fire
a shot at this season.’
“The elk bull lay there calmly, but the elk cows seemed
to feel uneasy.
“ ‘It may be as the geese say,’ they remarked, beginning
to bestir themselves.
“‘You just lie down!’ said the elk bull. ’There are no
poachers coming here; of that you may be certain.’
“There was nothing more to be done, so we wild geese
rose again into the air. But we continued to circle over
the place, to see how it would turn out for the elk.
“We had hardly reached our regular flying altitude,
when we saw the elk bull come out from the thicket.
He sniffed the air a little, then walked straight toward
the poachers. As he strode along he stepped upon dry
twigs that crackled noisily. A big barren marsh lay
just beyond him. Thither he went and took his stand
in the middle, where there was nothing to hide him
from view.
“There he stood until the poachers emerged from the
woods. Then he turned and fled in the opposite direction.
The poachers let loose the dogs, and they
themselves skied after him at full speed.
“The elk threw back his head and loped as fast as he
could. He kicked up snow until it flew like a blizzard
about him. Both dogs and men were left far behind.
Then the elk stopped, as if to await their approach.
When they were within sight he dashed ahead again.
We understood that he was purposely tempting the
hunters away from the place where the cows were. We
thought it brave of him to face danger himself, in order
that those who were dear to him might be left in safety.
None of us wanted to leave the place until we had seen
how all this was to end.
“Thus the chase continued for two hours or more. We
wondered that the poachers went to the trouble of pursuing
the elk when they were not armed with rifles.
They couldn’t have thought that they could succeed
in tiring out a runner like him!
“Then we noticed that the elk no longer ran so rapidly.
He stepped on the snow more carefully, and every time
he lifted his feet, blood could be seen in his tracks.
“We understood why the poachers had been so persistent!
They had counted on help from the snow. The
elk was heavy, and with every step he sank to the
bottom of the drift. The hard crust on the snow was
scraping his legs. It scraped away the fur, and tore out
pieces of flesh, so that he was in torture every time he
put his foot down.
“The poachers and the dogs, who were so light that the
ice crust could hold their weight, pursued him all the
while. He ran on and on—his steps becoming more and
more uncertain and faltering. He gasped for breath.
Not only did he suffer intense pain, but he was also
exhausted from wading through the deep snowdrifts.
“At last he lost all patience. He paused to let poachers
and dogs come upon him, and was ready to fight them.
As he stood there waiting, he glanced upward. When
he saw us wild geese circling above him, he cried out:
“’Stay here, wild geese, until all is over! And the next
time you fly over Kolmarden, look up Karr, and ask
him if he doesn’t think that his friend Grayskin has
met with a happy end?”’
When Akka had gone so far in her story the old dog
rose and walked nearer to her.
“Grayskin led a good life,” he said. “He understands
me. He knows that I’m a brave dog, and that I shall
be glad to hear that he had a happy end. Now tell me
how—”
He raised his tail and threw back his head, as if to give
himself a bold and proud bearing—then he collapsed.
“Karr! Karr!” called a man’s voice from the forest.
The old dog rose obediently.
“My master is calling me,” he said, “and I must not
tarry longer. I just saw him load his gun. Now we two
are going into the forest for the last time.
“Many thanks, wild goose! I know everything that I
need know to die content!”
Chapter 41
THE WIND WITCH
IN NAeRKE
In bygone days there was something in Naerke the like
of which was not to be found elsewhere: it was a witch,
named Ysaetter-Kaisa.
The name Kaisa had been given her because she had a
good deal to do with wind and storm—and these wind
witches are always so called. The surname was added
because she was supposed to have come from Ysaetter
swamp in Asker parish.
It seemed as though her real abode must have been
at Asker; but she used also to appear at other places.
Nowhere in all Naerke could one be sure of not meeting
her.
She was no dark, mournful witch, but gay and frolicsome;
and what she loved most of all was a gale of
wind. As soon as there was wind enough, off she would
fly to the Naerke plain for a good dance. On days when
a whirlwind swept the plain, Ysaetter-Kaisa had fun!
She would stand right in the wind and spin round,
her long hair flying up among the clouds and the long
trail of her robe sweeping the ground, like a dust cloud,
while the whole plain lay spread out under her, like a
ballroom floor.
Of a morning Ysaetter-Kaisa would sit up in some tall
pine at the top of a precipice, and look across the plain.
If it happened to be winter and she saw many teams
on the roads she hurriedly blew up a blizzard, piling
the drifts so high that people could barely get back to
their homes by evening. If it chanced to be summer
and good harvest weather, Ysaetter-Kaisa would sit
quietly until the first hayricks had been loaded, then
down she would come with a couple of heavy showers,
which put an end to the work for that day.
It was only too true that she seldom thought of anything
else than raising mischief. The charcoal burners
up in the Kil mountains hardly dared take a cat-nap,
for as soon as she saw an unwatched kiln, she stole
up and blew on it until it began to burn in a great
flame. If the metal drivers from Laxa and Svarta were
out late of an evening, Ysaetter-Kaisa would veil the
roads and the country round about in such dark clouds
that both men and horses lost their way and drove the
heavy trucks down into swamps and morasses.
If, on a summer’s day, the dean’s wife at Glanshammar
had spread the tea table in the garden and along would
come a gust of wind that lifted the cloth from the
table and turned over cups and saucers, they knew
who had raised the mischief! If the mayor of Oerebro’s
hat blew off, so that he had to run across the whole
square after it; if the wash on the line blew away and
got covered with dirt, or if the smoke poured into the
cabins and seemed unable to find its way out through
the chimney, it was easy enough to guess who was out
making merry!
Although Ysaetter-Kaisa was fond of all sorts of tantalizing
games, there was nothing really bad about her.
One could see that she was hardest on those who were
quarrelsome, stingy, or wicked; while honest folk and
poor little children she would take under her wing.
Old people say of her that, once, when Asker church
was burning, Ysaetter-Kaisa swept through the air, lit
amid fire and smoke on the church roof, and averted
the disaster.
All the same the Naerke folk were often rather tired
of Ysaetter-Kaisa, but she never tired of playing her
tricks on them. As she sat on the edge of a cloud and
looked down upon Naerke, which rested so peacefully
and comfortably beneath her, she must have thought:
“The inhabitants would fare much too well if I were not
in existence. They would grow sleepy and dull. There
must be some one like myself to rouse them and keep
them in good spirits.”
Then she would laugh wildly and, chattering like a
magpie, would rush off, dancing and spinning from
one end of the plain to the other. When a Naerke man
saw her come dragging her dust trail over the plain,
he could not help smiling. Provoking and tiresome she
certainly was, but she had a merry spirit. It was just
as refreshing for the peasants to meet Ysaetter-Kaisa
as it was for the plain to be lashed by the windstorm.
Nowadays ’tis said that Ysaetter-Kaisa is dead and
gone, like all other witches, but this one can hardly
believe. It is as if some one were to come and tell you
that henceforth the air would always be still on the
plain, and the wind would never more dance across it
with blustering breezes and drenching showers.
He who fancies that Ysaetter-Kaisa is dead and gone
may as well hear what occurred in Naerke the year that
Nils Holgersson travelled over that part of the country.
Then let him tell what he thinks about it.
Chapter 42
MARKET EVE
Wednesday, April twenty-seventh.
It was the day before the big Cattle Fair at Oerebro; it
rained in torrents and people thought: “This is exactly
as in Ysaetter-Kaisa’s time! At fairs she used to be
more prankish than usual. It was quite in her line to
arrange a downpour like this on a market eve.”
As the day wore on, the rain increased, and toward
evening came regular cloud-bursts. The roads were
like bottomless swamps. The farmers who had started
from home with their cattle early in the morning, that
they might arrive at a seasonable hour, fared badly.
Cows and oxen were so tired they could hardly move,
and many of the poor beasts dropped down in the middle
of the road, to show that they were too exhausted
to go any farther. All who lived along the roadside had
to open their doors to the market-bound travellers, and
harbour them as best they could. Farm houses, barns,
and sheds were soon crowded to their limit.
Meanwhile, those who could struggle along toward the
inn did so; but when they arrived they wished they had
stopped at some cabin along the road. All the cribs in
the barn and all the stalls in the stable were already
occupied. There was no other choice than to let horses
and cattle stand out in the rain. Their masters could
barely manage to get under cover.
The crush and mud and slush in the barn yard were
frightful! Some of the animals were standing in puddles
and could not even lie down. There were thoughtful
masters, of course, who procured straw for their
animals to lie on, and spread blankets over them; but
there were those, also, who sat in the inn, drinking
and gambling, entirely forgetful of the dumb creatures
which they should have protected.
The boy and the wild geese had come to a little wooded
island in Hjaelmar Lake that evening. The island was
separated from the main land by a narrow and shallow
stream, and at low tide one could pass over it dry-shod.
It rained just as hard on the island as it did everywhere
else. The boy could not sleep for the water that kept
dripping down on him. Finally he got up and began
to walk. He fancied that he felt the rain less when he
moved about.
He had hardly circled the island, when he heard a
splashing in the stream. Presently he saw a solitary
horse tramping among the trees. Never in all his life
had he seen such a wreck of a horse! He was brokenwinded
and stiff-kneed and so thin that every rib could
be seen under the hide. He bore neither harness nor
saddle—only an old bridle, from which dangled a halfrotted
rope-end. Obviously he had had no difficulty in
breaking loose.
The horse walked straight toward the spot where the
wild geese were sleeping. The boy was afraid that he
would step on them.
“Where are you going? Feel your ground!” shouted
the boy.
“Oh, there you are!” exclaimed the horse. “I’ve walked
miles to meet you!”
“Have you heard of me?” asked the boy, astonished.
“I’ve got ears, even if I am old! There are many who
talk of you nowadays.”
As he spoke, the horse bent his head that he might see
better, and the boy noticed that he had a small head,
beautiful eyes, and a soft, sensitive nose.
“He must have been a good horse at the start, though
he has come to grief in his old age,” he thought.
“I wish you would come with me and help me with
something,” pleaded the horse.
The boy thought it would be embarrassing to accompany
a creature who looked so wretched, and excused
himself on account of the bad weather.
“You’ll be no worse off on my back than you are lying
here,” said the horse. “But perhaps you don’t dare to
go with an old tramp of a horse like me.”
“Certainly I dare!” said the boy.
“Then wake the geese, so that we can arrange with
them where they shall come for you to-morrow,” said
the horse.
The boy was soon seated on the animal’s back. The
old nag trotted along better than he had thought possible.
It was a long ride in the rain and darkness before
they halted near a large inn, where everything looked
terribly uninviting! The wheel tracks were so deep in
the road that the boy feared he might drown should
he fall down into them. Alongside the fence, which enclosed
the yard, some thirty or forty horses and cattle
were tied, with no protection against the rain, and in
the yard were wagons piled with packing cases, where
sheep, calves, hogs, and chickens were shut in.
The horse walked over to the fence and stationed himself.
The boy remained seated upon his back, and,
with his good night eyes, plainly saw how badly the
animals fared.
“How do you happen to be standing out here in the
rain?” he asked.
“We’re on our way to a fair at Oerebro, but we were
obliged to put up here on account of the rain. This
is an inn; but so many travellers have already arrived
that there’s no room for us in the barns.”
The boy made no reply, but sat quietly looking about
him. Not many of the animals were asleep, and on
all sides he heard complaints and indignant protests.
They had reason enough for grumbling, for the weather
was even worse than it had been earlier in the day. A
freezing wind had begun to blow, and the rain which
came beating down on them was turning to snow. It
was easy enough to understand what the horse wanted
the boy to help him with.
“Do you see that fine farm yard directly opposite the
inn?” remarked the horse.
“Yes, I see it,” answered the boy, “and I can’t comprehend
why they haven’t tried to find shelter for all of
you in there. They are already full, perhaps?”
“No, there are no strangers in that place,” said the
horse. “The people who live on that farm are so stingy
and selfish that it would be useless for any one to ask
them for harbour.”
“If that’s the case, I suppose you’ll have to stand where
you are.”
“I was born and raised on that farm,” said the horse;
“I know that there is a large barn and a big cow shed,
with many empty stalls and mangers, and I was wondering
if you couldn’t manage in some way or other to
get us in over there.”
“I don’t think I could venture—” hesitated the boy.
But he felt so sorry for the poor beasts that he wanted
at least to try.
He ran into the strange barn yard and saw at once
that all the outhouses were locked and the keys gone.
He stood there, puzzled and helpless, when aid came
to him from an unexpected source. A gust of wind
came sweeping along with terrific force and flung open
a shed door right in front of him.
The boy was not long in getting back to the horse.
“It isn’t possible to get into the barn or the cow house,”
he said, “but there’s a big, empty hay shed that they
have forgotten to bolt. I can lead you into that.”
“Thank you!” said the horse. “It will seem good to
sleep once more on familiar ground. It’s the only happiness
I can expect in this life.”
Meanwhile, at the flourishing farm opposite the inn,
the family sat up much later than usual that evening.
The master of the place was a man of thirty-five, tall
and dignified, with a handsome but melancholy face.
During the day he had been out in the rain and had
got wet, like every one else, and at supper he asked his
old mother, who was still mistress of the place, to light
a fire on the hearth that he might dry his clothes. The
mother kindled a feeble blaze—for in that house they
were not wasteful with wood—and the master hung his
coat on the back of a chair, and placed it before the
fire. With one foot on top of the andiron and a hand
resting on his knee, he stood gazing into the embers.
Thus he stood for two whole hours, making no move
other than to cast a log on the fire now and then.
The mistress removed the supper things and turned
down his bed for the night before she went to her own
room and seated herself. At intervals she came to the
door and looked wonderingly at her son.
“It’s nothing, mother. I’m only thinking,” he said.
His thoughts were on something that had occurred
shortly before: When he passed the inn a horse dealer
had asked him if he would not like to purchase a horse,
and had shown him an old nag so weather-beaten that
he asked the dealer if he took him for a fool, since he
wished to palm off such a played-out beast on him.
“Oh, no!” said the horse dealer. “I only thought that,
inasmuch as the horse once belonged to you, you might
wish to give him a comfortable home in his old age; he
has need of it.”
Then he looked at the horse and recognized it as one
which he himself had raised and broken in; but it did
not occur to him to purchase such an old and useless
creature on that account. No, indeed! He was not one
who squandered his money.
All the same, the sight of the horse had awakened
many, memories—and it was the memories that kept
him awake.
That horse had been a fine animal. His father had
let him tend it from the start. He had broken it in
and had loved it above everything else. His father had
complained that he used to feed it too well, and often
he had been obliged to steal out and smuggle oats to
it.
Once, when he ventured to talk with his father about
letting him buy a broadcloth suit, or having the cart
painted, his father stood as if petrified, and he thought
the old man would have a stroke. He tried to make his
father understand that, when he had a fine horse to
drive, he should look presentable himself.
The father made no reply, but two days later he took
the horse to Oerebro and sold it.
It was cruel of him. But it was plain that his father
had feared that this horse might lead him into vanity
and extravagance. And now, so long afterward, he had
to admit that his father was right. A horse like that
surely would have been a temptation. At first he had
grieved terribly over his loss. Many a time he had gone
down to Oerebro, just to stand on a street corner and
see the horse pass by, or to steal into the stable and
give him a lump of sugar. He thought: “If I ever get
the farm, the first thing I do will be to buy back my
horse.”
Now his father was gone and he himself had been master
for two years, but he had not made a move toward
buying the horse. He had not thought of him for ever
so long, until to-night.
It was strange that he should have forgotten the beast
so entirely!
His father had been a very headstrong, domineering
man. When his son was grown and the two had worked
together, the father had gained absolute power over
him. The boy had come to think that everything his
father did was right, and, after he became the master,
he only tried to do exactly as his father would have
done.
He knew, of course, that folk said his father was stingy;
but it was well to keep a tight hold on one’s purse and
not throw away money needlessly. The goods one has
received should not be wasted. It was better to live on
a debt-free place and be called stingy, than to carry
heavy mortgages, like other farm owners.
He had gone so far in his mind when he was called
back by a strange sound. It was as if a shrill, mocking
voice were repeating his thoughts: “It’s better to keep
a firm hold on one’s purse and be called stingy, than
to be in debt, like other farm owners.”
It sounded as if some one was trying to make sport
of his wisdom and he was about to lose his temper,
when he realized that it was all a mistake. The wind
was beginning to rage, and he had been standing there
getting so sleepy that he mistook the howling of the
wind in the chimney for human speech.
He glanced up at the wall clock, which just then struck
eleven.
“It’s time that you were in bed,” he remarked to himself.
Then he remembered that he had not yet gone
the rounds of the farm yard, as it was his custom to
do every night, to make sure that all doors were closed
and all lights extinguished. This was something he had
never neglected since he became master. He drew on
his coat and went out in the storm.
He found everything as it should be, save that the door
to the empty hay shed had been blown open by the
wind. He stepped inside for the key, locked the shed
door and put the key into his coat pocket. Then he
went back to the house, removed his coat, and hung it
before the fire. Even now he did not retire, but began
pacing the floor. The storm without, with its biting
wind and snow-blended rain, was terrible, and his old
horse was standing in this storm without so much as a
blanket to protect him! He should at least have given
his old friend a roof over his head, since he had come
such a long distance.
At the inn across the way the boy heard an old wall
clock strike eleven times. Just then he was untying
the animals to lead them to the shed in the farm yard
opposite. It took some time to rouse them and get
them into line. When all were ready, they marched in a
long procession into the stingy farmer’s yard, with the
boy as their guide. While the boy had been assembling
them, the farmer had gone the rounds of the farm yard
and locked the hay shed, so that when the animals
came along the door was closed. The boy stood there
dismayed. He could not let the creatures stand out
there! He must go into the house and find the key.
“Keep them quiet out here while I go in and fetch the
key!” he said to the old horse, and off he ran.
On the path right in front of the house he paused to
think out how he should get inside. As he stood there
he noticed two little wanderers coming down the road,
who stopped before the inn.
The boy saw at once that they were two little girls,
and ran toward them.
“Come now, Britta Maja!” said one, “you mustn’t cry
any more. Now we are at the inn. Here they will surely
take us in.”
The girl had but just said this when the boy called to
her:
“No, you mustn’t try to get in there. It is simply impossible.
But at the farm house opposite there are no
guests. Go there instead.”
The little girls heard the words distinctly, though they
could not see the one who spoke to them. They did
not wonder much at that, however, for the night was
as black as pitch. The larger of the girls promptly
answered:
“We don’t care to enter that place, because those who
live there are stingy and cruel. It is their fault that we
two must go out on the highways and beg.”
“That may be so,” said the boy, “but all the same you
should go there. You shall see that it will be well for
you.”
“We can try, but it is doubtful that they will even let
us enter,” observed the two little girls as they walked
up to the house and knocked.
The master was standing by the fire thinking of the
horse when he heard the knocking. He stepped to the
door to see what was up, thinking all the while that he
would not let himself be tempted into admitting any
wayfarer. As he fumbled the lock, a gust of wind came
along, wrenched the door from his hand and swung it
open. To close it, he had to step out on the porch,
and, when he stepped back into the house, the two
little girls were standing within.
They were two poor beggar girls, ragged, dirty, and
starving—two little tots bent under the burden of their
beggar’s packs, which were as large as themselves.
“Who are you that go prowling about at this hour of
the night?” said the master gruffly.
The two children did not answer immediately, but first
removed their packs. Then they walked up to the man
and stretched forth their tiny hands in greeting.
“We are Anna and Britta Maja from the Engaerd,”
said the elder, “and we were going to ask for a night’s
lodging.”
He did not take the outstretched hands and was just
about to drive out the beggar children, when a fresh
recollection faced him. Engaerd—was not that a little
cabin where a poor widow with five children had lived?
The widow had owed his father a few hundred kroner
and in order to get back his money he had sold her
cabin. After that the widow, with her three eldest
children, went to Norrland to seek employment, and
the two youngest became a charge on the parish.
As he called this to mind he grew bitter. He knew that
his father had been severely censured for squeezing out
that money, which by right belonged to him.
“What are you doing nowadays?” he asked in a cross
tone. “Didn’t the board of charities take charge of you?
Why do you roam around and beg?”
“It’s not our fault,” replied the larger girl. “The people
with whom we are living have sent us out to beg.”
“Well, your packs are filled,” the farmer observed, “so
you can’t complain. Now you’d better take out some
of the food you have with you and eat your fill, for here
you’ll get no food, as all the women folk are in bed.
Later you may lie down in the corner by the hearth,
so you won’t have to freeze.”
He waved his hand, as if to ward them off, and his eyes
took on a hard look. He was thankful that he had had
a father who had been careful of his property. Otherwise,
he might perhaps have been forced in childhood
to run about and beg, as these children now did.
No sooner had he thought this out to the end than the
shrill, mocking voice he had heard once before that
evening repeated it, word for word.
He listened, and at once understood that it was nothing—
only the wind roaring in the chimney. But the queer
thing about it was, when the wind repeated his thoughts,
they seemed so strangely stupid and hard and false!
The children meanwhile had stretched themselves, side
by side, on the floor. They were not quiet, but lay
there muttering.
“Do be still, won’t you?” he growled, for he was in such
an irritable mood that he could have beaten them.
But the mumbling continued, and again he called for
silence.
“When mother went away,” piped a clear little voice,
“she made me promise that every night I would say
my evening prayer. I must do this, and Britta Maja
too. As soon as we have said ’God who cares for little
children—’ we’ll be quiet.”
The master sat quite still while the little ones said
their prayers, then he rose and began pacing back and
forth, back and forth, wringing his hands all the while,
as though he had met with some great sorrow.
“The horse driven out and wrecked, these two children
turned into road beggars—both father’s doings! Perhaps
father did not do right after all?” he thought.
He sat down again and buried his head in his hands.
Suddenly his lips began to quiver and into his eyes
came tears, which he hastily wiped away. Fresh tears
came, and he was just as prompt to brush these away;
but it was useless, for more followed.
When his mother stepped into the room, he swung his
chair quickly and turned his back to her. She must
have noticed something unusual, for she stood quietly
behind him a long while, as if waiting for him to speak.
She realized how difficult it always is for men to talk
of the things they feel most deeply. She must help him
of course.
From her bedroom she had observed all that had taken
place in the living room, so that she did not have to
ask questions. She walked very softly over to the two
sleeping children, lifted them, and bore them to her
own bed. Then she went back to her son.
“Lars,” she said, as if she did not see that he was weeping,
“you had better let me keep these children.”
“What, mother?” he gasped, trying to smother the
sobs.
“I have been suffering for years—ever since father took
the cabin from their mother, and so have you.”
“Yes, but—”
“I want to keep them here and make something of
them; they are too good to beg.”
He could not speak, for now the tears were beyond his
control; but he took his old mother’s withered hand
and patted it.
Then he jumped up, as if something had frightened
him.
“What would father have said of this?”
“Father had his day at ruling,” retorted the mother.
“Now it is your day. As long as father lived we had to
obey him. Now is the time to show what you are.”
Her son was so astonished that he ceased crying.
“But I have just shown what I am!” he returned.
“No, you haven’t,” protested the mother. “You only
try to be like him. Father experienced hard times,
which made him fear poverty. He believed that he had
to think of himself first. But you have never had any
difficulties that should make you hard. You have more
than you need, and it would be unnatural of you not
to think of others.”
When the two little girls entered the house the boy
slipped in behind them and secreted himself in a dark
corner. He had not been there long before he caught a
glimpse of the shed key, which the farmer had thrust
into his coat pocket.
“When the master of the house drives the children out,
I’ll take the key and ran,” he thought.
But the children were not driven out and the boy
crouched in the corner, not knowing what he should
do next.
The mother talked long with her son, and while she
was speaking he stopped weeping. Gradually his features
softened; he looked like another person. All the
while he was stroking the wasted old hand.
“Now we may as well retire,” said the old lady when
she saw that he was calm again.
“No,” he said, suddenly rising, “I cannot retire yet.
There’s a stranger without whom I must shelter tonight!”
He said nothing further, but quickly drew on his coat,
lit the lantern and went out. There were the same wind
and chill without, but as he stepped to the porch he
began to sing softly. He wondered if the horse would
know him, and if he would be glad to come back to his
old stable.
As he crossed the house yard he heard a door slam.
“That shed door has blown open again,” he thought,
and went over to close it.
A moment later he stood by the shed and was just going
to shut the door, when he heard a rustling within.
The boy, who had watched his opportunity, had run
directly to the shed, where he left the animals, but
they were no longer out in the rain: A strong wind
had long since thrown open the door and helped them
to get a roof over their heads. The patter which the
master heard was occasioned by the boy running into
the shed.
By the light of the lantern the man could see into the
shed. The whole floor was covered with sleeping cattle.
There was no human being to be seen; the animals
were not bound, but were lying, here and there, in the
straw.
He was enraged at the intrusion and began storming
and shrieking to rouse the sleepers and drive them out.
But the creatures lay still and would not let themselves
be disturbed. The only one that rose was an old horse
that came slowly toward him.
All of a sudden the man became silent. He recognized
the beast by its gait. He raised the lantern, and the
horse came over and laid its head on his shoulder. The
master patted and stroked it.
“My old horsy, my old horsy!” he said. “What have
they done to you? Yes, dear, I’ll buy you back. You’ll
never again have to leave this place. You shall do
whatever you like, horsy mine! Those whom you have
brought with you may remain here, but you shall come
with me to the stable. Now I can give you all the oats
you are able to eat, without having to smuggle them.
And you’re not all used up, either! The handsomest
horse on the church knoll—that’s what you shall be
once more! There, there! There, there!”
Chapter 43
THE BREAKING UP
OF THE ICE
Thursday, April twenty-eighth.
The following day the weather was clear and beautiful.
There was a strong west wind; people were glad of that,
for it dried up the roads, which had been soaked by
the heavy rains of the day before.
Early in the morning the two Smaland children, Osa,
the goose girl, and little Mats, were out on the highway
leading from Soermland to Naerke. The road ran
alongside the southern shore of Hjaelmar Lake and the
children were walking along looking at the ice, which
covered the greater part of it. The morning sun darted
its clear rays upon the ice, which did not look dark and
forbidding, like most spring ice, but sparkled temptingly.
As far as they could see, the ice was firm and
dry. The rain had run down into cracks and hollows,
or been absorbed by the ice itself. The children saw
only the sound ice.
Osa, the goose girl, and little Mats were on their way
North, and they could not help thinking of all the steps
they would be saved if they could cut straight across
the lake instead of going around it. They knew, to
be sure, that spring ice is treacherous, but this looked
perfectly secure. They could see that it was several
inches thick near the shore. They saw a path which
they might follow, and the opposite shore appeared to
be so near that they ought to be able to get there in
an hour.
“Come, let’s try!” said little Mats. “If we only look
before us, so that we don’t go down into some hole, we
can do it.”
So they went out on the lake. The ice was not very
slippery, but rather easy to walk upon. There was
more water on it than they expected to see, and here
and there were cracks, where the water purled up. One
had to watch out for such places; but that was easy to
do in broad daylight, with the sun shining.
The children advanced rapidly, and talked only of how
sensible they were to have gone out on the ice instead
of tramping the slushy road.
When they had been walking a while they came to Vin
Island, where an old woman had sighted them from her
window. She rushed from her cabin, waved them back,
and shouted something which they could not hear.
They understood perfectly well that she was warning
them not to come any farther; but they thought there
was no immediate danger. It would be stupid for them
to leave the ice when all was going so well!
Therefore they went on past Vin Island and had a
stretch of seven miles of ice ahead of them.
Out there was so much water that the children were
obliged to take roundabout ways; but that was sport to
them. They vied with each other as to which could find
the soundest ice. They were neither tired nor hungry.
The whole day was before them, and they laughed at
each obstacle they met.
Now and then they cast a glance ahead at the farther
shore. It still appeared far away, although they had
been walking a good hour. They were rather surprised
that the lake was so broad.
“The shore seems to be moving farther away from us,”
little Mats observed.
Out there the children were not protected against the
wind, which was becoming stronger and stronger every
minute, and was pressing their clothing so close to
their bodies that they could hardly go on. The cold
wind was the first disagreeable thing they had met
with on the journey.
But the amazing part of it was that the wind came
sweeping along with a loud roar—as if it brought with
it the noise of a large mill or factory, though nothing
of the kind was to be found out there on the ice. They
had walked to the west of the big island, Valen; now
they thought they were nearing the north shore. Suddenly
the wind began to blow more and more, while
the loud roaring increased so rapidly that they began
to feel uneasy.
All at once it occurred to them that the roar was
caused by the foaming and rushing of the waves breaking
against a shore. Even this seemed improbable,
since the lake was still covered with ice.
At all events, they paused and looked about. They
noticed far in the west a white bank which stretched
clear across the lake. At first they thought it was a
snowbank alongside a road. Later they realized it was
the foam-capped waves dashing against the ice! They
took hold of hands and ran without saying a word.
Open sea lay beyond in the west, and suddenly the
streak of foam appeared to be moving eastward. They
wondered if the ice was going to break all over. What
was going to happen? They felt now that they were in
great danger.
All at once it seemed as if the ice under their feet
rose—rose and sank, as if some one from below were
pushing it. Presently they heard a hollow boom, and
then there were cracks in the ice all around them. The
children could see how they crept along under the icecovering.
The next moment all was still, then the rising and
sinking began again. Thereupon the cracks began to
widen into crevices through which the water bubbled
up. By and by the crevices became gaps. Soon after
that the ice was divided into large floes.
“Osa,” said little Mats, “this must be the breaking up
of the ice!”
“Why, so it is, little Mats,” said Osa, “but as yet we
can get to land. Run for your life!”
As a matter of fact, the wind and waves had a good
deal of work to do yet to clear the ice from the lake.
The hardest part was done when the ice-cake burst
into pieces, but all these pieces must be broken and
hurled against each other, to be crushed, worn down,
and dissolved. There was still a great deal of hard and
sound ice left, which formed large, unbroken surfaces.
The greatest danger for the children lay in the fact
that they had no general view of the ice. They did not
see the places where the gaps were so wide that they
could not possibly jump over them, nor did they know
where to find any floes that would hold them, so they
wandered aimlessly back and forth, going farther out
on the lake instead of nearer land. At last, confused
and terrified, they stood still and wept.
Then a flock of wild geese in rapid flight came rushing
by. They shrieked loudly and sharply; but the strange
thing was that above the geese-cackle the little children
heard these words:
“You must go to the right, the right, the right!” They
began at once to follow the advice; but before long they
were again standing irresolute, facing another broad
gap.
Again they heard the geese shrieking above them, and
again, amid the geese-cackle, they distinguished a few
words:
“Stand where you are! Stand where you are!”
The children did not say a word to each other, but
obeyed and stood still. Soon after that the ice-floes
floated together, so that they could cross the gap.
Then they took hold of hands again and ran. They
were afraid not only of the peril, but of the mysterious
help that had come to them.
Soon they had to stop again, and immediately the
sound of the voice reached them.
“Straight ahead, straight ahead!” it said.
This leading continued for about half an hour; by that
time they had reached Ljunger Point, where they left
the ice and waded to shore. They were still terribly
frightened, even though they were on firm land. They
did not stop to look back at the lake—where the waves
were pitching the ice-floes faster and faster—but ran
on. When they had gone a short distance along the
point, Osa paused suddenly.
“Wait here, little Mats,” she said; “I have forgotten
something.”
Osa, the goose girl, went down to the strand again,
where she stopped to rummage in her bag. Finally she
fished out a little wooden shoe, which she placed on a
stone where it could be plainly seen. Then she ran to
little Mats without once looking back.
But the instant her back was turned, a big white goose
shot down from the sky, like a streak of lightning,
snatched the wooden shoe, and flew away with it.
Chapter 44
THUMBIETOT AND
THE BEARS
THE IRONWORKS
Thursday, April twenty-eighth.
When the wild geese and Thumbietot had helped Osa,
the goose girl, and little Mats across the ice, they flew
into Westmanland, where they alighted in a grain field
to feed and rest.
A strong west wind blew almost the entire day on
which the wild geese travelled over the mining districts,
and as soon as they attempted to direct their
course northward they were buffeted toward the east.
Now, Akka thought that Smirre Fox was at large in the
eastern part of the province; therefore she would not
fly in that direction, but turned back, time and again,
struggling westward with great difficulty. At this rate
the wild geese advanced very slowly, and late in the
afternoon they were still in the Westmanland mining
districts. Toward evening the wind abated suddenly,
and the tired travellers hoped that they would have
an interval of easy flight before sundown. Then along
came a violent gust of wind, which tossed the geese
before it, like balls, and the boy, who was sitting comfortably,
with no thought of peril, was lifted from the
goose’s back and hurled into space.
Little and light as he was, he could not fall straight to
the ground in such a wind; so at first he was carried
along with it, drifting down slowly and spasmodically,
as a leaf falls from a tree.
“Why, this isn’t so bad!” thought the boy as he fell.
“I’m tumbling as easily as if I were only a scrap of
paper. Morten Goosey-Gander will doubtless hurry
along and pick me up.”
The first thing the boy did when he landed was to tear
off his cap and wave it, so that the big white gander
should see where he was.
“Here am I, where are you? Here am I, where are
you?” he called, and was rather surprised that Morten
Goosey-Gander was not already at his side.
But the big white gander was not to be seen, nor was
the wild goose flock outlined against the sky. It had
entirely disappeared.
He thought this rather singular, but he was neither
worried nor frightened. Not for a second did it occur
to him that folk like Akka and Morten Goosey-Gander
would abandon him. The unexpected gust of wind had
probably borne them along with it. As soon as they
could manage to turn, they would surely come back
and fetch him.
But what was this? Where on earth was he anyway?
He had been standing gazing toward the sky for some
sign of the geese, but now he happened to glance about
him. He had not come down on even ground, but had
dropped into a deep, wide mountain cave—or whatever
it might be. It was as large as a church, with
almost perpendicular walls on all four sides, and with
no roof at all. On the ground were some huge rocks,
between which moss and lignon-brush and dwarfed
birches grew. Here and there in the wall were projections,
from which swung rickety ladders. At one
side there was a dark passage, which apparently led
far into the mountain.
The boy had not been travelling over the mining districts
a whole day for nothing. He comprehended at
once that the big cleft had been made by the men who
had mined ore in this place.
“I must try and climb back to earth again,” he thought,
“otherwise I fear that my companions won’t find me!”
He was about to go over to the wall when some one
seized him from behind, and he heard a gruff voice
growl in his ear: “Who are you?”
The boy turned quickly, and, in the confusion of the
moment, he thought he was facing a huge rock, covered
with brownish moss. Then he noticed that the rock
had broad paws to walk with, a head, two eyes, and a
growling mouth.
He could not pull himself together to answer, nor did
the big beast appear to expect it of him, for it knocked
him down, rolled him back and forth with its paws, and
nosed him. It seemed just about ready to swallow him,
when it changed its mind and called:
“Brumme and Mulle, come here, you cubs, and you
shall have something good to eat!”
A pair of frowzy cubs, as uncertain on their feet and
as woolly as puppies, came tumbling along.
“What have you got, Mamma Bear? May we see, oh,
may we see?” shrieked the cubs excitedly.
“Oho! so I’ve fallen in with bears,” thought the boy
to himself. “Now Smirre Fox won’t have to trouble
himself further to chase after me!”
The mother bear pushed the boy along to the cubs.
One of them nabbed him quickly and ran off with him;
but he did not bite hard. He was playful and wanted
to amuse himself awhile with Thumbietot before eating
him. The other cub was after the first one to snatch the
boy for himself, and as he lumbered along he managed
to tumble straight down on the head of the one that
carried the boy. So the two cubs rolled over each other,
biting, clawing, and snarling.
During the tussle the boy got loose, ran over to the
wall, and started to scale it. Then both cubs scurried
after him, and, nimbly scaling the cliff, they caught
up with him and tossed him down on the moss, like a
ball.
“Now I know how a poor little mousie fares when it
falls into the cat’s claws,” thought the boy.
He made several attempts to get away. He ran deep
down into the old tunnel and hid behind the rocks and
climbed the birches, but the cubs hunted him out, go
where he would. The instant they caught him they
let him go, so that he could run away again and they
should have the fun of recapturing him.
At last the boy got so sick and tired of it all that he
threw himself down on the ground.
“Run away,” growled the cubs, “or we’ll eat you up!”
“You’ll have to eat me then,” said the boy, “for I can’t
run any more.”
Immediately both cubs rushed over to the mother bear
and complained:
“Mamma Bear, oh, Mamma Bear, he won’t play any
more.”
“Then you must divide him evenly between you,” said
Mother Bear.
When the boy heard this he was so scared that he
jumped up instantly and began playing again.
