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SECTION 12 - THE BIG BUTTERFLY
Wednesday, April sixth. The geese travelled alongside the coast of
the long island, which lay distinctly visible under them.
The boy felt happy and light of heart during the trip.
He was just as pleased and well satisfied as he had been glum and depressed the day
before, when he roamed around down on the island, and hunted for the goosey-gander.
He saw now that the interior of the island consisted of a barren high plain, with a
wreath of fertile land along the coast; and he began to comprehend the meaning of
something which he had heard the other evening.
He had just seated himself to rest a bit by one of the many windmills on the highland,
when a couple of shepherds came along with the dogs beside them, and a large herd of
sheep in their train.
The boy had not been afraid because he was well concealed under the windmill stairs.
But as it turned out, the shepherds came and seated themselves on the same stairway,
and then there was nothing for him to do but to keep perfectly still.
One of the shepherds was young, and looked about as folks do mostly; the other was an
old *** one.
His body was large and knotty, but the head was small, and the face had sensitive and
delicate features. It appeared as though the body and head
didn't want to fit together at all.
One moment he sat silent and gazed into the mist, with an unutterably weary expression.
Then he began to talk to his companion.
Then the other one took out some bread and cheese from his knapsack, to eat his
evening meal.
He answered scarcely anything, but listened very patiently, just as if he were
thinking: "I might as well give you the pleasure of letting you chatter a while."
"Now I shall tell you something, Eric," said the old shepherd.
"I have figured out that in former days, when both human beings and animals were
much larger than they are now, that the butterflies, too, must have been uncommonly
large.
And once there was a butterfly that was many miles long, and had wings as wide as
seas.
Those wings were blue, and shone like silver, and so gorgeous that, when the
butterfly was out flying, all the other animals stood still and stared at it.
It had this drawback, however, that it was too large.
The wings had hard work to carry it.
But probably all would have gone very well, if the butterfly had been wise enough to
remain on the hillside. But it wasn't; it ventured out over the
East sea.
And it hadn't gotten very far before the storm came along and began to tear at its
wings.
Well, it's easy to understand, Eric, how things would go when the East sea storm
commenced to wrestle with frail butterfly- wings.
It wasn't long before they were torn away and scattered; and then, of course, the
poor butterfly fell into the sea.
At first it was tossed backward and forward on the billows, and then it was stranded
upon a few cliff-foundations outside of Småland.
And there it lay--as large and long as it was.
"Now I think, Eric, that if the butterfly had dropped on land, it would soon have
rotted and fallen apart.
But since it fell into the sea, it was soaked through and through with lime, and
became as hard as a stone.
You know, of course, that we have found stones on the shore which were nothing but
petrified worms. Now I believe that it went the same way
with the big butterfly-body.
I believe that it turned where it lay into a long, narrow mountain out in the East
sea. Don't you?"
He paused for a reply, and the other one nodded to him.
"Go on, so I may hear what you are driving at," said he.
"And mark you, Eric, that this very Öland, upon which you and I live, is nothing else
than the old butterfly-body. If one only thinks about it, one can
observe that the island is a butterfly.
Toward the north, the slender fore-body and the round head can be seen, and toward the
south, one sees the back-body--which first broadens out, and then narrows to a sharp
point."
Here he paused once more and looked at his companion rather anxiously to see how he
would take this assertion. But the young man kept on eating with the
utmost calm, and nodded to him to continue.
"As soon as the butterfly had been changed into a limestone rock, many different kinds
of seeds of herbs and trees came travelling with the winds, and wanted to take root on
it.
It was a long time before anything but sedge could grow there.
Then came sheep sorrel, and the rock-rose and thorn-brush.
But even to-day there is not so much growth on Alvaret, that the mountain is well
covered, but it shines through here and there.
And no one can think of ploughing and sowing up here, where the earth-crust is so
thin.
But if you will admit that Alvaret and the strongholds around it, are made of the
butterfly-body, then you may well have the right to question where that land which
lies beneath the strongholds came from."
"Yes, it is just that," said he who was eating.
"That I should indeed like to know."
"Well, you must remember that Öland has lain in the sea for a good many years, and
in the course of time all the things which tumble around with the waves--sea-weed and
sand and clams--have gathered around it, and remained lying there.
And then, stone and gravel have fallen down from both the eastern and western
strongholds.
In this way the island has acquired broad shores, where grain and flowers and trees
can grow. "Up here, on the hard butterfly-back, only
sheep and cows and little horses go about.
Only lapwings and plover live here, and there are no buildings except windmills and
a few stone huts, where we shepherds crawl in.
But down on the coast lie big villages and churches and parishes and fishing hamlets
and a whole city." He looked questioningly at the other one.
This one had finished his meal, and was tying the food-sack together.
"I wonder where you will end with all this," said he.
"It is only this that I want to know," said the shepherd, as he lowered his voice so
that he almost whispered the words, and looked into the mist with his small eyes,
which appeared to be worn out from spying after all that which does not exist.
"Only this I want to know: if the peasants who live on the built-up farms beneath the
strongholds, or the fishermen who take the small herring from the sea, or the
merchants in Borgholm, or the bathing
guests who come here every summer, or the tourists who wander around in Borgholm's
old castle ruin, or the sportsmen who come here in the fall to hunt partridges, or the
painters who sit here on Alvaret and paint
the sheep and windmills--I should like to know if any of them understand that this
island has been a butterfly which flew about with great shimmery wings."
"Ah!" said the young shepherd, suddenly.
"It should have occurred to some of them, as they sat on the edge of the stronghold
of an evening, and heard the nightingales trill in the groves below them, and looked
over Kalmar Sound, that this island could
not have come into existence in the same way as the others."
"I want to ask," said the old one, "if no one has had the desire to give wings to the
windmills--so large that they could reach to heaven, so large that they could lift
the whole island out of the sea and let it fly like a butterfly among butterflies."
"It may be possible that there is something in what you say," said the young one; "for
on summer nights, when the heavens widen and open over the island, I have sometimes
thought that it was as if it wanted to raise itself from the sea, and fly away."
But when the old one had finally gotten the young one to talk, he didn't listen to him
very much.
"I would like to know," the old one said in a low tone, "if anyone can explain why one
feels such a longing up here on Alvaret.
I have felt it every day of my life; and I think it preys upon each and every one who
must go about here.
I want to know if no one else has understood that all this wistfulness is
caused by the fact that the whole island is a butterfly that longs for its wings."
<
SECTION 13 - LITTLE KARL'S ISLAND
THE STORM
Friday, April eighth. The wild geese had spent the night on
Öland's northern point, and were now on their way to the continent.
A strong south wind blew over Kalmar Sound, and they had been thrown northward.
Still they worked their way toward land with good speed.
But when they were nearing the first islands a powerful rumbling was heard, as
if a lot of strong-winged birds had come flying; and the water under them, all at
once, became perfectly black.
Akka drew in her wings so suddenly that she almost stood still in the air.
Thereupon, she lowered herself to light on the edge of the sea.
But before the geese had reached the water, the west storm caught up with them.
Already, it drove before it fogs, salt *** and small birds; it also snatched with it
the wild geese, threw them on end, and cast them toward the sea.
It was a rough storm.
The wild geese tried to turn back, time and again, but they couldn't do it and were
driven out toward the East sea.
The storm had already blown them past Öland, and the sea lay before them--empty
and desolate. There was nothing for them to do but to
keep out of the water.
When Akka observed that they were unable to turn back she thought that it was needless
to let the storm drive them over the entire East sea.
Therefore she sank down to the water.
Now the sea was raging, and increased in violence with every second.
The sea-green billows rolled forward, with seething foam on their crests.
Each one surged higher than the other.
It was as though they raced with each other, to see which could foam the wildest.
But the wild geese were not afraid of the swells.
On the contrary, this seemed to afford them much pleasure.
They did not strain themselves with swimming, but lay and let themselves be
washed up with the wave-crests, and down in the water-dales, and had just as much fun
as children in a swing.
Their only anxiety was that the flock should be separated.
The few land-birds who drove by, up in the storm, cried with envy: "There is no danger
for you who can swim."
But the wild geese were certainly not out of all danger.
In the first place, the rocking made them helplessly sleepy.
They wished continually to turn their heads backward, poke their bills under their
wings, and go to sleep.
Nothing can be more dangerous than to fall asleep in this way; and Akka called out all
the while: "Don't go to sleep, wild geese! He that falls asleep will get away from the
flock.
He that gets away from the flock is lost."
Despite all attempts at resistance one after another fell asleep; and Akka herself
came pretty near dozing off, when she suddenly saw something round and dark rise
on the top of a wave.
"Seals! Seals!
Seals!" cried Akka in a high, shrill voice, and raised herself up in the air with
resounding wing-strokes.
It was just at the crucial moment. Before the last wild goose had time to come
up from the water, the seals were so close to her that they made a grab for her feet.
Then the wild geese were once more up in the storm which drove them before it out to
sea.
No rest did it allow either itself or the wild geese; and no land did they see--only
desolate sea. They lit on the water again, as soon as
they dared venture.
But when they had rocked upon the waves for a while, they became sleepy again.
And when they fell asleep, the seals came swimming.
If old Akka had not been so wakeful, not one of them would have escaped.
All day the storm raged; and it caused fearful havoc among the crowds of little
birds, which at this time of year were migrating.
Some were driven from their course to foreign lands, where they died of
starvation; others became so exhausted that they sank down in the sea and were drowned.
Many were crushed against the cliff-walls, and many became a prey for the seals.
The storm continued all day, and, at last, Akka began to wonder if she and her flock
would perish.
They were now dead tired, and nowhere did they see any place where they might rest.
Toward evening she no longer dared to lie down on the sea, because now it filled up
all of a sudden with large ice-cakes, which struck against each other, and she feared
they should be crushed between these.
A couple of times the wild geese tried to stand on the ice-crust; but one time the
wild storm swept them into the water; another time, the merciless seals came
creeping up on the ice.
At sundown the wild geese were once more up in the air.
They flew on--fearful for the night.
The darkness seemed to come upon them much too quickly this night--which was so full
of dangers. It was terrible that they, as yet, saw no
land.
How would it go with them if they were forced to stay out on the sea all night?
They would either be crushed between the ice-cakes or devoured by seals or separated
by the storm.
The heavens were cloud-bedecked, the moon hid itself, and the darkness came quickly.
At the same time all nature was filled with a horror which caused the most courageous
hearts to quail.
Distressed bird-travellers' cries had sounded over the sea all day long, without
anyone having paid the slightest attention to them; but now, when one no longer saw
who it was that uttered them, they seemed mournful and terrifying.
Down on the sea, the ice-drifts crashed against each other with a loud rumbling
noise.
The seals tuned up their wild hunting songs.
It was as though heaven and earth were, about to clash.
THE SHEEP
The boy sat for a moment and looked down into the sea.
Suddenly he thought that it began to roar louder than ever.
He looked up.
Right in front of him--only a couple of metres away--stood a rugged and bare
mountain-wall. At its base the waves dashed into a foaming
spray.
The wild geese flew straight toward the cliff, and the boy did not see how they
could avoid being dashed to pieces against it.
Hardly had he wondered that Akka hadn't seen the danger in time, when they were
over by the mountain. Then he also noticed that in front of them
was the half-round entrance to a grotto.
Into this the geese steered; and the next moment they were safe.
The first thing the wild geese thought of-- before they gave themselves time to rejoice
over their safety--was to see if all their comrades were also harboured.
Yes, there were Akka, Iksi, Kolmi, Nelja, Viisi, Knusi, all the six goslings, the
goosey-gander, Dunfin and Thumbietot; but Kaksi from Nuolja, the first left-hand
goose, was missing--and no one knew anything about her fate.
When the wild geese discovered that no one but Kaksi had been separated from the
flock, they took the matter lightly.
Kaksi was old and wise. She knew all their byways and their habits,
and she, of course, would know how to find her way back to them.
Then the wild geese began to look around in the cave.
Enough daylight came in through the opening, so that they could see the grotto
was both deep and wide.
They were delighted to think they had found such a fine night harbour, when one of them
caught sight of some shining, green dots, which glittered in a dark corner.
"These are eyes!" cried Akka.
"There are big animals in here." They rushed toward the opening, but
Thumbietot called to them: "There is nothing to run away from!
It's only a few sheep who are lying alongside the grotto wall."
When the wild geese had accustomed themselves to the dim daylight in the
grotto, they saw the sheep very distinctly.
The grown-up ones might be about as many as there were geese; but beside these there
were a few little lambs.
An old ram with long, twisted horns appeared to be the most lordly one of the
flock. The wild geese went up to him with much
bowing and scraping.
"Well met in the wilderness!" they greeted, but the big ram lay still, and did not
speak a word of welcome.
Then the wild geese thought that the sheep were displeased because they had taken
shelter in their grotto. "It is perhaps not permissible that we have
come in here?" said Akka.
"But we cannot help it, for we are wind- driven.
We have wandered about in the storm all day, and it would be very good to be
allowed to stop here to-night."
After that a long time passed before any of the sheep answered with words; but, on the
other hand, it could be heard distinctly that a pair of them heaved deep sighs.
Akka knew, to be sure, that sheep are always shy and peculiar; but these seemed
to have no idea of how they should conduct themselves.
Finally an old ewe, who had a long and pathetic face and a doleful voice, said:
"There isn't one among us that refuses to let you stay; but this is a house of
mourning, and we cannot receive guests as we did in former days."
"You needn't worry about anything of that sort," said Akka.
"If you knew what we have endured this day, you would surely understand that we are
satisfied if we only get a safe spot to sleep on."
