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 dried-in 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 Kidnapped-by-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 breast-feathers 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 Captured-by-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.”
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.
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 house-room 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 mountain-top, 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, gray-haired 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.”
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 mountain-ridges. 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 goose-cackle 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 sand-walls 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.”
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 mud-islets 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 gnat-eggs 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?”
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 farm-hand 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 reed-enclosed 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 watch-service; 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.”
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 farmer-folk 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 lake-draining 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.
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 self-complacent 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 Ulvasa-lady, ‘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 Ulvasa-lady. 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.'”
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 canal-banks, 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.
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