As it was bedtime, Mother Bear called to the cubs
that they must come now and cuddle up to her and
go to sleep. They had been having such a good time
that they wished to continue their play next day; so
they took the boy between them and laid their paws
over him. They did not want him to move without
waking them. They went to sleep immediately. The
boy thought that after a while he would try to steal
away. But never in all his life had he been so tumbled
and tossed and hunted and rolled! And he was so tired
out that he too fell asleep.
By and by Father Bear came clambering down the
mountain wall. The boy was wakened by his tearing
away stone and gravel as he swung himself into the old
mine. The boy was afraid to move much; but he managed
to stretch himself and turn over, so that he could
see the big bear. He was a frightfully coarse, huge
old beast, with great paws, large, glistening tusks, and
wicked little eyes! The boy could not help shuddering
as he looked at this old monarch of the forest.
“It smells like a human being around here,” said Father
Bear the instant he came up to Mother Bear, and his
growl was as the rolling of thunder.
“How can you imagine anything so absurd?” said Mother
Bear without disturbing herself. “It has been settled
for good and all that we are not to harm mankind any
more; but if one of them were to put in an appearance
here, where the cubs and I have our quarters, there
wouldn’t be enough left of him for you to catch even
a scent of him!”
Father Bear lay down beside Mother Bear. “You ought
to know me well enough to understand that I don’t
allow anything dangerous to come near the cubs. Talk,
instead, of what you have been doing. I haven’t seen
you for a whole week!”
“I’ve been looking about for a new residence,” said Father
Bear. “First I went over to Vermland, to learn
from our kinsmen at Ekshaerad how they fared in that
country; but I had my trouble for nothing. There
wasn’t a bear’s den left in the whole forest.”
“I believe the humans want the whole earth to themselves,”
said Mother Bear. “Even if we leave people and
cattle in peace and live solely upon lignon and insects
and green things, we cannot remain unmolested in the
forest! I wonder where we could move to in order to
live in peace?”
“We’ve lived comfortably for many years in this pit,”
observed Father Bear. “But I can’t be content here
now since the big noise-shop has been built right in our
neighbourhood. Lately I have been taking a look at
the land east of Dal River, over by Garpen Mountain.
Old mine pits are plentiful there, too, and other fine
retreats. I thought it looked as if one might be fairly
protected against men—”
The instant Father Bear said this he sat up and began
to sniff.
“It’s extraordinary that whenever I speak of human
beings I catch that queer scent again,” he remarked.
“Go and see for yourself if you don’t believe me!” challenged
Mother Bear. “I should just like to know where
a human being could manage to hide down here?”
The bear walked all around the cave, and nosed. Finally
he went back and lay down without a word.
“What did I tell you?” said Mother Bear. “But of
course you think that no one but yourself has any nose
or ears!”
“One can’t be too careful, with such neighbours as we
have,” said Father Bear gently. Then he leaped up
with a roar. As luck would have it, one of the cubs
had moved a paw over to Nils Holgersson’s face and
the poor little wretch could not breathe, but began
to sneeze. It was impossible for Mother Bear to keep
Father Bear back any longer. He pushed the young
ones to right and left and caught sight of the boy before
he had time to sit up.
He would have swallowed him instantly if Mother Bear
had not cast herself between them.
“Don’t touch him! He belongs to the cubs,” she said.
“They have had such fun with him the whole evening
that they couldn’t bear to eat him up, but wanted to
save him until morning.”
Father Bear pushed Mother Bear aside.
“Don’t meddle with what you don’t understand!” he
roared. “Can’t you scent that human odour about him
from afar? I shall eat him at once, or he will play us
some mean trick.”
He opened his jaws again; but meanwhile the boy
had had time to think, and, quick as a flash, he dug
into his knapsack and brought forth some matches—
his sole weapon of defence—struck one on his leather
breeches, and stuck the burning match into the bear’s
open mouth.
Father Bear snorted when he smelled the sulphur, and
with that the flame went out. The boy was ready with
another match, but, curiously enough, Father Bear did
not repeat his attack.
“Can you light many of those little blue roses?” asked
Father Bear.
“I can light enough to put an end to the whole forest,”
replied the boy, for he thought that in this way he
might be able to scare Father Bear.
“Oh, that would be no trick for me!” boasted the boy,
hoping that this would make the bear respect him.
“Good!” exclaimed the bear. “You shall render me a
service. Now I’m very glad that I did not eat you!”
Father Bear carefully took the boy between his tusks
and climbed up from the pit. He did this with remarkable
ease and agility, considering that he was so big
and heavy. As soon as he was up, he speedily made
for the woods. It was evident that Father Bear was
created to squeeze through dense forests. The heavy
body pushed through the brushwood as a boat does
through the water.
Father Bear ran along till he came to a hill at the skirt
of the forest, where he could see the big noise-shop.
Here he lay down and placed the boy in front of him,
holding him securely between his forepaws.
“Now look down at that big noise-shop!” he commanded.
The great ironworks, with many tall buildings,
stood at the edge of a waterfall. High chimneys
sent forth dark clouds of smoke, blasting furnaces were
in full blaze, and light shone from all the windows and
apertures. Within hammers and rolling mills were going
with such force that the air rang with their clatter
and boom. All around the workshops proper were immense
coal sheds, great slag heaps, warehouses, wood
piles, and tool sheds. Just beyond were long rows
of workingmen’s homes, pretty villas, schoolhouses,
assembly halls, and shops. But there all was quiet
and apparently everybody was asleep. The boy did
not glance in that direction, but gazed intently at
the ironworks. The earth around them was black;
the sky above them was like a great fiery dome; the
rapids, white with foam, rushed by; while the buildings
themselves were sending out light and smoke, fire
and sparks. It was the grandest sight the boy had ever
seen!
“Surely you don’t mean to say you can set fire to a
place like that?” remarked the bear doubtingly.
The boy stood wedged between the beast’s paws thinking
the only thing that might save him would be that
the bear should have a high opinion of his capability
and power.
“It’s all the same to me,” he answered with a superior
air. “Big or little, I can burn it down.”
“Then I’ll tell you something,” said Father Bear. “My
forefathers lived in this region from the time that the
forests first sprang up. From them I inherited hunting
grounds and pastures, lairs and retreats, and have lived
here in peace all my life. In the beginning I wasn’t
troubled much by the human kind. They dug in the
mountains and picked up a little ore down here, by
the rapids; they had a forge and a furnace, but the
hammers sounded only a few hours during the day,
and the furnace was not fired more than two moons at
a stretch. It wasn’t so bad but that I could stand it;
but these last years, since they have built this noiseshop,
which keeps up the same racket both day and
night, life here has become intolerable. Formerly only
a manager and a couple of blacksmiths lived here, but
now there are so many people that I can never feel
safe from them. I thought that I should have to move
away, but I have discovered something better!”
The boy wondered what Father Bear had hit upon,
but no opportunity was afforded him to ask, as the
bear took him between his tusks again and lumbered
down the hill. The boy could see nothing, but knew
by the increasing noise that they were approaching the
rolling mills.
Father Bear was well informed regarding the ironworks.
He had prowled around there on many a dark night,
had observed what went on within, and had wondered
if there would never be any cessation of the work. He
had tested the walls with his paws and wished that
he were only strong enough to knock down the whole
structure with a single blow.
He was not easily distinguishable against the dark ground,
and when, in addition, he remained in the shadow of
the walls, there was not much danger of his being discovered.
Now he walked fearlessly between the workshops
and climbed to the top of a slag heap. There
he sat up on his haunches, took the boy between his
forepaws and held him up.
“Try to look into the house!” he commanded. A strong
current of air was forced into a big cylinder which was
suspended from the ceiling and filled with molten iron.
As this current rushed into the mess of iron with an
awful roar, showers of sparks of all colours spurted up
in bunches, in sprays, in long clusters! They struck
against the wall and came splashing down over the
whole big room. Father Bear let the boy watch the
gorgeous spectacle until the blowing was over and the
flowing and sparkling red steel had been poured into
ingot moulds.
The boy was completely charmed by the marvellous
display and almost forgot that he was imprisoned between
a bear’s two paws.
Father Bear let him look into the rolling mill. He saw a
workman take a short, thick bar of iron at white heat
from a furnace opening and place it under a roller.
When the iron came out from under the roller, it was
flattened and extended. Immediately another workman
seized it and placed it beneath a heavier roller,
which made it still longer and thinner. Thus it was
passed from roller to roller, squeezed and drawn out
until, finally, it curled along the floor, like a long red
thread.
But while the first bar of iron was being pressed, a
second was taken from the furnace and placed under
the rollers, and when this was a little along, a third was
brought. Continuously fresh threads came crawling
over the floor, like hissing snakes. The boy was dazzled
by the iron. But he found it more splendid to watch the
workmen who, dexterously and delicately, seized the
glowing snakes with their tongs and forced them under
the rollers. It seemed like play for them to handle the
hissing iron.
“I call that real man’s work!” the boy remarked to
himself.
The bear then let the boy have a peep at the furnace
and the forge, and he became more and more astonished
as he saw how the blacksmiths handled iron and
fire.
“Those men have no fear of heat and flames,” he thought.
The workmen were sooty and grimy. He fancied they
were some sort of firefolk—that was why they could
bend and mould the iron as they wished. He could
not believe that they were just ordinary men, since
they had such power!
“They keep this up day after day, night after night,”
said Father Bear, as he dropped wearily down on the
ground. “You can understand that one gets rather
tired of that kind of thing. I’m mighty glad that at
last I can put an end to it!”
“Indeed!” said the boy. “How will you go about it?”
“Oh, I thought that you were going to set fire to the
buildings!” said Father Bear. “That would put an end
to all this work, and I could remain in my old home.”
The boy was all of a shiver.
So it was for this that Father Bear had brought him
here!
“If you will set fire to the noise-works, I’ll promise to
spare your life,” said Father Bear. “But if you don’t do
it, I’ll make short work of you!” The huge workshops
were built of brick, and the boy was thinking to himself
that Father Bear could command as much as he liked,
it was impossible to obey him. Presently he saw that
it might not be impossible after all. Just beyond them
lay a pile of chips and shavings to which he could easily
set fire, and beside it was a wood pile that almost
reached the coal shed. The coal shed extended over to
the workshops, and if that once caught fire, the flames
would soon fly over to the roof of the iron foundry. Everything
combustible would burn, the walls would fall
from the heat, and the machinery would be destroyed.
“Will you or won’t you?” demanded Father Bear. The
boy knew that he ought to answer promptly that he
would not, but he also knew that then the bear’s paws
would squeeze him to death; therefore he replied:
“I shall have to think it over.”
“Very well, do so,” assented Father Bear. “Let me say
to you that iron is the thing that has given men the
advantage over us bears, which is another reason for
my wishing to put an end to the work here.”
The boy thought he would use the delay to figure out
some plan of escape, but he was so worried he could
not direct his thoughts where he would; instead he began
to think of the great help that iron had been to
mankind. They needed iron for everything. There was
iron in the plough that broke up the field, in the axe
that felled the tree for building houses, in the scythe
that mowed the grain, and in the knife, which could be
turned to all sorts of uses. There was iron in the horse’s
bit, in the lock on the door, in the nails that held furniture
together, in the sheathing that covered the roof.
The rifle which drove away wild beasts was made of
iron, also the pick that had broken up the mine. Iron
covered the men-of-war he had seen at Karlskrona;
the locomotives steamed through the country on iron
rails; the needle that had stitched his coat was of iron;
the shears that clipped the sheep and the kettle that
cooked the food. Big and little alike—much that was
indispensable was made from iron. Father Bear was
perfectly right in saying that it was the iron that had
given men their mastery over the bears.
“Now will you or won’t you?” Father Bear repeated.
The boy was startled from his musing. Here he stood
thinking of matters that were entirely unnecessary, and
had not yet found a way to save himself!
“You mustn’t be so impatient,” he said. “This is a
serious matter for me, and I’ve got to have time to
consider.”
“Well, then, consider another moment,” said Father
Bear. “But let me tell you that it’s because of the iron
that men have become so much wiser than we bears.
For this alone, if for nothing else, I should like to put
a stop to the work here.”
Again the boy endeavoured to think out a plan of escape,
but his thoughts wandered, willy nilly. They
were taken up with the iron. And gradually he began
to comprehend how much thinking and calculating
men must have done before they discovered how
to produce iron from ore, and he seemed to see sooty
blacksmiths of old bending over the forge, pondering
how they should properly handle it. Perhaps it was because
they had thought so much about the iron that
intelligence had been developed in mankind, until finally
they became so advanced that they were able to
build great works like these. The fact was that men
owed more to the iron than they themselves knew.
“Well, what say you? Will you or won’t you?” insisted
Father Bear.
The boy shrank back. Here he stood thinking needless
thoughts, and had no idea as to what he should do to
save himself.
“It’s not such an easy matter to decide as you think,”
he answered. “You must give me time for reflection.”
“I can wait for you a little longer,” said Father Bear.
“But after that you’ll get no more grace. You must
know that it’s the fault of the iron that the human
kind can live here on the property of the bears. And
now you understand why I would be rid of the work.”
The boy meant to use the last moment to think out
some way to save himself, but, anxious and distraught
as he was, his thoughts wandered again. Now he began
thinking of all that he had seen when he flew over the
mining districts. It was strange that there should be
so much life and activity and so much work back there
in the wilderness.
“Just think how poor and desolate this place would be
had there been no iron here!
“This very foundry gave employment to many, and
had gathered around it many homes filled with people,
who, in turn, had attracted hither railways and
telegraph wires and—”
“Come, come!” growled the bear. “Will you or won’t
you?”
The boy swept his hand across his forehead. No plan
of escape had as yet come to his mind, but this much
he knew—he did not wish to do any harm to the iron,
which was so useful to rich and poor alike, and which
gave bread to so many people in this land.
“I won’t!” he said.
Father Bear squeezed him a little harder, but said
nothing.
“You’ll not get me to destroy the ironworks!” defied
the boy. “The iron is so great a blessing that it will
never do to harm it.”
“Then of course you don’t expect to be allowed to live
very long?” said the bear.
“No, I don’t expect it,” returned the boy, looking the
bear straight in the eye.
Father Bear gripped him still harder. It hurt so that
the boy could not keep the tears back, but he did not
cry out or say a word.
“Very well, then,” said Father Bear, raising his paw
very slowly, hoping that the boy would give in at the
last moment.
But just then the boy heard something click very close
to them, and saw the muzzle of a rifle two paces away.
Both he and Father Bear had been so engrossed in
their own affairs they had not observed that a man
had stolen right upon them.
“Father Bear! Don’t you hear the clicking of a trigger?”
cried the boy. “Run, or you’ll be shot!”
Father Bear grew terribly hurried. However, he allowed
himself time enough to pick up the boy and carry
him along. As he ran, a couple of shots sounded, and
the bullets grazed his ears, but, luckily, he escaped.
The boy thought, as he was dangling from the bear’s
mouth, that never had he been so stupid as he was
to-night. If he had only kept still, the bear would have
been shot, and he himself would have been freed. But
he had become so accustomed to helping the animals
that he did it naturally, and as a matter of course.
When Father Bear had run some distance into the
woods, he paused and set the boy down on the ground.
“Thank you, little one!” he said. “I dare say those bullets
would have caught me if you hadn’t been there.
And now I want to do you a service in return. If
you should ever meet with another bear, just say to
him this—which I shall whisper to you—and he won’t
touch you.”
Father Bear whispered a word or two into the boy’s
ear and hurried away, for he thought he heard hounds
and hunters pursuing him.
The boy stood in the forest, free and unharmed, and
could hardly understand how it was possible.
The wild geese had been flying back and forth the
whole evening, peering and calling, but they had been
unable to find Thumbietot. They searched long after
the sun had set, and, finally, when it had grown so
dark that they were forced to alight somewhere for the
night, they were very downhearted. There was not one
among them but thought the boy had been killed by
the fall and was lying dead in the forest, where they
could not see him.
But the next morning, when the sun peeped over the
hills and awakened the wild geese, the boy lay sleeping,
as usual, in their midst. When he woke and heard
them shrieking and cackling their astonishment, he
could not help laughing.
They were so eager to know what had happened to
him that they did not care to go to breakfast until he
had told them the whole story. The boy soon narrated
his entire adventure with the bears, but after that he
seemed reluctant to continue.
“How I got back to you perhaps you already know?”
he said.
“No, we know nothing. We thought you were killed.”
“That’s curious!” remarked the boy. “Oh, yes!—when
Father Bear left me I climbed up into a pine and fell
asleep. At daybreak I was awakened by an eagle hovering
over me. He picked me up with his talons and
carried me away. He didn’t hurt me, but flew straight
here to you and dropped me down among you.”
“Didn’t he tell you who he was?” asked the big white
gander.
“He was gone before I had time even to thank him. I
thought that Mother Akka had sent him after me.”
“How extraordinary!” exclaimed the white goosey-gander.
“But are you certain that it was an eagle?”
“I had never before seen an eagle,” said the boy, “but he
was so big and splendid that I can’t give him a lowlier
name!”
Morten Goosey-Gander turned to the wild geese to
hear what they thought of this; but they stood gazing
into the air, as though they were thinking of something
else.
“We must not forget entirely to eat breakfast today,”
said Akka, quickly spreading her wings.
Chapter 45
THE FLOOD
THE SWANS
May first to fourth.
There was a terrible storm raging in the district north
of Lake Maelar, which lasted several days. The sky
was a dull gray, the wind whistled, and the rain beat.
Both people and animals knew the spring could not
be ushered in with anything short of this; nevertheless
they thought it unbearable.
After it had been raining for a whole day, the snowdrifts
in the pine forests began to melt in earnest, and
the spring brooks grew lively. All the pools on the
farms, the standing water in the ditches, the water that
oozed between the tufts in marshes and swamps—all
were in motion and tried to find their way to creeks,
that they might be borne along to the sea.
The creeks rushed as fast as possible down to the
rivers, and the rivers did their utmost to carry the
water to Lake Maelar.
All the lakes and rivers in Uppland and the mining
district quickly threw off their ice covers on one and
the same day, so that the creeks filled with ice-floes
which rose clear up to their banks.
Swollen as they were, they emptied into Lake Maelar,
and it was not long before the lake had taken in as
much water as it could well hold. Down by the outlet
was a raging torrent. Norrstroem is a narrow channel,
and it could not let out the water quickly enough.
Besides, there was a strong easterly wind that lashed
against the land, obstructing the stream when it tried
to carry the fresh water into the East Sea. Since the
rivers kept running to Maelaren with more water than
it could dispose of, there was nothing for the big lake
to do but overflow its banks.
It rose very slowly, as if reluctant to injure its beautiful
shores; but as they were mostly low and gradually
sloping, it was not long before the water had flooded
several acres of land, and that was enough to create
the greatest alarm.
Lake Maelar is unique in its way, being made up of
a succession of narrow fiords, bays, and inlets. In no
place does it spread into a storm centre, but seems
to have been created only for pleasure trips, yachting
tours, and fishing. Nowhere does it present barren,
desolate, wind-swept shores. It looks as if it never
thought that its shores could hold anything but country
seats, summer villas, manors, and amusement resorts.
But, because it usually presents a very agreeable
and friendly appearance, there is all the more havoc
whenever it happens to drop its smiling expression in
the spring, and show that it can be serious.
At that critical time Smirre Fox happened to come
sneaking through a birch grove just north of Lake Maelar.
As usual, he was thinking of Thumbietot and the
wild geese, and wondering how he should ever find
them again. He had lost all track of them.
As he stole cautiously along, more discouraged than
usual, he caught sight of Agar, the carrier-pigeon, who
had perched herself on a birch branch.
“My, but I’m in luck to run across you, Agar!” exclaimed
Smirre. “Maybe you can tell me where Akka
from Kebnekaise and her flock hold forth nowadays?”
“It’s quite possible that I know where they are,” Agar
hinted, “but I’m not likely to tell you!”
“Please yourself!” retorted Smirre. “Nevertheless, you
can take a message that I have for them. You probably
know the present condition of Lake Maelar? There’s a
great overflow down there and all the swans who live in
Hjaelsta Bay are about to see their nests, with all their
eggs, destroyed. Daylight, the swan-king, has heard of
the midget who travels with the wild geese and knows
a remedy for every ill. He has sent me to ask Akka if
she will bring Thumbietot down to Hjaelsta Bay.”
“I dare say I can convey your message,” Agar replied,
“but I can’t understand how the little boy will be able
to help the swans.”
“Nor do I,” said Smirre, “but he can do almost everything,
it seems.”
“It’s surprising to me that Daylight should send his
messages by a fox,” Agar remarked.
“Well, we’re not exactly what you’d call good friends,”
said Smirre smoothly, “but in an emergency like this
we must help each other. Perhaps it would be just as
well not to tell Akka that you got the message from a
fox. Between you and me, she’s inclined to be a little
suspicious.”
The safest refuge for water-fowl in the whole Maelar
district is Hjaelsta Bay. It has low shores, shallow
water and is also covered with reeds.
It is by no means as large as Lake Takern, but nevertheless
Hjaelsta is a good retreat for birds, since it has
long been forbidden territory to hunters.
It is the home of a great many swans, and the owner
of the old castle nearby has prohibited all shooting on
the bay, so that they might be unmolested.
As soon as Akka received word that the swans needed
her help, she hastened down to Hjaelsta Bay. She arrived
with her flock one evening and saw at a glance
that there had been a great disaster. The big swans’
nests had been torn away, and the strong wind was
driving them down the bay. Some had already fallen
apart, two or three had capsized, and the eggs lay at
the bottom of the lake.
When Akka alighted on the bay, all the swans living
there were gathered near the eastern shore, where they
were protected from the wind.
Although they had suffered much by the flood, they
were too proud to let any one see it.
“It is useless to cry,” they said. “There are plenty
of root-fibres and stems here; we can soon build new
nests.”
None had thought of asking a stranger to help them,
and the swans had no idea that Smirre Fox had sent
for the wild geese!
There were several hundred swans resting on the water.
They had placed themselves according to rank and
station. The young and inexperienced were farthest
out, the old and wise nearer the middle of the group,
and right in the centre sat Daylight, the swan-king,
and Snow-White, the swan-queen, who were older than
any of the others and regarded the rest of the swans
as their children.
The geese alighted on the west shore of the bay; but
when Akka saw where the swans were, she swam toward
them at once. She was very much surprised at
their having sent for her, but she regarded it as an
honour and did not wish to lose a moment in coming
to their aid.
As Akka approached the swans she paused to see if the
geese who followed her swam in a straight line, and at
even distances apart.
“Now, swim along quickly!” she ordered. “Don’t stare
at the swans as if you had never before seen anything
beautiful, and don’t mind what they may say to you!”
This was not the first time that Akka had called on
the aristocratic swans. They had always received her
in a manner befitting a great traveller like herself.
But still she did not like the idea of swimming in
among them. She never felt so gray and insignificant
as when she happened upon swans. One or another of
them was sure to drop a remark about “common grayfeathers”
and “poor folk.” But it is always best to take
no notice of such things.
This time everything passed off uncommonly well. The
swans politely made way for the wild geese, who swam
forward through a kind of passageway, which formed
an avenue bordered by shimmering, white birds.
It was a beautiful sight to watch them as they spread
their wings, like sails, to appear well before the strangers.
They refrained from making comments, which rather
surprised Akka.
Evidently Daylight had noted their misbehaviour in
the past and had told the swans that they must conduct
themselves in a proper manner—so thought the
leader-goose.
But just as the swans were making an effort to observe
the rules of etiquette, they caught sight of the gooseygander,
who swam last in the long goose-line. Then
there was a murmur of disapproval, even of threats,
among the swans, and at once there was an end to
their good deportment!
“What’s this?” shrieked one. “Do the wild geese intend
to dress up in white feathers?”
“They needn’t think that will make swans of them,”
cried another.
They began shrieking—one louder than another—in
their strong, resonant voices. It was impossible to explain
that a tame goosey-gander had come with the
wild geese.
“That must be the goose-king himself coming along,”
they said tauntingly. “There’s no limit to their audacity!”
“That’s no goose, it’s only a tame duck.”
The big white gander remembered Akka’s admonition
to pay no attention, no matter what he might hear.
He kept quiet and swam ahead as fast he could, but
it did no good. The swans became more and more
impertinent.
“What kind of a frog does he carry on his back?” asked
one. “They must think we don’t see it’s a frog because
it is dressed like a human being.”
The swans, who but a moment before had been resting
in such perfect order, now swam up and down excitedly.
All tried to crowd forward to get a glimpse of
the white wild goose.
“That white goosey-gander ought to be ashamed to
come here and parade before swans!”
“He’s probably as gray as the rest of them. He has
only been in a flour barrel at some farm house!”
Akka had just come up to Daylight and was about to
ask him what kind of help he wanted of her, when the
swan-king noticed the uproar among the swans.
“What do I see? Haven’t I taught you to be polite to
strangers?” he said with a frown.
Snow-White, the swan-queen, swam out to restore order
among her subjects, and again Daylight turned to
Akka.
Presently Snow-White came back, appearing greatly
agitated.
“Can’t you keep them quiet?” shouted Daylight.
“There’s a white wild goose over there,” answered Snow-
White. “Is it not shameful? I don’t wonder they are
furious!”
“A white wild goose?” scoffed Daylight. “That’s too
ridiculous! There can’t be such a thing. You must be
mistaken.”
The crowds around Morten Goosey-Gander grew larger
and larger. Akka and the other wild geese tried to
swim over to him, but were jostled hither and thither
and could not get to him.
The old swan-king, who was the strongest among them,
swam off quickly, pushed all the others aside, and made
his way over to the big white gander. But when he saw
that there really was a white goose on the water, he
was just as indignant as the rest.
He hissed with rage, flew straight at Morten Goosey-
Gander and tore out a few feathers.
“I’ll teach you a lesson, wild goose,” he shrieked, “so
that you’ll not come again to the swans, togged out in
this way!”
“Fly, Morten Goosey-Gander! Fly, fly!” cried Akka,
for she knew that otherwise the swans would pull out
every feather the goosey-gander had.
“Fly, fly!” screamed Thumbietot, too.
But the goosey-gander was so hedged in by the swans
that he had not room enough to spread his wings.
All around him the swans stretched their long necks,
opened their strong bills, and plucked his feathers.
Morten Goosey-Gander defended himself as best he
could, by striking and biting. The wild geese also began
to fight the swans.
It was obvious how this would have ended had the
geese not received help quite unexpectedly.
A red-tail noticed that they were being roughly treated
by the swans. Instantly he cried out the shrill call that
little birds use when they need help to drive off a hawk
or a falcon.
Three calls had barely sounded when all the little birds
in the vicinity came shooting down to Hjaelsta Bay, as
if on wings of lightning.
These delicate little creatures swooped down upon the
swans, screeched in their ears, and obstructed their
view with the flutter of their tiny wings. They made
them dizzy with their fluttering and drove them to
distraction with their cries of “Shame, shame, swans!”
The attack of the small birds lasted but a moment.
When they were gone and the swans came to their
senses, they saw that the geese had risen and flown
over to the other end of the bay.
Chapter 46
THE NEW
WATCH-DOG
There was this at least to be said in the swans’ favour—
when they saw that the wild geese had escaped, they
were too proud to chase them. Moreover, the geese
could stand on a clump of reeds with perfect composure,
and sleep.
Nils Holgersson was too hungry to sleep.
“It is necessary for me to get something to eat,” he
said.
At that time, when all kinds of things were floating on
the water, it was not difficult for a little boy like Nils
Holgersson to find a craft. He did not stop to deliberate,
but hopped down on a stump that had drifted
in amongst the reeds. Then he picked up a little stick
and began to pole toward shore.
Just as he was landing, he heard a splash in the water.
He stopped short. First he saw a lady swan asleep in
her big nest quite close to him, then he noticed that
a fox had taken a few steps into the water and was
sneaking up to the swan’s nest.
“Hi, hi, hi! Get up, get up!” cried the boy, beating the
water with his stick.
The lady swan rose, but not so quickly but that the fox
could have pounced upon her had he cared to. However,
he refrained and instead hurried straight toward
the boy.
Thumbietot saw the fox coming and ran for his life.
Wide stretches of meadow land spread before him. He
saw no tree that he could climb, no hole where he
might hide; he just had to keep running.
The boy was a good runner, but it stands to reason
that he could not race with a fox!
Not far from the bay there were a number of little cabins,
with candle lights shining through the windows.
Naturally the boy ran in that direction, but he realized
that long before he could reach the nearest cabin
the fox would catch up to him.
Once the fox was so close that it looked as if the boy
would surely be his prey, but Nils quickly sprang aside
and turned back toward the bay. By that move the fox
lost time, and before he could reach the boy the latter
had run up to two men who were on their way home
from work.
The men were tired and sleepy; they had noticed neither
boy nor fox, although both had been running right
in front of them. Nor did the boy ask help of the men;
he was content to walk close beside them.
“Surely the fox won’t venture to come up to the men,”
he thought.
But presently the fox came pattering along. He probably
counted on the men taking him for a dog, for he
went straight up to them.
“Whose dog can that be sneaking around here?” queried
one. “He looks as though he were ready to bite.”
The other paused and glanced back.
“Go along with you!” he said, and gave the fox a kick
that sent it to the opposite side of the road. “What
are you doing here?”
After that the fox kept at a safe distance, but followed
all the while.
Presently the men reached a cabin and entered it. The
boy intended to go in with them; but when he got to
the stoop he saw a big, shaggy watch-dog rush out
from his kennel to greet his master. Suddenly the boy
changed his mind and remained out in the open.
“Listen, watch-dog!” whispered the boy as soon as the
men had shut the door. “I wonder if you would like to
help me catch a fox to-night?”
The dog had poor eyesight and had become irritable
and cranky from being chained.
“What, I catch a fox?” he barked angrily. “Who are
you that makes fun of me? You just come within my
reach and I’ll teach you not to fool with me!”
“You needn’t think that I’m afraid to come near you!”
said the boy, running up to the dog.
When the dog saw him he was so astonished that he
could not speak.
“I’m the one they call Thumbietot, who travels with
the wild geese,” said the boy, introducing himself. “Haven’t
you heard of me?”
“I believe the sparrows have twittered a little about
you,” the dog returned. “They say that you have done
wonderful things for one of your size.”
“I’ve been rather lucky up to the present,” admitted
the boy. “But now it’s all up with me unless you help
me! There’s a fox at my heels. He’s lying in wait for
me around the corner.”
“Don’t you suppose I can smell him?” retorted the
dog. “But we’ll soon be rid of him!” With that the
dog sprang as far as the chain would allow, barking
and growling for ever so long. “Now I don’t think he
will show his face again to-night!” said the dog.
“It will take something besides a fine bark to scare that
fox!” the boy remarked. “He’ll soon be here again, and
that is precisely what I wish, for I have set my heart
on your catching him.”
“Are you poking fun at me now?” asked the dog.
“Only come with me into your kennel, and I’ll tell you
what to do.”
The boy and the watch-dog crept into the kennel and
crouched there, whispering.
By and by the fox stuck his nose out from his hiding
place. When all was quiet he crept along cautiously.
He scented the boy all the way to the kennel,
but halted at a safe distance and sat down to think of
some way to coax him out.
Suddenly the watch-dog poked his head out and growled
at him:
“Go away, or I’ll catch you!”
“I’ll sit here as long as I please for all of you!” defied
the fox.
“Go away!” repeated the dog threateningly, “or there
will be no more hunting for you after to-night.”
But the fox only grinned and did not move an inch.
“I know how far your chain can reach,” he said.
“I have warned you twice,” said the dog, coming out
from his kennel. “Now blame yourself!”
With that the dog sprang at the fox and caught him
without the least effort, for he was loose. The boy had
unbuckled his collar.
There was a hot struggle, but it was soon over. The
dog was the victor. The fox lay on the ground and
dared not move.
“Don’t stir or I’ll kill you!” snarled the dog. Then he
took the fox by the scruff of the neck and dragged him
to the kennel. There the boy was ready with the chain.
He placed the dog collar around the neck of the fox,
tightening it so that he was securely chained. During
all this the fox had to lie still, for he was afraid to
move.
“Now, Smirre Fox, I hope you’ll make a good watchdog,”
laughed the boy when he had finished.
Chapter 47
DUNFIN
THE CITY THAT FLOATS ON
THE WATER
Friday, May sixth.
No one could be more gentle and kind than the little
gray goose Dunfin. All the wild geese loved her, and
the tame white goosey-gander would have died for her.
When Dunfin asked for anything not even Akka could
say no.
As soon as Dunfin came to Lake Maelar the landscape
looked familiar to her. Just beyond the lake lay the
sea, with many wooded islands, and there, on a little
islet, lived her parents and her brothers and sisters.
She begged the wild geese to fly to her home before
travelling farther north, that she might let her family
see that she was still alive. It would be such a joy to
them.
Akka frankly declared that she thought Dunfin’s parents
and brothers and sisters had shown no great love
for her when they abandoned her at Oeland, but Dunfin
would not admit that Akka was in the right. “What
else was there to do, when they saw that I could not
fly?” she protested. “Surely they couldn’t remain at
Oeland on my account!”
Dunfin began telling the wild geese all about her home
in the archipelago, to try to induce them to make the
trip. Her family lived on a rock island. Seen from a
distance, there appeared to be nothing but stone there;
but when one came closer, there were to be found the
choicest goose tidbits in clefts and hollows, and one
might search long for better nesting places than those
that were hidden in the mountain crevices or among
the osier bushes. But the best of all was the old fisherman
who lived there. Dunfin had heard that in his
youth he had been a great shot and had always lain in
the offing and hunted birds. But now, in his old age—
since his wife had died and the children had gone from
home, so that he was alone in the hut—he had begun
to care for the birds on his island. He never fired a
shot at them, nor would he permit others to do so. He
walked around amongst the birds’ nests, and when the
mother birds were sitting he brought them food. Not
one was afraid of him. They all loved him.
Dunfin had been in his hut many times, and he had
fed her with bread crumbs. Because he was kind to the
birds, they flocked to his island in such great numbers
that it was becoming overcrowded. If one happened to
arrive a little late in the spring, all the nesting places
were occupied. That was why Dunfin’s family had
been obliged to leave her.
Dunfin begged so hard that she finally had her way,
although the wild geese felt that they were losing time
and really should be going straight north. But a little
trip like this to the cliff island would not delay them
more than a day.
So they started off one morning, after fortifying themselves
with a good breakfast, and flew eastward over
Lake Maelar. The boy did not know for certain where
they were going; but he noticed that the farther east
they flew, the livelier it was on the lake and the more
built up were the shores.
Heavily freighted barges and sloops, boats and fishing
smacks were on their way east, and these were met
and passed by many pretty white steamers. Along the
shores ran country roads and railway tracks—all in the
same direction. There was some place beyond in the
east where all wished to go to in the morning.
On one of the islands the boy saw a big, white castle,
and to the east of it the shores were dotted with villas.
At the start these lay far apart, then they became
closer and closer, and, presently, the whole shore was
lined with them. They were of every variety—here a
castle, there a cottage; then a low manor house appeared,
or a mansion, with many small towers. Some
stood in gardens, but most of them were in the wild
woods which bordered the shores. Despite their dissimilarity,
they had one point of resemblance—they
were not plain and sombre-looking, like other buildings,
but were gaudily painted in striking greens and
blues, reds and white, like children’s playhouses.
As the boy sat on the goose’s back and glanced down
at the curious shore mansions, Dunfin cried out with
delight: “Now I know where I am! Over there lies the
City that Floats on the Water.”
The boy looked ahead. At first he saw nothing but
some light clouds and mists rolling forward over the
water, but soon he caught sight of some tall spires, and
then one and another house with many rows of windows.
They appeared and disappeared—rolling hither
and thither—but not a strip of shore did he see! Everything
over there appeared to be resting on the water.
Nearer to the city he saw no more pretty playhouses
along the shores—only dingy factories. Great heaps
of coal and wood were stacked behind tall planks, and
alongside black, sooty docks lay bulky freight steamers;
but over all was spread a shimmering, transparent
mist, which made everything appear so big and strong
and wonderful that it was almost beautiful.
The wild geese flew past factories and freight steamers
and were nearing the cloud-enveloped spires. Suddenly
all the mists sank to the water, save the thin, fleecy
ones that circled above their heads, beautifully tinted
in blues and pinks. The other clouds rolled over water
and land. They entirely obscured the lower portions
of the houses: only the upper stories and the roofs and
gables were visible. Some of the buildings appeared to
be as high as the Tower of Babel. The boy no doubt
knew that they were built upon hills and mountains,
but these he did not see—only the houses that seemed
to float among the white, drifting clouds. In reality
the buildings were dark and dingy, for the sun in the
east was not shining on them.