When Akka said this, the old ewe raised herself.
"I believe that it would be better for you to fly about in the worst storm than to
stop here.
But, at least, you shall not go from here before we have had the privilege of
offering you the best hospitality which the house affords."
She conducted them to a hollow in the ground, which was filled with water.
Beside it lay a pile of bait and husks and chaff; and she bade them make the most of
these.
"We have had a severe snow-winter this year, on the island," she said.
"The peasants who own us came out to us with hay and oaten straw, so we shouldn't
starve to death.
And this trash is all there is left of the good cheer."
The geese rushed to the food instantly. They thought that they had fared well, and
were in their best humour.
They must have observed, of course, that the sheep were anxious; but they knew how
easily scared sheep generally are, and didn't believe there was any actual danger
on foot.
As soon as they had eaten, they intended to stand up to sleep as usual.
But then the big ram got up, and walked over to them.
The geese thought that they had never seen a sheep with such big and coarse horns.
In other respects, also, he was noticeable.
He had a high, rolling forehead, intelligent eyes, and a good bearing--as
though he were a proud and courageous animal.
"I cannot assume the responsibility of letting you geese remain, without telling
you that it is unsafe here," said he. "We cannot receive night guests just now."
At last Akka began to comprehend that this was serious.
"We shall go away, since you really wish it," said she.
"But won't you tell us first, what it is that troubles you?
We know nothing about it. We do not even know where we are."
"This is Little Karl's Island!" said the ram.
"It lies outside of Gottland, and only sheep and seabirds live here."
"Perhaps you are wild sheep?" said Akka.
"We're not far removed from it," replied the ram.
"We have nothing to do with human beings.
It's an old agreement between us and some peasants on a farm in Gottland, that they
shall supply us with fodder in case we have snow-winter; and as a recompense they are
permitted to take away those of us who become superfluous.
The island is small, so it cannot feed very many of us.
But otherwise we take care of ourselves all the year round, and we do not live in
houses with doors and locks, but we reside in grottoes like these."
"Do you stay out here in the winter as well?" asked Akka, surprised.
"We do," answered the ram. "We have good fodder up here on the
mountain, all the year around."
"I think it sounds as if you might have it better than other sheep," said Akka.
"But what is the misfortune that has befallen you?"
"It was bitter cold last winter.
The sea froze, and then three foxes came over here on the ice, and here they have
been ever since. Otherwise, there are no dangerous animals
here on the island."
"Oh, oh! do foxes dare to attack such as you?"
"Oh, no! not during the day; then I can protect myself and mine," said the ram,
shaking his horns.
"But they sneak upon us at night when we sleep in the grottoes.
We try to keep awake, but one must sleep some of the time; and then they come upon
us.
They have already killed every sheep in the other grottoes, and there were herds that
were just as large as mine." "It isn't pleasant to tell that we are so
helpless," said the old ewe.
"We cannot help ourselves any better than if we were tame sheep."
"Do you think that they will come here to- night?" asked Akka.
"There is nothing else in store for us," answered the old ewe.
"They were here last night, and stole a lamb from us.
They'll be sure to come again, as long as there are any of us alive.
This is what they have done in the other places."
"But if they are allowed to keep this up, you'll become entirely exterminated," said
Akka.
"Oh! it won't be long before it is all over with the sheep on Little Karl's Island,"
said the ewe. Akka stood there hesitatingly.
It was not pleasant, by any means, to venture out in the storm again, and it
wasn't good to remain in a house where such guests were expected.
When she had pondered a while, she turned to Thumbietot.
"I wonder if you will help us, as you have done so many times before," said she.
Yes, that he would like to do, he replied.
"It is a pity for you not to get any sleep!" said the wild goose, "but I wonder
if you are able to keep awake until the foxes come, and then to awaken us, so we
may fly away."
The boy was so very glad of this--for anything was better than to go out in the
storm again--so he promised to keep awake.
He went down to the grotto opening, crawled in behind a stone, that he might be
shielded from the storm, and sat down to watch.
When the boy had been sitting there a while, the storm seemed to abate.
The sky grew clear, and the moonlight began to play on the waves.
The boy stepped to the opening to look out.
The grotto was rather high up on the mountain.
A narrow path led to it. It was probably here that he must await the
foxes.
As yet he saw no foxes; but, on the other hand, there was something which, for the
moment, terrified him much more.
On the land-strip below the mountain stood some giants, or other stone-trolls--or
perhaps they were actual human beings.
At first he thought that he was dreaming, but now he was positive that he had not
fallen asleep. He saw the big men so distinctly that it
couldn't be an illusion.
Some of them stood on the land-strip, and others right on the mountain just as if
they intended to climb it. Some had big, thick heads; others had no
heads at all.
Some were one-armed, and some had humps both before and behind.
He had never seen anything so extraordinary.
The boy stood and worked himself into a state of panic because of those trolls, so
that he almost forgot to keep his eye peeled for the foxes.
But now he heard a claw scrape against a stone.
He saw three foxes coming up the steep; and as soon as he knew that he had something
real to deal with, he was calm again, and not the least bit scared.
It struck him that it was a pity to awaken only the geese, and to leave the sheep to
their fate. He thought he would like to arrange things
some other way.
He ran quickly to the other end of the grotto, shook the big ram's horns until he
awoke, and, at the same time, swung himself upon his back.
"Get up, sheep, and well try to frighten the foxes a bit!" said the boy.
He had tried to be as quiet as possible, but the foxes must have heard some noise;
for when they came up to the mouth of the grotto they stopped and deliberated.
"It was certainly someone in there that moved," said one.
"I wonder if they are awake." "Oh, go ahead, you!" said another.
"At all events, they can't do anything to us."
When they came farther in, in the grotto, they stopped and sniffed.
"Who shall we take to-night?" whispered the one who went first.
"To-night we will take the big ram," said the last.
"After that, we'll have easy work with the rest."
The boy sat on the old ram's back and saw how they sneaked along.
"Now butt straight forward!" whispered the boy.
The ram butted, and the first fox was thrust--top over tail--back to the opening.
"Now butt to the left!" said the boy, and turned the big ram's head in that
direction. The ram measured a terrific assault that
caught the second fox in the side.
He rolled around several times before he got to his feet again and made his escape.
The boy had wished that the third one, too, might have gotten a bump, but this one had
already gone.
"Now I think that they've had enough for to-night," said the boy.
"I think so too," said the big ram. "Now lie down on my back, and creep into
the wool!
You deserve to have it warm and comfortable, after all the wind and storm
that you have been out in."
HELL'S HOLE
The next day the big ram went around with the boy on his back, and showed him the
island. It consisted of a single massive mountain.
It was like a large house with perpendicular walls and a flat roof.
First the ram walked up on the mountain- roof and showed the boy the good grazing
lands there, and he had to admit that the island seemed to be especially created for
sheep.
There wasn't much else than sheep-sorrel and such little spicy growths as sheep are
fond of that grew on the mountain.
But indeed there was something beside sheep fodder to look at, for one who had gotten
well up on the steep.
To begin with, the largest part of the sea- -which now lay blue and sunlit, and rolled
forward in glittering swells--was visible. Only upon one and another point, did the
foam spray up.
To the east lay Gottland, with even and long-stretched coast; and to the southwest
lay Great Karl's Island, which was built on the same plan as the little island.
When the ram walked to the very edge of the mountain roof, so the boy could look down
the mountain walls, he noticed that they were simply filled with birds' nests; and
in the blue sea beneath him, lay surf-
scoters and eider-ducks and kittiwakes and guillemots and razor-bills--so pretty and
peaceful--busying themselves with fishing for small herring.
"This is really a favoured land," said the boy.
"You live in a pretty place, you sheep." "Oh, yes! it's pretty enough here," said
the big ram.
It was as if he wished to add something; but he did not, only sighed.
"If you go about here alone you must look out for the crevices which run all around
the mountain," he continued after a little.
And this was a good warning, for there were deep and broad crevices in several places.
The largest of them was called Hell's Hole. That crevice was many fathoms deep and
nearly one fathom wide.
"If anyone fell down there, it would certainly be the last of him," said the big
ram. The boy thought it sounded as if he had a
special meaning in what he said.
Then he conducted the boy down to the narrow strip of shore.
Now he could see those giants which had frightened him the night before, at close
range.
They were nothing but tall rock-pillars. The big ram called them "cliffs."
The boy couldn't see enough of them.
He thought that if there had ever been any trolls who had turned into stone they ought
to look just like that.
Although it was pretty down on the shore, the boy liked it still better on the
mountain height. It was ghastly down here; for everywhere
they came across dead sheep.
It was here that the foxes had held their ***.
He saw skeletons whose flesh had been eaten, and bodies that were half-eaten, and
others which they had scarcely tasted, but had allowed to lie untouched.
It was heart-rending to see how the wild beasts had thrown themselves upon the sheep
just for sport--just to hunt them and tear them to death.
The big ram did not pause in front of the dead, but walked by them in silence.
But the boy, meanwhile, could not help seeing all the horror.
Then the big ram went up on the mountain height again; but when he was there he
stopped and said: "If someone who is capable and wise could see all the misery
which prevails here, he surely would not be
able to rest until these foxes had been punished."
"The foxes must live, too," said the boy.
"Yes," said the big ram, "those who do not tear in pieces more animals than they need
for their sustenance, they may as well live.
But these are felons."
"The peasants who own the island ought to come here and help you," insisted the boy.
"They have rowed over a number of times," replied the ram, "but the foxes always hid
themselves in the grottoes and crevices, so they could not get near them, to shoot
them."
"You surely cannot mean, father, that a poor little creature like me should be able
to get at them, when neither you nor the peasants have succeeded in getting the
better of them."
"He that is little and spry can put many things to rights," said the big ram.
They talked no more about this, and the boy went over and seated himself among the wild
geese who fed on the highland.
Although he had not cared to show his feelings before the ram, he was very sad on
the sheep's account, and he would have been glad to help them.
"I can at least talk with Akka and Morten goosey-gander about the matter," thought
he. "Perhaps they can help me with a good
suggestion."
A little later the white goosey-gander took the boy on his back and went over the
mountain plain, and in the direction of Hell's Hole at that.
He wandered, care-free, on the open mountain roof--apparently unconscious of
how large and white he was.
He didn't seek protection behind tufts, or any other protuberances, but went straight
ahead.
It was strange that he was not more careful, for it was apparent that he had
fared badly in yesterday's storm.
He limped on his right leg, and the left wing hung and dragged as if it might be
broken.
He acted as if there were no danger, pecked at a grass-blade here and another there,
and did not look about him in any direction.
The boy lay stretched out full length on the goose-back, and looked up toward the
blue sky.
He was so accustomed to riding now, that he could both stand and lie down on the goose-
back.
When the goosey-gander and the boy were so care-free, they did not observe, of course,
that the three foxes had come up on the mountain plain.
And the foxes, who knew that it was well- nigh impossible to take the life of a goose
on an open plain, thought at first that they wouldn't chase after the goosey-
gander.
But as they had nothing else to do, they finally sneaked down on one of the long
passes, and tried to steal up to him.
They went about it so cautiously that the goosey-gander couldn't see a shadow of
them.
They were not far off when the goosey- gander made an attempt to raise himself
into the air. He spread his wings, but he did not succeed
in lifting himself.
When the foxes seemed to grasp the fact that he couldn't fly, they hurried forward
with greater eagerness than before. They no longer concealed themselves in the
cleft, but came up on the highland.
They hurried as fast as they could, behind tufts and hollows, and came nearer and
nearer the goosey-gander--without his seeming to notice that he was being hunted.
At last the foxes were so near that they could make the final leap.
Simultaneously, all three threw themselves with one long jump at the goosey-gander.
But still at the last moment he must have noticed something, for he ran out of the
way, so the foxes missed him.
This, at any rate, didn't mean very much, for the goosey-gander only had a couple of
metres headway, and, in the bargain, he limped.
Anyway, the poor thing ran ahead as fast as he could.
The boy sat upon the goose-back--backward-- and shrieked and called to the foxes.
"You have eaten yourselves too fat on mutton, foxes.
You can't catch up with a goose even."
He teased them so that they became crazed with rage and thought only of rushing
forward. The white one ran right straight to the big
cleft.
When he was there, he made one stroke with his wings, and got over.
Just then the foxes were almost upon him.
The goosey-gander hurried on with the same haste as before, even after he had gotten
across Hell's Hole.
But he had hardly been running two metres before the boy patted him on the neck, and
said: "Now you can stop, goosey-gander."
At that instant they heard a number of wild howls behind them, and a scraping of claws,
and heavy falls. But of the foxes they saw nothing more.
The next morning the lighthouse keeper on Great Karl's Island found a bit of bark
poked under the entrance-door, and on it had been cut, in slanting, angular letters:
"The foxes on the little island have fallen down into Hell's Hole.
Take care of them!" And this the lighthouse keeper did, too.
<
SECTION 14 - TWO CITIES
THE CITY AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA
Saturday, April ninth. It was a calm and clear night.
The wild geese did not trouble themselves to seek shelter in any of the grottoes, but
stood and slept upon the mountain top; and the boy had lain down in the short, dry
grass beside the geese.
It was bright moonlight that night; so bright that it was difficult for the boy to
go to sleep.
He lay there and thought about just how long he had been away from home; and he
figured out that it was three weeks since he had started on the trip.
At the same time he remembered that this was Easter-eve.
"It is to-night that all the witches come home from Blakulla," thought he, and
laughed to himself.
For he was just a little afraid of both the sea-nymph and the elf, but he didn't
believe in witches the least little bit.
If there had been any witches out that night, he should have seen them, to be
sure.
It was so light in the heavens that not the tiniest black speck could move in the air
without his seeing it.
While the boy lay there with his nose in the air and thought about this, his eye
rested on something lovely!
The moon's disc was whole and round, and rather high, and over it a big bird came
flying.
He did not fly past the moon, but he moved just as though he might have flown out from
it.
The bird looked black against the light background, and the wings extended from one
rim of the disc to the other.
He flew on, evenly, in the same direction, and the boy thought that he was painted on
the moon's disc. The body was small, the neck long and
slender, the legs hung down, long and thin.
It couldn't be anything but a stork. A couple of seconds later Herr Ermenrich,
the stork, lit beside the boy. He bent down and poked him with his bill to
awaken him.
Instantly the boy sat up. "I'm not asleep, Herr Ermenrich," he said.
"How does it happen that you are out in the middle of the night, and how is everything
at Glimminge castle?
Do you want to speak with mother Akka?" "It's too light to sleep to-night,"
answered Herr Ermenrich.
"Therefore I concluded to travel over here to Karl's Island and hunt you up, friend
Thumbietot. I learned from the seamew that you were
spending the night here.
I have not as yet moved over to Glimminge castle, but am still living at Pommern."
The boy was simply overjoyed to think that Herr Ermenrich had sought him out.
They chatted about all sorts of things, like old friends.
At last the stork asked the boy if he wouldn't like to go out riding for a while
on this beautiful night.
Oh, yes! that the boy wanted to do, if the stork would manage it so that he got back
to the wild geese before sunrise. This he promised, so off they went.
Again Herr Ermenrich flew straight toward the moon.
They rose and rose; the sea sank deep down, but the flight went so light and easy that
it seemed almost as if the boy lay still in the air.
When Herr Ermenrich began to descend, the boy thought that the flight had lasted an
unreasonably short time. They landed on a desolate bit of seashore,
which was covered with fine, even sand.
All along the coast ran a row of flying- sand drifts, with lyme-grass on their tops.
They were not very high, but they prevented the boy from seeing any of the island.
Herr Ermenrich stood on a sand-hill, drew up one leg and bent his head backward, so
he could stick his bill under the wing.
"You can roam around on the shore for a while," he said to Thumbietot, "while I
rest myself. But don't go so far away but what you can
find your way back to me again!"
To start with, the boy intended to climb a sand-hill and see how the land behind it
looked.
But when he had walked a couple of paces, he stubbed the toe of his wooden shoe
against something hard.
He stooped down, and saw that a small copper coin lay on the sand, and was so
worn with verdigris that it was almost transparent.
It was so poor that he didn't even bother to pick it up, but only kicked it out of
the way.
But when he straightened himself up once more he was perfectly astounded, for two
paces away from him stood a high, dark wall with a big, turreted gate.
The moment before, when the boy bent down, the sea lay there--shimmering and smooth,
while now it was hidden by a long wall with towers and battlements.
Directly in front of him, where before there had been only a few sea-weed banks,
the big gate of the wall opened.
The boy probably understood that it was a spectre-play of some sort; but this was
nothing to be afraid of, thought he.
It wasn't any dangerous trolls, or any other evil--such as he always dreaded to
encounter at night.
Both the wall and the gate were so beautifully constructed that he only
desired to see what there might be back of them.
"I must find out what this can be," thought he, and went in through the gate.
In the deep archway there were guards, dressed in brocaded and purred suits, with
long-handled spears beside them, who sat and threw dice.
They thought only of the game, and took no notice of the boy who hurried past them
quickly. Just within the gate he found an open
space, paved with large, even stone blocks.
All around this were high and magnificent buildings; and between these opened long,
narrow streets. On the square--facing the gate--it fairly
swarmed with human beings.
The men wore long, fur-trimmed capes over satin suits; plume-bedecked hats sat
obliquely on their heads; on their chests hung superb chains.
They were all so regally gotten up that the whole lot of them might have been kings.
The women went about in high head-dresses and long robes with tight-fitting sleeves.
They, too, were beautifully dressed, but their splendour was not to be compared with
that of the men.
This was exactly like the old story-book which mother took from the chest--only
once--and showed to him. The boy simply couldn't believe his eyes.
But that which was even more wonderful to look upon than either the men or the women,
was the city itself. Every house was built in such a way that a
gable faced the street.
And the gables were so highly ornamented, that one could believe they wished to
compete with each other as to which one could show the most beautiful decorations.
When one suddenly sees so much that is new, he cannot manage to treasure it all in his
memory.
But at least the boy could recall that he had seen stairway gables on the various
landings, which bore images of the Christ and his Apostles; gables, where there were
images in niche after niche all along the
wall; gables that were inlaid with multi- coloured bits of glass, and gables that
were striped and checked with white and black marble.
As the boy admired all this, a sudden sense of haste came over him.
"Anything like this my eyes have never seen before.
Anything like this, they would never see again," he said to himself.
And he began to run in toward the city--up one street, and down another.
The streets were straight and narrow, but not empty and gloomy, as they were in the
cities with which he was familiar. There were people everywhere.
Old women sat by their open doors and spun without a spinning-wheel--only with the
help of a shuttle. The merchants' shops were like market-
stalls--opening on the street.
All the hand-workers did their work out of doors.
In one place they were boiling crude oil; in another tanning hides; in a third there
was a long rope-walk.
If only the boy had had time enough he could have learned how to make all sorts of
things.
Here he saw how armourers hammered out thin breast-plates; how turners tended their
irons; how the shoemakers soled soft, red shoes; how the gold-wire drawers twisted
gold thread, and how the weavers inserted silver and gold into their weaving.
But the boy did not have the time to stay.
He just rushed on, so that he could manage to see as much as possible before it would
all vanish again. The high wall ran all around the city and
shut it in, as a hedge shuts in a field.
He saw it at the end of every street-- gable-ornamented and crenelated.
On the top of the wall walked warriors in shining armour; and when he had run from
one end of the city to the other, he came to still another gate in the wall.
Outside of this lay the sea and harbour.
The boy saw olden-time ships, with rowing- benches straight across, and high
structures fore and aft. Some lay and took on cargo, others were
just casting anchor.
Carriers and merchants hurried around each other.
All over, it was life and bustle. But not even here did he seem to have the
time to linger.
He rushed into the city again; and now he came up to the big square.
There stood the cathedral with its three high towers and deep vaulted arches filled
with images.
The walls had been so highly decorated by sculptors that there was not a stone
without its own special ornamentation.
And what a magnificent display of gilded crosses and gold-trimmed altars and priests
in golden vestments, shimmered through the open gate!
Directly opposite the church there was a house with a notched roof and a single
slender, sky-high tower. That was probably the courthouse.
And between the courthouse and the cathedral, all around the square, stood the
beautiful gabled houses with their multiplicity of adornments.
The boy had run himself both warm and tired.
He thought that now he had seen the most remarkable things, and therefore he began
to walk more leisurely.
The street which he had turned into now was surely the one where the inhabitants
purchased their fine clothing.
He saw crowds of people standing before the little stalls where the merchants spread
brocades, stiff satins, heavy gold cloth, shimmery velvet, delicate veiling, and
laces as sheer as a spider's web.
Before, when the boy ran so fast, no one had paid any attention to him.
The people must have thought that it was only a little gray rat that darted by them.
But now, when he walked down the street, very slowly, one of the salesmen caught
sight of him, and began to beckon to him.
At first the boy was uneasy and wanted to hurry out of the way, but the salesman only
beckoned and smiled, and spread out on the counter a lovely piece of satin damask as
if he wanted to tempt him.
The boy shook his head. "I will never be so rich that I can buy
even a metre of that cloth," thought he. But now they had caught sight of him in
every stall, all along the street.
Wherever he looked stood a salesman and beckoned to him.
They left their costly wares, and thought only of him.
He saw how they hurried into the most hidden corner of the stall to fetch the
best that they had to sell, and how their hands trembled with eagerness and haste as
they laid it upon the counter.
When the boy continued to go on, one of the merchants jumped over the counter, caught
hold of him, and spread before him silver cloth and woven tapestries, which shone
with brilliant colours.
The boy couldn't do anything but laugh at him.
The salesman certainly must understand that a poor little creature like him couldn't
buy such things.
He stood still and held out his two empty hands, so they would understand that he had
nothing and let him go in peace.
But the merchant raised a finger and nodded and pushed the whole pile of beautiful
things over to him. "Can he mean that he will sell all this for
a gold piece?" wondered the boy.
The merchant brought out a tiny worn and poor coin--the smallest that one could see-
-and showed it to him.
And he was so eager to sell that he increased his pile with a pair of large,
heavy, silver goblets. Then the boy began to dig down in his
pockets.
He knew, of course, that he didn't possess a single coin, but he couldn't help feeling
for it.
All the other merchants stood still and tried to see how the sale would come off,
and when they observed that the boy began to search in his pockets, they flung
themselves over the counters, filled their
hands full of gold and silver ornaments, and offered them to him.
And they all showed him that what they asked in payment was just one little penny.
But the boy turned both vest and breeches pockets inside out, so they should see that
he owned nothing.
Then tears filled the eyes of all these regal merchants, who were so much richer
than he.
At last he was moved because they looked so distressed, and he pondered if he could not
in some way help them.
And then he happened to think of the rusty coin, which he had but lately seen on the
strand.
He started to run down the street, and luck was with him so that he came to the self-
same gate which he had happened upon first.
He dashed through it, and commenced to search for the little green copper penny
which lay on the strand a while ago.
He found it too, very promptly; but when he had picked it up, and wanted to run back to
the city with it--he saw only the sea before him.
No city wall, no gate, no sentinels, no streets, no houses could now be seen--only
the sea. The boy couldn't help that the tears came
to his eyes.
He had believed in the beginning, that that which he saw was nothing but an
hallucination, but this he had already forgotten.
He only thought about how pretty everything was.
He felt a genuine, deep sorrow because the city had vanished.
That moment Herr Ermenrich awoke, and came up to him.
But he didn't hear him, and the stork had to poke the boy with his bill to attract
attention to himself.
"I believe that you stand here and sleep just as I do," said Herr Ermenrich.
"Oh, Herr Ermenrich!" said the boy. "What was that city which stood here just
now?"
"Have you seen a city?" said the stork. "You have slept and dreamt, as I say."
"No! I have not dreamt," said Thumbietot, and he told the stork all that he had
experienced.
Then Herr Ermenrich said: "For my part, Thumbietot, I believe that you fell asleep
here on the strand and dreamed all this.
"But I will not conceal from you that Bataki, the raven, who is the most learned
of all birds, once told me that in former times there was a city on this shore,
called Vineta.
It was so rich and so fortunate, that no city has ever been more glorious; but its
inhabitants, unluckily, gave themselves up to arrogance and love of display.
As a punishment for this, says Bataki, the city of Vineta was overtaken by a flood,
and sank into the sea. But its inhabitants cannot die, neither is
their city destroyed.
And one night in every hundred years, it rises in all its splendour up from the sea,
and remains on the surface just one hour." "Yes, it must be so," said Thumbietot, "for
this I have seen."
"But when the hour is up, it sinks again into the sea, if, during that time, no
merchant in Vineta has sold anything to a single living creature.
If you, Thumbietot, only had had an ever so tiny coin, to pay the merchants, Vineta
might have remained up here on the shore; and its people could have lived and died
like other human beings."
"Herr Ermenrich," said the boy, "now I understand why you came and fetched me in
the middle of the night. It was because you believed that I should
be able to save the old city.
I am so sorry it didn't turn out as you wished, Herr Ermenrich."
He covered his face with his hands and wept.
It wasn't easy to say which one looked the more disconsolate--the boy, or Herr
Ermenrich.
THE LIVING CITY
Monday, April eleventh. On the afternoon of Easter Monday, the wild
geese and Thumbietot were on the wing. They travelled over Gottland.
The large island lay smooth and even beneath them.
The ground was checked just as it was in Skåne and there were many churches and
farms.
But there was this difference, however, that there were more leafy meadows between
the fields here, and then the farms were not built up with small houses.
And there were no large manors with ancient tower-ornamented castles.
The wild geese had taken the route over Gottland on account of Thumbietot.
He had been altogether unlike himself for two days, and hadn't spoken a cheerful
word.
This was because he had thought of nothing but that city which had appeared to him in
such a strange way.
He had never seen anything so magnificent and royal, and he could not be reconciled
with himself for having failed to save it.
Usually he was not chicken-hearted, but now he actually grieved for the beautiful
buildings and the stately people.
Both Akka and the goosey-gander tried to convince Thumbietot that he had been the
victim of a dream, or an hallucination, but the boy wouldn't listen to anything of that
sort.
He was so positive that he had really seen what he had seen, that no one could move
him from this conviction.
He went about so disconsolate that his travelling companions became uneasy for
him. Just as the boy was the most depressed, old
Kaksi came back to the flock.
She had been blown toward Gottland, and had been compelled to travel over the whole
island before she had learned through some crows that her comrades were on Little
Karl's Island.
When Kaksi found out what was wrong with Thumbietot, she said impulsively:
"If Thumbietot is grieving over an old city, we'll soon be able to comfort him.
Just come along, and I'll take you to a place that I saw yesterday!
You will not need to be distressed very long."
Thereupon the geese had taken farewell of the sheep, and were on their way to the
place which Kaksi wished to show Thumbietot.
As blue as he was, he couldn't keep from looking at the land over which he
travelled, as usual.
He thought it looked as though the whole island had in the beginning been just such
a high, steep cliff as Karl's Island-- though much bigger of course.
But afterward, it had in some way been flattened out.