The boy knew that he was riding above a large city, for
he saw spires and house roofs rising from the clouds in
every direction. Sometimes an opening was made in
the circling mists, and he looked down into a running,
tortuous stream; but no land could he see. All this was
beautiful to look upon, but he felt quite distraught—as
one does when happening upon something one cannot
understand.
When he had gone beyond the city, he found that
the ground was no longer hidden by clouds, but that
shores, streams, and islands were again plainly visible.
He turned to see the city better, but could not, for
now it looked quite enchanted. The mists had taken
on colour from the sunshine and were rolling forward in
the most brilliant reds, blues, and yellows. The houses
were white, as if built of light, and the windows and
spires sparkled like fire. All things floated on the water
as before.
The geese were travelling straight east. They flew over
factories and workshops; then over mansions edging
the shores. Steamboats and tugs swarmed on the water;
but now they came from the east and were steaming
westward toward the city.
The wild geese flew on, but instead of the narrow Maelar
fiords and the little islands, broader waters and
larger islands spread under them. At last the land was
left behind and seen no more.
They flew still farther out, where they found no more
large inhabited islands—only numberless little rock islands
were scattered on the water. Now the fiords were
not crowded by the land. The sea lay before them, vast
and limitless.
Here the wild geese alighted on a cliff island, and as
soon as their feet touched the ground the boy turned
to Dunfin.
“What city did we fly over just now?” he asked.
“I don’t know what human beings have named it,” said
Dunfin. “We gray geese call it the ’City that Floats on
the Water’.”
Chapter 48
THE SISTERS
Dunfin had two sisters, Prettywing and Goldeye. They
were strong and intelligent birds, but they did not have
such a soft and shiny feather dress as Dunfin, nor did
they have her sweet and gentle disposition. From the
time they had been little, yellow goslings, their parents
and relatives and even the old fisherman had plainly
shown them that they thought more of Dunfin than of
them. Therefore the sisters had always hated her.
When the wild geese landed on the cliff island, Prettywing
and Goldeye were feeding on a bit of grass close
to the strand, and immediately caught sight of the
strangers.
“See, Sister Goldeye, what fine-looking geese have come
to our island!” exclaimed Prettywing, “I have rarely
seen such graceful birds. Do you notice that they have
a white goosey-gander among them? Did you ever set
eyes on a handsomer bird? One could almost take him
for a swan!”
Goldeye agreed with her sister that these were certainly
very distinguished strangers that had come to
the island, but suddenly she broke off and called: “Sister
Prettywing! Oh, Sister Prettywing! Don’t you see
whom they bring with them?”
Prettywing also caught sight of Dunfin and was so astounded
that she stood for a long time with her bill
wide open, and only hissed.
“It can’t be possible that it is she! How did she manage
to get in with people of that class? Why, we left her
at Oeland to freeze and starve.”
“The worse of it is she will tattle to father and mother
that we flew so close to her that we knocked her wing
out of joint,” said Goldeye. “You’ll see that it will end
in our being driven from the island!”
“We have nothing but trouble in store for us, now that
that young one has come back!” snapped Prettywing.
“Still I think it would be best for us to appear as
pleased as possible over her return. She is so stupid
that perhaps she didn’t even notice that we gave her
a push on purpose.”
While Prettywing and Goldeye were talking in this
strain, the wild geese had been standing on the strand,
pluming their feathers after the flight. Now they marched
in a long line up the rocky shore to the cleft where
Dunfin’s parents usually stopped.
Dunfin’s parents were good folk. They had lived on
the island longer than any one else, and it was their
habit to counsel and aid all newcomers. They too had
seen the geese approach, but they had not recognized
Dunfin in the flock.
“It is strange to see wild geese land on this island,”
remarked the goose-master. “It is a fine flock—that
one can see by their flight.”
“But it won’t be easy to find pasturage for so many,”
said the goose-wife, who was gentle and sweet-tempered,
like Dunfin.
When Akka came marching with her company, Dunfin’s
parents went out to meet her and welcome her to
the island. Dunfin flew from her place at the end of
the line and lit between her parents.
“Mother and father, I’m here at last!” she cried joyously.
“Don’t you know Dunfin?”
At first the old goose-parents could not quite make out
what they saw, but when they recognized Dunfin they
were absurdly happy, of course.
While the wild geese and Morten Goosey-Gander and
Dunfin were chattering excitedly, trying to tell how
she had been rescued, Prettywing and Goldeye came
running. They cried “welcome" and pretended to be
so happy because Dunfin was at home that she was
deeply moved.
The wild geese fared well on the island and decided not
to travel farther until the following morning. After a
while the sisters asked Dunfin if she would come with
them and see the places where they intended to build
their nests. She promptly accompanied them, and saw
that they had picked out secluded and well protected
nesting places.
“Now where will you settle down, Dunfin?” they asked.
“I? Why I don’t intend to remain on the island,” she
said. “I’m going with the wild geese up to Lapland.”
“What a pity that you must leave us!” said the sisters.
“I should have been very glad to remain here with father
and mother and you,” said Dunfin, “had I not
promised the big, white—”
“What!” shrieked Prettywing. “Are you to have the
handsome goosey-gander? Then it is—” But here Goldeye
gave her a sharp nudge, and she stopped short.
The two cruel sisters had much to talk about all the
afternoon. They were furious because Dunfin had a
suitor like the white goosey-gander. They themselves
had suitors, but theirs were only common gray geese,
and, since they had seen Morten Goosey-Gander, they
thought them so homely and low-bred that they did
not wish even to look at them.
“This will grieve me to death!” whimpered Goldeye.
“If at least it had been you, Sister Prettywing, who
had captured him!”
“I would rather see him dead than to go about here the
entire summer thinking of Dunfin’s capturing a white
goosey-gander!” pouted Prettywing.
However, the sisters continued to appear very friendly
toward Dunfin, and in the afternoon Goldeye took
Dunfin with her, that she might see the one she thought
of marrying.
“He’s not as attractive as the one you will have,” said
Goldeye. “But to make up for it, one can be certain
that he is what he is.”
“What do you mean, Goldeye?” questioned Dunfin. At
first Goldeye would not explain what she had meant,
but at last she came out with it.
“We have never seen a white goose travel with wild
geese,” said the sister, “and we wonder if he can be
bewitched.”
“You are very stupid,” retorted Dunfin indignantly.
“He is a tame goose, of course.”
“He brings with him one who is bewitched,” said Goldeye,
“and, under the circumstances, he too must be
bewitched. Are you not afraid that he may be a black
cormorant?” She was a good talker and succeeded in
frightening Dunfin thoroughly.
“You don’t mean what you are saying,” pleaded the
little gray goose. “You only wish to frighten me!”
“I wish what is for your good, Dunfin,” said Goldeye.
“I can’t imagine anything worse than for you to fly
away with a black cormorant! But now I shall tell you
something—try to persuade him to eat some of the
roots I have gathered here. If he is bewitched, it will
be apparent at once. If he is not, he will remain as he
is.”
The boy was sitting amongst the wild geese, listening
to Akka and the old goose-master, when Dunfin
came flying up to him. “Thumbietot, Thumbietot!”
she cried. “Morten Goosey-Gander is dying! I have
killed him!”
“Let me get up on your back, Dunfin, and take me to
him!” Away they flew, and Akka and the other wild
geese followed them. When they got to the gooseygander,
he was lying prostrate on the ground. He could
not utter a word—only gasped for breath.
“Tickle him under the gorge and slap him on the back!”
commanded Akka. The boy did so and presently the
big, white gander coughed up a large, white root, which
had stuck in his gorge. “Have you been eating of
these?” asked Akka, pointing to some roots that lay
on the ground.
“Yes,” groaned the goosey-gander.
“Then it was well they stuck in your throat,” said Akka,
“for they are poisonous. Had you swallowed them, you
certainly should have died.”
“Dunfin bade me eat them,” said the goosey-gander.
“My sister gave them to me,” protested Dunfin, and
she told everything.
“You must beware of those sisters of yours, Dunfin!”
warned Akka, “for they wish you no good, depend upon
it!”
But Dunfin was so constituted that she could not think
evil of any one and, a moment later, when Prettywing
asked her to come and meet her intended, she went
with her immediately.
“Oh, he isn’t as handsome as yours,” said the sister,
“but he’s much more courageous and daring!”
“How do you know he is?” challenged Dunfin.
“For some time past there has been weeping and wailing
amongst the sea gulls and wild ducks on the island.
Every morning at daybreak a strange bird of
prey comes and carries off one of them.”
“What kind of a bird is it?” asked Dunfin.
“We don’t know,” replied the sister. “One of his kind
has never before been seen on the island, and, strange
to say, he has never attacked one of us geese. But now
my intended has made up his mind to challenge him
to-morrow morning, and drive him away.”
“Oh, I hope he’ll succeed!” said Dunfin.
“I hardly think he will,” returned the sister. “If my
goosey-gander were as big and strong as yours, I should
have hope.”
“Do you wish me to ask Morten Goosey-Gander to
meet the strange bird?” asked Dunfin.
“Indeed, I do!” exclaimed Prettywing excitedly. “You
couldn’t render me a greater service.”
The next morning the goosey-gander was up before
the sun. He stationed himself on the highest point of
the island and peered in all directions. Presently he
saw a big, dark bird coming from the west. His wings
were exceedingly large, and it was easy to tell that he
was an eagle. The goosey-gander had not expected a
more dangerous adversary than an owl, and how he
understood that he could not escape this encounter
with his life. But it did not occur to him to avoid
a struggle with a bird who was many times stronger
than himself.
The great bird swooped down on a sea gull and dug his
talons into it. Before the eagle could spread his wings,
Morten Goosey-Gander rushed up to him. “Drop that!”
he shouted, “and don’t come here again or you’ll have
me to deal with!” “What kind of a lunatic are you?”
said the eagle. “It’s lucky for you that I never fight
with geese, or you would soon be done for!”
Morten Goosey-Gander thought the eagle considered
himself too good to fight with him and flew at him,
incensed, biting him on the throat and beating him
with his wings. This, naturally, the eagle would not
tolerate and he began to fight, but not with his full
strength.
The boy lay sleeping in the quarters where Akka and
the other wild geese slept, when Dunfin called: “Thumbietot,
Thumbietot! Morten Goosey-Gander is being
torn to pieces by an eagle.”
“Let me get up on your back, Dunfin, and take me to
him!” said the boy.
When they arrived on the scene Morten Goosey-Gander
was badly torn, and bleeding, but he was still fighting.
The boy could not battle with the eagle; all that he
could do was to seek more efficient help.
“Hurry, Dunfin, and call Akka and the wild geese!” he
cried. The instant he said that, the eagle flew back
and stopped fighting.
“Who’s speaking of Akka?” he asked. He saw Thumbietot
and heard the wild geese honking, so he spread his
wings.
“Tell Akka I never expected to run across her or any
of her flock out here in the sea!” he said, and soared
away in a rapid and graceful flight.
“That is the self-same eagle who once brought me back
to the wild geese,” the boy remarked, gazing after the
bird in astonishment.
The geese had decided to leave the island at dawn, but
first they wanted to feed awhile. As they walked about
and nibbled, a mountain duck came up to Dunfin.
“I have a message for you from your sisters,” said the
duck. “They dare not show themselves among the wild
geese, but they asked me to remind you not to leave
the island without calling on the old fisherman.”
“That’s so!” exclaimed Dunfin, but she was so frightened
now that she would not go alone, and asked the
goosey-gander and Thumbietot to accompany her to
the hut.
The door was open, so Dunfin entered, but the others
remained outside. After a moment they heard Akka
give the signal to start, and called Dunfin. A gray
goose came out and flew with the wild geese away from
the island.
They had travelled quite a distance along the archipelago
when the boy began to wonder at the goose who accompanied
them. Dunfin always flew lightly and noiselessly,
but this one laboured with heavy and noisy
wing-strokes. “We are in the wrong company. It is
Prettywing that follows us!”
The boy had barely spoken when the goose uttered
such an ugly and angry shriek that all knew who she
was. Akka and the others turned to her, but the gray
goose did not fly away at once. Instead she bumped
against the big goosey-gander, snatched Thumbietot,
and flew off with him in her bill.
There was a wild chase over the archipelago. Prettywing
flew fast, but the wild geese were close behind
her, and there was no chance for her to escape.
Suddenly they saw a puff of smoke rise up from the
sea, and heard an explosion. In their excitement they
had not noticed that they were directly above a boat
in which a lone fisherman was seated.
However, none of the geese was hurt; but just there,
above the boat, Prettywing opened her bill and dropped
Thumbietot into the sea.
Chapter 49
STOCKHOLM
SKANSEN
A few years ago, at Skansen—the great park just outside
of Stockholm where they have collected so many
wonderful things—there lived a little old man, named
Clement Larsson. He was from Haelsingland and had
come to Skansen with his fiddle to play folk dances
and other old melodies. As a performer, he appeared
mostly in the evening. During the day it was his business
to sit on guard in one of the many pretty peasant
cottages which have been moved to Skansen from all
parts of the country.
In the beginning Clement thought that he fared better
in his old age than he had ever dared dream; but after
a time he began to dislike the place terribly, especially
while he was on watch duty. It was all very well when
visitors came into the cottage to look around, but some
days Clement would sit for many hours all alone. Then
he felt so homesick that he feared he would have to give
up his place. He was very poor and knew that at home
he would become a charge on the parish. Therefore he
tried to hold out as long as he could, although he felt
more unhappy from day to day.
One beautiful evening in the beginning of May Clement
had been granted a few hours’ leave of absence. He was
on his way down the steep hill leading out of Skansen,
when he met an island fisherman coming along with
his game bag. The fisherman was an active young man
who came to Skansen with seafowl that he had managed
to capture alive. Clement had met him before,
many times.
The fisherman stopped Clement to ask if the superintendent
at Skansen was at home. When Clement had
replied, he, in turn, asked what choice thing the fisherman
had in his bag. “You can see what I have,” the
fisherman answered, “if in return you will give me an
idea as to what I should ask for it.”
He held open the bag and Clement peeped into it
once—and again—then quickly drew back a step or
two. “Good gracious, Ashbjoern!” he exclaimed. “How
did you catch that one?”
He remembered that when he was a child his mother
used to talk of the tiny folk who lived under the cabin
floor. He was not permitted to cry or to be naughty,
lest he provoke these small people. After he was grown
he believed his mother had made up these stories about
the elves to make him behave himself. But it had been
no invention of his mother’s, it seemed; for there, in
Ashbjoern’s bag, lay one of the tiny folk.
There was a little of the terror natural to childhood left
in Clement, and he felt a shudder run down his spinal
column as he peeped into the bag. Ashbjoern saw that
he was frightened and began to laugh; but Clement
took the matter seriously. “Tell me, Ashbjoern, where
you came across him?” he asked. “You may be sure
that I wasn’t lying in wait for him!” said Ashbjoern.
“He came to me. I started out early this morning and
took my rifle along into the boat. I had just poled
away from the shore when I sighted some wild geese
coming from the east, shrieking like mad. I sent them
a shot, but hit none of them. Instead this creature
came tumbling down into the water—so close to the
boat that I only had to put my hand out and pick him
up.”
“I hope you didn’t shoot him, Ashbjoern?”
“Oh, no! He is well and sound; but when he came
down, he was a little dazed at first, so I took advantage
of that fact to wind the ends of two sail threads
around his ankles and wrists, so that he couldn’t run
away. ‘Ha! Here’s something for Skansen,’ I thought
instantly.”
Clement grew strangely troubled as the fisherman talked.
All that he had heard about the tiny folk in his childhood—
of their vindictiveness toward enemies and their benevolence
toward friends—came back to him. It had never
gone well with those who had attempted to hold one
of them captive.
“You should have let him go at once, Ashbjoern,” said
Clement.
“I came precious near being forced to set him free,” returned
the fisherman. “You may as well know, Clement,
that the wild geese followed me all the way home, and
they criss-crossed over the island the whole morning,
honk-honking as if they wanted him back. Not only
they, but the entire population—sea gulls, sea swallows,
and many others who are not worth a shot of
powder, alighted on the island and made an awful
racket. When I came out they fluttered about me until
I had to turn back. My wife begged me to let him go,
but I had made up my mind that he should come here
to Skansen, so I placed one of the children’s dolls in
the window, hid the midget in the bottom of my bag,
and started away. The birds must have fancied that it
was he who stood in the window, for they permitted
me to leave without pursuing me.”
“Does it say anything?” asked Clement.
“Yes. At first he tried to call to the birds, but I
wouldn’t have it and put a gag in his mouth.”
“Oh, Ashbjoern!” protested Clement. “How can you
treat him so! Don’t you see that he is something supernatural!”
“I don’t know what he is,” said Ashbjoern calmly. “Let
others consider that. I’m satisfied if only I can get a
good sum for him. Now tell me, Clement, what you
think the doctor at Skansen would give me.”
There was a long pause before Clement replied. He felt
very sorry for the poor little chap. He actually imagined
that his mother was standing beside him telling
him that he must always be kind to the tiny folk.
“I have no idea what the doctor up there would care
to give you, Ashbjoern,” he said finally. “But if you
will leave him with me, I’ll pay you twenty kroner for
him.”
Ashbjoern stared at the fiddler in amazement when
he heard him name so large a sum. He thought that
Clement believed the midget had some mysterious power
and might be of service for him. He was by no means
certain that the doctor would think him such a great
find or would offer to pay so high a sum for him; so he
accepted Clement’s proffer.
The fiddler poked his purchase into one of his wide
pockets, turned back to Skansen, and went into a mosscovered
hut, where there were neither visitors nor guards.
He closed the door after him, took out the midget, who
was still bound hand and foot and gagged, and laid
him down gently on a bench.
“Now listen to what I say!” said Clement. “I know of
course that such as you do not like to be seen of men,
but prefer to go about and busy yourselves in your
own way. Therefore I have decided to give you your
liberty—but only on condition that you will remain in
this park until I permit you to leave. If you agree to
this, nod your head three times.”
Clement gazed at the midget with confident expectation,
but the latter did not move a muscle.
“You shall not fare badly,” continued Clement. “I’ll see
to it that you are fed every day, and you will have so
much to do there that the time will not seem long to
you. But you mustn’t go elsewhere till I give you leave.
Now we’ll agree as to a signal. So long as I set your
food out in a white bowl you are to stay. When I set
it out in a blue one you may go.”
Clement paused again, expecting the midget to give
the sign of approval, but he did not stir.
“Very well,” said Clement, “then there’s no choice but
to show you to the master of this place. Then you’ll
be put in a glass case, and all the people in the big
city of Stockholm will come and stare at you.”
This scared the midget, and he promptly gave the signal.
“That was right,” said Clement as he cut the cord that
bound the midget’s hands. Then he hurried toward
the door.
The boy unloosed the bands around his ankles and tore
away the gag before thinking of anything else. When
he turned to Clement to thank him, he had gone.
Just outside the door Clement met a handsome, noblelooking
gentleman, who was on his way to a place close
by from which there was a beautiful outlook. Clement
could not recall having seen the stately old man before,
but the latter must surely have noticed Clement
sometime when he was playing the fiddle, because he
stopped and spoke to him.
“Good day, Clement!” he said. “How do you do? You
are not ill, are you? I think you have grown a bit thin
of late.”
There was such an expression of kindliness about the
old gentleman that Clement plucked up courage and
told him of his homesickness.
“What!” exclaimed the old gentleman. “Are you homesick
when you are in Stockholm? It can’t be possible!”
He looked almost offended. Then he reflected that it
was only an ignorant old peasant from Haelsingland
that he talked with—and so resumed his friendly attitude.
“Surely you have never heard how the city of Stockholm
was founded? If you had, you would comprehend
that your anxiety to get away is only a foolish fancy.
Come with me to the bench over yonder and I will tell
you something about Stockholm.”
When the old gentleman was seated on the bench he
glanced down at the city, which spread in all its glory
below him, and he drew a deep breath, as if he wished
to drink in all the beauty of the landscape. Thereupon
he turned to the fiddler.
“Look, Clement!” he said, and as he talked he traced
with his cane a little map in the sand in front of them.
“Here lies Uppland, and here, to the south, a point juts
out, which is split up by a number of bays. And here
we have Soermland with another point, which is just
as cut up and points straight north. Here, from the
west, comes a lake filled with islands: It is Lake Maelar.
From the east comes another body of water, which
can barely squeeze in between the islands and islets. It
is the East Sea. Here, Clement, where Uppland joins
Soermland and Maelaren joins the East Sea, comes a
short river, in the centre of which lie four little islets
that divide the river into several tributaries—one of
which is called Norristroem but was formerly Stocksund.
“In the beginning these islets were common wooded islands,
such as one finds in plenty on Lake Maelar even
to-day, and for ages they were entirely uninhabited.
They were well located between two bodies of water
and two bodies of land; but this no one remarked.
Year after year passed; people settled along Lake Maelar
and in the archipelago, but these river islands attracted
no settlers. Sometimes it happened that a seafarer
put into port at one of them and pitched his tent
for the night; but no one remained there long.
“One day a fisherman, who lived on Liding Island, out
in Salt Fiord, steered his boat toward Lake Maelar,
where he had such good luck with his fishing that he
forgot to start for home in time. He got no farther
than the four islets, and the best he could do was to
land on one and wait until later in the night, when
there would be bright moonlight.
“It was late summer and warm. The fisherman hauled
his boat on land, lay down beside it, his head resting
upon a stone, and fell asleep. When he awoke the
moon had been up a long while. It hung right above
him and shone with such splendour that it was like
broad daylight.
“The man jumped to his feet and was about to push
his boat into the water, when he saw a lot of black
specks moving out in the stream. A school of seals
was heading full speed for the island. When the fisherman
saw that they intended to crawl up on land, he
bent down for his spear, which he always took with
him in the boat. But when he straightened up, he
saw no seals. Instead, there stood on the strand the
most beautiful young maidens, dressed in green, trailing
satin robes, with pearl crowns upon their heads.
The fisherman understood that these were mermaids
who lived on desolate rock islands far out at sea and
had assumed seal disguises in order to come up on land
and enjoy the moonlight on the green islets.
“He laid down the spear very cautiously, and when the
young maidens came up on the island to play, he stole
behind and surveyed them. He had heard that seanymphs
were so beautiful and fascinating that no one
could see them and not be enchanted by their charms;
and he had to admit that this was not too much to say
of them.
“When he had stood for a while under the shadow of
the trees and watched the dance, he went down to the
strand, took one of the seal skins lying there, and hid
it under a stone. Then he went back to his boat, lay
down beside it, and pretended to be asleep.
“Presently he saw the young maidens trip down to the
strand to don their seal skins. At first all was play
and laughter, which was changed to weeping and wailing
when one of the mermaids could not find her seal
robe. Her companions ran up and down the strand
and helped her search for it, but no trace could they
find. While they were seeking they noticed that the
sky was growing pale and the day was breaking, so
they could tarry no longer, and they all swam away,
leaving behind the one whose seal skin was missing.
She sat on the strand and wept.
“The fisherman felt sorry for her, of course, but he
forced himself to lie still till daybreak. Then he got
up, pushed the boat into the water, and stepped into
it to make it appear that he saw her by chance after
he had lifted the oars.
“‘Who are you?’ he called out. ‘Are you shipwrecked?’
“She ran toward him and asked if he had seen her seal
skin. The fisherman looked as if he did not know what
she was talking about. She sat down again and wept.
Then he determined to take her with him in the boat.
‘Come with me to my cottage,’ he commanded, ’and
my mother will take care of you. You can’t stay here
on the island, where you have neither food nor shelter!’
He talked so convincingly that she was persuaded to
step into his boat.
“Both the fisherman and his mother were very kind to
the poor mermaid, and she seemed to be happy with
them. She grew more contented every day and helped
the older woman with her work, and was exactly like
any other island lass—only she was much prettier. One
day the fisherman asked her if she would be his wife,
and she did not object, but at once said yes.
“Preparations were made for the wedding. The mermaid
dressed as a bride in her green, trailing robe with
the shimmering pearl crown she had worn when the
fisherman first saw her. There was neither church nor
parson on the island at that time, so the bridal party
seated themselves in the boats to row up to the first
church they should find.
“The fisherman had the mermaid and his mother in his
boat, and he rowed so well that he was far ahead of
all the others. When he had come so far that he could
see the islet in the river, where he won his bride, he
could not help smiling.
“‘What are you smiling at?’ she asked.
“‘Oh, I’m thinking of that night when I hid your seal
skin,’ answered the fisherman; for he felt so sure of her
that he thought there was no longer any need for him
to conceal anything.
“‘What are you saying?’ asked the bride, astonished.
’Surely I have never possessed a seal skin!’ It appeared
she had forgotten everything.
“‘Don’t you recollect how you danced with the mermaids?’
he asked.
“ ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said the bride. ’I
think that you must have dreamed a strange dream
last night.’
“If I show you your seal skin, you’ll probably believe
me!’ laughed the fisherman, promptly turning the
boat toward the islet. They stepped ashore and he
brought the seal skin out from under the stone where
he had hidden it.
“But the instant the bride set eyes on the seal skin she
grasped it and drew it over her head. It snuggled close
to her—as if there was life in it—and immediately she
threw herself into the stream.
“The bridegroom saw her swim away and plunged into
the water after her; but he could not catch up to her.
When he saw that he couldn’t stop her in any other
way, in his grief he seized his spear and hurled it. He
aimed better than he had intended, for the poor mermaid
gave a piercing shriek and disappeared in the
depths.
“The fisherman stood on the strand waiting for her to
appear again. He observed that the water around him
began to take on a soft sheen, a beauty that he had
never seen before. It shimmered in pink and white,
like the colour-play on the inside of sea shells.
“As the glittering water lapped the shores, the fisherman
thought that they too were transformed. They
began to blossom and waft their perfumes. A soft
sheen spread over them and they also took on a beauty
which they had never possessed before.
“He understood how all this had come to pass. For it
is thus with mermaids: one who beholds them must
needs find them more beautiful than any one else, and
the mermaid’s blood being mixed with the water that
bathed the shores, her beauty was transferred to both.
All who saw them must love them and yearn for them.
This was their legacy from the mermaid.”
When the stately old gentleman had got thus far in
his narrative he turned to Clement and looked at him.
Clement nodded reverently but made no comment, as
he did not wish to cause a break in the story.
“Now you must bear this in mind, Clement,” the old
gentleman continued, with a roguish glint in his eyes.
“From that time on people emigrated to the islands.
At first only fishermen and peasants settled there, but
others, too, were attracted to them. One day the king
and his earl sailed up the stream. They started at
once to talk of these islands, having observed they were
so situated that every vessel that sailed toward Lake
Maelar had to pass them. The earl suggested that
there ought to be a lock put on the channel which
could be opened or closed at will, to let in merchant
vessels and shut out pirates.
“This idea was carried out,” said the old gentleman, as
he rose and began to trace in the sand again with his
cane. “On the largest of these islands the earl erected
a fortress with a strong tower, which was called ‘Kaernan.’
And around the island a wall was built. Here,
at the north and south ends of the wall, they made
gates and placed strong towers over them. Across the
other islands they built bridges; these were likewise
equipped with high towers. Out in the water, round
about, they put a wreath of piles with bars that could
open and close, so that no vessel could sail past without
permission.
“Therefore you see, Clement, the four islands which
had lain so long unnoticed were soon strongly fortified.
But this was not all, for the shores and the sound
tempted people, and before long they came from all
quarters to settle there. They built a church, which has
since been called ‘Storkyrkan.’ Here it stands, near the
castle. And here, within the walls, were the little huts
the pioneers built for themselves. They were primitive,
but they served their purpose. More was not needed
at that time to make the place pass for a city. And
the city was named Stockholm.
“There came a day, Clement, when the earl who had
begun the work went to his final rest, and Stockholm
was without a master builder. Monks called the Gray
Friars came to the country. Stockholm attracted them.
They asked permission to erect a monastery there,
so the king gave them an island—one of the smaller
ones—this one facing Lake Maelar. There they built,
and the place was called Gray Friars’ Island. Other
monks came, called the Black Friars. They, too, asked
for right to build in Stockholm, near the south gate.
On this, the larger of the islands north of the city, a
‘Holy Ghost House,’ or hospital, was built; while on
the smaller one thrifty men put up a mill, and along
the little islands close by the monks fished. As you
know, there is only one island now, for the canal between
the two has filled up; but it is still called Holy
Ghost Island.
“And now, Clement, all the little wooded islands were
dotted with houses, but still people kept streaming
in; for these shores and waters have the power to draw
people to them. Hither came pious women of the Order
of Saint Clara and asked for ground to build upon. For
them there was no choice but to settle on the north
shore, at Norrmalm, as it is called. You may be sure
that they were not over pleased with this location, for
across Norrmalm ran a high ridge, and on that the
city had its gallows hill, so that it was a detested spot.
Nevertheless the Poor Clares erected their church and
their convent on the strand below the ridge. After
they were established there they soon found plenty of
followers. Upon the ridge itself were built a hospital
and a church, consecrated to Saint Goran, and just
below the ridge a church was erected to Saint Jacob.
“And even at Soedermalm, where the mountain rises
perpendicularly from the strand, they began to build.
There they raised a church to Saint Mary.
“But you must not think that only cloister folk moved
to Stockholm! There were also many others—principally
German tradesmen and artisans. These were more
skilled than the Swedes, and were well received. They
settled within the walls of the city where they pulled
down the wretched little cabins that stood there and
built high, magnificent stone houses. But space was
not plentiful within the walls, therefore they had to
build the houses close together, with gables facing the
narrow by-lanes. So you see, Clement, that Stockholm
could attract people!”
At this point in the narrative another gentleman appeared
and walked rapidly down the path toward the
man who was talking to Clement, but he waved his
hand, and the other remained at a distance. The dignified
old gentleman still sat on the bench beside the
fiddler.
“Now, Clement, you must render me a service,” he said.
“I have no time to talk more with you, but I will send
you a book about Stockholm and you must read it from
cover to cover. I have, so to speak, laid the foundations
of Stockholm for you. Study the rest out for yourself
and learn how the city has thrived and changed. Read
how the little, narrow, wall-enclosed city on the islands
has spread into this great sea of houses below us. Read
how, on the spot where the dark tower Kaernan once
stood, the beautiful, light castle below us was erected
and how the Gray Friars’ church has been turned into
the burial place of the Swedish kings; read how islet after
islet was built up with factories; how the ridge was
lowered and the sound filled in; how the truck gardens
at the south and north ends of the city have been converted
into beautiful parks or built-up quarters; how
the King’s private deer park has become the people’s
favourite pleasure resort. You must make yourself at
home here, Clement. This city does not belong exclusively
to the Stockholmers. It belongs to you and to
all Swedes.
“As you read about Stockholm, remember that I have
spoken the truth, for the city has the power to draw
every one to it. First the King moved here, then the
nobles built their palaces here, and then one after another
was attracted to the place, so that now, as you
see, Stockholm is not a city unto itself or for nearby
districts; it has grown into a city for the whole kingdom.
“You know, Clement, that there are judicial courts in
every parish throughout the land, but in Stockholm
they have jurisdiction for the whole nation. You know
that there are judges in every district court in the
country, but at Stockholm there is only one court, to
which all the others are accountable. You know that
there are barracks and troops in every part of the land,
but those at Stockholm command the whole army. Everywhere
in the country you will find railroads, but the
whole great national system is controlled and managed
at Stockholm; here you will find the governing boards
for the clergy, for teachers, for physicians, for bailiffs
and jurors. This is the heart of your country, Clement.
All the change you have in your pocket is coined here,
and the postage stamps you stick on your letters are
made here. There is something here for every Swede.
Here no one need feel homesick, for here all Swedes are
at home.
“And when you read of all that has been brought here
to Stockholm, think too of the latest that the city
has attracted to itself: these old-time peasant cottages
here at Skansen; the old dances; the old costumes and
house-furnishings; the musicians and story-tellers. Everything
good of the old times Stockholm has tempted
here to Skansen to do it honour, that it may, in turn,
stand before the people with renewed glory.
“But, first and last, remember as you read about Stockholm
that you are to sit in this place. You must see
how the waves sparkle in joyous play and how the
shores shimmer with beauty. You will come under the
spell of their witchery, Clement.”
The handsome old gentleman had raised his voice, so
that it rang out strong and commanding, and his eyes
shone. Then he rose, and, with a wave of his hand to
Clement, walked away. Clement understood that the
one who had been talking to him was a great man, and
he bowed to him as low as he could.
The next day came a royal lackey with a big red book
and a letter for Clement, and in the letter it said that
the book was from the King.
After that the little old man, Clement Larsson, was
lightheaded for several days, and it was impossible to
get a sensible word out of him. When a week had
gone by, he went to the superintendent and gave in his
notice. He simply had to go home.
“Why must you go home? Can’t you learn to be content
here?” asked the doctor.
“Oh, I’m contented here,” said Clement. “That matter
troubles me no longer, but I must go home all the
same.”
Clement was quite perturbed because the King had
said that he should learn all about Stockholm and be
happy there. But he could not rest until he had told
every one at home that the King had said those words
to him. He could not renounce the idea of standing on
the church knoll at home and telling high and low that
the King had been so kind to him, that he had sat beside
him on the bench, and had sent him a book, and
had taken the time to talk to him—a poor fiddler—for
a whole hour, in order to cure him of his homesickness.
It was good to relate this to the Laplanders and Dalecarlian
peasant girls at Skansen, but what was that
compared to being able to tell of it at home?
Even if Clement were to end in the poorhouse, it wouldn’t
be so hard after this. He was a totally different man
from what he had been, and he would be respected
and honoured in a very different way.
This new yearning took possession of Clement. He
simply had to go up to the doctor and say that he
must go home.
Chapter 50
GORGO, THE EAGLE
IN THE MOUNTAIN GLEN
Far up among the mountains of Lapland there was
an old eagle’s nest on a ledge which projected from a
high cliff. The nest was made of dry twigs of pine and
spruce, interlaced one with another until they formed
a perfect network. Year by year the nest had been
repaired and strengthened. It was about two metres
wide, and nearly as high as a Laplander’s hut.
The cliff on which the eagle’s nest was situated towered
above a big glen, which was inhabited in summer by
a flock of wild geese, as it was an excellent refuge for
them. It was so secluded between cliffs that not many
knew of it, even among the Laplanders themselves.
In the heart of this glen there was a small, round lake in
which was an abundance of food for the tiny goslings,
and on the tufted lake shores which were covered with
osier bushes and dwarfed birches the geese found fine
nesting places.
In all ages eagles had lived on the mountain, and geese
in the glen. Every year the former carried off a few of
the latter, but they were very careful not to take so
many that the wild geese would be afraid to remain
in the glen. The geese, in their turn, found the eagles
quite useful. They were robbers, to be sure, but they
kept other robbers away.
Two years before Nils Holgersson travelled with the
wild geese the old leader-goose, Akka from Kebnekaise,
was standing at the foot of the mountain slope looking
toward the eagle’s nest.
The eagles were in the habit of starting on their chase
soon after sunrise; during the summers that Akka had
lived in the glen she had watched every morning for
their departure to find if they stopped in the glen
to hunt, or if they flew beyond it to other hunting
grounds.
She did not have to wait long before the two eagles left
the ledge on the cliff. Stately and terror-striking they
soared into the air. They directed their course toward
the plain, and Akka breathed a sigh of relief.
The old leader-goose’s days of nesting and rearing of
young were over, and during the summer she passed
the time going from one goose range to another, giving
counsel regarding the brooding and care of the young.
Aside from this she kept an eye out not only for eagles
but also for mountain fox and owls and all other enemies
who were a menace to the wild geese and their
young.
About noontime Akka began to watch for the eagles
again. This she had done every day during all the
summers that she had lived in the glen. She could tell
at once by their flight if their hunt had been successful,
and in that event she felt relieved for the safety of those
who belonged to her. But on this particular day she
had not seen the eagles return. “I must be getting old
and stupid,” she thought, when she had waited a time
for them. “The eagles have probably been home this
long while.”
In the afternoon she looked toward the cliff again, expecting
to see the eagles perched on the rocky ledge
where they usually took their afternoon rest; toward
evening, when they took their bath in the dale lake, she
tried again to get sight of them, but failed. Again she
bemoaned the fact that she was growing old. She was
so accustomed to having the eagles on the mountain
above her that she could not imagine the possibility of
their not having returned.
The following morning Akka was awake in good season
to watch for the eagles; but she did not see them. On
the other hand, she heard in the morning stillness a cry
that sounded both angry and plaintive, and it seemed
to come from the eagles’ nest. “Can there possibly be
anything amiss with the eagles?” she wondered. She
spread her wings quickly, and rose so high that she
could perfectly well look down into the nest.
There she saw neither of the eagles. There was no one
in the nest save a little half-fledged eaglet who was
screaming for food.
Akka sank down toward the eagles’ nest, slowly and reluctantly.
It was a gruesome place to come to! It was
plain what kind of robber folk lived there! In the nest
and on the cliff ledge lay bleached bones, bloody feathers,
pieces of skin, hares’ heads, birds’ beaks, and the
tufted claws of grouse. The eaglet, who was lying in
the midst of this, was repulsive to look upon, with his
big, gaping bill, his awkward, down-clad body, and his
undeveloped wings where the prospective quills stuck
out like thorns.
At last Akka conquered her repugnance and alighted
on the edge of the nest, at the same time glancing
about her anxiously in every direction, for each second
she expected to see the old eagles coming back.
“It is well that some one has come at last,” cried the
baby eagle. “Fetch me some food at once!”
“Well, well, don’t be in such haste,” said Akka. “Tell
me first where your father and mother are.”
“That’s what I should like to know myself. They went
off yesterday morning and left me a lemming to live
upon while they were away. You can believe that was
eaten long ago. It’s a shame for mother to let me
starve in this way!”
Akka began to think that the eagles had really been
shot, and she reasoned that if she were to let the eaglet
starve she might perhaps be rid of the whole robber
tribe for all time. But it went very much against her
not to succour a deserted young one so far as she could.
“Why do you sit there and stare?” snapped the eaglet.
“Didn’t you hear me say I want food?”
Akka spread her wings and sank down to the little lake
in the glen. A moment later she returned to the eagles’
nest with a salmon trout in her bill.
The eaglet flew into a temper when she dropped the
fish in front of him.
“Do you think I can eat such stuff?” he shrieked, pushing
it aside, and trying to strike Akka with his bill.
“Fetch me a willow grouse or a lemming, do you hear?”
Akka stretched her head forward, and gave the eaglet
a sharp nip in the neck. “Let me say to you,” remarked
the old goose, “that if I’m to procure food for you, you
must be satisfied with what I give you. Your father
and mother are dead, and from them you can get no
help; but if you want to lie here and starve to death
while you wait for grouse and lemming, I shall not
hinder you.”
When Akka had spoken her mind she promptly retired,
and did not show her face in the eagles’ nest again for
some time. But when she did return, the eaglet had
eaten the fish, and when she dropped another in front
of him he swallowed it at once, although it was plain
that he found it very distasteful.
Akka had imposed upon herself a tedious task. The
old eagles never appeared again, and she alone had to
procure for the eaglet all the food he needed. She gave
him fish and frogs and he did not seem to fare badly on
this diet, but grew big and strong. He soon forgot his
parents, the eagles, and fancied that Akka was his real
mother. Akka, in turn, loved him as if he had been her
own child. She tried to give him a good bringing up,
and to cure him of his wildness and overbearing ways.
After a fortnight Akka observed that the time was approaching
for her to moult and put on a new feather
dress so as to be ready to fly. For a whole moon she
would be unable to carry food to the baby eaglet, and
he might starve to death.
So Akka said to him one day: “Gorgo, I can’t come to
you any more with fish. Everything depends now upon
your pluck—which means can you dare to venture into
the glen, so I can continue to procure food for you?
You must choose between starvation and flying down
to the glen, but that, too, may cost you your life.”
Without a second’s hesitation the eaglet stepped upon
the edge of the nest. Barely taking the trouble to
measure the distance to the bottom, he spread his tiny
wings and started away. He rolled over and over in
space, but nevertheless made enough use of his wings
to reach the ground almost unhurt.
Down there in the glen Gorgo passed the summer in
company with the little goslings, and was a good comrade
for them. Since he regarded himself as a gosling,
he tried to live as they lived; when they swam in the
lake he followed them until he came near drowning. It
was most embarrassing to him that he could not learn
to swim, and he went to Akka and complained of his
inability.
“Why can’t I swim like the others?” he asked.
“Your claws grew too hooked, and your toes too large
while you were up there on the cliff,” Akka replied.
“But you’ll make a fine bird all the same.”
The eaglet’s wings soon grew so large that they could
carry him; but not until autumn, when the goslings
learned to fly, did it dawn upon him that he could use
them for flight. There came a proud time for him, for
at this sport he was the peer of them all. His companions
never stayed up in the air any longer than they
had to, but he stayed there nearly the whole day, and
practised the art of flying. So far it had not occurred
to him that he was of another species than the geese,
but he could not help noting a number of things that
surprised him, and he questioned Akka constantly.
“Why do grouse and lemming run and hide when they
see my shadow on the cliff?” he queried. “They don’t
show such fear of the other goslings.”
“Your wings grew too big when you were on the cliff,”
said Akka. “It is that which frightens the little wretches.
But don’t be unhappy because of that. You’ll be a fine
bird all the same.”
After the eagle had learned to fly, he taught himself to
fish, and to catch frogs. But by and by he began to
ponder this also.
“How does it happen that I live on fish and frogs?” he
asked. “The other goslings don’t.”
“This is due to the fact that I had no other food to
give you when you were on the cliff,” said Akka. “But
don’t let that make you sad. You’ll be a fine bird all
the same.”
When the wild geese began their autumn moving, Gorgo
flew along with the flock, regarding himself all the
while as one of them. The air was filled with birds
who were on their way south, and there was great excitement
among them when Akka appeared with an
eagle in her train. The wild goose flock was continually
surrounded by swarms of the curious who loudly expressed
their astonishment. Akka bade them be silent,
but it was impossible to stop so many wagging tongues.
“Why do they call me an eagle?” Gorgo asked repeatedly,
growing more and more exasperated. “Can’t they
see that I’m a wild goose? I’m no bird-eater who preys
upon his kind. How dare they give me such an ugly
name?”
One day they flew above a barn yard where many
chickens walked on a dump heap and picked. “An eagle!
An eagle!” shrieked the chickens, and started to
run for shelter. But Gorgo, who had heard the eagles
spoken of as savage criminals, could not control his
anger. He snapped his wings together and shot down
to the ground, striking his talons into one of the hens.
“I’ll teach you, I will, that I’m no eagle!” he screamed
furiously, and struck with his beak.
That instant he heard Akka call to him from the air,
and rose obediently. The wild goose flew toward him
and began to reprimand him. “What are you trying to
do?” she cried, beating him with her bill. “Was it perhaps
your intention to tear that poor hen to pieces?”
But when the eagle took his punishment from the wild
goose without a protest, there arose from the great
bird throng around them a perfect storm of taunts and
gibes. The eagle heard this, and turned toward Akka
with flaming eyes, as though he would have liked to
attack her. But he suddenly changed his mind, and
with quick wing strokes bounded into the air, soaring
so high that no call could reach him; and he sailed
around up there as long as the wild geese saw him.
Two days later he appeared again in the wild goose
flock.
“I know who I am,” he said to Akka. “Since I am an
eagle, I must live as becomes an eagle; but I think that
we can be friends all the same. You or any of yours I
shall never attack.”
But Akka had set her heart on successfully training an
eagle into a mild and harmless bird, and she could not
tolerate his wanting to do as he chose.
“Do you think that I wish to be the friend of a birdeater?”
she asked. “Live as I have taught you to live,
and you may travel with my flock as heretofore.”
Both were proud and stubborn, and neither of them
would yield. It ended in Akka’s forbidding the eagle
to show his face in her neighbourhood, and her anger
toward him was so intense that no one dared speak his
name in her presence.
After that Gorgo roamed around the country, alone
and shunned, like all great robbers. He was often
downhearted, and certainly longed many a time for
the days when he thought himself a wild goose, and
played with the merry goslings.
Among the animals he had a great reputation for courage.
They used to say of him that he feared no one but his
foster-mother, Akka. And they could also say of him
that he never used violence against a wild goose.
Chapter 51
IN CAPTIVITY
Gorgo was only three years old, and had not as yet
thought about marrying and procuring a home for
himself, when he was captured one day by a hunter,
and sold to the Skansen Zooelogical Garden, where
there were already two eagles held captive in a cage
built of iron bars and steel wires. The cage stood out
in the open, and was so large that a couple of trees had
easily been moved into it, and quite a large cairn was
piled up in there. Notwithstanding all this, the birds
were unhappy. They sat motionless on the same spot
nearly all day. Their pretty, dark feather dresses became
rough and lustreless, and their eyes were riveted
with hopeless longing on the sky without.
During the first week of Gorgo’s captivity he was still
awake and full of life, but later a heavy torpor came
upon him. He perched himself on one spot, like the
other eagles, and stared at vacancy. He no longer knew
how the days passed.
One morning when Gorgo sat in his usual torpor, he
heard some one call to him from below. He was so
drowsy that he could barely rouse himself enough to
lower his glance.
“Who is calling me?” he asked.
“Oh, Gorgo! Don’t you know me? It’s Thumbietot
who used to fly around with the wild geese.”
“Is Akka also captured?” asked Gorgo in the tone of
one who is trying to collect his thoughts after a long
sleep.
“No; Akka, the white goosey-gander, and the whole
flock are probably safe and sound up in Lapland at this
season,” said the boy. “It’s only I who am a prisoner
here.”
As the boy was speaking he noticed that Gorgo averted
his glance, and began to stare into space again.
“Golden eagle!” cried the boy; “I have not forgotten
that once you carried me back to the wild geese, and
that you spared the white goosey-gander’s life! Tell
me if I can be of any help to you!”
Gorgo scarcely raised his head. “Don’t disturb me,
Thumbietot,” he yawned. “I’m sitting here dreaming
that I am free, and am soaring away up among the
clouds. I don’t want to be awake.”
“You must rouse yourself, and see what goes on around
you,” the boy admonished, “or you will soon look as
wretched as the other eagles.”
“I wish I were as they are! They are so lost in their
dreams that nothing more can trouble them,” said the
eagle.
When night came, and all three eagles were asleep,
there was a light scraping on the steel wires stretched
across the top of the cage. The two listless old captives
did not allow themselves to be disturbed by the noise,
but Gorgo awakened.
“Who’s there? Who is moving up on the roof?” he
asked.
“It’s Thumbietot, Gorgo,” answered the boy. “I’m sitting
here filing away at the steel wires so that you can
escape.”
The eagle raised his head, and saw in the night light
how the boy sat and filed the steel wires at the top
of the cage. He felt hopeful for an instant, but soon
discouragement got the upper hand.
“I’m a big bird, Thumbietot,” said Gorgo; “how can
you ever manage to file away enough wires for me to
come out? You’d better quit that, and leave me in
peace.”
“Oh, go to sleep, and don’t bother about me!” said
the boy. “I’ll not be through to-night nor to-morrow
night, but I shall try to free you in time for here you’ll
become a total wreck.”
Gorgo fell asleep. When he awoke the next morning
he saw at a glance that a number of wires had been
filed. That day he felt less drowsy than he had done
in the past. He spread his wings, and fluttered from
branch to branch to get the stiffness out of his joints.
One morning early, just as the first streak of sunlight
made its appearance, Thumbietot awakened the eagle.
“Try now, Gorgo!” he whispered.
The eagle looked up. The boy had actually filed off
so many wires that now there was a big hole in the
wire netting. Gorgo flapped his wings and propelled
himself upward. Twice he missed and fell back into
the cage; but finally he succeeded in getting out.
With proud wing strokes he soared into the clouds.
Little Thumbietot sat and gazed after him with a mournful
expression. He wished that some one would come
and give him his freedom too.
The boy was domiciled now at Skansen. He had become
acquainted with all the animals there, and had
made many friends among them. He had to admit
that there was so much to see and learn there that it
was not difficult for him to pass the time. To be sure
his thoughts went forth every day to Morten Goosey-
Gander and his other comrades, and he yearned for
them. “If only I weren’t bound by my promise,” he
thought, “I’d find some bird to take me to them!”
It may seem strange that Clement Larsson had not restored
the boy’s liberty, but one must remember how
excited the little fiddler had been when he left Skansen.
The morning of his departure he had thought of setting
out the midget’s food in a blue bowl, but, unluckily,
he had been unable to find one. All the Skansen
folk—Lapps, peasant girls, artisans, and gardeners—
had come to bid him good-bye, and he had had no time
to search for a blue bowl. It was time to start, and at
the last moment he had to ask the old Laplander to
help him.
“One of the tiny folk happens to be living here at
Skansen,” said Clement, “and every morning I set out
a little food for him. Will you do me the favour of
taking these few coppers and purchasing a blue bowl
with them? Put a little gruel and milk in it, and tomorrow
morning set it out under the steps of Bollnaes
cottage.”
The old Laplander looked surprised, but there was no
time for Clement to explain further, as he had to be
off to the railway station.
The Laplander went down to the zooelogical village
to purchase the bowl. As he saw no blue one that he
thought appropriate, he bought a white one, and this
he conscientiously filled and set out every morning.
That was why the boy had not been released from his
pledge. He knew that Clement had gone away, but he
was not allowed to leave.
That night the boy longed more than ever for his freedom.
This was because summer had come now in
earnest. During his travels he had suffered much in
cold and stormy weather, and when he first came to
Skansen he had thought that perhaps it was just as
well that he had been compelled to break the journey.
He would have been frozen to death had he gone
to Lapland in the month of May. But now it was
warm; the earth was green-clad, birches and poplars
were clothed in their satiny foliage, and the cherry
trees—in fact all the fruit trees—were covered with
blossoms. The berry bushes had green berries on their
stems; the oaks had carefully unfolded their leaves,
and peas, cabbages, and beans were growing in the
vegetable garden at Skansen.
“Now it must be warm up in Lapland,” thought the
boy. “I should like to be seated on Morten Goosey-
Gander’s back on a fine morning like this! It would
be great fun to ride around in the warm, still air, and
look down at the ground, as it now lies decked with
green grass, and embellished with pretty blossoms.”
He sat musing on this when the eagle suddenly swooped
down from the sky, and perched beside the boy, on top
of the cage.
“I wanted to try my wings to see if they were still good
for anything,” said Gorgo. “You didn’t suppose that I
meant to leave you here in captivity? Get up on my
back, and I’ll take you to your comrades.”
“No, that’s impossible!” the boy answered. “I have
pledged my word that I would stay here till I am liberated.”
“What sort of nonsense are you talking?” protested
Gorgo. “In the first place they brought you here against
your will; then they forced you to promise that you
would remain here. Surely you must understand that
such a promise one need not keep?”
“Oh, no, I must keep it,” said the boy. “I thank you all
the same for your kind intention, but you can’t help
me.”
“Oh, can’t I?” said Gorgo. “We’ll see about that!” In a
twinkling he grasped Nils Holgersson in his big talons,
and rose with him toward the skies, disappearing in a
northerly direction.
Chapter 52
ON OVER
GAeSTRIKLAND
THE PRECIOUS GIRDLE
Wednesday, June fifteenth.
The eagle kept on flying until he was a long distance
north of Stockholm. Then he sank to a wooded hillock
where he relaxed his hold on the boy.
The instant Thumbietot was out of Gorgo’s clutches
he started to run back to the city as fast as he could.
The eagle made a long swoop, caught up to the boy,
and stopped him with his claw.
“Do you propose to go back to prison?” he demanded.
“That’s my affair. I can go where I like, for all of you!”
retorted the boy, trying to get away. Thereupon the
eagle gripped him with his strong talons, and rose in
the air.
Now Gorgo circled over the entire province of Uppland
and did not stop again until he came to the great
water-falls at Aelvkarleby where he alighted on a rock
in the middle of the rushing rapids below the roaring
falls. Again he relaxed his hold on the captive.
The boy saw that here there was no chance of escape
from the eagle. Above them the white scum wall of the
water-fall came tumbling down, and round about the
river rushed along in a mighty torrent. Thumbietot
was very indignant to think that in this way he had
been forced to become a promise-breaker. He turned
his back to the eagle and would not speak to him.
Now that the bird had set the boy down in a place from
which he could not run away, he told him confidentially
that he had been brought up by Akka from Kebnekaise,
and that he had quarrelled with his foster-mother.
“Now, Thumbietot, perhaps you understand why I wish
to take you back to the wild geese,” he said. “I have
heard that you are in great favour with Akka, and it
was my purpose to ask you to make peace between us.”
As soon as the boy comprehended that the eagle had
not carried him off in a spirit of contrariness, he felt
kindly toward him.
“I should like very much to help you,” he returned, “but
I am bound by my promise.” Thereupon he explained
to the eagle how he had fallen into captivity and how
Clement Larsson had left Skansen without setting him
free.
Nevertheless the eagle would not relinquish his plan.
“Listen to me, Thumbietot,” he said. “My wings can
carry you wherever you wish to go, and my eyes can
search out whatever you wish to find. Tell me how the
man looks who exacted this promise from you, and I
will find him and take you to him. Then it is for you
to do the rest.”
Thumbietot approved of the proposition.
“I can see, Gorgo, that you have had a wise bird like
Akka for a foster-mother,” the boy remarked.
He gave a graphic description of Clement Larsson, and
added that he had heard at Skansen that the little
fiddler was from Haelsingland.
“We’ll search for him through the whole of Haelsingland—
from Ljungby to Mellansjoe; from Great Mountain to
Hornland,” said the eagle. “To-morrow before sundown
you shall have a talk with the man!”
“I fear you are promising more than you can perform,”
doubted the boy.
“I should be a mighty poor eagle if I couldn’t do that
much,” said Gorgo.
So when Gorgo and Thumbietot left Aelvkarleby they
were good friends, and the boy willingly took his mount
for a ride on the eagle’s back. Thus he had an opportunity
to see much of the country.
When clutched in the eagle’s talons he had seen nothing.
Perhaps it was just as well, for in the forenoon
he had travelled over Upsala, Oesterby’s big factories,
the Dannemora Mine, and the ancient castle of Oerbyhus,
and he would have been sadly disappointed at
not seeing them had he known of their proximity.
The eagle bore him speedily over Gaestrikland. In the
southern part of the province there was very little to
tempt the eye. But as they flew northward, it began
to be interesting.
“This country is clad in a spruce skirt and a graystone
jacket,” thought the boy. “But around its waist
it wears a girdle which has not its match in value,
for it is embroidered with blue lakes and green groves.
The great ironworks adorn it like a row of precious
stones, and its buckle is a whole city with castles and
cathedrals and great clusters of houses.”
When the travellers arrived in the northern forest region,
Gorgo alighted on top of a mountain. As the boy
dismounted, the eagle said:
“There’s game in this forest, and I can’t forget my
late captivity and feel really free until I have gone ahunting.
You won’t mind my leaving you for a while?”
“No, of course, I won’t,” the boy assured him.
“You may go where you like if only you are back here
by sundown,” said the eagle, as he flew off.
The boy sat on a stone gazing across the bare, rocky
ground and the great forests round about.
He felt rather lonely. But soon he heard singing in
the forest below, and saw something bright moving
amongst the trees. Presently he saw a blue and yellow
banner, and he knew by the songs and the merry
chatter that it was being borne at the head of a procession.
On it came, up the winding path; he wondered
where it and those who followed it were going. He
couldn’t believe that anybody would come up to such
an ugly, desolate waste as the place where he sat. But
the banner was nearing the forest border, and behind
it marched many happy people for whom it had led the
way. Suddenly there was life and movement all over
the mountain plain; after that there was so much for
the boy to see that he didn’t have a dull moment.
Chapter 53
FOREST DAY
On the mountain’s broad back, where Gorgo left Thumbietot,
there had been a forest fire ten years before. Since
that time the charred trees had been felled and removed,
and the great fire-swept area had begun to deck
itself with green along the edges, where it skirted the
healthy forest. However, the larger part of the top was
still barren and appallingly desolate. Charred stumps,
standing sentinel-like between the rock ledges, bore
witness that once there had been a fine forest here;
but no fresh roots sprang from the ground.
One day in the early summer all the children in the
parish had assembled in front of the schoolhouse near
the fire-swept mountain. Each child carried either a
spade or a hoe on its shoulder, and a basket of food in
its hand. As soon as all were assembled, they marched
in a long procession toward the forest. The banner
came first, with the teachers on either side of it; then
followed a couple of foresters and a wagon load of pine
shrubs and spruce seeds; then the children.
The procession did not pause in any of the birch groves
near the settlements, but marched on deep into the forest.
As it moved along, the foxes stuck their heads out
of the lairs in astonishment, and wondered what kind
of backwoods people these were. As they marched past
old coal pits where charcoal kilns were fired every autumn,
the cross-beaks twisted their hooked bills, and
asked one another what kind of coalers these might be
who were now thronging the forest.
Finally, the procession reached the big, burnt mountain
plain. The rocks had been stripped of the fine
twin-flower creepers that once covered them; they had
been robbed of the pretty silver moss and the attractive
reindeer moss. Around the dark water gathered in
clefts and hollows there was now no wood-sorrel. The
little patches of soil in crevices and between stones
were without ferns, without star-flowers, without all
the green and red and light and soft and soothing
things which usually clothe the forest ground.
It was as if a bright light flashed upon the mountain
when all the parish children covered it. Here again
was something sweet and delicate; something fresh and
rosy; something young and growing. Perhaps these
children would bring to the poor abandoned forest a
little new life.
When the children had rested and eaten their luncheon,
they seized hoes and spades and began to work.
The foresters showed them what to do. They set out
shrub after shrub on every clear spot of earth they
could find.
As they worked, they talked quite knowingly among
themselves of how the little shrubs they were planting
would bind the soil so that it could not get away, and
of how new soil would form under the trees. By and
by seeds would drop, and in a few years they would be
picking both strawberries and raspberries where now
there were only bare rocks. The little shrubs which
they were planting would gradually become tall trees.
Perhaps big houses and great splendid ships would be
built from them!
If the children had not come here and planted while
there was still a little soil in the clefts, all the earth
would have been carried away by wind and water, and
the mountain could never more have been clothed in
green.
“It was well that we came,” said the children. “We were
just in the nick of time!” They felt very important.
While they were working on the mountain, their parents
were at home. By and by they began to wonder
how the children were getting along. Of course it was
only a joke about their planting a forest, but it might
be amusing to see what they were trying to do.
So presently both fathers and mothers were on their
way to the forest. When they came to the outlying
stock farms they met some of their neighbours.
“Are you going to the fire-swept mountain?” they
asked.
“That’s where we’re bound for.”
“To have a look at the children?”
“Yes, to see what they’re up to.”
“It’s only play, of course.”
“It isn’t likely that there will be many forest trees
planted by the youngsters. We have brought the coffee
pot along so that we can have something warm
to drink, since we must stay there all day with only
lunch-basket provisions.”
So the parents of the children went on up the mountain.
At first they thought only of how pretty it looked
to see all the rosy-cheeked little children scattered over
the gray hills. Later, they observed how the children
were working—how some were setting out shrubs,
while others were digging furrows and sowing seeds.
Others again were pulling up heather to prevent its
choking the young trees. They saw that the children
took the work seriously and were so intent upon what
they were doing that they scarcely had time to glance
up.
The fathers and mothers stood for a moment and looked
on; then they too began to pull up heather—just for
the fun of it. The children were the instructors, for
they were already trained, and had to show their elders
what to do.
Thus it happened that all the grown-ups who had come
to watch the children took part in the work. Then, of
course, it became greater fun than before. By and by
the children had even more help. Other implements
were needed, so a couple of long-legged boys were sent
down to the village for spades and hoes. As they ran
past the cabins, the stay-at-homes came out and asked:
“What’s wrong? Has there been an accident?”
“No, indeed! But the whole parish is up on the fireswept
mountain planting a forest.”
“If the whole parish is there, we can’t stay at home!”
So party after party of peasants went crowding to the
top of the burnt mountain. They stood a moment and
looked on. The temptation to join the workers was
irresistible.
“It’s a pleasure to sow one’s own acres in the spring,
and to think of the grain that will spring up from
the earth, but this work is even more alluring,” they
thought.
Not only slender blades would come from that sowing,
but mighty trees with tall trunks and sturdy branches.
It meant giving birth not merely to a summer’s grain,
but to many years’ growths. It meant the awakening
hum of insects, the song of the thrush, the play
of grouse and all kinds of life on the desolate mountain.
Moreover, it was like raising a memorial for coming
generations. They could have left a bare, treeless
height as a heritage. Instead they were to leave a glorious
forest.
Coming generations would know their forefathers had
been a good and wise folk and they would remember
them with reverence and gratitude.
Chapter 54
A DAY IN
HAeLSINGLAND
A LARGE GREEN LEAF
Thursday, June sixteenth.
The following day the boy travelled over Haelsingland.
It spread beneath him with new, pale-green shoots on
the pine trees, new birch leaves in the groves, new
green grass in the meadows, and sprouting grain in
the fields. It was a mountainous country, but directly
through it ran a broad, light valley from either side of
which branched other valleys—some short and narrow,
some broad and long.
“This land resembles a leaf,” thought the boy, “for it’s
as green as a leaf, and the valleys subdivide it in about
the same way as the veins of a leaf are foliated.”
The branch valleys, like the main one, were filled with
lakes, rivers, farms, and villages. They snuggled, light
and smiling, between the dark mountains until they
were gradually squeezed together by the hills. There
they were so narrow that they could not hold more
than a little brook.
On the high land between the valleys there were pine
forests which had no even ground to grow upon. There
were mountains standing all about, and the forest covered
the whole, like a woolly hide stretched over a bony
body.
It was a picturesque country to look down upon, and
the boy saw a good deal of it, because the eagle was
trying to find the old fiddler, Clement Larsson, and
flew from ravine to ravine looking for him.
A little later in the morning there was life and movement
on every farm. The doors of the cattle sheds were
thrown wide open and the cows were let out. They
were prettily coloured, small, supple and sprightly, and
so sure-footed that they made the most comic leaps
and bounds. After them came the calves and sheep,
and it was plainly to be seen that they, too, were in
the best of spirits.
It grew livelier every moment in the farm yards. A
couple of young girls with knapsacks on their backs
walked among the cattle; a boy with a long switch
kept the sheep together, and a little dog ran in and
out among the cows, barking at the ones that tried to
gore him. The farmer hitched a horse to a cart loaded
with tubs of butter, boxes of cheese, and all kinds of
eatables. The people laughed and chattered. They
and the beasts were alike merry—as if looking forward
to a day of real pleasure.
A moment later all were on their way to the forest.
One of the girls walked in the lead and coaxed the
cattle with pretty, musical calls. The animals followed
in a long line. The shepherd boy and the sheep-dog
ran hither and thither, to see that no creature turned
from the right course; and last came the farmer and his
hired man. They walked beside the cart to prevent its
being upset, for the road they followed was a narrow,
stony forest path.
It may have been the custom for all the peasants in
Haelsingland to send their cattle into the forests on
the same day—or perhaps it only happened so that
year; at any rate the boy saw how processions of happy
people and cattle wandered out from every valley and
every farm and rushed into the lonely forest, filling
it with life. From the depths of the dense woods the
boy heard the shepherd maidens’ songs and the tinkle
of the cow bells. Many of the processions had
long and difficult roads to travel; and the boy saw
how they tramped through marshes, how they had to
take roundabout ways to get past windfalls, and how,
time and again, the carts bumped against stones and
turned over with all their contents. But the people
met all the obstacles with jokes and laughter.
In the afternoon they came to a cleared space where
cattle sheds and a couple of rude cabins had been built.
The cows mooed with delight as they tramped on the
luscious green grass in the yards between the cabins,
and at once began grazing. The peasants, with merry
chatter and banter, carried water and wood and all
that had been brought in the carts into the larger
cabin. Presently smoke rose from the chimney and
then the dairymaids, the shepherd boy, and the men
squatted upon a flat rock and ate their supper.
Gorgo, the eagle, was certain that he should find Clement
Larsson among those who were off for the forest. Whenever
he saw a stock farm procession, he sank down and
scrutinized it with his sharp eyes; but hour after hour
passed without his finding the one he sought.
After much circling around, toward evening they came
to a stony and desolate tract east of the great main
valley. There the boy saw another outlying stock farm
under him. The people and the cattle had arrived.
The men were splitting wood, and the dairymaids were
milking the cows.
“Look there!” said Gorgo. “I think we’ve got him.”
He sank, and, to his great astonishment, the boy saw
that the eagle was right. There indeed stood little
Clement Larsson chopping wood.
Gorgo alighted on a pine tree in the thick woods a
little away from the house.
“I have fulfilled my obligation,” said the eagle, with a
proud toss of his head. “Now you must try and have
a word with the man. I’ll perch here at the top of the
thick pine and wait for you.”
Chapter 55
THE ANIMALS’ NEW
YEAR’S EVE
The day’s work was done at the forest ranches, supper
was over, and the peasants sat about and chatted. It
was a long time since they had been in the forest of
a summer’s night, and they seemed reluctant to go to
bed and sleep. It was as light as day, and the dairymaids
were busy with their needle-work. Ever and
anon they raised their heads, looked toward the forest
and smiled. “Now we are here again!” they said. The
town, with its unrest, faded from their minds, and the
forest, with its peaceful stillness, enfolded them. When
at home they had wondered how they should ever be
able to endure the loneliness of the woods; but once
there, they felt that they were having their best time.
Many of the young girls and young men from neighbouring
ranches had come to call upon them, so that
there were quite a lot of folk seated on the grass before
the cabins, but they did not find it easy to start conversation.
The men were going home the next day, so
the dairymaids gave them little commissions and bade
them take greetings to their friends in the village. This
was nearly all that had been said.
Suddenly the eldest of the dairy girls looked up from
her work and said laughingly:
“There’s no need of our sitting here so silent to-night,
for we have two story-tellers with us. One is Clement
Larsson, who sits beside me, and the other is Bernhard
from Sunnasjoe, who stands back there gazing toward
Black’s Ridge. I think that we should ask each of them
to tell us a story. To the one who entertains us the
better I shall give the muffler I am knitting.”
This proposal won hearty applause. The two competitors
offered lame excuses, naturally, but were quickly
persuaded. Clement asked Bernhard to begin, and he
did not object. He knew little of Clement Larsson,
but assumed that he would come out with some story
about ghosts and trolls. As he knew that people liked
to listen to such things, he thought it best to choose
something of the same sort.
“Some centuries ago,” he began, “a dean here in Delsbo
township was riding through the dense forest on a New
Year’s Eve. He was on horseback, dressed in fur coat
and cap. On the pommel of his saddle hung a satchel
in which he kept the communion service, the Prayerbook,
and the clerical robe. He had been summoned
on a parochial errand to a remote forest settlement,
where he had talked with a sick person until late in
the evening. Now he was on his way home, but feared
that he should not get back to the rectory until after
midnight.
“As he had to sit in the saddle when he should have
been at home in his bed, he was glad it was not a rough
night. The weather was mild, the air still and the skies
overcast. Behind the clouds hung a full round moon
which gave some light, although it was out of sight.
But for that faint light it would have been impossible
for him to distinguish paths from fields, for that was a
snowless winter, and all things had the same grayishbrown
colour.
“The horse the dean rode was one he prized very highly.
He was strong and sturdy, and quite as wise as a human
being. He could find his way home from any place
in the township. The dean had observed this on several
occasions, and he relied upon it with such a sense of
security that he never troubled himself to think where
he was going when he rode that horse. So he came
along now in the gray night, through the bewildering
forest, with the reins dangling and his thoughts far
away.
“He was thinking of the sermon he had to preach on the
morrow, and of much else besides, and it was a long
time before it occurred to him to notice how far along
he was on his homeward way. When he did glance up,
he saw that the forest was as dense about him as at
the beginning, and he was somewhat surprised, for he
had ridden so long that he should have come to the
inhabited portion of the township.
“Delsbo was about the same then as now. The church
and parsonage and all the large farms and villages
were at the northern end of the township, while at the
southern part there were only forests and mountains.
The dean saw that he was still in the unpopulated district
and knew that he was in the southern part and
must ride to the north to get home. There were no
stars, nor was there a moon to guide him; but he was
a man who had the four cardinal points in his head. He
had the positive feeling that he was travelling southward,
or possibly eastward.
“He intended to turn the horse at once, but hesitated.
The animal had never strayed, and it did not seem
likely that he would do so now. It was more likely
that the dean was mistaken. He had been far away in
thought and had not looked at the road. So he let the
horse continue in the same direction, and again lost
himself in his reverie.
“Suddenly a big branch struck him and almost swept
him off the horse. Then he realized that he must find
out where he was.
“He glanced down and saw that he was riding over
a soft marsh, where there was no beaten path. The
horse trotted along at a brisk pace and showed no uncertainty.
Again the dean was positive that he was
going in the wrong direction, and now he did not hesitate
to interfere. He seized the reins and turned the
horse about, guiding him back to the roadway. No
sooner was he there than he turned again and made
straight for the woods.
“The dean was certain that he was going wrong, but
because the beast was so persistent he thought that
probably he was trying to find a better road, and let
him go along.
“The horse did very well, although he had no path to
follow. If a precipice obstructed his way, he climbed
it as nimbly as a goat, and later, when they had to
descend, he bunched his hoofs and slid down the rocky
inclines.
“‘May he only find his way home before church hour!’
thought the dean. ’I wonder how the Delsbo folk would
take it if I were not at my church on time?’
“He did not have to brood over this long, for soon he
came to a place that was familiar to him. It was a
little creek where he had fished the summer before.
Now he saw it was as he had feared—he was in the
depths of the forest, and the horse was plodding along
in a south-easterly direction. He seemed determined
to carry the dean as far from church and rectory as he
could.
“The clergyman dismounted. He could not let the
horse carry him into the wilderness. He must go home.
And, since the animal persisted in going in the wrong
direction, he decided to walk and lead him until they
came to more familiar roads. The dean wound the
reins around his arm and began to walk. It was not
an easy matter to tramp through the forest in a heavy
fur coat; but the dean was strong and hardy and had
little fear of overexertion.
“The horse, meanwhile, caused him fresh anxiety. He
would not follow but planted his hoofs firmly on the
ground.
“At last the dean was angry. He had never beaten that
horse, nor did he wish to do so now. Instead, he threw
down the reins and walked away.
“‘We may as well part company here, since you want
to go your own way,’ he said.
“He had not taken more than two steps before the horse
came after him, took a cautious grip on his coat sleeve
and stopped him. The dean turned and looked the
horse straight in the eyes, as if to search out why he
behaved so strangely.
“Afterward the dean could not quite understand how
this was possible, but it is certain that, dark as it was,
he plainly saw the horse’s face and read it like that
of a human being. He realized that the animal was in
a terrible state of apprehension and fear. He gave his
master a look that was both imploring and reproachful.
“ ‘I have served you day after day and done your bidding,’
he seemed to say. ‘Will you not follow me this
one night?’
“The dean was touched by the appeal in the animal’s
eyes. It was clear that the horse needed his help tonight,
in one way or another. Being a man through and
through, the dean promptly determined to follow him.
Without further delay he sprang into the saddle. ‘Go
on!’ he said. ’I will not desert you since you want me.
No one shall say of the dean in Delsbo that he refused
to accompany any creature who was in trouble.’
“He let the horse go as he wished and thought only of
keeping his seat. It proved to be a hazardous and troublesome
journey—uphill most of the way. The forest
was so thick that he could not see two feet ahead, but
it appeared to him that they were ascending a high
mountain. The horse climbed perilous steeps. Had
the dean been guiding, he should not have thought of
riding over such ground.
“ ‘Surely you don’t intend to go up to Black’s Ridge,
do you?’ laughed the dean, who knew that was one of
the highest peaks in Haelsingland.
“During the ride he discovered that he and the horse
were not the only ones who were out that night. He
heard stones roll down and branches crackle, as if animals
were breaking their way through the forest. He
remembered that wolves were plentiful in that section
and wondered if the horse wished to lead him to an
encounter with wild beasts.
“They mounted up and up, and the higher they went
the more scattered were the trees. At last they rode
on almost bare highland, where the dean could look
in every direction. He gazed out over immeasurable
tracts of land, which went up and down in mountains
and valleys covered with sombre forests. It was so
dark that he had difficulty in seeing any orderly arrangement;
but presently he could make out where he
was.
“‘Why of course it’s Black’s Ridge that I’ve come to!’
he remarked to himself. ’It can’t be any other mountain,
for there, in the west, I see Jarv Island, and to
the east the sea glitters around Ag Island. Toward the
north also I see something shiny. It must be Dellen.
In the depths below me I see white smoke from Nian
Falls. Yes, I’m up on Black’s Ridge. What an adventure!’
“When they were at the summit the horse stopped behind
a thick pine, as if to hide. The dean bent forward
and pushed aside the branches, that he might have an
unobstructed view.
“The mountain’s bald plate confronted him. It was
not empty and desolate, as he had anticipated. In
the middle of the open space was an immense boulder
around which many wild beasts had gathered. Apparently
they were holding a conclave of some sort.