Someone had taken a big rolling-pin and rolled over it, as if it had been a lump of
dough.
Not that the island had become altogether flat and even, like a bread-cake, for it
wasn't like that.
While they had travelled along the coast, he had seen white lime walls with grottoes
and crags, in several directions; but in most of the places they were levelled, and
sank inconspicuously down toward the sea.
In Gottland they had a pleasant and peaceful holiday afternoon.
It turned out to be mild spring weather; the trees had large buds; spring blossoms
dressed the ground in the leafy meadows; the poplars' long, thin pendants swayed;
and in the little gardens, which one finds
around every cottage, the gooseberry bushes were green.
The warmth and the spring-budding had tempted the people out into the gardens and
roads, and wherever a number of them were gathered together they were playing.
It was not the children alone who played, but the grown-ups also.
They were throwing stones at a given point, and they threw balls in the air with such
exact aim that they almost touched the wild geese.
It looked cheerful and pleasant to see big folks at play; and the boy certainly would
have enjoyed it, if he had been able to forget his grief because he had failed to
save the city.
Anyway, he had to admit that this was a lovely trip.
There was so much singing and sound in the air.
Little children played ring games, and sang as they played.
The Salvation Army was out.
He saw a lot of people dressed in black and red--sitting upon a wooded hill, playing on
guitars and brass instruments. On one road came a great crowd of people.
They were Good Templars who had been on a pleasure trip.
He recognized them by the big banners with the gold inscriptions which waved above
them.
They sang song after song as long as he could hear them.
After that the boy could never think of Gottland without thinking of the games and
songs at the same time.
He had been sitting and looking down for a long while; but now he happened to raise
his eyes. No one can describe his amazement.
Before he was aware of it, the wild geese had left the interior of the island and
gone westward--toward the sea-coast. Now the wide, blue sea lay before him.
However, it was not the sea that was remarkable, but a city which appeared on
the sea-shore. The boy came from the east, and the sun had
just begun to go down in the west.
When he came nearer the city, its walls and towers and high, gabled houses and churches
stood there, perfectly black, against the light evening sky.
He couldn't see therefore what it really looked like, and for a couple of moments he
believed that this city was just as beautiful as the one he had seen on Easter
night.
When he got right up to it, he saw that it was both like and unlike that city from the
bottom of the sea.
There was the same contrast between them, as there is between a man whom one sees
arrayed in purple and jewels one day, and on another day one sees him dressed in
rags.
Yes, this city had probably, once upon a time, been like the one which he sat and
thought about. This one, also, was enclosed by a wall with
towers and gates.
But the towers in this city, which had been allowed to remain on land, were roofless,
hollow and empty. The gates were without doors; sentinels and
warriors had disappeared.
All the glittering splendour was gone. There was nothing left but the naked, gray
stone skeleton.
When the boy came farther into the city, he saw that the larger part of it was made up
of small, low houses; but here and there were still a few high gabled houses and a
few cathedrals, which were from the olden time.
The walls of the gabled houses were whitewashed, and entirely without
ornamentation; but because the boy had so lately seen the buried city, he seemed to
understand how they had been decorated:
some with statues, and others with black and white marble.
And it was the same with the old cathedrals; the majority of them were
roofless with bare interiors.
The window openings were empty, the floors were grass-grown, and ivy clambered along
the walls.
But now he knew how they had looked at one time; that they had been covered with
images and paintings; that the chancel had had trimmed altars and gilded crosses, and
that their priests had moved about, arrayed in gold vestments.
The boy saw also the narrow streets, which were almost deserted on holiday afternoons.
He knew, he did, what a stream of stately people had once upon a time sauntered about
on them.
He knew that they had been like large workshops--filled with all sorts of
workmen.
But that which Nils Holgersson did not see was, that the city--even to-day--was both
beautiful and remarkable.
He saw neither the cheery cottages on the side streets, with their black walls, and
white bows and red pelargoniums behind the shining window-panes, nor the many pretty
gardens and avenues, nor the beauty in the weed-clad ruins.
His eyes were so filled with the preceding glory, that he could not see anything good
in the present.
The wild geese flew back and forth over the city a couple of times, so that Thumbietot
might see everything.
Finally they sank down on the grass-grown floor of a cathedral ruin to spend the
night.
When they had arranged themselves for sleep, Thumbietot was still awake and
looked up through the open arches, to the pale pink evening sky.
When he had been sitting there a while, he thought he didn't want to grieve any more
because he couldn't save the buried city. No, that he didn't want to do, now that he
had seen this one.
If that city, which he had seen, had not sunk into the sea again, then it would
perhaps become as dilapidated as this one in a little while.
Perhaps it could not have withstood time and decay, but would have stood there with
roofless churches and bare houses and desolate, empty streets--just like this
one.
Then it was better that it should remain in all its glory down in the deep.
"It was best that it happened as it happened," thought he.
"If I had the power to save the city, I don't believe that I should care to do it."
Then he no longer grieved over that matter. And there are probably many among the young
who think in the same way.
But when people are old, and have become accustomed to being satisfied with little,
then they are more happy over the Visby that exists, than over a magnificent Vineta
at the bottom of the sea.
<
SECTION 15 - THE LEGEND OF SMÅLAND
Tuesday, April twelfth. The wild geese had made a good trip over
the sea, and had lighted in Tjust Township, in northern Småland.
That township didn't seem able to make up its mind whether it wanted to be land or
sea.
Fiords ran in everywhere, and cut the land up into islands and peninsulas and points
and capes.
The sea was so forceful that the only things which could hold themselves above it
were hills and mountains. All the lowlands were hidden away under the
water exterior.
It was evening when the wild geese came in from the sea; and the land with the little
hills lay prettily between the shimmering fiords.
Here and there, on the islands, the boy saw cabins and cottages; and the farther inland
he came, the bigger and better became the dwelling houses.
Finally, they grew into large, white manors.
Along the shores there was generally a border of trees; and within this lay field-
plots, and on the tops of the little hills there were trees again.
He could not help but think of Blekinge.
Here again was a place where land and sea met, in such a pretty and peaceful sort of
way, just as if they tried to show each other the best and loveliest which they
possessed.
The wild geese alighted upon a limestone island a good way in on Goose-fiord.
With the first glance at the shore they observed that spring had made rapid strides
while they had been away on the islands.
The big, fine trees were not as yet leaf- clad, but the ground under them was
brocaded with white anemones, gagea, and blue anemones.
When the wild geese saw the flower-carpet they feared that they had lingered too long
in the southern part of the country.
Akka said instantly that there was no time in which to hunt up any of the stopping
places in Småland. By the next morning they must travel
northward, over Östergötland.
The boy should then see nothing of Småland, and this grieved him.
He had heard more about Småland than he had about any other province, and he had longed
to see it with his own eyes.
The summer before, when he had served as goose-boy with a farmer in the
neighbourhood of Jordberga, he had met a pair of Småland children, almost every day,
who also tended geese.
These children had irritated him terribly with their Småland.
It wasn't fair to say that Osa, the goose- girl, had annoyed him.
She was much too wise for that.
But the one who could be aggravating with a vengeance was her brother, little Mats.
"Have you heard, Nils Goose-boy, how it went when Småland and Skåne were created?"
he would ask, and if Nils Holgersson said no, he began immediately to relate the old
joke-legend.
"Well, it was at that time when our Lord was creating the world.
While he was doing his best work, Saint Peter came walking by.
He stopped and looked on, and then he asked if it was hard to do.
'Well, it isn't exactly easy,' said our Lord.
Saint Peter stood there a little longer, and when he noticed how easy it was to lay
out one landscape after another, he too wanted to try his hand at it.
'Perhaps you need to rest yourself a little,' said Saint Peter, 'I could attend
to the work in the meantime for you.' But this our Lord did not wish.
'I do not know if you are so much at home in this art that I can trust you to take
hold where I leave off,' he answered.
Then Saint Peter was angry, and said that he believed he could create just as fine
countries as our Lord himself. "It happened that our Lord was just then
creating Småland.
It wasn't even half-ready but it looked as though it would be an indescribably pretty
and fertile land.
It was difficult for our Lord to say no to Saint Peter, and aside from this, he
thought very likely that a thing so well begun no one could spoil.
Therefore he said: If you like, we will prove which one of us two understands this
sort of work the better.
You, who are only a novice, shall go on with this which I have begun, and I will
create a new land.' To this Saint Peter agreed at once; and so
they went to work--each one in his place.
"Our Lord moved southward a bit, and there he undertook to create Skåne.
It wasn't long before he was through with it, and soon he asked if Saint Peter had
finished, and would come and look at his work.
'I had mine ready long ago,' said Saint Peter; and from the sound of his voice it
could be heard how pleased he was with what he had accomplished.
"When Saint Peter saw Skåne, he had to acknowledge that there was nothing but good
to be said of that land.
It was a fertile land and easy to cultivate, with wide plains wherever one
looked, and hardly a sign of hills.
It was evident that our Lord had really contemplated making it such that people
should feel at home there. 'Yes, this is a good country,' said Saint
Peter, 'but I think that mine is better.'
'Then we'll take a look at it,' said our Lord.
"The land was already finished in the north and east when Saint Peter began the work,
but the southern and western parts; and the whole interior, he had created all by
himself.
Now when our Lord came up there, where Saint Peter had been at work, he was so
horrified that he stopped short and exclaimed: 'What on earth have you been
doing with this land, Saint Peter?'
"Saint Peter, too, stood and looked around- -perfectly astonished.
He had had the idea that nothing could be so good for a land as a great deal of
warmth.
Therefore he had gathered together an enormous mass of stones and mountains, and
erected a highland, and this he had done so that it should be near the sun, and receive
much help from the sun's heat.
Over the stone-heaps he had spread a thin layer of soil, and then he had thought that
everything was well arranged.
"But while he was down in Skåne, a couple of heavy showers had come up, and more was
not needed to show what his work amounted to.
When our Lord came to inspect the land, all the soil had been washed away, and the
naked mountain foundation shone forth all over.
Where it was about the best, lay clay and heavy gravel over the rocks, but it looked
so poor that it was easy to understand that hardly anything except spruce and juniper
and moss and heather could grow there.
But what there was plenty of was water.
It had filled up all the clefts in the mountain; and lakes and rivers and brooks;
these one saw everywhere, to say nothing of swamps and morasses, which spread over
large tracts.
And the most exasperating thing of all was, that while some tracts had too much water,
it was so scarce in others, that whole fields lay like dry moors, where sand and
earth whirled up in clouds with the least little breeze.
"'What can have been your meaning in creating such a land as this?' said our
Lord.
Saint Peter made excuses, and declared he had wished to build up a land so high that
it should have plenty of warmth from the sun.
'But then you will also get much of the night chill,' said our Lord, 'for that too
comes from heaven. I am very much afraid the little that can
grow here will freeze.'
"This, to be sure, Saint Peter hadn't thought about.
"'Yes, here it will be a poor and frost- bound land,' said our Lord, 'it can't be
helped.'"
When little Mats had gotten this far in his story, Osa, the goose-girl, protested: "I
cannot bear, little Mats, to hear you say that it is so miserable in Småland," said
she.
"You forget entirely how much good soil there is there.
Only think of Möre district, by Kalmar Sound!
I wonder where you'll find a richer grain region.
There are fields upon fields, just like here in Skåne.
The soil is so good that I cannot imagine anything that couldn't grow there."
"I can't help that," said little Mats. "I'm only relating what others have said
before."
"And I have heard many say that there is not a more beautiful coast land than Tjust.
Think of the bays and islets, and the manors, and the groves!" said Osa.
"Yes, that's true enough," little Mats admitted.
"And don't you remember," continued Osa, "the school teacher said that such a lively
and picturesque district as that bit of Småland which lies south of Lake Vettern
is not to be found in all Sweden?
Think of the beautiful sea and the yellow coast-mountains, and of Grenna and
Jönköping, with its match factory, and think of Huskvarna, and all the big
establishments there!"
"Yes, that's true enough," said little Mats once again.
"And think of Visingsö, little Mats, with the ruins and the oak forests and the
legends!
Think of the valley through which Emån flows, with all the villages and flour-
mills and sawmills, and the carpenter shops!"
"Yes, that is true enough," said little Mats, and looked troubled.
All of a sudden he had looked up. "Now we are pretty stupid," said he.
"All this, of course, lies in our Lord's Småland, in that part of the land which was
already finished when Saint Peter undertook the job.
It's only natural that it should be pretty and fine there.
But in Saint Peter's Småland it looks as it says in the legend.
And it wasn't surprising that our Lord was distressed when he saw it," continued
little Mats, as he took up the thread of his story again.
"Saint Peter didn't lose his courage, at all events, but tried to comfort our Lord.
'Don't be so grieved over this!' said he.
'Only wait until I have created people who can till the swamps and break up fields
from the stone hills.'
"That was the end of our Lord's patience-- and he said: 'No! you can go down to Skåne
and make the Skåninge, but the Smålander I will create myself.'
And so our Lord created the Smålander, and made him quick-witted and contented and
happy and thrifty and enterprising and capable, that he might be able to get his
livelihood in his poor country."
Then little Mats was silent; and if Nils Holgersson had also kept still, all would
have gone well; but he couldn't possibly refrain from asking how Saint Peter had
succeeded in creating the Skåninge.
"Well, what do you think yourself?" said little Mats, and looked so scornful that
Nils Holgersson threw himself upon him, to thrash him.
But Mats was only a little tot, and Osa, the goose-girl, who was a year older than
he, ran forward instantly to help him.
Good-natured though she was, she sprang like a lion as soon as anyone touched her
brother.