“Near to the big rock he saw bears, so firmly and heavily
built that they seemed like fur-clad blocks of stone.
They were lying down and their little eyes blinked impatiently;
it was obvious that they had come from
their winter sleep to attend court, and that they could
hardly keep awake. Behind them, in tight rows, were
hundreds of wolves. They were not sleepy, for wolves
are more alert in winter than in summer. They sat
upon their haunches, like dogs, whipping the ground
with their tails and panting—their tongues lolling far
out of their jaws. Behind the wolves the lynx skulked,
stiff-legged and clumsy, like misshapen cats. They
were loath to be among the other beasts, and hissed
and spat when one came near them. The row back of
the lynx was occupied by the wolverines, with dog faces
and bear coats. They were not happy on the ground,
and they stamped their pads impatiently, longing to
get into the trees. Behind them, covering the entire
space to the forest border, leaped the foxes, the
weasels, and the martens. These were small and perfectly
formed, but they looked even more savage and
bloodthirsty than the larger beasts.
“All this the dean plainly saw, for the whole place was
illuminated. Upon the huge rock at the centre was the
Wood-nymph, who held in her hand a pine torch which
burned in a big red flame. The Nymph was as tall as
the tallest tree in the forest. She wore a spruce-brush
mantle and had spruce-cone hair. She stood very still,
her face turned toward the forest. She was watching
and listening.
“The dean saw everything as plain as plain could be,
but his astonishment was so great that he tried to combat
it, and would not believe the evidence of his own
eyes.
“‘Such things cannot possibly happen!’ he thought. ’I
have ridden much too long in the bleak forest. This is
only an optical illusion.’
“Nevertheless he gave the closest attention to the spectacle,
and wondered what was about to be done.
“He hadn’t long to wait before he caught the sound of
a familiar bell, coming from the depths of the forest,
and the next moment he heard footfalls and crackling
of branches—as when many animals break through the
forest.
“A big herd of cattle was climbing the mountain. They
came through the forest in the order in which they
had marched to the mountain ranches. First came the
bell cow followed by the bull, then the other cows and
the calves. The sheep, closely herded, followed. After
them came the goats, and last were the horses and
colts. The sheep-dog trotted along beside the sheep;
but neither shepherd nor shepherdess attended them.
“The dean thought it heart-rending to see the tame
animals coming straight toward the wild beasts. He
would gladly have blocked their way and called ‘Halt!’
but he understood that it was not within human power
to stop the march of the cattle on this night; therefore
he made no move.
“The domestic animals were in a state of torment over
that which they had to face. If it happened to be the
bell cow’s turn, she advanced with drooping head and
faltering step. The goats had no desire either to play
or to butt. The horses tried to bear up bravely, but
their bodies were all of a quiver with fright. The most
pathetic of all was the sheep-dog. He kept his tail
between his legs and crawled on the ground.
“The bell cow led the procession all the way up to the
Wood-nymph, who stood on the boulder at the top of
the mountain. The cow walked around the rock and
then turned toward the forest without any of the wild
beasts touching her. In the same way all the cattle
walked unmolested past the wild beasts.
“As the creatures filed past, the dean saw the Woodnymph
lower her pine torch over one and another of
them.
“Every time this occurred the beasts of prey broke into
loud, exultant roars—particularly when it was lowered
over a cow or some other large creature. The animal
that saw the torch turning toward it uttered a piercing
shriek, as if it had received a knife thrust in its flesh,
while the entire herd to which it belonged bellowed
their lamentations.
“Then the dean began to comprehend the meaning of
what he saw. Surely he had heard that the animals in
Delsbo assembled on Black’s Ridge every New Year’s
Eve, that the Wood-nymph might mark out which
among the tame beasts would that year be prey for
the wild beasts. The dean pitied the poor creatures
that were at the mercy of savage beasts, when in reality
they should have no master but man.
“The leading herd had only just left when another bell
tinkled, and the cattle from another farm tramped to
the mountain top. These came in the same order as the
first and marched past the Wood-nymph, who stood
there, stern and solemn, indicating animal after animal
for death.
“Herd upon herd followed, without a break in the line
of procession. Some were so small that they included
only one cow and a few sheep; others consisted of only
a pair of goats. It was apparent that these were from
very humble homes, but they too were compelled to
pass in review.
“The dean thought of the Delsbo farmers, who had so
much love for their beasts. ’Did they but know of it,
surely they would not allow a repetition of this!’ he
thought. ’They would risk their own lives rather than
let their cattle wander amongst bears and wolves, to
be doomed by the Wood-nymph!’
“The last herd to appear was the one from the rectory
farm. The dean heard the sound of the familiar bell a
long way off. The horse, too, must have heard it, for
he began to shake in every limb, and was bathed in
sweat.
“’So it is your turn now to pass before theWood-nymph
to receive your sentence,’ the dean said to the horse.
’Don’t be afraid! Now I know why you brought me
here, and I shall not leave you.’
“The fine cattle from the parsonage farm emerged from
the forest and marched to the Wood-nymph and the
wild beasts. Last in the line was the horse that had
brought his master to Black’s Ridge. The dean did
not leave the saddle, but let the animal take him to
the Wood-nymph.
“He had neither knife nor gun for his defence, but he
had taken out the Prayer-book and sat pressing it to
his heart as he exposed himself to battle against evil.
“At first it appeared as if none had observed him. The
dean’s cattle filed past the Wood-nymph in the same
order as the others had done. She did not wave the
torch toward any of these, but as soon as the intelligent
horse stepped forward, she made a movement to mark
him for death.
“Instantly the dean held up the Prayer-book, and the
torchlight fell upon the cross on its cover. The Woodnymph
uttered a loud, shrill cry and let the torch drop
from her hand.
“Immediately the flame was extinguished. In the sudden
transition from light to darkness the dean saw
nothing, nor did he hear anything. About him reigned
the profound stillness of a wilderness in winter.
“Then the dark clouds parted, and through the opening
stepped the full round moon to shed its light upon the
ground. The dean saw that he and the horse were
alone on the summit of Black’s Ridge. Not one of
the many wild beasts was there. The ground had not
been trampled by the herds that had passed over it;
but the dean himself sat with his Prayer-book before
him, while the horse under him stood trembling and
foaming.
“By the time the dean reached home he no longer
knew whether or not it had been a dream, a vision,
or reality—this that he had seen; but he took it as a
warning to him to remember the poor creatures who
were at the mercy of wild beasts. He preached so powerfully
to the Delsbo peasants that in his day all the
wolves and bears were exterminated from that section
of the country, although they may have returned since
his time.”
Here Bernhard ended his story. He received praise
from all sides and it seemed to be a foregone conclusion
that he would get the prize. The majority thought it
almost a pity that Clement had to compete with him.
But Clement, undaunted, began:
“One day, while I was living at Skansen, just outside
of Stockholm, and longing for home—” Then he told
about the tiny midget he had ransomed so that he
would not have to be confined in a cage, to be stared
at by all the people. He told, also, that no sooner had
he performed this act of mercy than he was rewarded
for it. He talked and talked, and the astonishment
of his hearers grew greater and greater; but when he
came to the royal lackey and the beautiful book, all the
dairymaids dropped their needle-work and sat staring
at Clement in open-eyed wonder at his marvellous experiences.
As soon as Clement had finished, the eldest of the
dairymaids announced that he should have the muffler.
“Bernhard related only things that happened to another,
but Clement has himself been the hero of a true
story, which I consider far more important.”
In this all concurred. They regarded Clement with
very different eyes after hearing that he had talked
with the King, and the little fiddler was afraid to show
how proud he felt. But at the very height of his elation
some one asked him what had become of the midget.
“I had no time to set out the blue bowl for him myself,”
said Clement, “so I asked the old Laplander to do it.
What has become of him since then I don’t know.”
No sooner had he spoken than a little pine cone came
along and struck him on the nose. It did not drop from
a tree, and none of the peasants had thrown it. It was
simply impossible to tell whence it had come.
“Aha, Clement!” winked the dairymaid, “it appears as
if the tiny folk were listening to us. You should not
have left it to another to set out that blue bowl!”
Chapter 56
IN MEDELPAD
Friday, June seventeenth.
The boy and the eagle were out bright and early the
next morning. Gorgo hoped that he would get far up
into West Bothnia that day. As luck would have it,
he heard the boy remark to himself that in a country
like the one through which they were now travelling it
must be impossible for people to live.
The land which spread below them was Southern Medelpad.
When the eagle heard the boy’s remark, he replied:
“Up here they have forests for fields.”
The boy thought of the contrast between the light,
golden-rye fields with their delicate blades that spring
up in one summer, and the dark spruce forest with its
solid trees which took many years to ripen for harvest.
“One who has to get his livelihood from such a field
must have a deal of patience!” he observed.
Nothing more was said until they came to a place
where the forest had been cleared, and the ground was
covered with stumps and lopped-off branches. As they
flew over this ground, the eagle heard the boy mutter
to himself that it was a mighty ugly and povertystricken
place.
“This field was cleared last winter,” said the eagle.
The boy thought of the harvesters at home, who rode
on their reaping machines on fine summer mornings,
and in a short time mowed a large field. But the forest
field was harvested in winter. The lumbermen went
out in the wilderness when the snow was deep, and
the cold most severe. It was tedious work to fell even
one tree, and to hew down a forest such as this they
must have been out in the open many weeks.
“They have to be hardy men to mow a field of this
kind,” he said.
When the eagle had taken two more wing strokes, they
sighted a log cabin at the edge of the clearing. It had
no windows and only two loose boards for a door. The
roof had been covered with bark and twigs, but now it
was gaping, and the boy could see that inside the cabin
there were only a few big stones to serve as a fireplace,
and two board benches. When they were above the
cabin the eagle suspected that the boy was wondering
who could have lived in such a wretched hut as that.
“The reapers who mowed the forest field lived there,”
the eagle said.
The boy remembered how the reapers in his home had
returned from their day’s work, cheerful and happy,
and how the best his mother had in the larder was
always spread for them; while here, after the arduous
work of the day, they must rest on hard benches in
a cabin that was worse than an outhouse. And what
they had to eat he could not imagine.
“I wonder if there are any harvest festivals for these
labourers?” he questioned.
A little farther on they saw below them a wretchedly
bad road winding through the forest. It was narrow
and zigzag, hilly and stony, and cut up by brooks in
many places. As they flew over it the eagle knew that
the boy was wondering what was carted over a road
like that.
“Over this road the harvest was conveyed to the stack,”
the eagle said.
The boy recalled what fun they had at home when
the harvest wagons drawn by two sturdy horses, carried
the grain from the field. The man who drove
sat proudly on top of the load; the horses danced
and pricked up their ears, while the village children,
who were allowed to climb upon the sheaves, sat there
laughing and shrieking, half-pleased, half-frightened.
But here the great logs were drawn up and down steep
hills; here the poor horses must be worked to their
limit, and the driver must often be in peril. “I’m afraid
there has been very little cheer along this road,” the
boy observed.
The eagle flew on with powerful wing strokes, and soon
they came to a river bank covered with logs, chips, and
bark. The eagle perceived that the boy wondered why
it looked so littered up down there.
“Here the harvest has been stacked,” the eagle told
him.
The boy thought of how the grain stacks in his part of
the country were piled up close to the farms, as if they
were their greatest ornaments, while here the harvest
was borne to a desolate river strand, and left there.
“I wonder if any one out in this wilderness counts his
stacks, and compares them with his neighbour’s?” he
said.
A little later they came to Ljungen, a river which glides
through a broad valley. Immediately everything was so
changed that they might well think they had come to
another country. The dark spruce forest had stopped
on the inclines above the valley, and the slopes were
clad in light-stemmed birches and aspens. The valley
was so broad that in many places the river widened
into lakes. Along the shores lay a large flourishing
town.
As they soared above the valley the eagle realized that
the boy was wondering if the fields and meadows here
could provide a livelihood for so many people.
“Here live the reapers who mow the forest fields,” the
eagle said.
The boy was thinking of the lowly cabins and the
hedged-in farms down in Skane when he exclaimed:
“Why, here the peasants live in real manors. It looks as
if it might be worth one’s while to work in the forest!”
The eagle had intended to travel straight north, but
when he had flown out over the river he understood
that the boy wondered who handled the timber after
it was stacked on the river bank.
The boy recollected how careful they had been at home
never to let a grain be wasted, while here were great
rafts of logs floating down the river, uncared for. He
could not believe that more than half of the logs ever
reached their destination. Many were floating in midstream,
and for them all went smoothly; others moved
close to the shore, bumping against points of land, and
some were left behind in the still waters of the creeks.
On the lakes there were so many logs that they covered
the entire surface of the water. These appeared
to be lodged for an indefinite period. At the bridges
they stuck; in the falls they were bunched, then they
were pyramided and broken in two; afterward, in the
rapids, they were blocked by the stones and massed
into great heaps.
“I wonder how long it takes for the logs to get to the
mill?” said the boy.
The eagle continued his slow flight down River Ljungen.
Over many places he paused in the air on outspread
wings, that the boy might see how this kind of
harvest work was done.
Presently they came to a place where the loggers were
at work. The eagle marked that the boy wondered
what they were doing.
“They are the ones who take care of all the belated
harvest,” the eagle said.
The boy remembered the perfect ease with which his
people at home had driven their grain to the mill. Here
the men ran alongside the shores with long boat-hooks,
and with toil and effort urged the logs along. They
waded out in the river and were soaked from top to
toe. They jumped from stone to stone far out into the
rapids, and they tramped on the rolling log heaps as
calmly as though they were on flat ground. They were
daring and resolute men.
“As I watch this, I’m reminded of the iron-moulders in
the mining districts, who juggle with fire as if it were
perfectly harmless,” remarked the boy. “These loggers
play with water as if they were its masters. They seem
to have subjugated it so that it dare not harm them.”
Gradually they neared the mouth of the river, and
Bothnia Bay was beyond them. Gorgo flew no farther
straight ahead, but went northward along the coast.
Before they had travelled very far they saw a lumber
camp as large as a small city. While the eagle circled
back and forth above it, he heard the boy remark that
this place looked interesting.
“Here you have the great lumber camp called Svartvik,”
the eagle said.
The boy thought of the mill at home, which stood
peacefully embedded in foliage, and moved its wings
very slowly. This mill, where they grind the forest
harvest, stood on the water.
The mill pond was crowded with logs. One by one the
helpers seized them with their cant-hooks, crowded
them into the chutes and hurried them along to the
whirling saws. What happened to the logs inside, the
boy could not see, but he heard loud buzzing and roaring,
and from the other end of the house small cars ran
out, loaded with white planks. The cars ran on shining
tracks down to the lumber yard, where the planks were
piled in rows, forming streets—like blocks of houses in
a city. In one place they were building new piles; in
another they were pulling down old ones. These were
carried aboard two large vessels which lay waiting for
cargo. The place was alive with workmen, and in the
woods, back of the yard, they had their homes.
“They’ll soon manage to saw up all the forests in Medelpad
the way they work here,” said the boy.
The eagle moved his wings just a little, and carried
the boy above another large camp, very much like the
first, with the mill, yard, wharf, and the homes of the
workmen.
“This is called Kukikenborg,” the eagle said.
He flapped his wings slowly, flew past two big lumber
camps, and approached a large city. When the eagle
heard the boy ask the name of it, he cried; “This is
Sundsvall, the manor of the lumber districts.”
The boy remembered the cities of Skane, which looked
so old and gray and solemn; while here in the bleak
North the city of Sundsvall faced a beautiful bay, and
looked young and happy and beaming. There was
something odd about the city when one saw it from
above, for in the middle stood a cluster of tall stone
structures which looked so imposing that their match
was hardly to be found in Stockholm. Around the
stone buildings there was a large open space, then
came a wreath of frame houses which looked pretty
and cosy in their little gardens; but they seemed to be
conscious of the fact that they were very much poorer
than the stone houses, and dared not venture into their
neighbourhood.
“This must be both a wealthy and powerful city,” remarked
the boy. “Can it be possible that the poor
forest soil is the source of all this?”
The eagle flapped his wings again, and went over to
Aln Island, which lies opposite Sundsvall. The boy was
greatly surprised to see all the sawmills that decked the
shores. On Aln Island they stood, one next another,
and on the mainland opposite were mill upon mill,
lumber yard upon lumber yard. He counted forty, at
least, but believed there were many more.
“How wonderful it all looks from up here!” he marvelled.
“So much life and activity I have not seen in
any place save this on the whole trip. It is a great
country that we have! Wherever I go, there is always
something new for people to live upon.”
Chapter 57
A MORNING IN
ANGERMANLAND
THE BREAD
Saturday, June eighteenth.
Next morning, when the eagle had flown some distance
into Angermanland, he remarked that to-day he was
the one who was hungry, and must find something to
eat! He set the boy down in an enormous pine on a
high mountain ridge, and away he flew.
The boy found a comfortable seat in a cleft branch
from which he could look down over Angermanland.
It was a glorious morning! The sunshine gilded the
treetops; a soft breeze played in the pine needles; the
sweetest fragrance was wafted through the forest; a
beautiful landscape spread before him; and the boy
himself was happy and care-free. He felt that no one
could be better off.
He had a perfect outlook in every direction. The country
west of him was all peaks and table-land, and the
farther away they were, the higher and wilder they
looked. To the east there were also many peaks, but
these sank lower and lower toward the sea, where the
land became perfectly flat. Everywhere he saw shining
rivers and brooks which were having a troublesome
journey with rapids and falls so long as they ran between
mountains, but spread out clear and broad as
they neared the shore of the coast. Bothnia Bay was
dotted with islands and notched with points, but farther
out was open, blue water, like a summer sky.
When the boy had had enough of the landscape he
unloosed his knapsack, took out a morsel of fine white
bread, and began to eat.
“I don’t think I’ve ever tasted such good bread,” said
he. “And how much I have left! There’s enough to last
me for a couple of days.” As he munched he thought
of how he had come by the bread.
“It must be because I got it in such a nice way that it
tastes so good to me,” he said.
The golden eagle had left Medelpad the evening before.
He had hardly crossed the border into Angermanland
when the boy caught a glimpse of a fertile valley and
a river, which surpassed anything of the kind he had
seen before.
As the boy glanced down at the rich valley, he complained
of feeling hungry. He had had no food for two
whole days, he said, and now he was famished. Gorgo
did not wish to have it said that the boy had fared
worse in his company than when he travelled with the
wild geese, so he slackened his speed.
“Why haven’t you spoken of this before?” he asked.
“You shall have all the food you want. There’s no
need of your starving when you have an eagle for a
travelling companion.”
Just then the eagle sighted a farmer who was sowing a
field near the river strand. The man carried the seeds
in a basket suspended from his neck, and each time
that it was emptied he refilled it from a seed sack which
stood at the end of the furrow. The eagle reasoned it
out that the sack must be filled with the best food
that the boy could wish for, so he darted toward it.
But before the bird could get there a terrible clamour
arose about him. Sparrows, crows, and swallows came
rushing up with wild shrieks, thinking that the eagle
meant to swoop down upon some bird.
“Away, away, robber! Away, away, bird-killer!” they
cried. They made such a racket that it attracted the
farmer, who came running, so that Gorgo had to flee,
and the boy got no seed.
The small birds behaved in the most extraordinary
manner. Not only did they force the eagle to flee,
they pursued him a long distance down the valley, and
everywhere the people heard their cries. Women came
out and clapped their hands so that it sounded like a
volley of musketry, and the men rushed out with rifles.
The same thing was repeated every time the eagle
swept toward the ground. The boy abandoned the
hope that the eagle could procure any food for him. It
had never occurred to him before that Gorgo was so
much hated. He almost pitied him.
In a little while they came to a homestead where the
housewife had just been baking. She had set a platter
of sugared buns in the back yard to cool and was
standing beside it, watching, so that the cat and dog
should not steal the buns.
The eagle circled down to the yard, but dared not
alight right under the eyes of the peasant woman. He
flew up and down, irresolute; twice he came down as
far as the chimney, then rose again.
The peasant woman noticed the eagle. She raised her
head and followed him with her glance.
“How peculiarly he acts!” she remarked. “I believe he
wants one of my buns.”
She was a beautiful woman, tall and fair, with a cheery,
open countenance. Laughing heartily, she took a bun
from the platter, and held it above her head.
“If you want it, come and take it!” she challenged.
While the eagle did not understand her language, he
knew at once that she was offering him the bun. With
lightning speed, he swooped to the bread, snatched it,
and flew toward the heights.
When the boy saw the eagle snatch the bread he wept
for joy—not because he would escape suffering hunger
for a few days, but because he was touched by the
peasant woman’s sharing her bread with a savage bird
of prey.
Where he now sat on the pine branch he could recall
at will the tall, fair woman as she stood in the yard
and held up the bread.
She must have known that the large bird was a golden
eagle—a plunderer, who was usually welcomed with
loud shots; doubtless she had also seen the queer changeling
he bore on his back. But she had not thought of what
they were. As soon as she understood that they were
hungry, she shared her good bread with them.
“If I ever become human again,” thought the boy, “I
shall look up the pretty woman who lives near the
great river, and thank her for her kindness to us.”
Chapter 58
THE FOREST FIRE
While the boy was still at his breakfast he smelled a
faint odour of smoke coming from the north. He turned
and saw a tiny spiral, white as a mist, rise from a forest
ridge—not from the one nearest him, but from the one
beyond it. It looked strange to see smoke in the wild
forest, but it might be that a mountain stock farm lay
over yonder, and the women were boiling their morning
coffee.
It was remarkable the way that smoke increased and
spread! It could not come from a ranch, but perhaps
there were charcoal kilns in the forest.
The smoke increased every moment. Now it curled
over the whole mountain top. It was not possible that
so much smoke could come from a charcoal kiln. There
must be a conflagration of some sort, for many birds
flew over to the nearest ridge. Hawks, grouse, and
other birds, who were so small that it was impossible
to recognize them at such a distance, fled from the fire.
The tiny white spiral of smoke grew to a thick white
cloud which rolled over the edge of the ridge and sank
toward the valley. Sparks and flakes of soot shot up
from the clouds, and here and there one could see a red
flame in the smoke. A big fire was raging over there,
but what was burning? Surely there was no large farm
hidden in the forest.
The source of such a fire must be more than a farm.
Now the smoke came not only from the ridge, but from
the valley below it, which the boy could not see, because
the next ridge obstructed his view. Great clouds
of smoke ascended; the forest itself was burning!
It was difficult for him to grasp the idea that the fresh,
green pines could burn. If it really were the forest that
was burning, perhaps the fire might spread all the way
over to him. It seemed improbable; but he wished the
eagle would soon return. It would be best to be away
from this. The mere smell of the smoke which he drew
in with every breath was a torture.
All at once he heard a terrible crackling and sputtering.
It came from the ridge nearest him. There, on the
highest point, stood a tall pine like the one in which
he sat. A moment before it had been a gorgeous red
in the morning light. Now all the needles flashed, and
the pine caught fire. Never before had it looked so
beautiful! But this was the last time it could exhibit
any beauty, for the pine was the first tree on the ridge
to burn. It was impossible to tell how the flames had
reached it. Had the fire flown on red wings, or crawled
along the ground like a snake? It was not easy to say,
but there it was at all events. The great pine burned
like a birch stem.
Ah, look! Now smoke curled up in many places on
the ridge. The forest fire was both bird and snake. It
could fly in the air over wide stretches, or steal along
the ground. The whole ridge was ablaze!
There was a hasty flight of birds that circled up through
the smoke like big flakes of soot. They flew across the
valley and came to the ridge where the boy sat. A
horned owl perched beside him, and on a branch just
above him a hen hawk alighted. These would have
been dangerous neighbours at any other time, but now
they did not even glance in his direction—only stared
at the fire. Probably they could not make out what
was wrong with the forest. A marten ran up the pine to
the tip of a branch, and looked at the burning heights.
Close beside the marten sat a squirrel, but they did
not appear to notice each other.
Now the fire came rushing down the slope, hissing and
roaring like a tornado. Through the smoke one could
see the flames dart from tree to tree. Before a branch
caught fire it was first enveloped in a thin veil of smoke,
then all the needles grew red at one time, and it began
to crackle and blaze.
In the glen below ran a little brook, bordered by elms
and small birches. It appeared as if the flames would
halt there. Leafy trees are not so ready to take fire as
fir trees. The fire did pause as if before a gate that
could stop it. It glowed and crackled and tried to leap
across the brook to the pine woods on the other side,
but could not reach them.
For a short time the fire was thus restrained, then it
shot a long flame over to the large, dry pine that stood
on the slope, and this was soon ablaze. The fire had
crossed the brook! The heat was so intense that every
tree on the mountain was ready to burn. With the
roar and rush of the maddest storm and the wildest
torrent the forest fire flew over to the ridge.
Then the hawk and the owl rose and the marten dashed
down the tree. In a few seconds more the fire would
reach the top of the pine, and the boy, too, would
have to be moving. It was not easy to slide down the
long, straight pine trunk. He took as firm a hold of
it as he could, and slid in long stretches between the
knotty branches; finally he tumbled headlong to the
ground. He had no time to find out if he was hurt—
only to hurry away. The fire raced down the pine like a
raging tempest; the ground under his feet was hot and
smouldering. On either side of him ran a lynx and an
adder, and right beside the snake fluttered a mother
grouse who was hurrying along with her little downy
chicks.
When the refugees descended the mountain to the glen
they met people fighting the fire. They had been there
for some time, but the boy had been gazing so intently
in the direction of the fire that he had not noticed them
before.
In this glen there was a brook, bordered by a row of leaf
trees, and back of these trees the people worked. They
felled the fir trees nearest the elms, dipped water from
the brook and poured it over the ground, washing away
heather and myrtle to prevent the fire from stealing up
to the birch brush.
They, too, thought only of the fire which was now
rushing toward them. The fleeing animals ran in and
out among the men’s feet, without attracting attention.
No one struck at the adder or tried to catch the
mother grouse as she ran back and forth with her little
peeping birdlings. They did not even bother about
Thumbietot. In their hands they held great, charred
pine branches which had dropped into the brook, and
it appeared as if they intended to challenge the fire
with these weapons. There were not many men, and
it was strange to see them stand there, ready to fight,
when all other living creatures were fleeing.
As the fire came roaring and rushing down the slope
with its intolerable heat and suffocating smoke, ready
to hurl itself over brook and leaf-tree wall in order to
reach the opposite shore without having to pause, the
people drew back at first as if unable to withstand it;
but they did not flee far before they turned back.
The conflagration raged with savage force, sparks poured
like a rain of fire over the leaf trees, and long tongues
of flame shot hissingly out from the smoke, as if the
forest on the other side were sucking them in.
But the leaf-tree wall was an obstruction behind which
the men worked. When the ground began to smoulder
they brought water in their vessels and dampened it.
When a tree became wreathed in smoke they felled it
at once, threw it down and put out the flames. Where
the fire crept along the heather, they beat it with the
wet pine branches and smothered it.
The smoke was so dense that it enveloped everything.
One could not possibly see how the battle was going,
but it was easy enough to understand that it was a
hard fight, and that several times the fire came near
penetrating farther.
But think! After a while the loud roar of the flames
decreased, and the smoke cleared. By that time the
leaf trees had lost all their foliage, the ground under
them was charred, the faces of the men were blackened
by smoke and dripping with sweat; but the forest fire
was conquered. It had ceased to flame up. Soft white
smoke crept along the ground, and from it peeped out
a lot of black stumps. This was all there was left of
the beautiful forest!
The boy scrambled up on a rock, so that he might
see how the fire had been quenched. But now that
the forest was saved, his peril began. The owl and
the hawk simultaneously turned their eyes toward him.
Just then he heard a familiar voice calling to him.
Gorgo, the golden eagle, came sweeping through the
forest, and soon the boy was soaring among the clouds—
rescued from every peril.
Chapter 59
WESTBOTTOM AND
LAPLAND
THE FIVE SCOUTS
Once, at Skansen, the boy had sat under the steps
at Bollnaes cottage and had overheard Clement Larsson
and the old Laplander talk about Norrland. Both
agreed that it was the most beautiful part of Sweden.
Clement thought that the southern part was the best,
while the Laplander favoured the northern part.
As they argued, it became plain that Clement had
never been farther north than Haernoesand. The Laplander
laughed at him for speaking with such assurance
of places that he had never seen.
“I think I shall have to tell you a story, Clement, to
give you some idea of Lapland, since you have not seen
it,” volunteered the Laplander.
“It shall not be said of me that I refuse to listen to a
story,” retorted Clement, and the old Laplander began:
“It once happened that the birds who lived down in
Sweden, south of the great Sameland, thought that
they were overcrowded there and suggested moving
northward.
“They came together to consider the matter. The
young and eager birds wished to start at once, but
the older and wiser ones passed a resolution to send
scouts to explore the new country.
“ ‘Let each of the five great bird families send out a
scout,’ said the old and wise birds, ’to learn if there is
room for us all up there—food and hiding places.’
“Five intelligent and capable birds were immediately
appointed by the five great bird families.
“The forest birds selected a grouse, the field birds a
lark, the sea birds a gull, the fresh-water birds a loon,
and the cliff birds a snow sparrow.
“When the five chosen ones were ready to start, the
grouse, who was the largest and most commanding,
said:
“’There are great stretches of land ahead. If we travel
together, it will be long before we cover all the territory
that we must explore. If, on the other hand, we travel
singly—each one exploring his special portion of the
country—the whole business can be accomplished in a
few days.’
“The other scouts thought the suggestion a good one,
and agreed to act upon it.
“It was decided that the grouse should explore the midlands.
The lark was to travel to the eastward, the sea
gull still farther east, where the land bordered on the
sea, while the loon should fly over the territory west
of the midlands, and the snow sparrow to the extreme
west.
“In accordance with this plan, the five birds flew over
the whole Northland. Then they turned back and told
the assembly of birds what they had discovered.
“The gull, who had travelled along the sea-coast, spoke
first.
“‘The North is a fine country,’ he said. ’The sounds are
full of fish, and there are points and islands without
number. Most of these are uninhabited, and the birds
will find plenty of room there. The humans do a little
fishing and sailing in the sounds, but not enough to
disturb the birds. If the sea birds follow my advice,
they will move north immediately.’
“When the gull had finished, the lark, who had explored
the land back from the coast, spoke:
“ ‘I don’t know what the gull means by his islands and
points,’ said the lark. I have travelled only over great
fields and flowery meadows. I have never before seen
a country crossed by some large streams. Their shores
are dotted with homesteads, and at the mouth of the
rivers are cities; but for the most part the country is
very desolate. If the field birds follow my advice, they
will move north immediately.’
“After the lark came the grouse, who had flown over
the midlands.
“’I know neither what the lark means with his meadows
nor the gull with his islands and points,’ said he. ’I
have seen only pine forests on this whole trip. There
are also many rushing streams and great stretches of
moss-grown swamp land; but all that is not river or
swamp is forest. If the forest birds follow my advice,
they will move north immediately.’
“After the grouse came the loon, who had explored the
borderland to the west.
“I don’t know what the grouse means by his forests,
nor do I know where the eyes of the lark and the gull
could have been,’ remarked the loon. There’s hardly
any land up there—only big lakes. Between beautiful
shores glisten clear, blue mountain lakes, which pour
into roaring water-falls. If the fresh-water birds follow
my advice, they will move north immediately.’
“The last speaker was the snow sparrow, who had flown
along the western boundary.
“’I don’t know what the loon means by his lakes, nor do
I know what countries the grouse, the lark, and the gull
can have seen,’ he said. ’I found one vast mountainous
region up north. I didn’t run across any fields or any
pine forests, but peak after peak and highlands. I have
seen ice fields and snow and mountain brooks, with
water as white as milk. No farmers nor cattle nor
homesteads have I seen, but only Lapps and reindeer
and huts met my eyes. If the cliff birds follow my
advice, they will move north immediately.’
“When the five scouts had presented their reports to
the assembly, they began to call one another liars, and
were ready to fly at each other to prove the truth of
their arguments.
“But the old and wise birds who had sent them out,
listened to their accounts with joy, and calmed their
fighting propensities.
“‘You mustn’t quarrel among yourselves,’ they said.
’We understand from your reports that up north there
are large mountain tracts, a big lake region, great forest
lands, a wide plain, and a big group of islands.
This is more than we have expected—more than many
a mighty kingdom can boast within its borders.” ’
Chapter 60
THE MOVING
LANDSCAPE
Saturday, June eighteenth.
The boy had been reminded of the old Laplander’s
story because he himself was now travelling over the
country of which he had spoken. The eagle told him
that the expanse of coast which spread beneath them
was Westbottom, and that the blue ridges far to the
west were in Lapland.
Only to be once more seated comfortably on Gorgo’s
back, after all that he had suffered during the forest
fire, was a pleasure. Besides, they were having a fine
trip. The flight was so easy that at times it seemed as
if they were standing still in the air. The eagle beat
and beat his wings, without appearing to move from
the spot; on the other hand, everything under them
seemed in motion. The whole earth and all things on
it moved slowly southward. The forests, the fields, the
fences, the rivers, the cities, the islands, the sawmills—
all were on the march. The boy wondered whither they
were bound. Had they grown tired of standing so far
north, and wished to move toward the south?
Amid all the objects in motion there was only one that
stood still: that was a railway train. It stood directly
under them, for it was with the train as with Gorgo—
it could not move from the spot. The locomotive sent
forth smoke and sparks. The clatter of the wheels
could be heard all the way up to the boy, but the train
did not seem to move. The forests rushed by; the flag
station rushed by; fences and telegraph poles rushed
by; but the train stood still. A broad river with a long
bridge came toward it, but the river and the bridge
glided along under the train with perfect ease. Finally
a railway station appeared. The station master stood
on the platform with his red flag, and moved slowly
toward the train.
When he waved his little flag, the locomotive belched
even darker smoke curls than before, and whistled mournfully
because it had to stand still. All of a sudden it
began to move toward the south, like everything else.
The boy saw all the coach doors open and the passengers
step out while both cars and people were moving
southward.
He glanced away from the earth and tried to look
straight ahead. Staring at the queer railway train had
made him dizzy; but after he had gazed for a moment
at a little white cloud, he was tired of that and looked
down again—thinking all the while that the eagle and
himself were quite still and that everything else was
travelling on south. Fancy! Suppose the grain field
just then running along under him—which must have
been newly sown for he had seen a green blade on it—
were to travel all the way down to Skane where the rye
was in full bloom at this season!
Up here the pine forests were different: the trees were
bare, the branches short and the needles were almost
black. Many trees were bald at the top and looked
sickly. If a forest like that were to journey down to
Kolmarden and see a real forest, how inferior it would
feel!
The gardens which he now saw had some pretty bushes,
but no fruit trees or lindens or chestnut trees—only
mountain ash and birch. There were some vegetable
beds, but they were not as yet hoed or planted.
“If such an apology for a garden were to come trailing
into Soermland, the province of gardens, wouldn’t it
think itself a poor wilderness by comparison?”
Imagine an immense plain like the one now gliding
beneath him, coming under the very eyes of the poor
Smaland peasants! They would hurry away from their
meagre garden plots and stony fields, to begin plowing
and sowing.
There was one thing, however, of which this Northland
had more than other lands, and that was light. Night
must have set in, for the cranes stood sleeping on the
morass; but it was as light as day. The sun had not
travelled southward, like every other thing. Instead, it
had gone so far north that it shone in the boy’s face.
To all appearance, it had no notion of setting that
night.
If this light and this sun were only shining on West
Vemmenhoeg! It would suit the boy’s father and mother
to a dot to have a working day that lasted twenty-four
hours.
Sunday, June nineteenth.
The boy raised his head and looked around, perfectly
bewildered. It was mighty queer! Here he lay sleeping
in some place where he had not been before. No,
he had never seen this glen nor the mountains round
about; and never had he noticed such puny and shrunken
birches as those under which he now lay.
Where was the eagle? The boy could see no sign of
him. Gorgo must have deserted him. Well, here was
another adventure!
The boy lay down again, closed his eyes, and tried to
recall the circumstances under which he had dropped
to sleep.
He remembered that as long as he was travelling over
Westbottom he had fancied that the eagle and he were
at a standstill in the air, and that the land under them
was moving southward. As the eagle turned northwest,
the wind had come from that side, and again he had
felt a current of air, so that the land below had stopped
moving and he had noticed that the eagle was bearing
him onward with terrific speed.
“Now we are flying into Lapland,” Gorgo had said, and
the boy had bent forward, so that he might see the
country of which he had heard so much.
But he had felt rather disappointed at not seeing anything
but great tracts of forest land and wide marshes.
Forest followed marsh and marsh followed forest. The
monotony of the whole finally made him so sleepy that
he had nearly dropped to the ground.