And Nils Holgersson did not care to fight a girl, but turned his back, and didn't look
at those Småland children for the rest of the day.
<
SECTION 16 - THE CROWS
THE EARTHEN CROCK
In the southwest corner of Småland lies a township called Sonnerbo.
It is a rather smooth and even country.
And one who sees it in winter, when it is covered with snow, cannot imagine that
there is anything under the snow but garden-plots, rye-fields and clover-meadows
as is generally the case in flat countries.
But, in the beginning of April when the snow finally melts away in Sonnerbo, it is
apparent that that which lies hidden under it is only dry, sandy heaths, bare rocks,
and big, marshy swamps.
There are fields here and there, to be sure, but they are so small that they are
scarcely worth mentioning; and one also finds a few little red or gray farmhouses
hidden away in some beech-coppice--almost as if they were afraid to show themselves.
Where Sonnerbo township touches the boundaries of Halland, there is a sandy
heath which is so far-reaching that he who stands upon one edge of it cannot look
across to the other.
Nothing except heather grows on the heath, and it wouldn't be easy either to coax
other growths to thrive there.
To start with one would have to uproot the heather; for it is thus with heather:
although it has only a little shrunken root, small shrunken branches, and dry,
shrunken leaves it fancies that it's a tree.
Therefore it acts just like real trees-- spreads itself out in forest fashion over
wide areas; holds together faithfully, and causes all foreign growths that wish to
crowd in upon its territory to die out.
The only place on the heath where the heather is not all-powerful, is a low,
stony ridge which passes over it. There you'll find juniper bushes, mountain
ash, and a few large, fine oaks.
At the time when Nils Holgersson travelled around with the wild geese, a little cabin
stood there, with a bit of cleared ground around it.
But the people who had lived there at one time, had, for some reason or other, moved
away. The little cabin was empty, and the ground
lay unused.
When the tenants left the cabin they closed the damper, fastened the window-hooks, and
locked the door.
But no one had thought of the broken window-pane which was only stuffed with a
rag.
After the showers of a couple of summers, the rag had moulded and shrunk, and,
finally, a crow had succeeded in poking it out.
The ridge on the heather-heath was really not as desolate as one might think, for it
was inhabited by a large crow-folk. Naturally, the crows did not live there all
the year round.
They moved to foreign lands in the winter; in the autumn they travelled from one
grain-field to another all over Götaland, and picked grain; during the summer, they
spread themselves over the farms in
Sonnerbo township, and lived upon eggs and berries and birdlings; but every spring,
when nesting time came, they came back to the heather-heath.
The one who had poked the rag from the window was a crow-*** named Garm
Whitefeather; but he was never called anything but Fumle or Drumle, or out and
out Fumle-Drumle, because he always acted
awkwardly and stupidly, and wasn't good for anything except to make fun of.
Fumle-Drumle was bigger and stronger than any of the other crows, but that didn't
help him in the least; he was--and remained--a butt for ridicule.
And it didn't profit him, either, that he came from very good stock.
If everything had gone smoothly, he should have been leader for the whole flock,
because this honour had, from time immemorial, belonged to the oldest
Whitefeather.
But long before Fumle-Drumle was born, the power had gone from his family, and was now
wielded by a cruel wild crow, named Wind- Rush.
This transference of power was due to the fact that the crows on crow-ridge desired
to change their manner of living.
Possibly there are many who think that everything in the shape of crow lives in
the same way; but this is not so.
There are entire crow-folk who lead honourable lives--that is to say, they only
eat grain, worms, caterpillars, and dead animals; and there are others who lead a
regular bandit's life, who throw themselves
upon baby-hares and small birds, and plunder every single bird's nest they set
eyes on.
The ancient Whitefeathers had been strict and temperate; and as long as they had led
the flock, the crows had been compelled to conduct themselves in such a way that other
birds could speak no ill of them.
But the crows were numerous, and poverty was great among them.
They didn't care to go the whole length of living a strictly moral life, so they
rebelled against the Whitefeathers, and gave the power to Wind-Rush, who was the
worst nest-plunderer and robber that could
be imagined--if his wife, Wind-Air, wasn't worse still.
Under their government the crows had begun to lead such a life that now they were more
feared than pigeon-hawks and leech-owls.
Naturally, Fumle-Drumle had nothing to say in the flock.
The crows were all of the opinion that he did not in the least take after his
forefathers, and that he wouldn't suit as a leader.
No one would have mentioned him, if he hadn't constantly committed fresh blunders.
A few, who were quite sensible, sometimes said perhaps it was lucky for Fumle-Drumle
that he was such a bungling idiot, otherwise Wind-Rush and Wind-Air would
hardly have allowed him--who was of the old chieftain stock--to remain with the flock.
Now, on the other hand, they were rather friendly toward him, and willingly took him
along with them on their hunting expeditions.
There all could observe how much more skilful and daring they were than he.
None of the crows knew that it was Fumle- Drumle who had pecked the rag out of the
window; and had they known of this, they would have been very much astonished.
Such a thing as daring to approach a human being's dwelling, they had never believed
of him.
He kept the thing to himself very carefully; and he had his own good reasons
for it.
Wind-Rush always treated him well in the daytime, and when the others were around;
but one very dark night, when the comrades sat on the night branch, he was attacked by
a couple of crows and nearly murdered.
After that he moved every night, after dark, from his usual sleeping quarters into
the empty cabin.
Now one afternoon, when the crows had put their nests in order on crow-ridge, they
happened upon a remarkable find.
Wind-Rush, Fumle-Drumle, and a couple of others had flown down into a big hollow in
one corner of the heath.
The hollow was nothing but a gravel-pit, but the crows could not be satisfied with
such a simple explanation; they flew down in it continually, and turned every single
sand-grain to get at the reason why human beings had digged it.
While the crows were pottering around down there, a mass of gravel fell from one side.
They rushed up to it, and had the good fortune to find amongst the fallen stones
and stubble--a large earthen crock, which was locked with a wooden clasp!
Naturally they wanted to know if there was anything in it, and they tried both to peck
holes in the crock, and to bend up the clasp, but they had no success.
They stood perfectly helpless and examined the crock, when they heard someone say:
"Shall I come down and assist you crows?" They glanced up quickly.
On the edge of the hollow sat a fox and blinked down at them.
He was one of the prettiest foxes--both in colour and form--that they had ever seen.
The only fault with him was that he had lost an ear.
"If you desire to do us a service," said Wind-Rush, "we shall not say nay."
At the same time, both he and the others flew up from the hollow.
Then the fox jumped down in their place, bit at the jar, and pulled at the lock--but
he couldn't open it either.
"Can you make out what there is in it?" said Wind-Rush.
The fox rolled the jar back and forth, and listened attentively.
"It must be silver money," said he.
This was more than the crows had expected.
"Do you think it can be silver?" said they, and their eyes were ready to pop out of
their heads with greed; for remarkable as it may sound, there is nothing in the world
which crows love as much as silver money.
"Hear how it rattles!" said the fox and rolled the crock around once more.
"Only I can't understand how we shall get at it."
"That will surely be impossible," said the crows.
The fox stood and rubbed his head against his left leg, and pondered.
Now perhaps he might succeed, with the help of the crows, in becoming master of that
little imp who always eluded him. "Oh! I know someone who could open the
crock for you," said the fox.
"Then tell us! Tell us!" cried the crows; and they were so
excited that they tumbled down into the pit.
"That I will do, if you'll first promise me that you will agree to my terms," said he.
Then the fox told the crows about Thumbietot, and said that if they could
bring him to the heath he would open the crock for them.
But in payment for this counsel, he demanded that they should deliver
Thumbietot to him, as soon as he had gotten the silver money for them.
The crows had no reason to spare Thumbietot, so agreed to the compact at
once.
It was easy enough to agree to this; but it was harder to find out where Thumbietot and
the wild geese were stopping. Wind-Rush himself travelled away with fifty
crows, and said that he should soon return.
But one day after another passed without the crows on crow-ridge seeing a shadow of
him.
KIDNAPPED BY CROWS
Wednesday, April thirteenth. The wild geese were up at daybreak, so they
should have time to get themselves a bite of food before starting out on the journey
toward Östergötland.
The island in Goosefiord, where they had slept, was small and barren, but in the
water all around it were growths which they could eat their fill upon.
It was worse for the boy, however.
He couldn't manage to find anything eatable.
As he stood there hungry and drowsy, and looked around in all directions, his glance
fell upon a pair of squirrels, who played upon the wooded point, directly opposite
the rock island.
He wondered if the squirrels still had any of their winter supplies left, and asked
the white goosey-gander to take him over to the point, that he might beg them for a
couple of hazelnuts.
Instantly the white one swam across the sound with him; but as luck would have it
the squirrels had so much fun chasing each other from tree to tree, that they didn't
bother about listening to the boy.
They drew farther into the grove. He hurried after them, and was soon out of
the goosey-gander's sight--who stayed behind and waited on the shore.
The boy waded forward between some white anemone-stems--which were so high they
reached to his chin--when he felt that someone caught hold of him from behind, and
tried to lift him up.
He turned round and saw that a crow had grabbed him by the shirt-band.
He tried to break loose, but before this was possible, another crow ran up, gripped
him by the stocking, and knocked him over.
If Nils Holgersson had immediately cried for help, the white goosey-gander certainly
would have been able to save him; but the boy probably thought that he could protect
himself, unaided, against a couple of crows.
He kicked and struck out, but the crows didn't let go their hold, and they soon
succeeded in raising themselves into the air with him.
To make matters worse, they flew so recklessly that his head struck against a
branch.
He received a hard knock over the head, it grew black before his eyes, and he lost
consciousness. When he opened his eyes once more, he found
himself high above the ground.
He regained his senses slowly; at first he knew neither where he was, nor what he saw.
When he glanced down, he saw that under him was spread a tremendously big woolly
carpet, which was woven in greens and reds, and in large irregular patterns.
The carpet was very thick and fine, but he thought it was a pity that it had been so
badly used.
It was actually ragged; long tears ran through it; in some places large pieces
were torn away.
And the strangest of all was that it appeared to be spread over a mirror floor;
for under the holes and tears in the carpet shone bright and glittering glass.
The next thing the boy observed was that the sun unrolled itself in the heavens.
Instantly, the mirror-glass under the holes and tears in the carpet began to shimmer in
red and gold.
It looked very gorgeous, and the boy was delighted with the pretty colour-scheme,
although he didn't exactly understand what it was that he saw.
But now the crows descended, and he saw at once that the big carpet under him was the
earth, which was dressed in green and brown cone-trees and naked leaf-trees, and that
the holes and tears were shining fiords and little lakes.
He remembered that the first time he had travelled up in the air, he had thought
that the earth in Skåne looked like a piece of checked cloth.
But this country which resembled a torn carpet--what might this be?
He began to ask himself a lot of questions. Why wasn't he sitting on the goosey-
gander's back?
Why did a great swarm of crows fly around him?
And why was he being pulled and knocked hither and thither so that he was about to
break to pieces?
Then, all at once, the whole thing dawned on him.
He had been kidnapped by a couple of crows.
The white goosey-gander was still on the shore, waiting, and to-day the wild geese
were going to travel to Östergötland.
He was being carried southwest; this he understood because the sun's disc was
behind him. The big forest-carpet which lay beneath him
was surely Småland.
"What will become of the goosey-gander now, when I cannot look after him?" thought the
boy, and began to call to the crows to take him back to the wild geese instantly.
He wasn't at all uneasy on his own account.
He believed that they were carrying him off simply in a spirit of mischief.
The crows didn't pay the slightest attention to his exhortations, but flew on
as fast as they could.
After a bit, one of them flapped his wings in a manner which meant: "Look out!
Danger!"
Soon thereafter they came down in a spruce forest, pushed their way between prickly
branches to the ground, and put the boy down under a thick spruce, where he was so
well concealed that not even a falcon could have sighted him.
Fifty crows surrounded him, with bills pointed toward him to guard him.
"Now perhaps I may hear, crows, what your purpose is in carrying me off", said he.
But he was hardly permitted to finish the sentence before a big crow hissed at him:
"Keep still! or I'll bore your eyes out."
It was evident that the crow meant what she said; and there was nothing for the boy to
do but obey. So he sat there and stared at the crows,
and the crows stared at him.
The longer he looked at them, the less he liked them.
It was dreadful how dusty and unkempt their feather dresses were--as though they knew
neither baths nor oiling.
Their toes and claws were grimy with 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 Småland.
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 *** 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 Småland
wasn't such a poor country as he had heard.
Of course it was *** 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 *** 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 Vemminghög, tending a goose-flock; and
beside him, on the field, walked those same Småland 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.
<
SECTION 17 - 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 Småland.
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
Småland, 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 Vemminghög, 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 Småland.
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 Småland 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 Småland 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-***, 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, Rödlinna, 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 Småland 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, Rödlinna, 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, Rödlinna," 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."
<
SECTION 18 - 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 Neljä, 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 Jönköping 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 Jönköping with its
great factories. The wild geese rode first over Monksjö
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 Jönköping, 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 Jönköping.
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."
<
SECTION 19 - 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 Östergöta 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.
<
SECTION 20 - ULVÅSA-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 Östergylln,"
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 Östergötland."
"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 Ulvåsa, here in Östergötland," 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 Ulvåsa-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 Ulvåsa-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 Östergötland 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
Östergötland: 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 Ulvåsa-lady.
'Don't you know that Östergötland 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 Linköping?'
"'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 Ulvåsa- 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 Ulvåsa-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 Ulvåsa-lady, 'but, certainly, I can
look far enough into the future to see that there will be life and movement in the
forests around Finspång.
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 Finspång's foundry went down in importance,
then it would hardly be possible that any new thing could arise of which Östergötland
might boast.'
"'You are not easy to please,' said Ulvåsa- 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 Ulvåsa-lady.
I see how health-springs bubble on Medevi meadows, by Vätter'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 Ulvåsa-lady.
I see how people dig and labour, from Motala to Mem.
They dig a canal right through the country, and then Östergötland'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 Ulvåsa-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 Norrköping.'
"'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 Ulvåsa-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 Ulvåsa-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 Östergötland 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.'"
<
SECTION 21 - THE HOMESPUN CLOTH
Saturday, April twenty-third. The boy rode forward--way up in the air.
He had the great Östergötland 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 Norrköping," 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 Skåne 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 Östergötland,
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.
Linköping 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 Öberg district, and
travelled toward the east along Göta 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 Norrköping the wild geese left the plain, and flew up toward Kolmården.
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 Övid 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 Vittskövle, 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.
Vemminghög.'
That's the most wonderful thing I've ever heard!" said little Mats.
<
SECTION 22 - 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 Kolmården who wanted to be rid of one of his dogs.
He sent for his game-keeper and said to him that it was impossible to keep the dog
because he could not be broken of the habit of chasing all the sheep and fowl he set
eyes on, and he asked the man to take the dog into the forest and shoot him.
The game-keeper slipped the leash on the dog to lead him to a spot in the forest
where all the superannuated dogs from the manor were shot and buried.
He was not a cruel man, but he was very glad to shoot that dog, for he knew that
sheep and chickens were not the only creatures he hunted.
Times without number he had gone into the forest and helped himself to a hare or a
grouse-chick. The dog was a little black-and-tan setter.
His name was Karr, and he was so wise he understood all that was said.
As the game-keeper was leading him through the thickets, Karr knew only too well what
was in store for him.
But this no one could have guessed by his behaviour, for he neither hung his head nor
dragged his tail, but seemed as unconcerned as ever.
It was because they were in the forest that the dog was so careful not to appear the
least bit anxious.
There were great stretches of woodland on every side of the factory, and this forest
was famed both among animals and human beings because for many, many years the
owners had been so careful of it that they
had begrudged themselves even the trees needed for firewood.
Nor had they had the heart to thin or train them.
The trees had been allowed to grow as they pleased.
Naturally a forest thus protected was a beloved refuge for wild animals, which were
to be found there in great numbers.
Among themselves they called it Liberty Forest, and regarded it as the best retreat
in the whole country.
As the dog was being led through the woods he thought of what a bugaboo he had been to
all the small animals and birds that lived there.
"Now, Karr, wouldn't they be happy in their lairs if they only knew what was awaiting
you?" he thought, but at the same time he wagged his tail and barked cheerfully, so
that no one should think that he was worried or depressed.
"What fun would there have been in living had I not hunted occasionally?" he
reasoned.
"Let him who will, regret; it's not going to be Karr!"
But the instant the dog said this, a singular change came over him.
He stretched his neck as though he had a mind to howl.
He no longer trotted alongside the game- keeper, but walked behind him.
It was plain that he had begun to think of something unpleasant.
It was early summer; the elk cows had just given birth to their young, and, the night
before, the dog had succeeded in parting from its mother an elk calf not more than
five days old, and had driven it down into the marsh.
There he had chased it back and forth over the knolls--not with the idea of capturing
it, but merely for the sport of seeing how he could scare it.
The elk cow knew that the marsh was bottomless so soon after the thaw, and that
it could not as yet hold up so large an animal as herself, so she stood on the
solid earth for the longest time, watching!
But when Karr kept chasing the calf farther and farther away, she rushed out on the
marsh, drove the dog off, took the calf with her, and turned back toward firm land.
Elk are more skilled than other animals in traversing dangerous, marshy ground, and it
seemed as if she would reach solid land in safety; but when she was almost there a
knoll which she had stepped upon sank into the mire, and she went down with it.
She tried to rise, but could get no secure foothold, so she sank and sank.
Karr stood and looked on, not daring to move.
When he saw that the elk could not save herself, he ran away as fast as he could,
for he had begun to think of the beating he would get if it were discovered that he had
brought a mother elk to grief.
He was so terrified that he dared not pause for breath until he reached home.
It was this that the dog recalled; and it troubled him in a way very different from
the recollection of all his other misdeeds.
This was doubtless because he had not really meant to kill either the elk cow or
her calf, but had deprived them of life without wishing to do so.
"But maybe they are alive yet!" thought the dog.
"They were not dead when I ran away; perhaps they saved themselves."
He was seized with an irresistible longing to know for a certainty while yet there was
time for him to find out.
He noticed that the game-keeper did not have a firm hold on the leash; so he made
a sudden spring, broke loose, and dashed through the woods down to the marsh with
such speed that he was out of sight before the game-keeper had time to level his gun.
There was nothing for the game-keeper to do but to rush after him.
When he got to the marsh he found the dog standing upon a knoll, howling with all his
might.
The man thought he had better find out the meaning of this, so he dropped his gun and
crawled out over the marsh on hands and knees.
He had not gone far when he saw an elk cow lying dead in the quagmire.
Close beside her lay a little calf. It was still alive, but so much exhausted
that it could not move.
Karr was standing beside the calf, now bending down and licking it, now howling
shrilly for help. The game-keeper raised the calf and began
to drag it toward land.
When the dog understood that the calf would be saved he was wild with joy.
He jumped round and round the game-keeper, licking his hands and barking with delight.
The man carried the baby elk home and shut it up in a calf stall in the cow shed.
Then he got help to drag the mother elk from the marsh.
Only after this had been done did he remember that he was to shoot Karr.
He called the dog to him, and again took him into the forest.
The game-keeper walked straight on toward the dog's grave; but all the while he
seemed to be thinking deeply. Suddenly he turned and walked toward the
manor.
Karr had been trotting along quietly; but when the game-keeper turned and started for
home, he became anxious.
The man must have discovered that it was he that had caused the death of the elk, and
now he was going back to the manor to be thrashed before he was shot!
To be beaten was worse than all else!
With that prospect Karr could no longer keep up his spirits, but hung his head.
When he came to the manor he did not look up, but pretended that he knew no one
there.
The master was standing on the stairs leading to the hall when the game-keeper
came forward. "Where on earth did that dog come from?" he
exclaimed.
"Surely it can't be Karr? He must be dead this long time!"
Then the man began to tell his master all about the mother elk, while Karr made
himself as little as he could, and crouched behind the game-keeper's legs.
Much to his surprise the man had only praise for him.
He said it was plain the dog knew that the elk were in distress, and wished to save
them.
"You may do as you like, but I can't shoot that dog!" declared the game-keeper.
Karr raised himself and pricked up his ears.
He could hardly believe that he heard aright.
Although he did not want to show how anxious he had been, he couldn't help
whining a little.
Could it be possible that his life was to be spared simply because he had felt uneasy
about the elk?
The master thought that Karr had conducted himself well, but as he did not want the
dog, he could not decide at once what should be done with him.
"If you will take charge of him and answer for his good behaviour in the future, he
may as well live," he said, finally.
This the game-keeper was only too glad to do, and that was how Karr came to move to
the game-keeper's lodge.
GRAYSKIN'S FLIGHT
From the day that Karr went to live with the game-keeper he abandoned entirely his
forbidden chase in the forest.
This was due not only to his having been thoroughly frightened, but also to the fact
that he did not wish to make the game- keeper angry at him.
Ever since his new master saved his life the dog loved him above everything else.
He thought only of following him and watching over him.
If he left the house, Karr would run ahead to make sure that the way was clear, and if
he sat at home, Karr would lie before the door and keep a close watch on every one
who came and went.
When all was quiet at the lodge, when no footsteps were heard on the road, and the
game-keeper was working in his garden, Karr would amuse himself playing with the baby
elk.
At first the dog had no desire to leave his master even for a moment.
Since he accompanied him everywhere, he went with him to the cow shed.
When he gave the elk calf its milk, the dog would sit outside the stall and gaze at it.
The game-keeper called the calf Grayskin because he thought it did not merit a
prettier name, and Karr agreed with him on that point.
Every time the dog looked at it he thought that he had never seen anything so ugly and
misshapen as the baby elk, with its long, shambly legs, which hung down from the body
like loose stilts.
The head was large, old, and wrinkled, and it always drooped to one side.
The skin lay in tucks and folds, as if the animal had put on a coat that had not been
made for him.
Always doleful and discontented, curiously enough he jumped up every time Karr
appeared as if glad to see him.
The elk calf became less hopeful from day to day, did not grow any, and at last he
could not even rise when he saw Karr.
Then the dog jumped up into the crib to greet him, and thereupon a light kindled in
the eyes of the poor creature--as if a cherished longing were fulfilled.
After that Karr visited the elk calf every day, and spent many hours with him, licking
his coat, playing and racing with him, till he taught him a little of everything a
forest animal should know.
It was remarkable that, from the time Karr began to visit the elk calf in his stall,
the latter seemed more contented, and began to grow.
After he was fairly started, he grew so rapidly that in a couple of weeks the stall
could no longer hold him, and he had to be moved into a grove.
When he had been in the grove two months his legs were so long that he could step
over the fence whenever he wished.
Then the lord of the manor gave the game- keeper permission to put up a higher fence
and to allow him more space. Here the elk lived for several years, and
grew up into a strong and handsome animal.
Karr kept him company as often as he could; but now it was no longer through pity, for
a great friendship had sprung up between the two.
The elk was always inclined to be melancholy, listless, and, indifferent, but
Karr knew how to make him playful and happy.
Grayskin had lived for five summers on the game-keeper's place, when his owner
received a letter from a zoölogical garden abroad asking if the elk might be
purchased.
The master was pleased with the proposal, the game-keeper was distressed, but had not
the power to say no; so it was decided that the elk should be sold.
Karr soon discovered what was in the air and ran over to the elk to have a chat with
him.
The dog was very much distressed at the thought of losing his friend, but the elk
took the matter calmly, and seemed neither glad nor sorry.
"Do you think of letting them send you away without offering resistance?" asked Karr.
"What good would it do to resist?" asked Grayskin.
"I should prefer to remain where I am, naturally, but if I've been sold, I shall
have to go, of course." Karr looked at Grayskin and measured him
with his eyes.
It was apparent that the elk was not yet full grown.
He did not have the broad antlers, high hump, and long mane of the mature elk; but
he certainly had strength enough to fight for his freedom.
"One can see that he has been in captivity all his life," thought Karr, but said
nothing. Karr left and did not return to the grove
till long past midnight.
By that time he knew Grayskin would be awake and eating his breakfast.
"Of course you are doing right, Grayskin, in letting them take you away," remarked
Karr, who appeared now to be calm and satisfied.
"You will be a prisoner in a large park and will have no responsibilities.
It seems a pity that you must leave here without having seen the forest.
You know your ancestors have a saying that 'the elk are one with the forest.'
But you haven't even been in a forest!" Grayskin glanced up from the clover which
he stood munching.
"Indeed, I should love to see the forest, but how am I to get over the fence?" he
said with his usual apathy. "Oh, that is difficult for one who has such
short legs!" said Karr.
The elk glanced slyly at the dog, who jumped the fence many times a day--little
as he was.
He walked over to the fence, and with one spring he was on the other side, without
knowing how it happened. Then Karr and Grayskin went into the
forest.
It was a beautiful moonlight night in late summer; but in among the trees it was dark,
and the elk walked along slowly. "Perhaps we had better turn back," said
Karr.
"You, who have never before tramped the wild forest, might easily break your legs."
Grayskin moved more rapidly and with more courage.
Karr conducted the elk to a part of the forest where the pines grew so thickly that
no wind could penetrate them.
"It is here that your kind are in the habit of seeking shelter from cold and storm,"
said Karr. "Here they stand under the open skies all
winter.
But you will fare much better where you are going, for you will stand in a shed, with
a roof over your head, like an ox." Grayskin made no comment, but stood quietly
and drank in the strong, piney air.
"Have you anything more to show me, or have I now seen the whole forest?" he asked.
Then Karr went with him to a big marsh, and showed him clods and quagmire.
"Over this marsh the elk take flight when they are in peril," said Karr.
"I don't know how they manage it, but, large and heavy as they are, they can walk
here without sinking.
Of course you couldn't hold yourself up on such dangerous ground, but then there is no
occasion for you to do so, for you will never be hounded by hunters."
Grayskin made no retort, but with a leap he was out on the marsh, and happy when he
felt how the clods rocked under him.
He dashed across the marsh, and came back again to Karr, without having stepped into
a mudhole. "Have we seen the whole forest now?" he
asked.
"No, not yet," said Karr. He next conducted the elk to the skirt of
the forest, where fine oaks, lindens, and aspens grew.
"Here your kind eat leaves and bark, which they consider the choicest of food; but you
will probably get better fare abroad."
Grayskin was astonished when he saw the enormous leaf-trees spreading like a great
canopy above him. He ate both oak leaves and aspen bark.
"These taste deliciously bitter and good!" he remarked.
"Better than clover!" "Then wasn't it well that you should taste
them once?" said the dog.
Thereupon he took the elk down to a little forest lake.
The water was as smooth as a mirror, and reflected the shores, which were veiled in
thin, light mists.
When Grayskin saw the lake he stood entranced.
"What is this, Karr?" he asked. It was the first time that he had seen a
lake.
"It's a large body of water--a lake," said Karr.
"Your people swim across it from shore to shore.
One could hardly expect you to be familiar with this; but at least you should go in
and take a swim!" Karr, himself, plunged into the water for
a swim.