He said to the eagle that he could not stay on his back
another minute, but must sleep awhile. Gorgo had
promptly swooped to the ground, where the boy had
dropped down on a moss tuft. Then Gorgo put a talon
around him and soared into the air with him again.
“Go to sleep, Thumbietot!” he cried. “The sunshine
keeps me awake and I want to continue the journey.”
Although the boy hung in this uncomfortable position,
he actually dozed and dreamed.
He dreamed that he was on a broad road in southern
Sweden, hurrying along as fast as his little legs
could carry him. He was not alone, many wayfarers
were tramping in the same direction. Close beside
him marched grain-filled rye blades, blossoming
corn flowers, and yellow daisies. Heavily laden apple
trees went puffing along, followed by vine-covered bean
stalks, big clusters of white daisies, and masses of berry
bushes. Tall beeches and oaks and lindens strolled
leisurely in the middle of the road, their branches swaying,
and they stepped aside for none. Between the
boy’s tiny feet darted the little flowers—wild strawberry
blossoms, white anemones, clover, and forgetme-
nots. At first he thought that only the vegetable
family was on the march, but presently he saw that
animals and people accompanied them. The insects
were buzzing around advancing bushes, the fishes were
swimming in moving ditches, the birds were singing in
strolling trees. Both tame and wild beasts were racing,
and amongst all this people moved along—some
with spades and scythes, others with axes, and others,
again, with fishing nets.
The procession marched with gladness and gayety, and
he did not wonder at that when he saw who was leading
it. It was nothing less than the Sun itself that rolled
on like a great shining head with hair of many-hued
rays and a countenance beaming with merriment and
kindliness!
“Forward, march!” it kept calling out. “None need feel
anxious whilst I am here. Forward, march!”
“I wonder where the Sun wants to take us to?” remarked
the boy. A rye blade that walked beside him
heard him, and immediately answered:
“He wants to take us up to Lapland to fight the Ice
Witch.”
Presently the boy noticed that some of the travellers
hesitated, slowed up, and finally stood quite still. He
saw that the tall beech tree stopped, and that the roebuck
and the wheat blade tarried by the wayside, likewise
the blackberry bush, the little yellow buttercup,
the chestnut tree, and the grouse.
He glanced about him and tried to reason out why so
many stopped. Then he discovered that they were no
longer in southern Sweden. The march had been so
rapid that they were already in Svealand.
Up there the oak began to move more cautiously. It
paused awhile to consider, took a few faltering steps,
then came to a standstill.
“Why doesn’t the oak come along?” asked the boy.
“It’s afraid of the Ice Witch,” said a fair young birch
that tripped along so boldly and cheerfully that it was
a joy to watch it. The crowd hurried on as before. In a
short time they were in Norrland, and now it mattered
not how much the Sun cried and coaxed—the apple
tree stopped, the cherry tree stopped, the rye blade
stopped!
The boy turned to them and asked:
“Why don’t you come along? Why do you desert the
Sun?”
“We dare not! We’re afraid of the Ice Witch, who lives
in Lapland,” they answered.
The boy comprehended that they were far north, as the
procession grew thinner and thinner. The rye blade,
the barley, the wild strawberry, the blueberry bush,
the pea stalk, the currant bush had come along as far
as this. The elk and the domestic cow had been walking
side by side, but now they stopped. The Sun no
doubt would have been almost deserted if new followers
had not happened along. Osier bushes and a lot
of brushy vegetation joined the procession. Laps and
reindeer, mountain owl and mountain fox and willow
grouse followed.
Then the boy heard something coming toward them.
He saw great rivers and creeks sweeping along with
terrible force.
“Why are they in such a hurry?” he asked.
“They are running away from the Ice Witch, who lives
up in the mountains.”
All of a sudden the boy saw before him a high, dark,
turreted wall. Instantly the Sun turned its beaming
face toward this wall and flooded it with light. Then
it became apparent that it was no wall, but the most
glorious mountains, which loomed up—one behind another.
Their peaks were rose-coloured in the sunlight,
their slopes azure and gold-tinted.
“Onward, onward!” urged the Sun as it climbed the
steep cliffs. “There’s no danger so long as I am with
you.”
But half way up, the bold young birch deserted—also
the sturdy pine and the persistent spruce, and there,
too, the Laplander, and the willow brush deserted. At
last, when the Sun reached the top, there was no one
but the little tot, Nils Holgersson, who had followed
it.
The Sun rolled into a cave, where the walls were bedecked
with ice, and Nils Holgersson wanted to follow,
but farther than the opening of the cave he dared not
venture, for in there he saw something dreadful.
Far back in the cave sat an old witch with an ice body,
hair of icicles, and a mantle of snow!
At her feet lay three black wolves, who rose and opened
their jaws when the Sun approached. From the mouth
of one came a piercing cold, from the second a blustering
north wind, and from the third came impenetrable
darkness.
“That must be the Ice Witch and her tribe,” thought
the boy.
He understood that now was the time for him to flee,
but he was so curious to see the outcome of the meeting
between the Sun and the Ice Witch that he tarried.
The Ice Witch did not move—only turned her hideous
face toward the Sun. This continued for a short time.
It appeared to the boy that the witch was beginning to
sigh and tremble. Her snow mantle fell, and the three
ferocious wolves howled less savagely.
Suddenly the Sun cried:
“Now my time is up!” and rolled out of the cave.
Then the Ice Witch let loose her three wolves. Instantly
the North Wind, Cold, and Darkness rushed
from the cave and began to chase the Sun.
“Drive him out! Drive him back!” shrieked the Ice
Witch. “Chase him so far that he can never come back!
Teach him that Lapland is MINE!”
But Nils Holgersson felt so unhappy when he saw that
the Sun was to be driven from Lapland that he awakened
with a cry. When he recovered his senses, he
found himself at the bottom of a ravine.
But where was Gorgo? How was he to find out where
he himself was?
He arose and looked all around him. Then he happened
to glance upward and saw a peculiar structure
of pine twigs and branches that stood on a cliff-ledge.
“That must be one of those eagle nests that Gorgo—
” But this was as far as he got. He tore off his cap,
waved it in the air, and cheered.
Now he understood where Gorgo had brought him.
This was the very glen where the wild geese lived in
summer, and just above it was the eagles’ cliff.
HE HAD ARRIVED!
He would meet Morten Goosey-Gander and Akka and
all the other comrades in a few moments. Hurrah!
Chapter 61
THE MEETING
All was still in the glen. The sun had not yet stepped
above the cliffs, and Nils Holgersson knew that it was
too early in the morning for the geese to be awake.
The boy walked along leisurely and searched for his
friends. Before he had gone very far, he paused with a
smile, for he saw such a pretty sight. A wild goose was
sleeping in a neat little nest, and beside her stood her
goosey-gander. He too, slept, but it was obvious that
he had stationed himself thus near her that he might
be on hand in the possible event of danger.
The boy went on without disturbing them and peeped
into the willow brush that covered the ground. It
was not long before he spied another goose couple.
These were strangers, not of his flock, but he was so
happy that he began to hum—just because he had
come across wild geese.
He peeped into another bit of brushwood. There at
last he saw two that were familiar.
It was certainly Neljae that was nesting there, and the
goosey-gander who stood beside her was surely Kolme.
Why, of course! The boy had a good mind to awaken
them, but he let them sleep on, and walked away.
In the next brush he saw Viisi and Kuusi, and not
far from them he found Yksi and Kaksi. All four
were asleep, and the boy passed by without disturbing
them. As he approached the next brush, he thought he
saw something white shimmering among the bushes,
and the heart of him thumped with joy. Yes, it was as
he expected. In there sat the dainty Dunfin on an eggfilled
nest. Beside her stood her white goosey-gander.
Although he slept, it was easy to see how proud he
was to watch over his wife up here among the Lapland
mountains. The boy did not care to waken the
goosey-gander, so he walked on.
He had to seek a long time before he came across any
more wild geese. Finally, he saw on a little hillock
something that resembled a small, gray moss tuft, and
he knew that there was Akka from Kebnekaise. She
stood, wide awake, looking about as if she were keeping
watch over the whole glen.
“Good morning, Mother Akka!” said the boy. “Please
don’t waken the other geese yet awhile, for I wish to
speak with you in private.”
The old leader-goose came rushing down the hill and
up to the boy.
First she seized hold of him and shook him, then she
stroked him with her bill before she shook him again.
But she did not say a word, since he asked her not to
waken the others.
Thumbietot kissed old Mother Akka on both cheeks,
then he told her how he had been carried off to Skansen
and held captive there.
“Now I must tell you that Smirre Fox, short of an ear,
sat imprisoned in the foxes’ cage at Skansen,” said the
boy. “Although he was very mean to us, I couldn’t help
feeling sorry for him. There were many other foxes in
the cage; and they seemed quite contented there, but
Smirre sat all the while looking dejected, longing for
liberty.
“I made many good friends at Skansen, and I learned
one day from the Lapp dog that a man had come to
Skansen to buy foxes. He was from some island far
out in the ocean. All the foxes had been exterminated
there, and the rats were about to get the better of the
inhabitants, so they wished the foxes back again.
“As soon as I learned of this, I went to Smirre’s cage
and said to him:
“’To-morrow some men are coming here to get a pair
of foxes. Don’t hide, Smirre, but keep well in the foreground
and see to it that you are chosen. Then you’ll
be free again.’
“He followed my suggestion, and now he is running at
large on the island. What say you to this, Mother
Akka? If you had been in my place, would you not
have done likewise?”
“You have acted in a way that makes me wish I had
done that myself,” said the leader-goose proudly.
“It’s a relief to know that you approve,” said the boy.
“Now there is one thing more I wish to ask you about:
“One day I happened to see Gorgo, the eagle—the one
that fought with Morten Goosey-Gander—a prisoner
at Skansen. He was in the eagles’ cage and looked
pitifully forlorn. I was thinking of filing down the wire
roof over him and letting him out, but I also thought
of his being a dangerous robber and bird-eater, and
wondered if I should be doing right in letting loose
such a plunderer, and if it were not better, perhaps,
to let him stay where he was. What say you, Mother
Akka? Was it right to think thus?”
“No, it was not right!” retorted Akka. “Say what you
will about the eagles, they are proud birds and greater
lovers of freedom than all others. It is not right to
keep them in captivity. Do you know what I would
suggest? This: that, as soon as you are well rested, we
two make the trip together to the big bird prison, and
liberate Gorgo.”
“That is just the word I was expecting from you, Mother
Akka,” returned the boy eagerly.
“There are those who say that you no longer have any
love in your heart for the one you reared so tenderly,
because he lives as eagles must live. But I know now
that it isn’t true. And now I want to see if Morten
Goosey-Gander is awake.
“Meanwhile, if you wish to say a ‘thank you’ to the
one who brought me here to you, I think you’ll find
him up there on the cliff ledge, where once you found
a helpless eaglet.”
Chapter 62
OSA, THE GOOSE
GIRL, AND LITTLE
MATS
The year that Nils Holgersson travelled with the wild
geese everybody was talking about two little children,
a boy and a girl, who tramped through the country.
They were from Sunnerbo township, in Smaland, and
had once lived with their parents and four brothers
and sisters in a little cabin on the heath.
While the two children, Osa and Mats, were still small,
a poor, homeless woman came to their cabin one night
and begged for shelter. Although the place could hardly
hold the family, she was taken in and the mother spread
a bed for her on the floor. In the night she coughed
so hard that the children fancied the house shook. By
morning she was too ill to continue her wanderings.
The children’s father and mother were as kind to her
as could be. They gave up their bed to her and slept
on the floor, while the father went to the doctor and
brought her medicine.
The first few days the sick woman behaved like a savage;
she demanded constant attention and never uttered
a word of thanks. Later she became more subdued
and finally begged to be carried out to the heath
and left there to die.
When her hosts would not hear of this, she told them
that the last few years she had roamed about with a
band of gipsies. She herself was not of gipsy blood,
but was the daughter of a well-to-do farmer. She had
run away from home and gone with the nomads. She
believed that a gipsy woman who was angry at her had
brought this sickness upon her. Nor was that all: The
gipsy woman had also cursed her, saying that all who
took her under their roof or were kind to her should
suffer a like fate. She believed this, and therefore
begged them to cast her out of the house and never
to see her again. She did not want to bring misfortune
down upon such good people. But the peasants
refused to do her bidding. It was quite possible that
they were alarmed, but they were not the kind of folk
who could turn out a poor, sick person.
Soon after that she died, and then along came the misfortunes.
Before, there had never been anything but
happiness in that cabin. Its inmates were poor, yet
not so very poor. The father was a maker of weavers’
combs, and mother and children helped him with the
work. Father made the frames, mother and the older
children did the binding, while the smaller ones planed
the teeth and cut them out. They worked from morning
until night, but the time passed pleasantly, especially
when father talked of the days when he travelled
about in foreign lands and sold weavers’ combs. Father
was so jolly that sometimes mother and the children
would laugh until their sides ached at his funny quips
and jokes.
The weeks following the death of the poor vagabond
woman lingered in the minds of the children like a horrible
nightmare. They knew not if the time had been
long or short, but they remembered that they were always
having funerals at home. One after another they
lost their brothers and sisters. At last it was very still
and sad in the cabin.
The mother kept up some measure of courage, but the
father was not a bit like himself. He could no longer
work nor jest, but sat from morning till night, his head
buried in his hands, and only brooded.
Once—that was after the third burial—the father had
broken out into wild talk, which frightened the children.
He said that he could not understand why such
misfortunes should come upon them. They had done
a kindly thing in helping the sick woman. Could it
be true, then, that the evil in this world was more
powerful than the good?
The mother tried to reason with him, but she was unable
to soothe him.
A few days later the eldest was stricken. She had always
been the father’s favourite, so when he realized
that she, too, must go, he fled from all the misery.
The mother never said anything, but she thought it
was best for him to be away, as she feared that he
might lose his reason. He had brooded too long over
this one idea: that God had allowed a wicked person
to bring about so much evil.
After the father went away they became very poor.
For awhile he sent them money, but afterward things
must have gone badly with him, for no more came.
The day of the eldest daughter’s burial the mother
closed the cabin and left home with the two remaining
children, Osa and Mats. She went down to Skane to
work in the beet fields, and found a place at the Jordberga
sugar refinery. She was a good worker and had
a cheerful and generous nature. Everybody liked her.
Many were astonished because she could be so calm
after all that she had passed through, but the mother
was very strong and patient. When any one spoke to
her of her two sturdy children, she only said: “I shall
soon lose them also,” without a quaver in her voice or a
tear in her eye. She had accustomed herself to expect
nothing else.
But it did not turn out as she feared. Instead, the
sickness came upon herself. She had gone to Skane
in the beginning of summer; before autumn she was
gone, and the children were left alone.
While their mother was ill she had often said to the
children they must remember that she never regretted
having let the sick woman stop with them. It was not
hard to die when one had done right, she said, for then
one could go with a clear conscience.
Before the mother passed away, she tried to make some
provision for her children. She asked the people with
whom she lived to let them remain in the room which
she had occupied. If the children only had a shelter
they would not become a burden to any one. She knew
that they could take care of themselves.
Osa and Mats were allowed to keep the room on condition
that they would tend the geese, as it was always
hard to find children willing to do that work. It
turned out as the mother expected: they did maintain
themselves. The girl made candy, and the boy carved
wooden toys, which they sold at the farm houses. They
had a talent for trading and soon began buying eggs
and butter from the farmers, which they sold to the
workers at the sugar refinery. Osa was the older, and,
by the time she was thirteen, she was as responsible
as a grown woman. She was quiet and serious, while
Mats was lively and talkative. His sister used to say
to him that he could outcackle the geese.
When the children had been at Jordberga for two years,
there was a lecture given one evening at the schoolhouse.
Evidently it was meant for grown-ups, but the
two Smaland children were in the audience. They did
not regard themselves as children, and few persons
thought of them as such. The lecturer talked about
the dread disease called the White Plague, which every
year carried off so many people in Sweden. He
spoke very plainly and the children understood every
word.
After the lecture they waited outside the schoolhouse.
When the lecturer came out they took hold of hands
and walked gravely up to him, asking if they might
speak to him.
The stranger must have wondered at the two rosy,
baby-faced children standing there talking with an earnestness
more in keeping with people thrice their age; but
he listened graciously to them. They related what had
happened in their home, and asked the lecturer if he
thought their mother and their sisters and brothers
had died of the sickness he had described.
“Very likely,” he answered. “It could hardly have been
any other disease.”
If only the mother and father had known what the children
learned that evening, they might have protected
themselves. If they had burned the clothing of the
vagabond woman; if they had scoured and aired the
cabin and had not used the old bedding, all whom the
children mourned might have been living yet. The lecturer
said he could not say positively, but he believed
that none of their dear ones would have been sick had
they understood how to guard against the infection.
Osa and Mats waited awhile before putting the next
question, for that was the most important of all. It was
not true then that the gipsy woman had sent the sickness
because they had befriended the one with whom
she was angry. It was not something special that had
stricken only them. The lecturer assured them that no
person had the power to bring sickness upon another
in that way.
Thereupon the children thanked him and went to their
room. They talked until late that night.
The next day they gave notice that they could not tend
geese another year, but must go elsewhere. Where
were they going? Why, to try to find their father.
They must tell him that their mother and the other
children had died of a common ailment and not something
special brought upon them by an angry person.
They were very glad that they had found out about
this. Now it was their duty to tell their father of it,
for probably he was still trying to solve the mystery.
Osa and Mats set out for their old home on the heath.
When they arrived they were shocked to find the little
cabin in flames. They went to the parsonage and there
they learned that a railroad workman had seen their
father at Malmberget, far up in Lapland. He had been
working in a mine and possibly was still there. When
the clergyman heard that the children wanted to go
in search of their father he brought forth a map and
showed them how far it was to Malmberget and tried
to dissuade them from making the journey, but the
children insisted that they must find their father. He
had left home believing something that was not true.
They must find him and tell him that it was all a
mistake.
They did not want to spend their little savings buying
railway tickets, therefore they decided to go all the way
on foot, which they never regretted, as it proved to be
a remarkably beautiful journey.
Before they were out of Smaland, they stopped at a
farm house to buy food. The housewife was a kind,
motherly soul who took an interest in the children.
She asked them who they were and where they came
from, and they told her their story. “Dear, dear! Dear,
dear!” she interpolated time and again when they were
speaking. Later she petted the children and stuffed
them with all kinds of goodies, for which she would
not accept a penny. When they rose to thank her and
go, the woman asked them to stop at her brother’s
farm in the next township. Of course the children were
delighted.
“Give him my greetings and tell him what has happened
to you,” said the peasant woman.
This the children did and were well treated. From
every farm after that it was always: “If you happen
to go in such and such a direction, stop there or there
and tell them what has happened to you.”
In every farm house to which they were sent there was
always a consumptive. So Osa and Mats went through
the country unconsciously teaching the people how to
combat that dreadful disease.
Long, long ago, when the black plague was ravaging
the country, ’twas said that a boy and a girl were seen
wandering from house to house. The boy carried a
rake, and if he stopped and raked in front of a house,
it meant that there many should die, but not all; for
the rake has coarse teeth and does not take everything
with it. The girl carried a broom, and if she came
along and swept before a door, it meant that all who
lived within must die; for the broom is an implement
that makes a clean sweep.
It seems quite remarkable that in our time two children
should wander through the land because of a cruel sickness.
But these children did not frighten people with
the rake and the broom. They said rather: “We will
not content ourselves with merely raking the yard and
sweeping the floors, we will use mop and brush, water
and soap. We will keep clean inside and outside of the
door and we ourselves will be clean in both mind and
body. In this way we will conquer the sickness.”
One day, while still in Lapland, Akka took the boy to
Malmberget, where they discovered little Mats lying
unconscious at the mouth of the pit. He and Osa had
arrived there a short time before. That morning he
had been roaming about, hoping to come across his
father. He had ventured too near the shaft and been
hurt by flying rocks after the setting off of a blast.
Thumbietot ran to the edge of the shaft and called
down to the miners that a little boy was injured.
Immediately a number of labourers came rushing up to
little Mats. Two of them carried him to the hut where
he and Osa were staying. They did all they could to
save him, but it was too late.
Thumbietot felt so sorry for poor Osa. He wanted to
help and comfort her; but he knew that if he were to
go to her now, he would only frighten her—such as he
was!
The night after the burial of little Mats, Osa straightway
shut herself in her hut.
She sat alone recalling, one after another, things her
brother had said and done. There was so much to
think about that she did not go straight to bed, but
sat up most of the night. The more she thought of her
brother the more she realized how hard it would be to
live without him. At last she dropped her head on the
table and wept.
“What shall I do now that little Mats is gone?” she
sobbed.
It was far along toward morning and Osa, spent by the
strain of her hard day, finally fell asleep.
She dreamed that little Mats softly opened the door
and stepped into the room.
“Osa, you must go and find father,” he said.
“How can I when I don’t even know where he is?” she
replied in her dream.
“Don’t worry about that,” returned little Mats in his
usual, cheery way. “I’ll send some one to help you.”
Just as Osa, the goose girl, dreamed that little Mats
had said this, there was a knock at the door. It was
a real knock—not something she heard in the dream,
but she was so held by the dream that she could not
tell the real from the unreal. As she went on to open
the door, she thought:
“This must be the person little Mats promised to send
me.”
She was right, for it was Thumbietot come to talk to
her about her father.
When he saw that she was not afraid of him, he told
her in a few words where her father was and how to
reach him.
While he was speaking, Osa, the goose girl, gradually
regained consciousness; when he had finished she was
wide awake.
Then she was so terrified at the thought of talking with
an elf that she could not say thank you or anything
else, but quickly shut the door.
As she did that she thought she saw an expression of
pain flash across the elf’s face, but she could not help
what she did, for she was beside herself with fright.
She crept into bed as quickly as she could and drew
the covers over her head.
Although she was afraid of the elf, she had a feeling
that he meant well by her. So the next day she made
haste to do as he had told her.
Chapter 63
WITH THE
LAPLANDERS
One afternoon in July it rained frightfully up around
Lake Luossajaure. The Laplanders, who lived mostly
in the open during the summer, had crawled under the
tent and were squatting round the fire drinking coffee.
The new settlers on the east shore of the lake worked
diligently to have their homes in readiness before the
severe Arctic winter set in. They wondered at the
Laplanders, who had lived in the far north for centuries
without even thinking that better protection was
needed against cold and storm than thin tent covering.
The Laplanders, on the other hand, wondered at the
new settlers giving themselves so much needless, hard
work, when nothing more was necessary to live comfortably
than a few reindeer and a tent.
They only had to drive the poles into the ground and
spread the covers over them, and their abodes were
ready. They did not have to trouble themselves about
decorating or furnishing. The principal thing was to
scatter some spruce twigs on the floor, spread a few
skins, and hang the big kettle, in which they cooked
their reindeer meat, on a chain suspended from the top
of the tent poles.
While the Laplanders were chatting over their coffee
cups, a row boat coming from the Kiruna side pulled
ashore at the Lapps’ quarters.
A workman and a young girl, between thirteen and
fourteen, stepped from the boat. The girl was Osa.
The Lapp dogs bounded down to them, barking loudly,
and a native poked his head out of the tent opening to
see what was going on.
He was glad when he saw the workman, for he was a
friend of the Laplanders—a kindly and sociable man,
who could speak their native tongue. The Lapp called
to him to crawl under the tent.
“You’re just in time, Soederberg!” he said. “The coffee
pot is on the fire. No one can do any work in this rain,
so come in and tell us the news.”
The workman went in, and, with much ado and amid
a great deal of laughter and joking, places were made
for Soederberg and Osa, though the tent was already
crowded to the limit with natives. Osa understood
none of the conversation. She sat dumb and looked
in wonderment at the kettle and coffee pot; at the fire
and smoke; at the Lapp men and Lapp women; at the
children and dogs; the walls and floor; the coffee cups
and tobacco pipes; the multi-coloured costumes and
crude implements. All this was new to her.
Suddenly she lowered her glance, conscious that every
one in the tent was looking at her. Soederberg
must have said something about her, for now both
Lapp men and Lapp women took the short pipes from
their mouths and stared at her in open-eyed wonder
and awe. The Laplander at her side patted her shoulder
and nodded, saying in Swedish, “bra, bra!” (good,
good!) A Lapp woman filled a cup to the brim with
coffee and passed it under difficulties, while a Lapp
boy, who was about her own age, wriggled and crawled
between the squatters over to her.
Osa felt that Soederberg was telling the Laplanders
that she had just buried her little brother, Mats. She
wished he would find out about her father instead.
The elf had said that he lived with the Lapps, who
camped west of Lake Luossajaure, and she had begged
leave to ride up on a sand truck to seek him, as no
regular passenger trains came so far. Both labourers
and foremen had assisted her as best they could. An
engineer had sent Soederberg across the lake with her,
as he spoke Lappish. She had hoped to meet her father
as soon as she arrived. Her glance wandered anxiously
from face to face, but she saw only natives. Her father
was not there.
She noticed that the Lapps and the Swede, Soederberg,
grew more and more earnest as they talked among
themselves. The Lapps shook their heads and tapped
their foreheads, as if they were speaking of some one
that was not quite right in his mind.
She became so uneasy that she could no longer endure
the suspense and asked Soederberg what the Laplanders
knew of her father.
“They say he has gone fishing,” said the workman.
“They’re not sure that he can get back to the camp tonight;
but as soon as the weather clears, one of them
will go in search of him.”
Thereupon he turned to the Lapps and went on talking
to them. He did not wish to give Osa an opportunity
to question him further about Jon Esserson.
Chapter 64
THE NEXT
MORNING
Ola Serka himself, who was the most distinguished
man among the Lapps, had said that he would find
Osa’s father, but he appeared to be in no haste and
sat huddled outside the tent, thinking of Jon Esserson
and wondering how best to tell him of his daughter’s
arrival. It would require diplomacy in order that Jon
Esserson might not become alarmed and flee. He was
an odd sort of man who was afraid of children. He used
to say that the sight of them made him so melancholy
that he could not endure it.
While Ola Serka deliberated, Osa, the goose girl, and
Aslak, the young Lapp boy who had stared so hard at
her the night before, sat on the ground in front of the
tent and chatted.
Aslak had been to school and could speak Swedish.
He was telling Osa about the life of the “Samefolk,”
assuring her that they fared better than other people.
Osa thought that they lived wretchedly, and told him
so.
“You don’t know what you are talking about!” said
Aslak curtly. “Only stop with us a week and you shall
see that we are the happiest people on earth.”
“If I were to stop here a whole week, I should be choked
by all the smoke in the tent,” Osa retorted.
“Don’t say that!” protested the boy. “You know nothing
of us. Let me tell you something which will make
you understand that the longer you stay with us the
more contented you will become.”
Thereupon Aslak began to tell Osa how a sickness
called “The Black Plague” once raged throughout the
land. He was not certain as to whether it had swept
through the real “Sameland,” where they now were,
but in Jaemtland it had raged so brutally that among
the Samefolk, who lived in the forests and mountains
there, all had died except a boy of fifteen. Among the
Swedes, who lived in the valleys, none was left but a
girl, who was also fifteen years old.
The boy and girl separately tramped the desolate country
all winter in search of other human beings. Finally,
toward spring, the two met. Aslak continued: “The
Swedish girl begged the Lapp boy to accompany her
southward, where she could meet people of her own
race. She did not wish to tarry longer in Jaemtland,
where there were only vacant homesteads. I’ll take you
wherever you wish to go,’ said the boy, ’but not before
winter. It’s spring now, and my reindeer go westward
toward the mountains. You know that we who are
of the Samefolk must go where our reindeer take us.’
The Swedish girl was the daughter of wealthy parents.
She was used to living under a roof, sleeping in a bed,
and eating at a table. She had always despised the
poor mountaineers and thought that those who lived
under the open sky were most unfortunate; but she
was afraid to return to her home, where there were
none but the dead. ’At least let me go with you to
the mountains,’ she said to the boy, ’so that I sha’n’t
have to tramp about here all alone and never hear the
sound of a human voice.’
“The boy willingly assented, so the girl went with the
reindeer to the mountains.
“The herd yearned for the good pastures there, and
every day tramped long distances to feed on the moss.
There was not time to pitch tents. The children had to
lie on the snowy ground and sleep when the reindeer
stopped to graze. The girl often sighed and complained
of being so tired that she must turn back to the valley.
Nevertheless she went along to avoid being left without
human companionship.
“When they reached the highlands the boy pitched a
tent for the girl on a pretty hill that sloped toward a
mountain brook.
“In the evening he lassoed and milked the reindeer, and
gave the girl milk to drink. He brought forth dried
reindeer meat and reindeer cheese, which his people
had stowed away on the heights when they were there
the summer before.
“Still the girl grumbled all the while, and was never satisfied.
She would eat neither reindeer meat nor reindeer
cheese, nor would she drink reindeer milk. She
could not accustom herself to squatting in the tent or
to lying on the ground with only a reindeer skin and
some spruce twigs for a bed.
“The son of the mountains laughed at her woes and
continued to treat her kindly.
“After a few days, the girl went up to the boy when
he was milking and asked if she might help him. She
next undertook to make the fire under the kettle, in
which the reindeer meat was to be cooked, then to
carry water and to make cheese. So the time passed
pleasantly. The weather was mild and food was easily
procured. Together they set snares for game, fished for
salmon-trout in the rapids and picked cloud-berries in
the swamp.
“When the summer was gone, they moved farther down
the mountains, where pine and leaf forests meet. There
they pitched their tent. They had to work hard every
day, but fared better, for food was even more plentiful
than in the summer because of the game.
“When the snow came and the lakes began to freeze,
they drew farther east toward the dense pine forests.
“As soon as the tent was up, the winter’s work began.
The boy taught the girl to make twine from reindeer
sinews, to treat skins, to make shoes and clothing of
hides, to make combs and tools of reindeer horn, to
travel on skis, and to drive a sledge drawn by reindeer.
“When they had lived through the dark winter and the
sun began to shine all day and most of the night, the
boy said to the girl that now he would accompany her
southward, so that she might meet some of her own
race.
“Then the girl looked at him astonished.
“‘Why do you want to send me away?’ she asked. ’Do
you long to be alone with your reindeer?’
“ ‘I thought that you were the one that longed to get
away?’ said the boy.
“ ‘I have lived the life of the Samefolk almost a year
now,’ replied the girl. I can’t return to my people and
live the shut-in life after having wandered freely on
mountains and in forests. Don’t drive me away, but
let me stay here. Your way of living is better than
ours.’
“The girl stayed with the boy for the rest of her life,
and never again did she long for the valleys. And you,
Osa, if you were to stay with us only a month, you
could never again part from us.”
With these words, Aslak, the Lapp boy, finished his
story. Just then his father, Ola Serka, took the pipe
from his mouth and rose.
Old Ola understood more Swedish than he was willing
to have any one know, and he had overheard his
son’s remarks. While he was listening, it had suddenly
flashed on him how he should handle this delicate matter
of telling Jon Esserson that his daughter had come
in search of him.
Ola Serka went down to Lake Luossajaure and had
walked a short distance along the strand, when he happened
upon a man who sat on a rock fishing.
The fisherman was gray-haired and bent. His eyes
blinked wearily and there was something slack and
helpless about him. He looked like a man who had
tried to carry a burden too heavy for him, or to solve
a problem too difficult for him, who had become broken
and despondent over his failure.
“You must have had luck with your fishing, Jon, since
you’ve been at it all night?” said the mountaineer in
Lappish, as he approached.
The fisherman gave a start, then glanced up. The
bait on his hook was gone and not a fish lay on the
strand beside him. He hastened to rebait the hook and
throw out the line. In the meantime the mountaineer
squatted on the grass beside him.
“There’s a matter that I wanted to talk over with you,”
said Ola. “You know that I had a little daughter who
died last winter, and we have always missed her in the
tent.”
“Yes, I know,” said the fisherman abruptly, a cloud
passing over his face—as though he disliked being reminded
of a dead child.
“It’s not worth while to spend one’s life grieving,” said
the Laplander.
“I suppose it isn’t.”
“Now I’m thinking of adopting another child. Don’t
you think it would be a good idea?”
“That depends on the child, Ola.”
“I will tell you what I know of the girl,” said Ola. Then
he told the fisherman that around midsummer-time,
two strange children—a boy and a girl—had come to
the mines to look for their father, but as their father
was away, they had stayed to await his return. While
there, the boy had been killed by a blast of rock.
Thereupon Ola gave a beautiful description of how
brave the little girl had been, and of how she had won
the admiration and sympathy of everyone.
“Is that the girl you want to take into your tent?” asked
the fisherman.
“Yes,” returned the Lapp. “When we heard her story
we were all deeply touched and said among ourselves
that so good a sister would also make a good daughter,
and we hoped that she would come to us.”
The fisherman sat quietly thinking a moment. It was
plain that he continued the conversation only to please
his friend, the Lapp.
“I presume the girl is one of your race?”
“No,” said Ola, “she doesn’t belong to the Samefolk.”
“Perhaps she’s the daughter of some new settler and is
accustomed to the life here?”
“No, she’s from the far south,” replied Ola, as if this
was of small importance.
The fisherman grew more interested.
“Then I don’t believe that you can take her,” he said.
“It’s doubtful if she could stand living in a tent in
winter, since she was not brought up that way.”
“She will find kind parents and kind brothers and sisters
in the tent,” insisted Ola Serka. “It’s worse to be
alone than to freeze.”
The fisherman became more and more zealous to prevent
the adoption. It seemed as if he could not bear
the thought of a child of Swedish parents being taken
in by Laplanders.
“You said just now that she had a father in the mine.”
“He’s dead,” said the Lapp abruptly.
“I suppose you have thoroughly investigated this matter,
Ola?”
“What’s the use of going to all that trouble?” disdained
the Lapp. “I ought to know! Would the girl and her
brother have been obliged to roam about the country
if they had a father living? Would two children have
been forced to care for themselves if they had a father?
The girl herself thinks he’s alive, but I say that he must
be dead.”
The man with the tired eyes turned to Ola.
“What is the girl’s name, Ola?” he asked.
The mountaineer thought awhile, then said:
“I can’t remember it. I must ask her.”
“Ask her! Is she already here?”
“She’s down at the camp.”
“What, Ola! Have you taken her in before knowing her
father’s wishes?”
“What do I care for her father! If he isn’t dead, he’s
probably the kind of man who cares nothing for his
child. He may be glad to have another take her in
hand.”
The fisherman threw down his rod and rose with an
alertness in his movements that bespoke new life.
“I don’t think her father can be like other folk,” continued
the mountaineer. “I dare say he is a man who is
haunted by gloomy forebodings and therefore can not
work steadily. What kind of a father would that be for
the girl?”
While Ola was talking the fisherman started up the
strand.
“Where are you going?” queried the Lapp.
“I’m going to have a look at your foster-daughter, Ola.”
“Good!” said the Lapp. “Come along and meet her.
I think you’ll say that she will be a good daughter to
me.”
The Swede rushed on so rapidly that the Laplander
could hardly keep pace with him.
After a moment Ola said to his companion:
“Now I recall that her name is Osa—this girl I’m adopting.”
The other man only kept hurrying along and old Ola
Serka was so well pleased that he wanted to laugh
aloud.
When they came in sight of the tents, Ola said a few
words more.
“She came here to us Samefolk to find her father and
not to become my foster-child. But if she doesn’t find
him, I shall be glad to keep her in my tent.”
The fisherman hastened all the faster.
“I might have known that he would be alarmed when I
threatened to take his daughter into the Lapps’ quarters,”
laughed Ola to himself.
When the man from Kiruna, who had brought Osa
to the tent, turned back later in the day, he had two
people with him in the boat, who sat close together,
holding hands—as if they never again wanted to part.
They were Jon Esserson and his daughter. Both were
unlike what they had been a few hours earlier.
The father looked less bent and weary and his eyes
were clear and good, as if at last he had found the
answer to that which had troubled him so long.
Osa, the goose girl, did not glance longingly about, for
she had found some one to care for her, and now she
could be a child again
Chapter 65
HOMEWARD
BOUND!
THE FIRST TRAVELLING DAY
Saturday, October first.
The boy sat on the goosey-gander’s back and rode up
amongst the clouds. Some thirty geese, in regular order,
flew rapidly southward. There was a rustling of
feathers and the many wings beat the air so noisily
that one could scarcely hear one’s own voice. Akka
from Kebnekaise flew in the lead; after her came Yksi
and Kaksi, Kolme and Neljae, Viisi and Kuusi, Morten
Goosey-Gander and Dunfin. The six goslings which
had accompanied the flock the autumn before had now
left to look after themselves. Instead, the old geese
were taking with them twenty-two goslings that had
grown up in the glen that summer. Eleven flew to the
right, eleven to the left; and they did their best to fly
at even distances, like the big birds.