Grayskin stayed back on the shore for some little time, but finally followed.
He grew breathless with delight as the cool water stole soothingly around his body.
He wanted it over his back, too, so went farther out.
Then he felt that the water could hold him up, and began to swim.
He swam all around Karr, ducking and snorting, perfectly at home in the water.
When they were on shore again, the dog asked if they had not better go home now.
"It's a long time until morning," observed Grayskin, "so we can *** around in the
forest a little longer." They went again into the pine wood.
Presently they came to an open glade illuminated by the moonlight, where grass
and flowers shimmered beneath the dew.
Some large animals were grazing on this forest meadow--an elk bull, several elk
cows and a number of elk calves. When Grayskin caught sight of them he
stopped short.
He hardly glanced at the cows or the young ones, but stared at the old bull, which had
broad antlers with many taglets, a high hump, and a long-haired fur piece hanging
down from his throat.
"What kind of an animal is that?" asked Grayskin in wonderment.
"He is called Antler-Crown," said Karr, "and he is your kinsman.
One of these days you, too, will have broad antlers, like those, and just such a mane;
and if you were to remain in the forest, very likely you, also, would have a herd to
lead."
"If he is my kinsman, I must go closer and have a look at him," said Grayskin.
"I never dreamed that an animal could be so stately!"
Grayskin walked over to the elk, but almost immediately he came back to Karr, who had
remained at the edge of the clearing. "You were not very well received, were
you?" said Karr.
"I told him that this was the first time I had run across any of my kinsmen, and asked
if I might walk with them on their meadow. But they drove me back, threatening me with
their antlers."
"You did right to retreat," said Karr. "A young elk bull with only a taglet crown
must be careful about fighting with an old elk.
Another would have disgraced his name in the whole forest by retreating without
resistance, but such things needn't worry you who are going to move to a foreign
land."
Karr had barely finished speaking when Grayskin turned and walked down to the
meadow. The old elk came toward him, and instantly
they began to fight.
Their antlers met and clashed, and Grayskin was driven backward over the whole meadow.
Apparently he did not know how to make use of his strength; but when he came to the
edge of the forest, he planted his feet on the ground, pushed hard with his antlers,
and began to force Antler-Crown back.
Grayskin fought quietly, while Antler-Crown puffed and snorted.
The old elk, in his turn, was now being forced backward over the meadow.
Suddenly a loud crash was heard!
A taglet in the old elk's antlers had snapped.
He tore himself loose, and dashed into the forest.
Karr was still standing at the forest border when Grayskin came along.
"Now that you have seen what there is in the forest," said Karr, "will you come home
with me?"
"Yes, it's about time," observed the elk. Both were silent on the way home.
Karr sighed several times, as if he was disappointed about something; but Grayskin
stepped along--his head in the air--and seemed delighted over the adventure.
He walked ahead unhesitatingly until they came to the enclosure.
There he paused.
He looked in at the narrow pen where he had lived up till now; saw the beaten ground,
the stale fodder, the little trough where he had drunk water, and the dark shed in
which he had slept.
"The elk are one with the forest!" he cried.
Then he threw back his head, so that his neck rested against his back, and rushed
wildly into the woods.
HELPLESS, THE WATER-SNAKE
In a pine thicket in the heart of Liberty Forest, every year, in the month of August,
there appeared a few grayish-white moths of the kind which are called nun moths.
They were small and few in number, and scarcely any one noticed them.
When they had fluttered about in the depth of the forest a couple of nights, they laid
a few thousand eggs on the branches of trees; and shortly afterward dropped
lifeless to the ground.
When spring came, little prickly caterpillars crawled out from the eggs and
began to eat the pine needles.
They had good appetites, but they never seemed to do the trees any serious harm,
because they were hotly pursued by birds. It was seldom that more than a few hundred
caterpillars escaped the pursuers.
The poor things that lived to be full grown crawled up on the branches, spun white webs
around themselves, and sat for a couple of weeks as motionless pupae.
During this period, as a rule, more than half of them were abducted.
If a hundred nun moths came forth in August, winged and perfect, it was reckoned
a good year for them.
This sort of uncertain and obscure existence did the moths lead for many years
in Liberty Forest.
There were no insect folk in the whole country that were so scarce, and they would
have remained quite harmless and powerless had they not, most unexpectedly, received
a helper.
This fact has some connection with Grayskin's flight from the game-keeper's
paddock. Grayskin roamed the forest that he might
become more familiar with the place.
Late in the afternoon he happened to squeeze through some thickets behind a
clearing where the soil was muddy and slimy, and in the centre of it was a murky
pool.
This open space was encircled by tall pines almost bare from age and miasmic air.
Grayskin was displeased with the place and would have left it at once had he not
caught sight of some bright green calla leaves which grew near the pool.
As he bent his head toward the calla stalks, he happened to disturb a big black
snake, which lay sleeping under them.
Grayskin had heard Karr speak of the poisonous adders that were to be found in
the forest.
So, when the snake raised its head, shot out its tongue and hissed at him, he
thought he had encountered an awfully dangerous reptile.
He was terrified and, raising his foot, he struck so hard with his hoof that he
crushed the snake's head. Then, away he ran in hot haste!
As soon as Grayskin had gone, another snake, just as long and as black as the
first, came up from the pool. It crawled over to the dead one, and licked
the poor, crushed-in head.
"Can it be true that you are dead, old Harmless?" hissed the snake.
"We two have lived together so many years; we two have been so happy with each other,
and have fared so well here in the swamp, that we have lived to be older than all the
other water-snakes in the forest!
This is the worst sorrow that could have befallen me!"
The snake was so broken-hearted that his long body writhed as if it had been
wounded.
Even the frogs, who lived in constant fear of him, were sorry for him.
"What a wicked creature he must be to *** a poor water-snake that cannot
defend itself!" hissed the snake.
"He certainly deserves a severe punishment. As sure as my name is Helpless and I'm the
oldest water-snake in the whole forest, I'll be avenged!
I shall not rest until that elk lies as dead on the ground as my poor old snake-
wife." When the snake had made this vow he curled
up into a hoop and began to ponder.
One can hardly imagine anything that would be more difficult for a poor water-snake
than to wreak vengeance upon a big, strong elk; and old Helpless pondered day and
night without finding any solution.
One night, as he lay there with his vengeance-thoughts, he heard a slight
rustle over his head. He glanced up and saw a few light nun moths
playing in among the trees.
He followed them with his eyes a long while; then began to hiss loudly to
himself, apparently pleased with the thought that had occurred to him--then he
fell asleep.
The next morning the water-snake went over to see Crawlie, the adder, who lived in a
stony and hilly part of Liberty Forest.
He told him all about the death of the old water-snake, and begged that he who could
deal such deadly thrusts would undertake the work of vengeance.
But Crawlie was not exactly disposed to go to war with an elk.
"If I were to attack an elk," said the adder, "he would instantly kill me.
Old Harmless is dead and gone, and we can't bring her back to life, so why should I
rush into danger on her account?"
When the water-snake got this reply he raised his head a whole foot from the
ground, and hissed furiously: "Vish vash!
Vish vash!" he said.
"It's a pity that you, who have been blessed with such weapons of defence,
should be so cowardly that you don't dare use them!"
When the adder heard this, he, too, got angry.
"Crawl away, old Helpless!" he hissed.
"The poison is in my fangs, but I would rather spare one who is said to be my
kinsman."
But the water-snake did not move from the spot, and for a long time the snakes lay
there hissing abusive epithets at each other.
When Crawlie was so angry that he couldn't hiss, but could only dart his tongue out,
the water-snake changed the subject, and began to talk in a very different tone.
"I had still another errand, Crawlie," he said, lowering his voice to a mild whisper.
"But now I suppose you are so angry that you wouldn't care to help me?"
"If you don't ask anything foolish of me, I shall certainly be at your service."
"In the pine trees down by the swamp live a moth folk that fly around all night."
"I know all about them," remarked Crawlie.
"What's up with them now?" "They are the smallest insect family in the
forest," said Helpless, "and the most harmless, since the caterpillars content
themselves with gnawing only pine needles."
"Yes, I know," said Crawlie. "I'm afraid those moths, will soon be
exterminated," sighed the water-snake. "There are so many who pick off the
caterpillars in the spring."
Now Crawlie began to understand that the water-snake wanted the caterpillars for his
own purpose, and he answered pleasantly:
"Do you wish me to say to the owls that they are to leave those pine tree worms in
peace?"
"Yes, it would be well if you who have some authority in the forest should do this,"
said Helpless.
"I might also drop a good word for the pine needle pickers among the thrushes?"
volunteered the adder. "I will gladly serve you when you do not
demand anything unreasonable."
"Now you have given me a good promise, Crawlie," said Helpless, "and I'm glad that
I came to you."
THE NUN MOTHS
One morning--several years later--Karr lay asleep on the porch.
It was in the early summer, the season of light nights, and it was as bright as day,
although the sun was not yet up.
Karr was awakened by some one calling his name.
"Is it you, Grayskin?" he asked, for he was accustomed to the elk's nightly visits.
Again he heard the call; then he recognized Grayskin's voice, and hastened in the
direction of the sound.
Karr heard the elk's footfalls in the distance, as he dashed into the thickest
pine wood, and straight through the brush, following no trodden path.
Karr could not catch up with him, and he had great difficulty in even following the
trail.
"Karr, Karri" came the cry, and the voice was certainly Grayskin's, although it had
a ring now which the dog had never heard before.
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" the dog responded.
"Where are you?" "Karr, Karr!
Don't you see how it falls and falls?" said Grayskin.
Then Karr noticed that the pine needles kept dropping and dropping from the trees,
like a steady fall of rain.
"Yes, I see how it falls," he cried, and ran far into the forest in search of the
elk.
Grayskin kept running through the thickets, while Karr was about to lose the trail
again. "Karr, Karr!" roared Grayskin; "can't you
scent that peculiar odour in the forest?"
Karr stopped and sniffed. He had not thought of it before, but now he
remarked that the pines sent forth a much stronger odour than usual.
"Yes, I catch the scent," he said.
He did not stop long enough to find out the cause of it, but hurried on after Grayskin.
The elk ran ahead with such speed that the dog could not catch up with him.
"Karr, Karr!" he called; "can't you hear the crunching on the pines?"
Now his tone was so plaintive it would have melted a stone.
Karr paused to listen.
He heard a faint but distinct "tap, tap," on the trees.
It sounded like the ticking of a watch. "Yes, I hear how it ticks," cried Karr, and
ran no farther.
He understood that the elk did not want him to follow, but to take notice of something
that was happening in the forest. Karr was standing beneath the drooping
branches of a great pine.
He looked carefully at it; the needles moved.
He went closer and saw a mass of grayish- white caterpillars creeping along the
branches, gnawing off the needles.
Every branch was covered with them. The crunch, crunch in the trees came from
the working of their busy little jaws.
Gnawed-off needles fell to the ground in a continuous shower, and from the poor pines
there came such a strong odour that the dog suffered from it.
"What can be the meaning of this?" wondered Karr.
"It's too bad about the pretty trees! Soon they'll have no beauty left."
He walked from tree to tree, trying with his poor eyesight to see if all was well
with them. "There's a pine they haven't touched," he
thought.
But they had taken possession of it, too. "And here's a birch--no, this also!
The game-keeper will not be pleased with this," observed Karr.
He ran deeper into the thickets, to learn how far the destruction had spread.
Wherever he went, he heard the same ticking; scented the same odour; saw the
same needle rain.
There was no need of his pausing to investigate.
He understood it all by these signs. The little caterpillars were everywhere.
The whole forest was being ravaged by them!
All of a sudden he came to a tract where there was no odour, and where all was
still. "Here's the end of their domain," thought
the dog, as he paused and glanced about.
But here it was even worse; for the caterpillars had already done their work,
and the trees were needleless. They were like the dead.
The only thing that covered them was a network of ragged threads, which the
caterpillars had spun to use as roads and bridges.
In there, among the dying trees, Grayskin stood waiting for Karr.
He was not alone. With him were four old elk--the most
respected in the forest.
Karr knew them: They were Crooked-Back, who was a small elk, but had a larger hump than
the others; Antler-Crown, who was the most dignified of the elk; Rough-Mane, with the
thick coat; and an old long-legged one,
who, up till the autumn before, when he got a bullet in his thigh, had been terribly
hot-tempered and quarrelsome. "What in the world is happening to the
forest?"
Karr asked when he came up to the elk. They stood with lowered heads, far
protruding upper lips, and looked puzzled. "No one can tell," answered Grayskin.
"This insect family used to be the least hurtful of any in the forest, and never
before have they done any damage.
But these last few years they have been multiplying so fast that now it appears as
if the entire forest would be destroyed."
"Yes, it looks bad," Karr agreed, "but I see that the wisest animals in the forest
have come together to hold a consultation. Perhaps you have already found some
remedy?"
When the dog said this, Crooked-Back solemnly raised his heavy head, pricked up
his long ears, and spoke:
"We have summoned you hither, Karr, that we may learn if the humans know of this
desolation."
"No," said Karr, "no human being ever comes thus far into the forest when it's not
hunting time. They know nothing of this misfortune."
Then Antler-Crown said:
"We who have lived long in the forest do not think that we can fight this insect
pest all by ourselves." "After this there will be no peace in the
forest!" put in Rough-Mane.
"But we can't let the whole Liberty Forest go to rack and ruin!" protested Big-and-
Strong. "We'll have to consult the humans; there is
no alternative."
Karr understood that the elk had difficulty in expressing what they wished to say, and
he tried to help them. "Perhaps you want me to let the people know
the conditions here?" he suggested.