The poor youngsters had never before been on a long
trip and at first they had difficulty in keeping up with
the rapid flight.
“Akka from Kebnekaise! Akka from Kebnekaise!” they
cried in plaintive tones.
“What’s the matter?” said the leader-goose sharply.
“Our wings are tired of moving, our wings are tired of
moving!” wailed the young ones.
“The longer you keep it up, the better it will go,” answered
the leader-goose, without slackening her speed.
And she was quite right, for when the goslings had
flown two hours longer, they complained no more of
being tired.
But in the mountain glen they had been in the habit
of eating all day long, and very soon they began to feel
hungry.
“Akka, Akka, Akka from Kebnekaise!” wailed the goslings
pitifully.
“What’s the trouble now?” asked the leader-goose.
“We’re so hungry, we can’t fly any more!” whimpered
the goslings. “We’re so hungry, we can’t fly any more!”
“Wild geese must learn to eat air and drink wind,” said
the leader-goose, and kept right on flying.
It actually seemed as if the young ones were learning
to live on wind and air, for when they had flown a little
longer, they said nothing more about being hungry.
The goose flock was still in the mountain regions, and
the old geese called out the names of all the peaks
as they flew past, so that the youngsters might learn
them. When they had been calling out a while:
“This is Porsotjokko, this is Saerjaktjokko, this is Sulitelma,”
and so on, the goslings became impatient again.
“Akka, Akka, Akka!” they shrieked in heart-rending
tones.
“What’s wrong?” said the leader-goose.
“We haven’t room in our heads for any more of those
awful names!” shrieked the goslings.
“The more you put into your heads the more you can
get into them,” retorted the leader-goose, and continued
to call out the queer names.
The boy sat thinking that it was about time the wild
geese betook themselves southward, for so much snow
had fallen that the ground was white as far as the eye
could see. There was no use denying that it had been
rather disagreeable in the glen toward the last. Rain
and fog had succeeded each other without any relief,
and even if it did clear up once in a while, immediately
frost set in. Berries and mushrooms, upon which
the boy had subsisted during the summer, were either
frozen or decayed. Finally he had been compelled to
eat raw fish, which was something he disliked. The
days had grown short and the long evenings and late
mornings were rather tiresome for one who could not
sleep the whole time that the sun was away.
Now, at last, the goslings’ wings had grown, so that the
geese could start for the south. The boy was so happy
that he laughed and sang as he rode on the goose’s
back. It was not only on account of the darkness and
cold that he longed to get away from Lapland; there
were other reasons too.
The first weeks of his sojourn there the boy had not
been the least bit homesick. He thought he had never
before seen such a glorious country. The only worry he
had had was to keep the mosquitoes from eating him
up.
The boy had seen very little of the goosey-gander, because
the big, white gander thought only of his Dunfin
and was unwilling to leave her for a moment. On
the other hand, Thumbietot had stuck to Akka and
Gorgo, the eagle, and the three of them had passed
many happy hours together.
The two birds had taken him with them on long trips.
He had stood on snow-capped Mount Kebnekaise, had
looked down at the glaciers and visited many high cliffs
seldom tramped by human feet. Akka had shown him
deep-hidden mountain dales and had let him peep into
caves where mother wolves brought up their young. He
had also made the acquaintance of the tame reindeer
that grazed in herds along the shores of the beautiful
Torne Lake, and he had been down to the great falls
and brought greetings to the bears that lived thereabouts
from their friends and relatives in Westmanland.
Ever since he had seen Osa, the goose girl, he longed
for the day when he might go home with Morten Goosey-
Gander and be a normal human being once more. He
wanted to be himself again, so that Osa would not be
afraid to talk to him and would not shut the door in
his face.
Yes, indeed, he was glad that at last they were speeding
southward. He waved his cap and cheered when
he saw the first pine forest. In the same manner he
greeted the first gray cabin, the first goat, the first
cat, and the first chicken.
They were continually meeting birds of passage, flying
now in greater flocks than in the spring.
“Where are you bound for, wild geese?” called the
passing birds. “Where are you bound for?”
“We, like yourselves, are going abroad,” answered the
geese.
“Those goslings of yours aren’t ready to fly,” screamed
the others. “They’ll never cross the sea with those
puny wings!”
Laplander and reindeer were also leaving the mountains.
When the wild geese sighted the reindeer, they
circled down and called out:
“Thanks for your company this summer!”
“A pleasant journey to you and a welcome back!” returned
the reindeer.
But when the bears saw the wild geese, they pointed
them out to the cubs and growled:
“Just look at those geese; they are so afraid of a little
cold they don’t dare to stay at home in winter.”
But the old geese were ready with a retort and cried
to their goslings:
“Look at those beasts that stay at home and sleep half
the year rather than go to the trouble of travelling
south!”
Down in the pine forest the young grouse sat huddled
together and gazed longingly after the big bird flocks
which, amid joy and merriment, proceeded southward.
“When will our turn come?” they asked the mother
grouse.
“You will have to stay at home with mamma and papa,”
she said.
Chapter 66
LEGENDS FROM
HAeRJEDALEN
Tuesday, October fourth.
The boy had had three days’ travel in the rain and mist
and longed for some sheltered nook, where he might
rest awhile.
At last the geese alighted to feed and ease their wings
a bit. To his great relief the boy saw an observation
tower on a hill close by, and dragged himself to it.
When he had climbed to the top of the tower he found
a party of tourists there, so he quickly crawled into a
dark corner and was soon sound asleep.
When the boy awoke, he began to feel uneasy because
the tourists lingered so long in the tower telling stories.
He thought they would never go. Morten Goosey-
Gander could not come for him while they were there
and he knew, of course, that the wild geese were in a
hurry to continue the journey. In the middle of a story
he thought he heard honking and the beating of wings,
as if the geese were flying away, but he did not dare to
venture over to the balustrade to find out if it was so.
At last, when the tourists were gone, and the boy could
crawl from his hiding place, he saw no wild geese, and
no Morten Goosey-Gander came to fetch him. He
called, “Here am I, where are you?” as loud as he
could, but his travelling companions did not appear.
Not for a second did he think they had deserted him;
but he feared that they had met with some mishap
and was wondering what he should do to find them,
when Bataki, the raven, lit beside him.
The boy never dreamed that he should greet Bataki
with such a glad welcome as he now gave him.
“Dear Bataki,” he burst forth. “How fortunate that
you are here! Maybe you know what has become of
Morten Goosey-Gander and the wild geese?”
“I’ve just come with a greeting from them,” replied
the raven. “Akka saw a hunter prowling about on the
mountain and therefore dared not stay to wait for you,
but has gone on ahead. Get up on my back and you
shall soon be with your friends.”
The boy quickly seated himself on the raven’s back and
Bataki would soon have caught up with the geese had
he not been hindered by a fog. It was as if the morning
sun had awakened it to life. Little light veils of mist
rose suddenly from the lake, from fields, and from the
forest. They thickened and spread with marvellous
rapidity, and soon the entire ground was hidden from
sight by white, rolling mists.
Bataki flew along above the fog in clear air and sparkling
sunshine, but the wild geese must have circled down
among the damp clouds, for it was impossible to sight
them. The boy and the raven called and shrieked, but
got no response.
“Well, this is a stroke of ill luck!” said Bataki finally.
“But we know that they are travelling toward
the south, and of course I’ll find them as soon as the
mist clears.”
The boy was distressed at the thought of being parted
from Morten Goosey-Gander just now, when the geese
were on the wing, and the big white one might meet
with all sorts of mishaps. After Thumbietot had been
sitting worrying for two hours or more, he remarked to
himself that, thus far, there had been no mishap, and
it was not worth while to lose heart.
Just then he heard a rooster crowing down on the
ground, and instantly he bent forward on the raven’s
back and called out:
“What’s the name of the country I’m travelling over?”
“It’s called Haerjedalen, Haerjedalen, Haerjedalen,” crowed
the rooster.
“How does it look down there where you are?” the boy
asked.
“Cliffs in the west, woods in the east, broad valleys
across the whole country,” replied the rooster.
“Thank you,” cried the boy. “You give a clear account
of it.”
When they had travelled a little farther, he heard a
crow cawing down in the mist.
“What kind of people live in this country?” shouted
the boy.
“Good, thrifty peasants,” answered the crow. “Good,
thrifty peasants.”
“What do they do?” asked the boy. “What do they
do?”
“They raise cattle and fell forests,” cawed the crow.
“Thanks,” replied the boy. “You answer well.”
A bit farther on he heard a human voice yodeling and
singing down in the mist.
“Is there any large city in this part of the country?”
the boy asked.
“What—what—who is it that calls?” cried the human
voice.
“Is there any large city in this region?” the boy repeated.
“I want to know who it is that calls,” shouted the human
voice.
“I might have known that I could get no information
when I asked a human being a civil question,” the boy
retorted.
It was not long before the mist went away as suddenly
as it had come. Then the boy saw a beautiful
landscape, with high cliffs as in Jaemtland, but there
were no large, flourishing settlements on the mountain
slopes. The villages lay far apart, and the farms were
small. Bataki followed the stream southward till they
came within sight of a village. There he alighted in a
stubble field and let the boy dismount.
“In the summer grain grew on this ground,” said Bataki.
“Look around and see if you can’t find something eatable.”
The boy acted upon the suggestion and before long he
found a blade of wheat. As he picked out the grains
and ate them, Bataki talked to him.
“Do you see that mountain towering directly south of
us?” he asked.
“Yes, of course, I see it,” said the boy.
“It is called Sonfjaellet,” continued the raven; “you can
imagine that wolves were plentiful there once upon a
time.”
“It must have been an ideal place for wolves,” said the
boy.
“The people who lived here in the valley were frequently
attacked by them,” remarked the raven.
“Perhaps you remember a good wolf story you could
tell me?” said the boy.
“I’ve been told that a long, long time ago the wolves
from Sonfjaellet are supposed to have waylaid a man
who had gone out to peddle his wares,” began Bataki.
“He was from Hede, a village a few miles down the
valley. It was winter time and the wolves made for
him as he was driving over the ice on Lake Ljusna.
There were about nine or ten, and the man from Hede
had a poor old horse, so there was very little hope of
his escaping.
“When the man heard the wolves howl and saw how
many there were after him, he lost his head, and it
did not occur to him that he ought to dump his casks
and jugs out of the sledge, to lighten the load. He
only whipped up the horse and made the best speed
he could, but he soon observed that the wolves were
gaining on him. The shores were desolate and he was
fourteen miles from the nearest farm. He thought that
his final hour had come, and was paralyzed with fear.
“While he sat there, terrified, he saw something move
in the brush, which had been set in the ice to mark
out the road; and when he discovered who it was that
walked there, his fear grew more and more intense.
“Wild beasts were not coming toward him, but a poor
old woman, named Finn-Malin, who was in the habit
of roaming about on highways and byways. She was a
hunchback, and slightly lame, so he recognized her at
a distance.
“The old woman was walking straight toward the wolves.
The sledge had hidden them from her view, and the
man comprehended at once that, if he were to drive
on without warning her, she would walk right into the
jaws of the wild beasts, and while they were rending
her, he would have time enough to get away.
“The old woman walked slowly, bent over a cane. It
was plain that she was doomed if he did not help her,
but even if he were to stop and take her into the sledge,
it was by no means certain that she would be safe.
More than likely the wolves would catch up with them,
and he and she and the horse would all be killed. He
wondered if it were not better to sacrifice one life in order
that two might be spared—this flashed upon him
the minute he saw the old woman. He had also time
to think how it would be with him afterward—if perchance
he might not regret that he had not succoured
her; or if people should some day learn of the meeting
and that he had not tried to help her. It was a terrible
temptation.
“ ‘I would rather not have seen her,’ he said to himself.
“Just then the wolves howled savagely. The horse reared,
plunged forward, and dashed past the old beggar woman.
She, too, had heard the howling of the wolves, and,
as the man from Hede drove by, he saw that the old
woman knew what awaited her. She stood motionless,
her mouth open for a cry, her arms stretched out for
help. But she neither cried nor tried to throw herself
into the sledge. Something seemed to have turned her
to stone. ‘It was I,’ thought the man. ’I must have
looked like a demon as I passed.’
“He tried to feel satisfied, now that he was certain of
escape; but at that very moment his heart reproached
him. Never before had he done a dastardly thing, and
he felt now that his whole life was blasted.
“ ‘Let come what may,’ he said, and reined in the horse,
’I cannot leave her alone with the wolves!’
“It was with great difficulty that he got the horse to
turn, but in the end he managed it and promptly drove
back to her.
“‘Be quick and get into the sledge,’ he said gruffly; for
he was mad with himself for not leaving the old woman
to her fate.
“‘You might stay at home once in awhile, you old hag!’
he growled. ’Now both my horse and I will come to
grief on your account.’
“The old woman did not say a word, but the man from
Hede was in no mood to spare her.
“’The horse has already tramped thirty-five miles today,
and the load hasn’t lightened any since you got
up on it!’ he grumbled, ’so that you must understand
he’ll soon be exhausted.’
“The sledge runners crunched on the ice, but for all
that he heard how the wolves panted, and knew that
the beasts were almost upon him.
“ ‘It’s all up with us!’ he said. ’Much good it was,
either to you or to me, this attempt to save you, Finn-
Malin!’
“Up to this point the old woman had been silent—like
one who is accustomed to take abuse—but now she
said a few words.
“’I can’t understand why you don’t throw out your
wares and lighten the load. You can come back again
to-morrow and gather them up.’
“The man realized that this was sound advice and was
surprised that he had not thought of it before. He
tossed the reins to the old woman, loosed the ropes
that bound the casks, and pitched them out. The
wolves were right upon them, but now they stopped
to examine that which was thrown on the ice, and the
travellers again had the start of them.
“ ‘If this does not help you,’ said the old woman, ’you
understand, of course, that I will give myself up to the
wolves voluntarily, that you may escape.’
“While she was speaking the man was trying to push a
heavy brewer’s vat from the long sledge. As he tugged
at this he paused, as if he could not quite make up
his mind to throw it out; but, in reality, his mind was
taken up with something altogether different.
“’Surely a man and a horse who have no infirmities
need not let a feeble old woman be devoured by wolves
for their sakes!’ he thought. ’There must be some
other way of salvation. Why, of course, there is! It’s
only my stupidity that hinders me from finding the
way.’
“Again he started to push the vat, then paused once
more and burst out laughing.
“The old woman was alarmed and wondered if he had
gone mad, but the man from Hede was laughing at
himself because he had been so stupid all the while. It
was the simplest thing in the world to save all three of
them. He could not imagine why he had not thought
of it before.
“ ‘Listen to what I say to you, Malin!’ he said. ’It was
splendid of you to be willing to throw yourself to the
wolves. But you won’t have to do that because I know
how we can all three be helped without endangering
the life of any. Remember, whatever I may do, you
are to sit still and drive down to Linsaell. There you
must waken the townspeople and tell them that I’m
alone out here on the ice, surrounded by wolves, and
ask them to come and help me.’
“The man waited until the wolves were almost upon
the sledge. Then he rolled out the big brewer’s vat,
jumped down, and crawled in under it.
“It was a huge vat, large enough to hold a whole Christmas
brew. The wolves pounced upon it and bit at the
hoops, but the vat was too heavy for them to move.
They could not get at the man inside.
“He knew that he was safe and laughed at the wolves.
After a bit he was serious again.
“’For the future, when I get into a tight place, I shall
remember this vat, and I shall bear in mind that I need
never wrong either myself or others, for there is always
a third way out of a difficulty if only one can hit upon
it.” ’
With this Bataki closed his narrative.
The boy noticed that the raven never spoke unless
there was some special meaning back of his words, and
the longer he listened to him, the more thoughtful he
became.
“I wonder why you told me that story?” remarked the
boy.
“I just happened to think of it as I stood here, gazing
up at Sonfjaellet,” replied the raven.
Now they had travelled farther down Lake Ljusna and
in an hour or so they came to Kolsaett, close to the
border of Haelsingland. Here the raven alighted near a
little hut that had no windows—only a shutter. From
the chimney rose sparks and smoke, and from within
the sound of heavy hammering was heard.
“Whenever I see this smithy,” observed the raven, “I’m
reminded that, in former times, there were such skilled
blacksmiths here in Haerjedalen, more especially in
this village—that they couldn’t be matched in the whole
country.”
“Perhaps you also remember a story about them?” said
the boy.
“Yes,” returned Bataki, “I remember one about a smith
from Haerjedalen who once invited two other master
blacksmiths—one from Dalecarlia and one from
Vermland—to compete with him at nail-making. The
challenge was accepted and the three blacksmiths met
here at Kolsaett. The Dalecarlian began. He forged
a dozen nails, so even and smooth and sharp that
they couldn’t be improved upon. After him came
the Vermlander. He, too, forged a dozen nails, which
were quite perfect and, moreover, he finished them in
half the time that it took the Dalecarlian. When the
judges saw this they said to the Haerjedal smith that it
wouldn’t be worth while for him to try, since he could
not forge better than the Dalecarlian or faster than
the Vermlander.
“ ‘I sha’n’t give up! There must be still another way of
excelling,’ insisted the Haerjedal smith.
“He placed the iron on the anvil without heating it at
the forge; he simply hammered it hot and forged nail
after nail, without the use of either anvil or bellows.
None of the judges had ever seen a blacksmith wield
a hammer more masterfully, and the Haerjedal smith
was proclaimed the best in the land.”
With these remarks Bataki subsided, and the boy grew
even more thoughtful.
“I wonder what your purpose was in telling me that?”
he queried.
“The story dropped into my mind when I saw the old
smithy again,” said Bataki in an offhand manner.
The two travellers rose again into the air and the raven
carried the boy southward till they came to Lillhaerdal
Parish, where he alighted on a leafy mound at the top
of a ridge.
“I wonder if you know upon what mound you are standing?”
said Bataki.
The boy had to confess that he did not know.
“This is a grave,” said Bataki. “Beneath this mound
lies the first settler in Haerjedalen.”
“Perhaps you have a story to tell of him too?” said the
boy.
“I haven’t heard much about him, but I think he was
a Norwegian. He had served with a Norwegian king,
got into his bad graces, and had to flee the country.
“Later he went over to the Swedish king, who lived at
Upsala, and took service with him. But, after a time,
he asked for the hand of the king’s sister in marriage,
and when the king wouldn’t give him such a high-born
bride, he eloped with her. By that time he had managed
to get himself into such disfavour that it wasn’t
safe for him to live either in Norway or Sweden, and
he did not wish to move to a foreign country. ’But
there must still be a course open to me,’ he thought.
With his servants and treasures, he journeyed through
Dalecarlia until he arrived in the desolate forests beyond
the outskirts of the province. There he settled,
built houses and broke up land. Thus, you see, he was
the first man to settle in this part of the country.”
As the boy listened to the last story, he looked very
serious.
“I wonder what your object is in telling me all this?”
he repeated.
Bataki twisted and turned and screwed up his eyes,
and it was some time before he answered the boy.
“Since we are here alone,” he said finally, “I shall take
this opportunity to question you regarding a certain
matter.
“Have you ever tried to ascertain upon what terms the
elf who transformed you was to restore you to a normal
human being?”
“The only stipulation I’ve heard anything about was
that I should take the white goosey-gander up to Lapland
and bring him back to Skane, safe and sound.”
“I thought as much,” said Bataki; “for when last we
met, you talked confidently of there being nothing
more contemptible than deceiving a friend who trusts
one. You’d better ask Akka about the terms. You
know, I dare say, that she was at your home and talked
with the elf.”
“Akka hasn’t told me of this,” said the boy wonderingly.
“She must have thought that it was best for you not to
know just what the elf did say. Naturally she would
rather help you than Morten Goosey-Gander.”
“It is singular, Bataki, that you always have a way of
making me feel unhappy and anxious,” said the boy.
“I dare say it might seem so,” continued the raven,
“but this time I believe that you will be grateful to
me for telling you that the elf’s words were to this
effect: You were to become a normal human being
again if you would bring back Morten Goosey-Gander
that your mother might lay him on the block and chop
his head off.”
The boy leaped up.
“That’s only one of your base fabrications,” he cried
indignantly.
“You can ask Akka yourself,” said Bataki. “I see her
coming up there with her whole flock. And don’t forget
what I have told you to-day. There is usually a way
out of all difficulties, if only one can find it. I shall be
interested to see what success you have.”
Chapter 67
VERMLAND AND
DALSLAND
Wednesday, October fifth.
To-day the boy took advantage of the rest hour, when
Akka was feeding apart from the other wild geese, to
ask her if that which Bataki had related was true, and
Akka could not deny it. The boy made the leadergoose
promise that she would not divulge the secret to
Morten Goosey-Gander. The big white gander was so
brave and generous that he might do something rash
were he to learn of the elf’s stipulations.
Later the boy sat on the goose-back, glum and silent,
and hung his head. He heard the wild geese call out
to the goslings that now they were in Dalarne, they
could see Staedjan in the north, and that now they
were flying over Oesterdal River to Horrmund Lake
and were coming to Vesterdal River. But the boy did
not care even to glance at all this.
“I shall probably travel around with wild geese the rest
of my life,” he remarked to himself, “and I am likely to
see more of this land than I wish.”
He was quite as indifferent when the wild geese called
out to him that now they had arrived in Vermland
and that the stream they were following southward
was Klaraelven.
“I’ve seen so many rivers already,” thought the boy,
“why bother to look at one more?”
Even had he been more eager for sight-seeing, there
was not very much to be seen, for northern Vermland
is nothing but vast, monotonous forest tracts, through
which Klaraelven winds—narrow and rich in rapids.
Here and there one can see a charcoal kiln, a forest
clearing, or a few low, chimneyless huts, occupied by
Finns. But the forest as a whole is so extensive one
might fancy it was far up in Lapland.
Chapter 68
A LITTLE
HOMESTEAD
Thursday, October sixth.
The wild geese followed Klaraelven as far as the big
iron foundries at Monk Fors. Then they proceeded
westward to Fryksdalen. Before they got to Lake Fryken
it began to grow dusky, and they lit in a little wet
morass on a wooded hill. The morass was certainly
a good night quarter for the wild geese, but the boy
thought it dismal and rough, and wished for a better
sleeping place. While he was still high in the air,
he had noticed that below the ridge lay a number of
farms, and with great haste he proceeded to seek them
out.
They were farther away than he had fancied and several
times he was tempted to turn back. Presently the
woods became less dense, and he came to a road skirting
the edge of the forest. From it branched a pretty
birch-bordered lane, which led down to a farm, and
immediately he hastened toward it.
First the boy entered a farm yard as large as a city
marketplace and enclosed by a long row of red houses.
As he crossed the yard, he saw another farm where the
dwelling-house faced a gravel path and a wide lawn.
Back of the house there was a garden thick with foliage.
The dwelling itself was small and humble, but the garden
was edged by a row of exceedingly tall mountainash
trees, so close together that they formed a real
wall around it. It appeared to the boy as if he were
coming into a great, high-vaulted chamber, with the
lovely blue sky for a ceiling. The mountain-ash were
thick with clusters of red berries, the grass plots were
still green, of course, but that night there was a full
moon, and as the bright moonlight fell upon the grass
it looked as white as silver.
No human being was in sight and the boy could wander
freely wherever he wished. When he was in the garden
he saw something which almost put him in good humour.
He had climbed a mountain-ash to eat berries,
but before he could reach a cluster he caught sight of
a barberry bush, which was also full of berries. He
slid along the ash branch and clambered up into the
barberry bush, but he was no sooner there than he
discovered a currant bush, on which still hung long
red clusters. Next he saw that the garden was full
of gooseberries and raspberries and dog-rose bushes;
that there were cabbages and turnips in the vegetable
beds and berries on every bush, seeds on the herbs
and grain-filled ears on every blade. And there on the
path—no, of course he could not mistake it—was a big
red apple which shone in the moonlight.
The boy sat down at the side of the path, with the
big red apple in front of him, and began cutting little
pieces from it with his sheath knife.
“It wouldn’t be such a serious matter to be an elf all
one’s life if it were always as easy to get good food as
it is here,” he thought.
He sat and mused as he ate, wondering finally if it
would not be as well for him to remain here and let
the wild geese travel south without him.
“I don’t know for the life of me how I can ever explain
to Morten Goosey-Gander that I cannot go home,”
thought he. “It would be better were I to leave him
altogether. I could gather provisions enough for the
winter, as well as the squirrels do, and if I were to
live in a dark corner of the stable or the cow shed, I
shouldn’t freeze to death.”
Just as he was thinking this, he heard a light rustle
over his head, and a second later something which
resembled a birch stump stood on the ground beside
him.
The stump twisted and turned, and two bright dots on
top of it glowed like coals of fire. It looked like some
enchantment. However, the boy soon remarked that
the stump had a hooked beak and big feather wreaths
around its glowing eyes. Then he knew that this was
no enchantment.
“It is a real pleasure to meet a living creature,” remarked
the boy. “Perhaps you will be good enough to
tell me the name of this place, Mrs. Brown Owl, and
what sort of folk live here.”
That evening, as on all other evenings, the owl had
perched on a rung of the big ladder propped against
the roof, from which she had looked down toward the
gravel walks and grass plots, watching for rats. Very
much to her surprise, not a single grayskin had appeared.
She saw instead something that looked like a
human being, but much, much smaller, moving about
in the garden.
“That’s the one who is scaring away the rats!” thought
the owl. “What in the world can it be? It’s not a
squirrel, nor a kitten, nor a weasel,” she observed. “I
suppose that a bird who has lived on an old place like
this as long as I have ought to know about everything
in the world; but this is beyond my comprehension,”
she concluded.
She had been staring at the object that moved on the
gravel path until her eyes burned. Finally curiosity got
the better of her and she flew down to the ground to
have a closer view of the stranger.
When the boy began to speak, the owl bent forward
and looked him up and down.
“He has neither claws nor horns,” she remarked to herself,
“yet who knows but he may have a poisonous fang
or some even more dangerous weapon. I must try to
find out what he passes for before I venture to touch
him.”
“The place is called Marbacka,” said the owl, “and gentlefolk
lived here once upon a time. But you, yourself,
who are you?”
“I think of moving in here,” volunteered the boy without
answering the owl’s question. “Would it be possible,
do you think?”
“Oh, yes—but it’s not much of a place now compared
to what it was once,” said the owl. “You can weather
it here I dare say. It all depends upon what you expect
to live on. Do you intend to take up the rat chase?”
“Oh, by no means!” declared the boy. “There is more
fear of the rats eating me than that I shall do them
any harm.”
“It can’t be that he is as harmless as he says,” thought
the brown owl. “All the same I believe I’ll make an
attempt....” She rose into the air, and in a second her
claws were fastened in Nils Holgersson’s shoulder and
she was trying to hack at his eyes.
The boy shielded both eyes with one hand and tried
to free himself with the other, at the same time calling
with all his might for help. He realized that he was in
deadly peril and thought that this time, surely, it was
all over with him!
Now I must tell you of a strange coincidence: The very
year that Nils Holgersson travelled with the wild geese
there was a woman who thought of writing a book
about Sweden, which would be suitable for children
to read in the schools. She had thought of this from
Christmas time until the following autumn; but not a
line of the book had she written. At last she became so
tired of the whole thing that she said to herself: “You
are not fitted for such work. Sit down and compose
stories and legends, as usual, and let another write
this book, which has got to be serious and instructive,
and in which there must not be one untruthful word.”
It was as good as settled that she would abandon the
idea. But she thought, very naturally, it would have
been agreeable to write something beautiful about Sweden,
and it was hard for her to relinquish her work. Finally,
it occurred to her that maybe it was because she
lived in a city, with only gray streets and house walls
around her, that she could make no headway with the
writing. Perhaps if she were to go into the country,
where she could see woods and fields, that it might go
better.
She was from Vermland, and it was perfectly clear
to her that she wished to begin the book with that
province. First of all she would write about the place
where she had grown up. It was a little homestead,
far removed from the great world, where many oldtime
habits and customs were retained. She thought
that it would be entertaining for children to hear of
the manifold duties which had succeeded one another
the year around. She wanted to tell them how they
celebrated Christmas and New Year and Easter and
Midsummer Day in her home; what kind of house furnishings
they had; what the kitchen and larder were
like, and how the cow shed, stable, lodge, and bath
house had looked. But when she was to write about it
the pen would not move. Why this was she could not
in the least understand; nevertheless it was so.
True, she remembered it all just as distinctly as if she
were still living in the midst of it. She argued with
herself that since she was going into the country anyway,
perhaps she ought to make a little trip to the old
homestead that she might see it again before writing
about it. She had not been there in many years and
did not think it half bad to have a reason for the journey.
In fact she had always longed to be there, no
matter in what part of the world she happened to be.
She had seen many places that were more pretentious
and prettier. But nowhere could she find such comfort
and protection as in the home of her childhood.
It was not such an easy matter for her to go home as
one might think, for the estate had been sold to people
she did not know. She felt, to be sure, that they would
receive her well, but she did not care to go to the old
place to sit and talk with strangers, for she wanted to
recall how it had been in times gone by. That was why
she planned it so as to arrive there late in the evening,
when the day’s work was done and the people were
indoors.
She had never imagined that it would be so wonderful
to come home! As she sat in the cart and drove
toward the old homestead she fancied that she was
growing younger and younger every minute, and that
soon she would no longer be an oldish person with hair
that was turning gray, but a little girl in short skirts
with a long flaxen braid. As she recognized each farm
along the road, she could not picture anything else
than that everything at home would be as in bygone
days. Her father and mother and brothers and sisters
would be standing on the porch to welcome her; the
old housekeeper would run to the kitchen window to
see who was coming, and Nero and Freja and another
dog or two would come bounding and jumping up on
her.
The nearer she approached the place the happier she
felt. It was autumn, which meant a busy time with a
round of duties. It must have been all these varying
duties which prevented home from ever being monotonous.
All along the way the farmers were digging potatoes,
and probably they would be doing likewise at her home.
That meant that they must begin immediately to grate
potatoes and make potato flour. The autumn had been
a mild one; she wondered if everything in the garden
had already been stored. The cabbages were still out,
but perhaps the hops had been picked, and all the apples.
It would be well if they were not having house cleaning
at home. Autumn fair time was drawing nigh, everywhere
the cleaning and scouring had to be done before
the fair opened. That was regarded as a great event—
more especially by the servants. It was a pleasure to
go into the kitchen on Market Eve and see the newly
scoured floor strewn with juniper twigs, the whitewashed
walls and the shining copper utensils which
were suspended from the ceiling.
Even after the fair festivities were over there would not
be much of a breathing spell, for then came the work
on the flax. During dog days the flax had been spread
out on a meadow to mould. Now it was laid in the
old bath house, where the stove was lighted to dry it
out. When it was dry enough to handle all the women
in the neighbourhood were called together. They sat
outside the bath house and picked the flax to pieces.
Then they beat it with swingles, to separate the fine
white fibres from the dry stems. As they worked, the
women grew gray with dust; their hair and clothing
were covered with flax seed, but they did not seem to
mind it. All day the swingles pounded, and the chatter
went on, so that when one went near the old bath house
it sounded as if a blustering storm had broken loose
there.
After the work with the flax, came the big hard-tack
baking, the sheep shearing, and the servants’ moving
time. In November there were busy slaughter days,
with salting of meats, sausage making, baking of blood
pudding, and candle steeping. The seamstress who
used to make up their homespun dresses had to come
at this time, of course, and those were always two
pleasant weeks—when the women folk sat together
and busied themselves with sewing. The cobbler, who
made shoes for the entire household, sat working at the
same time in the men-servants’ quarters, and one never
tired of watching him as he cut the leather and soled
and heeled the shoes and put eyelets in the shoestring
holes.
But the greatest rush came around Christmas time.
Lucia Day—when the housemaid went about dressed
in white, with candles in her hair, and served coffee to
everybody at five in the morning—came as a sort of
reminder that for the next two weeks they could not
count on much sleep. For now they must brew the
Christmas ale, steep the Christmas fish in lye, and do
their Christmas baking and Christmas scouring.
She was in the middle of the baking, with pans of
Christmas buns and cooky platters all around her,
when the driver drew in the reins at the end of the
lane as she had requested. She started like one suddenly
awakened from a sound sleep. It was dismal for
her who had just dreamed herself surrounded by all
her people to be sitting alone in the late evening. As
she stepped from the wagon and started to walk up
the long lane that she might come unobserved to her
old home, she felt so keenly the contrast between then
and now that she would have preferred to turn back.
“Of what use is it to come here?” she sighed. “It can’t
be the same as in the old days!”
On the other hand she felt that since she had travelled
such a long distance, she would see the place at all
events, so continued to walk on, although she was more
depressed with every step that she took.
She had heard that it was very much changed; and
it certainly was! But she did not observe this now in
the evening. She thought, rather, that everything was
quite the same. There was the pond, which in her
youth had been full of carp and where no one dared
fish, because it was father’s wish that the carp should
be left in peace. Over there were the men-servants’
quarters, the larder and barn, with the farm yard bell
over one gable and the weather-vane over the other.
The house yard was like a circular room, with no outlook
in any direction, as it had been in her father’s
time—for he had not the heart to cut down as much
as a bush.
She lingered in the shadow under the big mountain-ash
at the entrance to the farm, and stood looking about
her. As she stood there a strange thing happened; a
flock of doves came and lit beside her.
She could hardly believe that they were real birds, for
doves are not in the habit of moving about after sundown.
It must have been the beautiful moonlight that
had awakened these. They must have thought it was
dawn and flown from their dove-cotes, only to become
confused, hardly knowing where they were. When they
saw a human being they flew over to her, as if she
would set them right.
There had been many flocks of doves at the manor
when her parents lived there, for the doves were among
the creatures which her father had taken under his
special care. If one ever mentioned the killing of a
dove, it put him in a bad humour. She was pleased
that the pretty birds had come to meet her in the old
home. Who could tell but the doves had flown out in
the night to show her they had not forgotten that once
upon a time they had a good home there.
Perhaps her father had sent his birds with a greeting
to her, so that she would not feel so sad and lonely
when she came to her former home.
As she thought of this, there welled up within her such
an intense longing for the old times that her eyes filled
with tears. Life had been beautiful in this place. They
had had weeks of work broken by many holiday festivities.
They had toiled hard all day, but at evening
they had gathered around the lamp and read Tegner
and Runeberg, “Fru" Lenngren and “Mamsell" Bremer.
They had cultivated grain, but also roses and jasmine.
They had spun flax, but had sung folk-songs as
they spun. They had worked hard at their history and
grammar, but they had also played theatre and written
verses. They had stood at the kitchen stove and
prepared food, but had learned, also, to play the flute
and guitar, the violin and piano. They had planted
cabbages and turnips, peas and beans in one garden,
but they had another full of apples and pears and all
kinds of berries. They had lived by themselves, and
this was why so many stories and legends were stowed
away in their memories. They had worn homespun
clothes, but they had also been able to lead care-free
and independent lives.
“Nowhere else in the world do they know how to get
so much out of life as they did at one of these little
homesteads in my childhood!” she thought. “There
was just enough work and just enough play, and every
day there was a joy. How I should love to come back
here again! Now that I have seen the place, it is hard
to leave it.”
Then she turned to the flock of doves and said to
them—laughing at herself all the while:
“Won’t you fly to father and tell him that I long to
come home? I have wandered long enough in strange
places. Ask him if he can’t arrange it so that I may
soon turn back to my childhood’s home.”
The moment she had said this the flock of doves rose
and flew away. She tried to follow them with her eyes,
but they vanished instantly. It was as if the whole
white company had dissolved in the shimmering air.
The doves had only just gone when she heard a couple
of piercing cries from the garden, and as she hastened
thither she saw a singular sight. There stood a tiny
midget, no taller than a hand’s breadth, struggling
with a brown owl. At first she was so astonished that
she could not move. But when the midget cried more
and more pitifully, she stepped up quickly and parted
the fighters. The owl swung herself into a tree, but the
midget stood on the gravel path, without attempting
either to hide or to run away.
“Thanks for your help,” he said. “But it was very
stupid of you to let the owl escape. I can’t get away
from here, because she is sitting up in the tree watching
me.”
“It was thoughtless of me to let her go. But to make
amends, can’t I accompany you to your home?” asked
she who wrote stories, somewhat surprised to think
that in this unexpected fashion she had got into conversation
with one of the tiny folk. Still she was not
so much surprised after all. It was as if all the while
she had been awaiting some extraordinary experience,
while she walked in the moonlight outside her old home.
“The fact is, I had thought of stopping here over night,”
said the midget. “If you will only show me a safe sleeping
place, I shall not be obliged to return to the forest
before daybreak.”
“Must I show you a place to sleep? Are you not at
home here?”
“I understand that you take me for one of the tiny
folk,” said the midget, “but I’m a human being, like
yourself, although I have been transformed by an elf.”
“That is the most remarkable thing I have ever heard!
Wouldn’t you like to tell me how you happened to get
into such a plight?”
The boy did not mind telling her of his adventures,
and, as the narrative proceeded, she who listened to
him grew more and more astonished and happy.
“What luck to run across one who has travelled all over
Sweden on the back of a goose!” thought she. “Just
this which he is relating I shall write down in my book.
Now I need worry no more over that matter. It was
well that I came home. To think that I should find
such help as soon as I came to the old place!”
Instantly another thought flashed into her mind. She
had sent word to her father by the doves that she
longed for home, and almost immediately she had received
help in the matter she had pondered so long.
Might not this be the father’s answer to her prayer?
Chapter 69
THE TREASURE ON
THE ISLAND
ON THEIR WAY TO THE SEA
Friday, October seventh.
From the very start of the autumn trip the wild geese
had flown straight south; but when they left Fryksdalen
they veered in another direction, travelling over
western Vermland and Dalsland, toward Bohuslaen.
That was a jolly trip! The goslings were now so used
to flying that they complained no more of fatigue, and
the boy was fast recovering his good humour. He was
glad that he had talked with a human being. He felt
encouraged when she said to him that if he were to
continue doing good to all whom he met, as heretofore,
it could not end badly for him. She was not able to
tell him how to get back his natural form, but she had
given him a little hope and assurance, which inspired
the boy to think out a way to prevent the big white
gander from going home.
“Do you know, Morten Goosey-Gander, that it will be
rather monotonous for us to stay at home all winter
after having been on a trip like this,” he said, as they
were flying far up in the air. “I’m sitting here thinking
that we ought to go abroad with the geese.”
“Surely you are not in earnest!” said the goosey-gander.
Since he had proved to the wild geese his ability to
travel with them all the way to Lapland, he was perfectly
satisfied to get back to the goose pen in Holger
Nilsson’s cow shed.
The boy sat silently a while and gazed down on Vermland,
where the birch woods, leafy groves, and gardens were
clad in red and yellow autumn colours.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen the earth beneath us as
lovely as it is to-day!” he finally remarked. “The lakes
are like blue satin bands. Don’t you think it would be
a pity to settle down in West Vemminghoeg and never
see any more of the world?”
“I thought you wanted to go home to your mother and
father and show them what a splendid boy you had
become?” said the goosey-gander.
All summer he had been dreaming of what a proud
moment it would be for him when he should alight in
the house yard before Holger Nilsson’s cabin and show
Dunfin and the six goslings to the geese and chickens,
the cows and the cat, and to Mother Holger Nilsson
herself, so that he was not very happy over the boy’s
proposal.
“Now, Morten Goosey-Gander, don’t you think yourself
that it would be hard never to see anything more
that is beautiful!” said the boy.
“I would rather see the fat grain fields of Soederslaett
than these lean hills,” answered the goosey-gander.
“But you must know very well that if you really wish
to continue the trip, I can’t be parted from you.”
“That is just the answer I had expected from you,” said
the boy, and his voice betrayed that he was relieved of
a great anxiety.
Later, when they travelled over Bohuslaen, the boy observed
that the mountain stretches were more continuous,
the valleys were more like little ravines blasted
in the rock foundation, while the long lakes at their
base were as black as if they had come from the underworld.
This, too, was a glorious country, and as
the boy saw it, with now a strip of sun, now a shadow,
he thought that there was something strange and wild
about it. He knew not why, but the idea came to him
that once upon a time there were many strong and
brave heroes in these mystical regions who had passed
through many dangerous and daring adventures. The
old passion of wanting to share in all sorts of wonderful
adventures awoke in him.
“I might possibly miss not being in danger of my life
at least once every day or two,” he thought. “Anyhow
it’s best to be content with things as they are.”
He did not speak of this idea to the big white gander,
because the geese were now flying over Bohuslaen with
all the speed they could muster, and the goosey-gander
was puffing so hard that he would not have had the
strength to reply.
The sun was far down on the horizon, and disappeared
every now and then behind a hill; still the geese kept
forging ahead.
Finally, in the west, they saw a shining strip of light,
which grew broader and broader with every wing stroke.
Soon the sea spread before them, milk white with a
shimmer of rose red and sky blue, and when they had
circled past the coast cliffs they saw the sun again, as
it hung over the sea, big and red and ready to plunge
into the waves.
As the boy gazed at the broad, endless sea and the
red evening sun, which had such a kindly glow that he
dared to look straight at it, he felt a sense of peace
and calm penetrate his soul.
“It’s not worth while to be sad, Nils Holgersson,” said
the Sun. “This is a beautiful world to live in both for
big and little. It is also good to be free and happy, and
to have a great dome of open sky above you.”
Chapter 70
THE GIFT OF THE
WILD GEESE
The geese stood sleeping on a little rock islet just beyond
Fjaellbacka. When it drew on toward midnight,
and the moon hung high in the heavens, old Akka
shook the sleepiness out of her eyes. After that she
walked around and awakened Yksi and Kaksi, Kolme
and Neljae, Viisi and Kuusi, and, last of all, she gave
Thumbietot a nudge with her bill that startled him.
“What is it, Mother Akka?” he asked, springing up in
alarm.
“Nothing serious,” assured the leader-goose. “It’s just
this: we seven who have been long together want to fly
a short distance out to sea to-night, and we wondered
if you would care to come with us.”
The boy knew that Akka would not have proposed this
move had there not been something important on foot,
so he promptly seated himself on her back. The flight
was straight west. The wild geese first flew over a belt
of large and small islands near the coast, then over a
broad expanse of open sea, till they reached the large
cluster known as the Vaeder Islands. All of them were
low and rocky, and in the moonlight one could see that
they were rather large.
Akka looked at one of the smallest islands and alighted
there. It consisted of a round, gray stone hill, with a
wide cleft across it, into which the sea had cast fine,
white sea sand and a few shells.
As the boy slid from the goose’s back he noticed something
quite close to him that looked like a jagged stone.
But almost at once he saw that it was a big vulture
which had chosen the rock island for a night harbour.
Before the boy had time to wonder at the geese recklessly
alighting so near a dangerous enemy, the bird
flew up to them and the boy recognized Gorgo, the
eagle.
Evidently Akka and Gorgo had arranged the meeting,
for neither of them was taken by surprise.
“This was good of you, Gorgo,” said Akka. “I didn’t
expect that you would be at the meeting place ahead
of us. Have you been here long?”
“I came early in the evening,” replied Gorgo. “But I
fear that the only praise I deserve is for keeping my
appointment with you. I’ve not been very successful
in carrying out the orders you gave me.”
“I’m sure, Gorgo, that you have done more than you
care to admit,” assured Akka. “But before you relate
your experiences on the trip, I shall ask Thumbietot to
help me find something which is supposed to be buried
on this island.”
The boy stood gazing admiringly at two beautiful shells,
but when Akka spoke his name, he glanced up.
“You must have wondered, Thumbietot, why we turned
out of our course to fly here to the West Sea,” said
Akka.
“To be frank, I did think it strange,” answered the boy.
“But I knew, of course, that you always have some good
reason for whatever you do.”
“You have a good opinion of me,” returned Akka, “but
I almost fear you will lose it now, for it’s very probable
that we have made this journey in vain.
“Many years ago it happened that two of the other
old geese and myself encountered frightful storms during
a spring flight and were wind-driven to this island.
When we discovered that there was only open sea before
us, we feared we should be swept so far out that
we should never find our way back to land, so we lay
down on the waves between these bare cliffs, where the
storm compelled us to remain for several days.
“We suffered terribly from hunger; once we ventured
up to the cleft on this island in search of food. We
couldn’t find a green blade, but we saw a number of
securely tied bags half buried in the sand. We hoped
to find grain in the bags and pulled and tugged at
them till we tore the cloth. However, no grain poured
out, but shining gold pieces. For such things we wild
geese had no use, so we left them where they were. We
haven’t thought of the find in all these years; but this
autumn something has come up to make us wish for
gold.
“We do not know that the treasure is still here, but we
have travelled all this way to ask you to look into the
matter.”
With a shell in either hand the boy jumped down into
the cleft and began to scoop up the sand. He found
no bags, but when he had made a deep hole he heard
the clink of metal and saw that he had come upon a
gold piece. Then he dug with his fingers and felt many
coins in the sand. So he hurried back to Akka.
“The bags have rotted and fallen apart,” he exclaimed,
“and the money lies scattered all through the sand.”
“That’s well!” said Akka. “Now fill in the hole and
smooth it over so no one will notice the sand has been
disturbed.”
The boy did as he was told, but when he came up
from the cleft he was astonished to see that the wild
geese were lined up, with Akka in the lead, and were
marching toward him with great solemnity.
The geese paused in front of him, and all bowed their
heads many times, looking so grave that he had to doff
his cap and make an obeisance to them.
“The fact is,” said Akka, “we old geese have been thinking
that if Thumbietot had been in the service of human
beings and had done as much for them as he has
for us they would not let him go without rewarding
him well.”
“I haven’t helped you; it is you who have taken good
care of me,” returned the boy.
“We think also,” continued Akka, “that when a human
being has attended us on a whole journey he shouldn’t
be allowed to leave us as poor as when he came.”
“I know that what I have learned this year with you is
worth more to me than gold or lands,” said the boy.
“Since these gold coins have been lying unclaimed in
the cleft all these years, I think that you ought to have
them,” declared the wild goose.
“I thought you said something about needing this money
yourselves,” reminded the boy.
“We do need it, so as to be able to give you such recompense
as will make your mother and father think
you have been working as a goose boy with worthy
people.”
The boy turned half round and cast a glance toward
the sea, then faced about and looked straight into
Akka’s bright eyes.
“I think it strange, Mother Akka, that you turn me
away from your service like this and pay me off before
I have given you notice,” he said.
“As long as we wild geese remain in Sweden, I trust
that you will stay with us,” said Akka. “I only wanted
to show you where the treasure was while we could get
to it without going too far out of our course.”
“All the same it looks as if you wished to be rid of
me before I want to go,” argued Thumbietot. “After
all the good times we have had together, I think you
ought to let me go abroad with you.”
When the boy said this, Akka and the other wild geese
stretched their long necks straight up and stood a moment,
with bills half open, drinking in air.
“That is something I haven’t thought about,” said Akka,
when she recovered herself. “Before you decide to come
with us, we had better hear what Gorgo has to say.
You may as well know that when we left Lapland
the agreement between Gorgo and myself was that he
should travel to your home down in Skane to try to
make better terms for you with the elf.”
“That is true,” affirmed Gorgo, “but as I have already
told you, luck was against me. I soon hunted up Holger
Nilsson’s croft and after circling up and down over
the place a couple of hours, I caught sight of the elf,
skulking along between the sheds.
“Immediately I swooped down upon him and flew off
with him to a meadow where we could talk together
without interruption.
“I told him that I had been sent by Akka from Kebnekaise
to ask if he couldn’t give Nils Holgersson easier
terms.
“ ‘I only wish I could!’ he answered, ’for I have heard
that he has conducted himself well on the trip; but it
is not in my power to do so.’
“Then I was wrathy and said that I would bore out his
eyes unless he gave in.
“‘You may do as you like,’ he retorted, ’but as to Nils
Holgersson, it will turn out exactly as I have said. You
can tell him from me that he would do well to return
soon with his goose, for matters on the farm are in
a bad shape. His father has had to forfeit a bond
for his brother, whom he trusted. He has bought a
horse with borrowed money, and the beast went lame
the first time he drove it. Since then it has been of
no earthly use to him. Tell Nils Holgersson that his
parents have had to sell two of the cows and that they
must give up the croft unless they receive help from
somewhere.”
When the boy heard this he frowned and clenched his
fists so hard that the nails dug into his flesh.
“It is cruel of the elf to make the conditions so hard
for me that I can not go home and relieve my parents,
but he sha’n’t turn me into a traitor to a friend! My
father and mother are square and upright folk. I know
they would rather forfeit my help than have me come
back to them with a guilty conscience.”
Chapter 71
THE JOURNEY TO
VEMMINGHOeG
Thursday, November third.
One day in the beginning of November the wild geese
flew over Halland Ridge and into Skane. For several
weeks they had been resting on the wide plains
around Falkoeping. As many other wild goose flocks
also stopped there, the grown geese had had a pleasant
time visiting with old friends, and there had been all
kinds of games and races between the younger birds.
Nils Holgersson had not been happy over the delay in
Westergoetland. He had tried to keep a stout heart;
but it was hard for him to reconcile himself to his fate.
“If I were only well out of Skane and in some foreign
land,” he had thought, “I should know for certain that
I had nothing to hope for, and would feel easier in my
mind.”
Finally, one morning, the geese started out and flew
toward Halland.
In the beginning the boy took very little interest in
that province. He thought there was nothing new to
be seen there. But when the wild geese continued the
journey farther south, along the narrow coast-lands,
the boy leaned over the goose’s neck and did not take
his glance from the ground.
He saw the hills gradually disappear and the plain
spread under him, at the same time he noticed that the
coast became less rugged, while the group of islands
beyond thinned and finally vanished and the broad,
open sea came clear up to firm land. Here there were
no more forests: here the plain was supreme. It spread
all the way to the horizon. A land that lay so exposed,
with field upon field, reminded the boy of Skane. He
felt both happy and sad as he looked at it.
“I can’t be very far from home,” he thought.
Many times during the trip the goslings had asked the
old geese:
“How does it look in foreign lands?”
“Wait, wait! You shall soon see,” the old geese had
answered.
When the wild geese had passed Halland Ridge and
gone a distance into Skane, Akka called out:
“Now look down! Look all around! It is like this in
foreign lands.”
Just then they flew over Soeder Ridge. The whole long
range of hills was clad in beech woods, and beautiful,
turreted castles peeped out here and there.
Among the trees grazed roe-buck, and on the forest
meadow romped the hares. Hunters’ horns sounded
from the forests; the loud baying of dogs could be
heard all the way up to the wild geese. Broad avenues
wound through the trees and on these ladies and gentlemen
were driving in polished carriages or riding fine
horses. At the foot of the ridge lay Ring Lake with the
ancient Bosjoe Cloister on a narrow peninsula.
“Does it look like this in foreign lands?” asked the
goslings.
“It looks exactly like this wherever there are forestclad
ridges,” replied Akka, “only one doesn’t see many
of them. Wait! You shall see how it looks in general.”
Akka led the geese farther south to the great Skane
plain. There it spread, with grain fields; with acres
and acres of sugar beets, where the beet-pickers were
at work; with low whitewashed farm- and outhouses;
with numberless little white churches; with ugly, gray
sugar refineries and small villages near the railway stations.
Little beech-encircled meadow lakes, each of
them adorned by its own stately manor, shimmered
here and there.
“Now look down! Look carefully!” called the leadergoose.
“Thus it is in foreign lands, from the Baltic
coast all the way down to the high Alps. Farther than
that I have never travelled.”
When the goslings had seen the plain, the leader-goose
flew down the Oeresund coast. Swampy meadows sloped
gradually toward the sea. In some places were high,
steep banks, in others drift-sand fields, where the sand
lay heaped in banks and hills. Fishing hamlets stood
all along the coast, with long rows of low, uniform brick
houses, with a lighthouse at the edge of the breakwater,
and brown fishing nets hanging in the drying yard.
“Now look down! Look well! This is how it looks along
the coasts in foreign lands.”
After Akka had been flying about in this manner a
long time she alighted suddenly on a marsh in Vemminghoeg
township and the boy could not help thinking
that she had travelled over Skane just to let him see
that his was a country which could compare favourably
with any in the world. This was unnecessary, for the
boy was not thinking of whether the country was rich
or poor.
From the moment that he had seen the first willow
grove his heart ached with homesickness.
Chapter 72
HOME AT LAST
Tuesday, November eighth.
The atmosphere was dull and hazy. The wild geese
had been feeding on the big meadow around Skerup
church and were having their noonday rest when Akka
came up to the boy.
“It looks as if we should have calm weather for awhile,”
she remarked, “and I think we’ll cross the Baltic tomorrow.”
“Indeed!” said the boy abruptly, for his throat contracted
so that he could hardly speak. All along he
had cherished the hope that he would be released from
the enchantment while he was still in Skane.
“We are quite nearWest Vemminghoeg now,” said Akka,
“and I thought that perhaps you might like to go home
for awhile. It may be some time before you have another
opportunity to see your people.”
“Perhaps I had better not,” said the boy hesitatingly,
but something in his voice betrayed that he was glad
of Akka’s proposal.
“If the goosey-gander remains with us, no harm can
come to him,” Akka assured. “I think you had better
find out how your parents are getting along. You might
be of some help to them, even if you’re not a normal
boy.”
“You are right, Mother Akka. I should have thought
of that long ago,” said the boy impulsively.
The next second he and the leader-goose were on their
way to his home. It was not long before Akka alighted
behind the stone hedge encircling the little farm.
“Strange how natural everything looks around here!”
the boy remarked, quickly clambering to the top of
the hedge, so that he could look about.
“It seems to me only yesterday that I first saw you
come flying through the air.”
“I wonder if your father has a gun,” said Akka suddenly.
“You may be sure he has,” returned the boy. “It was
just the gun that kept me at home that Sunday morning
when I should have been at church.”
“Then I don’t dare to stand here and wait for you,” said
Akka. “You had better meet us at Smygahoek early tomorrow
morning, so that you may stay at home over
night.”
“Oh, don’t go yet, Mother Akka!” begged the boy,
jumping from the hedge.
He could not tell just why it was, but he felt as if
something would happen, either to the wild goose or
to himself, to prevent their future meeting.
“No doubt you see that I’m distressed because I cannot
get back my right form; but I want to say to you that
I don’t regret having gone with you last spring,” he
added. “I would rather forfeit the chance of ever being
human again than to have missed that trip.”
Akka breathed quickly before she answered.
“There’s a little matter I should have mentioned to you
before this, but since you are not going back to your
home for good, I thought there was no hurry about it.
Still it may as well be said now.”
“You know very well that I am always glad to do your
bidding,” said the boy.
“If you have learned anything at all from us, Thumbietot,
you no longer think that the humans should have
the whole earth to themselves,” said the wild goose,
solemnly. “Remember you have a large country and
you can easily afford to leave a few bare rocks, a few
shallow lakes and swamps, a few desolate cliffs and remote
forests to us poor, dumb creatures, where we can
be allowed to live in peace. All my days I have been
hounded and hunted. It would be a comfort to know
that there is a refuge somewhere for one like me.”
“Indeed, I should be glad to help if I could,” said the
boy, “but it’s not likely that I shall ever again have any
influence among human beings.”
“Well, we’re standing here talking as if we were never
to meet again,” said Akka, “but we shall see each other
to-morrow, of course. Now I’ll return to my flock.”
She spread her wings and started to fly, but came back
and stroked Thumbietot up and down with her bill
before she flew away.
It was broad daylight, but no human being moved on
the farm and the boy could go where he pleased. He
hastened to the cow shed, because he knew that he
could get the best information from the cows.
It looked rather barren in their shed. In the spring
there had been three fine cows there, but now there
was only one—Mayrose. It was quite apparent that
she yearned for her comrades. Her head drooped sadly,
and she had hardly touched the feed in her crib.
“Good day, Mayrose!” said the boy, running fearlessly
into her stall.
“How are mother and father? How are the cat and the
chickens? What has become of Star and Gold-Lily?”
When Mayrose heard the boy’s voice she started, and
appeared as if she were going to gore him. But she
was not so quick-tempered now as formerly, and took
time to look well at Nils Holgersson.
He was just as little now as when he went away, and
wore the same clothes; yet he was completely changed.
The Nils Holgersson that went away in the spring had
a heavy, slow gait, a drawling speech, and sleepy eyes.
The one that had come back was lithe and alert, ready
of speech, and had eyes that sparkled and danced. He
had a confident bearing that commanded respect, little
as he was. Although he himself did not look happy, he
inspired happiness in others.
“Moo!” bellowed Mayrose. “They told me that he was
changed, but I couldn’t believe it. Welcome home,
Nils Holgersson! Welcome home! This is the first glad
moment I have known for ever so long!”
“Thank you, Mayrose!” said the boy, who was very
happy to be so well received.
“Now tell me all about father and mother.”
“They have had nothing but hardship ever since you
went away,” said Mayrose. “The horse has been a
costly care all summer, for he has stood in the stable
the whole time and not earned his feed. Your father
is too soft-hearted to shoot him and he can’t sell
him. It was on account of the horse that both Star
and Gold-Lily had to be sold.”
There was something else the boy wanted badly to
know, but he was diffident about asking the question
point blank. Therefore he said:
“Mother must have felt very sorry when she discovered
that Morten Goosey-Gander had flown?”
“She wouldn’t have worried much about Morten Goosey-
Gander had she known the way he came to leave. She
grieves most at the thought of her son having run away
from home with a goosey-gander.”
“Does she really think that I stole the goosey-gander?”
said the boy.
“What else could she think?”
“Father and mother must fancy that I’ve been roaming
about the country, like a common tramp?”
“They think that you’ve gone to the dogs,” said Mayrose.
“They have mourned you as one mourns the loss
of the dearest thing on earth.”
As soon as the boy heard this, he rushed from the cow
shed and down to the stable.
It was small, but clean and tidy. Everything showed
that his father had tried to make the place comfortable
for the new horse. In the stall stood a strong, fine
animal that looked well fed and well cared for.
“Good day to you!” said the boy. “I have heard that
there’s a sick horse in here. Surely it can’t be you, who
look so healthy and strong.”
The horse turned his head and stared fixedly at the
boy.
“Are you the son?” he queried. “I have heard many
bad reports of him. But you have such a good face, I
couldn’t believe that you were he, did I not know that
he was transformed into an elf.”
“I know that I left a bad name behind me when I went
away from the farm,” admitted Nils Holgersson. “My
own mother thinks I am a thief. But what matters
it—I sha’n’t tarry here long. Meanwhile, I want to
know what ails you.”
“Pity you’re not going to stay,” said the horse, “for I
have the feeling that you and I might become good
friends. I’ve got something in my foot—the point of
a knife, or something sharp—that’s all that ails me.
It has gone so far in that the doctor can’t find it, but
it cuts so that I can’t walk. If you would only tell
your father what’s wrong with me, I’m sure that he
could help me. I should like to be of some use. I really
feel ashamed to stand here and feed without doing any
work.”
“It’s well that you have no real illness,” remarked Nils
Holgersson. “I must attend to this at once, so that you
will be all right again. You don’t mind if I do a little
scratching on your hoof with my knife, do you?”
Nils Holgersson had just finished, when he heard the
sound of voices. He opened the stable door a little and
peeped out.
His father and mother were coming down the lane.
It was easy to see that they were broken by many
sorrows. His mother had many lines on her face and
his father’s hair had turned gray. She was talking with
him about getting a loan from her brother-in-law.
“No, I don’t want to borrow any more money,” his
father said, as they were passing the stable. “There’s
nothing quite so hard as being in debt. It would be
better to sell the cabin.”
“If it were not for the boy, I shouldn’t mind selling it,”
his mother demurred. “But what will become of him,
if he returns some day, wretched and poor—as he’s
likely to be—and we not here?”
“You’re right about that,” the father agreed. “But we
shall have to ask the folks who take the place to receive
him kindly and to let him know that he’s welcome back
to us. We sha’n’t say a harsh word to him, no matter
what he may be, shall we mother?”
“No, indeed! If I only had him again, so that I could be
certain he is not starving and freezing on the highways,
I’d ask nothing more!”
Then his father and mother went in, and the boy heard
no more of their conversation.
He was happy and deeply moved when he knew that
they loved him so dearly, although they believed he
had gone astray. He longed to rush into their arms.
“But perhaps it would be an even greater sorrow were
they to see me as I now am.”
While he stood there, hesitating, a cart drove up to
the gate. The boy smothered a cry of surprise, for
who should step from the cart and go into the house
yard but Osa, the goose girl, and her father!
They walked hand in hand toward the cabin. When
they were about half way there, Osa stopped her father
and said:
“Now remember, father, you are not to mention the
wooden shoe or the geese or the little brownie who
was so like Nils Holgersson that if it was not himself
it must have had some connection with him.”
“Certainly not!” said Jon Esserson. “I shall only say
that their son has been of great help to you on several
occasions—when you were trying to find me—and that
therefore we have come to ask if we can’t do them a
service in return, since I’m a rich man now and have
more than I need, thanks to the mine I discovered up
in Lapland.”
“I know, father, that you can say the right thing in
the right way,” Osa commended. “It is only that one
particular thing that I don’t wish you to mention.”
They went into the cabin, and the boy would have
liked to hear what they talked about in there; but
he dared not venture near the house. It was not long
before they came out again, and his father and mother
accompanied them as far as the gate.
His parents were strangely happy. They appeared to
have gained a new hold on life.
When the visitors were gone, father and mother lingered
at the gate gazing after them.
“I don’t feel unhappy any longer, since I’ve heard so
much that is good of our Nils,” said his mother.
“Perhaps he got more praise than he really deserved,”
put in his father thoughtfully.
“Wasn’t it enough for you that they came here specially
to say they wanted to help us because our Nils had
served them in many ways? I think, father, that you
should have accepted their offer.”
“No, mother, I don’t wish to accept money from any
one, either as a gift or a loan. In the first place I want
to free myself from all debt, then we will work our way
up again. We’re not so very old, are we, mother?” The
father laughed heartily as he said this.
“I believe you think it will be fun to sell this place,
upon which we have expended such a lot of time and
hard work,” protested the mother.
“Oh, you know why I’m laughing,” the father retorted.
“It was the thought of the boy’s having gone to the
bad that weighed me down until I had no strength or
courage left in me. Now that I know he still lives and
has turned out well, you’ll see that Holger Nilsson has
some grit left.”
The mother went in alone, and the boy made haste to
hide in a corner, for his father walked into the stable.
He went over to the horse and examined its hoof, as
usual, to try to discover what was wrong with it.
“What’s this!” he cried, discovering some letters scratched
on the hoof.
“Remove the sharp piece of iron from the foot,” he read
and glanced around inquiringly. However, he ran his
fingers along the under side of the hoof and looked at
it carefully.
“I verily believe there is something sharp here!” he
said.
While his father was busy with the horse and the boy
sat huddled in a corner, it happened that other callers
came to the farm.
The fact was that when Morten Goosey-Gander found
himself so near his old home he simply could not resist
the temptation of showing his wife and children to his
old companions on the farm. So he took Dunfin and
the goslings along, and made for home.
There was not a soul in the barn yard when the gooseygander
came along. He alighted, confidently walked all
around the place, and showed Dunfin how luxuriously
he had lived when he was a tame goose.
When they had viewed the entire farm, he noticed that
the door of the cow shed was open.
“Look in here a moment,” he said, “then you will see
how I lived in former days. It was very different from
camping in swamps and morasses, as we do now.”
The goosey-gander stood in the doorway and looked
into the cow shed.
“There’s not a soul in here,” he said. “Come along,
Dunfin, and you shall see the goose pen. Don’t be
afraid; there’s no danger.”
Forthwith the goosey-gander, Dunfin, and all six goslings
waddled into the goose pen, to have a look at the elegance
and comfort in which the big white gander had
lived before he joined the wild geese.
“This is the way it used to be: here was my place and
over there was the trough, which was always filled with
oats and water,” explained the goosey-gander.
“Wait! there’s some fodder in it now.” With that he
rushed to the trough and began to gobble up the oats.
But Dunfin was nervous.
“Let’s go out again!” she said.
“Only two more grains,” insisted the goosey-gander.
The next second he let out a shriek and ran for the
door, but it was too late! The door slammed, the mistress
stood without and bolted it. They were locked
in!
The father had removed a sharp piece of iron from the
horse’s hoof and stood contentedly stroking the animal
when the mother came running into the stable.
“Come, father, and see the capture I’ve made!”
“No, wait a minute!” said the father. “Look here, first.
I have discovered what ailed the horse.”
“I believe our luck has turned,” said the mother. “Only
fancy! the big white goosey-gander that disappeared
last spring must have gone off with the wild geese. He
has come back to us in company with seven wild geese.
They walked straight into the goose pen, and I’ve shut
them all in.”
“That’s extraordinary,” remarked the father. “But best
of all is that we don’t have to think any more that our
boy stole the goosey-gander when he went away.”
“You’re quite right, father,” she said. “But I’m afraid
we’ll have to kill them to-night. In two days is Morten
Gooseday[1] and we must make haste if we expect to
get them to market in time.”
[Footnote 1: In Sweden the 10th of November is called
Morten Gooseday and corresponds to the American
Thanksgiving Day.]
“I think it would be outrageous to butcher the gooseygander,
now that he has returned to us with such a
large family,” protested Holger Nilsson.
“If times were easier we’d let him live; but since we’re
going to move from here, we can’t keep geese. Come
along now and help me carry them into the kitchen,”
urged the mother.
They went out together and in a few moments the
boy saw his father coming along with Morten Goosey-
Gander and Dunfin—one under each arm. He and his
wife went into the cabin.
The goosey-gander cried:
“Thumbietot, come and help me!”—as he always did
when in peril—although he was not aware that the
boy was at hand.
Nils Holgersson heard him, yet he lingered at the door
of the cow shed.
He did not hesitate because he knew that it would
be well for him if the goosey-gander were beheaded—
at that moment he did not even remember this—but
because he shrank from being seen by his parents.
“They have a hard enough time of it already,” he thought.
“Must I bring them a new sorrow?”
But when the door closed on the goosey-gander, the
boy was aroused.
He dashed across the house yard, sprang up on the
board-walk leading to the entrance door and ran into
the hallway, where he kicked off his wooden shoes in
the old accustomed way, and walked toward the door.
All the while it went so much against the grain to
appear before his father and mother that he could not
raise his hand to knock.
“But this concerns the life of the goosey-gander,” he
said to himself—“he who has been my best friend ever
since I last stood here.”
In a twinkling the boy remembered all that he and
the goosey-gander had suffered on ice-bound lakes and
stormy seas and among wild beasts of prey. His heart
swelled with gratitude; he conquered himself and knocked
on the door.
“Is there some one who wishes to come in?” asked his
father, opening the door.
“Mother, you sha’n’t touch the goosey-gander!” cried
the boy.
Instantly both the goosey-gander and Dunfin, who lay
on a bench with their feet tied, gave a cry of joy, so
that he was sure they were alive.
Some one else gave a cry of joy—his mother!
“My, but you have grown tall and handsome!” she
exclaimed.
The boy had not entered the cabin, but was standing
on the doorstep, like one who is not quite certain how
he will be received.
“The Lord be praised that I have you back again!” said
his mother, laughing and crying. “Come in, my boy!
Come in!”
“Welcome!” added his father, and not another word
could he utter.
But the boy still lingered at the threshold. He could
not comprehend why they were so glad to see him—
such as he was. Then his mother came and put her
arms around him and drew him into the room, and he
knew that he was all right.
“Mother and father!” he cried. “I’m a big boy. I am a
human being again!”
Chapter 73
THE PARTING WITH
THE WILD GEESE
Wednesday, November ninth.
The boy arose before dawn and wandered down to the
coast. He was standing alone on the strand east of
Smyge fishing hamlet before sunrise. He had already
been in the pen with Morten Goosey-Gander to try to
rouse him, but the big white gander had no desire to
leave home. He did not say a word, but only stuck his
bill under his wing and went to sleep again.
To all appearances the weather promised to be almost
as perfect as it had been that spring day when the wild
geese came to Skane. There was hardly a ripple on the
water; the air was still and the boy thought of the
good passage the geese would have. He himself was as
yet in a kind of daze—sometimes thinking he was an
elf, sometimes a human being. When he saw a stone
hedge alongside the road, he was afraid to go farther
until he had made sure that no wild animal or vulture
lurked behind it. Very soon he laughed to himself and
rejoiced because he was big and strong and did not
have to be afraid of anything.
When he reached the coast he stationed himself, big
as he was, at the very edge of the strand, so that the
wild geese could see him.
It was a busy day for the birds of passage. Bird calls
sounded on the air continuously. The boy smiled as he
thought that no one but himself understood what the
birds were saying to one another. Presently wild geese
came flying; one big flock following another.
“Just so it’s not my geese that are going away without
bidding me farewell,” he thought. He wanted so much
to tell them how everything had turned out, and to
show them that he was no longer an elf but a human
being.
There came a flock that flew faster and cackled louder
than the others, and something told him that this must
be the flock, but now he was not quite so sure about
it as he would have been the day before.
The flock slackened its flight and circled up and down
along the coast.
The boy knew it was the right one, but he could not
understand why the geese did not come straight down
to him. They could not avoid seeing him where he
stood. He tried to give a call that would bring them
down to him, but only think! his tongue would not
obey him. He could not make the right sound! He
heard Akka’s calls, but did not understand what she
said.
“What can this mean? Have the wild geese changed
their language?” he wondered.
He waved his cap to them and ran along the shore
calling.
“Here am I, where are you?”
But this seemed only to frighten the geese. They rose
and flew farther out to sea. At last he understood.
They did not know that he was human, had not recognized
him. He could not call them to him because
human beings can not speak the language of birds. He
could not speak their language, nor could he understand
it.
Although the boy was very glad to be released from
the enchantment, still he thought it hard that because
of this he should be parted from his old comrades.
He sat down on the sands and buried his face in his
hands. What was the use of his gazing after them any
more?
Presently he heard the rustle of wings. Old mother
Akka had found it hard to fly away from Thumbietot,
and turned back, and now that the boy sat quite still
she ventured to fly nearer to him. Suddenly something
must have told her who he was, for she lit close beside
him.
Nils gave a cry of joy and took old Akka in his arms.
The other wild geese crowded round him and stroked
him with their bills. They cackled and chattered and
wished him all kinds of good luck, and he, too, talked
to them and thanked them for the wonderful journey
which he had been privileged to make in their company.
All at once the wild geese became strangely quiet and
withdrew from him, as if to say:
“Alas! he is a man. He does not understand us: we do
not understand him!”
Then the boy rose and went over to Akka; he stroked
her and patted her. He did the same to Yksi and Kaksi,
Kolme and Neljae, Viisi and Kuusi—the old birds who
had been his companions from the very start.
After that he walked farther up the strand. He knew
perfectly well that the sorrows of the birds do not last
long, and he wanted to part with them while they were
still sad at losing him.
As he crossed the shore meadows he turned and watched
the many flocks of birds that were flying over the sea.
All were shrieking their coaxing calls—only one goose
flock flew silently on as long as he could follow it with
his eyes. The wedge was perfect, the speed good, and
the wing strokes strong and certain.
The boy felt such a yearning for his departing comrades
that he almost wished he were Thumbietot again
and could travel over land and sea with a flock of wild
geese.
Chapter 74
TABLE OF
PRONUNCIATION
The final e is sounded in Skane, Sirle, Gripe, etc.
The a in Skane and Smaland is pronounced like o in
ore.
j is like the English y. Nuolja, Oviksfjaellen, Sjangeli,
Jarro, etc., should sound as if they were spelled like
this: Nuolya, Oviksfyellen, Syang [one syllable] elee,
Yarro, etc.
g, when followed by e, i, y, ae, oe, is also like y. Example,
Goeta is pronounced Yoeta.
When g is followed by a, o, u, or a, it is hard, as in
go.
k in Norrkoeping, Linkoeping, Kivik (pronounced Cheeveek),
etc., is like ch in cheer.
k is hard when it precedes a, o, u, or a. Example,
Kaksi, Kolmi, etc.
ae is pronounced like ae in fare. Example, Faers.
There is no sound in the English language which corresponds
to the
Swedish oe. It is like the French eu in jeu.
Gripe is pronounced Greep-e.
In Sirle, the first syllable has the same sound as sir, in
sirup.
The names which Miss Lagerloef has given to the animals
are descriptive.
Smirre Fox, is cunning fox.
Sirle Squirrel, is graceful, or nimble squirrel.
Gripe Otter, means grabbing or clutching otter.
Mons is a pet name applied to cats; like our tommy
or pussy. Monsie house-cat is equivalent to Tommy
house-cat.
Marten gaskarl (Morten Goosie-gander) is a pet name
for a tame gander, just as we use Dickie-bird for a pet
bird.
Fru is the Swedish for Mrs. This title is usually applied
to gentlewomen only. The author has used this
meaning of “fru.”
A Goa-Nisse is an elf-king, and corresponds to the English
Puck or Robin
Goodfellow.
VELMA SWANSTON HOWARD.
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