All the old elk nodded their heads. "It's most unfortunate that we are obliged
to ask help of human beings, but we have no choice."
A moment later Karr was on his way home.
As he ran ahead, deeply distressed over all that he had heard and seen, a big black
water-snake approached them. "Well met in the forest!" hissed the water-
snake.
"Well met again!" snarled Karr, and rushed by without stopping.
The snake turned and tried to catch up to him.
"Perhaps that creature also, is worried about the forest," thought Karr, and
waited. Immediately the snake began to talk about
the great disaster.
"There will be an end of peace and quiet in the forest when human beings are called
hither," said the snake.
"I'm afraid there will," the dog agreed; "but the oldest forest dwellers know what
they're about!" he added. "I think I know a better plan," said the
snake, "if I can get the reward I wish."
"Are you not the one whom every one around here calls old Helpless?" said the dog,
sneeringly.
"I'm an old inhabitant of the forest," said the snake, "and I know how to get rid of
such plagues."
"If you clear the forest of that pest, I feel sure you can have anything you ask
for," said Karr.
The snake did not respond to this until he had crawled under a tree stump, where he
was well protected. Then he said:
"Tell Grayskin that if he will leave Liberty Forest forever, and go far north,
where no oak tree grows, I will send sickness and death to all the creeping
things that gnaw the pines and spruces!"
"What's that you say?" asked Karr, bristling up.
"What harm has Grayskin ever done you?"
"He has slain the one whom I loved best," the snake declared, "and I want to be
avenged."
Before the snake had finished speaking, Karr made a dash for him; but the reptile
lay safely hidden under the tree stump. "Stay where you are!"
Karr concluded.
"We'll manage to drive out the caterpillars without your help."
THE BIG WAR OF THE MOTHS
The following spring, as Karr was dashing through the forest one morning, he heard
some one behind him calling: "Karr! Karr!"
He turned and saw an old fox standing outside his lair.
"You must tell me if the humans are doing anything for the forest," said the fox.
"Yes, you may be sure they are!" said Karr.
"They are working as hard as they can." "They have killed off all my kinsfolk, and
they'll be killing me next," protested the fox.
"But they shall be pardoned for that if only they save the forest."
That year Karr never ran into the woods without some animal's asking if the humans
could save the forest.
It was not easy for the dog to answer; the people themselves were not certain that
they could conquer the moths.
But considering how feared and hated old Kolmården had always been, it was
remarkable that every day more than a hundred men went there, to work.
They cleared away the underbrush.
They felled dead trees, lopped off branches from the live ones so that the caterpillars
could not easily crawl from tree to tree; they also dug wide trenches around the
ravaged parts and put up lime-washed fences to keep them out of new territory.
Then they painted rings of lime around the trunks of trees to prevent the caterpillars
leaving those they had already stripped.
The idea was to force them to remain where they were until they starved to death.
The people worked with the forest until far into the spring.
They were hopeful, and could hardly wait for the caterpillars to come out from their
eggs, feeling certain that they had shut them in so effectually that most of them
would die of starvation.
But in the early summer the caterpillars came out, more numerous than ever.
They were everywhere! They crawled on the country roads, on
fences, on the walls of the cabins.
They wandered outside the confines of Liberty Forest to other parts of Kolmården.
"They won't stop till all our forests are destroyed!" sighed the people, who were in
great despair, and could not enter the forest without weeping.
Karr was so sick of the sight of all these creeping, gnawing things that he could
hardly bear to step outside the door. But one day he felt that he must go and
find out how Grayskin was getting on.
He took the shortest cut to the elk's haunts, and hurried along--his nose close
to the earth.
When he came to the tree stump where he had met Helpless the year before, the snake was
still there, and called to him: "Have you told Grayskin what I said to you
when last we met?" asked the water-snake.
Karr only growled and tried to get at him. "If you haven't told him, by all means do
so!" insisted the snake. "You must see that the humans know of no
cure for this plague."
"Neither do you!" retorted the dog, and ran on.
Karr found Grayskin, but the elk was so low-spirited that he scarcely greeted the
dog.
He began at once to talk of the forest. "I don't know what I wouldn't give if this
misery were only at an end!" he said. "Now I shall tell you that 'tis said you
could save the forest."
Then Karr delivered the water-snake's message.
"If any one but Helpless had promised this, I should immediately go into exile,"
declared the elk.
"But how can a poor water-snake have the power to work such a miracle?"
"Of course it's only a bluff," said Karr. "Water-snakes always like to pretend that
they know more than other creatures."
When Karr was ready to go home, Grayskin accompanied him part of the way.
Presently Karr heard a thrush, perched on a pine top, cry:
"There goes Grayskin, who has destroyed the forest!
There goes Grayskin, who has destroyed the forest!"
Karr thought that he had not heard correctly, but the next moment a hare came
darting across the path. When the hare saw them, he stopped, flapped
his ears, and screamed:
"Here comes Grayskin, who has destroyed the forest!"
Then he ran as fast as he could. "What do they mean by that?" asked Karr.
"I really don't know," said Grayskin.
"I think that the small forest animals are displeased with me because I was the one
who proposed that we should ask help of human beings.
When the underbrush was cut down, all their lairs and hiding places were destroyed."
They walked on together a while longer, and Karr heard the same cry coming from all
directions:
"There goes Grayskin, who has destroyed the forest!"
Grayskin pretended not to hear it; but Karr understood why the elk was so downhearted.
"I say, Grayskin, what does the water-snake mean by saying you killed the one he loved
best?" "How can I tell?" said Grayskin.
"You know very well that I never kill anything."
Shortly after that they met the four old elk--Crooked-Back, Antler-Crown, Rough-
Mane, and Big-and-Strong, who were coming along slowly, one after the other.
"Well met in the forest!" called Grayskin.
"Well met in turn!" answered the elk. "We were just looking for you, Grayskin, to
consult with you about the forest."
"The fact is," began Crooked-Back, "we have been informed that a crime has been
committed here, and that the whole forest is being destroyed because the criminal has
not been punished."
"What kind of a crime was it?" "Some one killed a harmless creature that
he couldn't eat. Such an act is accounted a crime in Liberty
Forest."
"Who could have done such a cowardly thing?" wondered Grayskin.
"They say that an elk did it, and we were just going to ask if you knew who it was."
"No," said Grayskin, "I have never heard of an elk killing a harmless creature."
Grayskin parted from the four old elk, and went on with Karr.
He was silent and walked with lowered head.
They happened to pass Crawlie, the adder, who lay on his shelf of rock.
"There goes Grayskin, who has destroyed the whole forest!" hissed Crawlie, like all the
rest.
By that time Grayskin's patience was exhausted.
He walked up to the snake, and raised a forefoot.
"Do you think of crushing me as you crushed the old water-snake?" hissed Crawlie.
"Did I kill a water-snake?" asked Grayskin, astonished.
"The first day you were in the forest you killed the wife of poor old Helpless," said
Crawlie. Grayskin turned quickly from the adder, and
continued his walk with Karr.
Suddenly he stopped. "Karr, it was I who committed that crime!
I killed a harmless creature; therefore it is on my account that the forest is being
destroyed."
"What are you saying?" Karr interrupted.
"You may tell the water-snake, Helpless, that Grayskin goes into exile to-night!"
"That I shall never tell him!" protested Karr.
"The Far North is a dangerous country for elk."
"Do you think that I wish to remain here, when I have caused a disaster like this?"
protested Grayskin. "Don't be rash!
Sleep over it before you do anything!"
"It was you who taught me that the elk are one with the forest," said Grayskin, and so
saying he parted from Karr.
The dog went home alone; but this talk with Grayskin troubled him, and the next morning
he returned to the forest to seek him, but Grayskin was not to be found, and the dog
did not search long for him.
He realized that the elk had taken the snake at his word, and had gone into exile.
On his walk home Karr was too unhappy for words!
He could not understand why Grayskin should allow that wretch of a water-snake to trick
him away. He had never heard of such folly!
"What power can that old Helpless have?"
As Karr walked along, his mind full of these thoughts, he happened to see the
game-keeper, who stood pointing up at a tree.
"What are you looking at?" asked a man who stood beside him.
"Sickness has come among the caterpillars," observed the game-keeper.
Karr was astonished, but he was even more angered at the snake's having the power to
keep his word.
Grayskin would have to stay away a long long time, for, of course, that water-snake
would never die. At the very height of his grief a thought
came to Karr which comforted him a little.
"Perhaps the water-snake won't live so long, after all!" he thought.
"Surely he cannot always lie protected under a tree root.
As soon as he has cleaned out the caterpillars, I know some one who is going
to bite his head off!" It was true that an illness had made its
appearance among the caterpillars.
The first summer it did not spread much. It had only just broken out when it was
time for the larvae to turn into pupae. From the latter came millions of moths.
They flew around in the trees like a blinding snowstorm, and laid countless
numbers of eggs. An even greater destruction was prophesied
for the following year.
The destruction came not only to the forest, but also to the caterpillars.
The sickness spread quickly from forest to forest.
The sick caterpillars stopped eating, crawled up to the branches of the trees,
and died there.
There was great rejoicing among the people when they saw them die, but there was even
greater rejoicing among the forest animals.
From day to day the dog Karr went about with savage glee, thinking of the hour when
he might venture to kill Helpless. But the caterpillars, meanwhile, had spread
over miles of pine woods.
Not in one summer did the disease reach them all.
Many lived to become pupas and moths.
Grayskin sent messages to his friend Karr by the birds of passage, to say that he was
alive and faring well.
But the birds told Karr confidentially that on several occasions Grayskin had been
pursued by poachers, and that only with the greatest difficulty had he escaped.
Karr lived in a state of continual grief, yearning, and anxiety.
Yet he had to wait two whole summers more before there was an end of the
caterpillars!
Karr no sooner heard the game-keeper say that the forest was out of danger than he
started on a hunt for Helpless.
But when he was in the thick of the forest he made a frightful discovery: He could not
hunt any more, he could not run, he could not track his enemy, and he could not see
at all!
During the long years of waiting, old age had overtaken Karr.
He had grown old without having noticed it. He had not the strength even to kill a
water-snake.
He was not able to save his friend Grayskin from his enemy.
RETRIBUTION
One afternoon Akka from Kebnekaise and her flock alighted on the shore of a forest
lake. Spring was backward--as it always is in the
mountain districts.
Ice covered all the lake save a narrow strip next the land.
The geese at once plunged into the water to bathe and hunt for food.
In the morning Nils Holgersson had dropped one of his wooden shoes, so he went down by
the elms and birches that grew along the shore, to look for something to bind around
his foot.
The boy walked quite a distance before he found anything that he could use.
He glanced about nervously, for he did not fancy being in the forest.
"Give me the plains and the lakes!" he thought.
"There you can see what you are likely to meet.
Now, if this were a grove of little birches, it would be well enough, for then
the ground would be almost bare; but how people can like these wild, pathless
forests is incomprehensible to me.
If I owned this land I would chop down every tree."
At last he caught sight of a piece of birch bark, and just as he was fitting it to his
foot he heard a rustle behind him.
He turned quickly. A snake darted from the brush straight
toward him!
The snake was uncommonly long and thick, but the boy soon saw that it had a white
spot on each cheek. "Why, it's only a water-snake," he laughed;
"it can't harm me."
But the next instant the snake gave him a powerful blow on the chest that knocked him
down. The boy was on his feet in a second and
running away, but the snake was after him!
The ground was stony and scrubby; the boy could not proceed very fast; and the snake
was close at his heels. Then the boy saw a big rock in front of
him, and began to scale it.
"I do hope the snake can't follow me here!" he thought, but he had no sooner reached
the top of the rock than he saw that the snake was following him.
Quite close to the boy, on a narrow ledge at the top of the rock, lay a round stone
as large as a man's head. As the snake came closer, the boy ran
behind the stone, and gave it a push.
It rolled right down on the snake, drawing it along to the ground, where it landed on
its head.
"That stone did its work well!" thought the boy with a sigh of relief, as he saw the
snake squirm a little, and then lie perfectly still.
"I don't think I've been in greater peril on the whole journey," he said.
He had hardly recovered from the shock when he heard a rustle above him, and saw a bird
circling through the air to light on the ground right beside the snake.
The bird was like a crow in size and form, but was dressed in a pretty coat of shiny
black feathers. The boy cautiously retreated into a crevice
of the rock.
His adventure in being kidnapped by crows was still fresh in his memory, and he did
not care to show himself when there was no need of it.
The bird strode back and forth beside the snake's body, and turned it over with his
beak. Finally he spread his wings and began to
shriek in ear-splitting tones:
"It is certainly Helpless, the water-snake, that lies dead here!"
Once more he walked the length of the snake; then he stood in a deep study, and
scratched his neck with his foot.
"It isn't possible that there can be two such big snakes in the forest," he
pondered. "It must surely be Helpless!"
He was just going to thrust his beak into the snake, but suddenly checked himself.
"You mustn't be a numbskull, Bataki!" he remarked to himself.
"Surely you cannot be thinking of eating the snake until you have called Karr!
He wouldn't believe that Helpless was dead unless he could see it with his own eyes."
The boy tried to keep quiet, but the bird was so ludicrously solemn, as he stalked
back and forth chattering to himself, that he had to laugh.
The bird heard him, and, with a flap of his wings, he was up on the rock.
The boy rose quickly and walked toward him.
"Are you not the one who is called Bataki, the raven? and are you not a friend of Akka
from Kebnekaise?" asked the boy. The bird regarded him intently; then nodded
three times.
"Surely, you're not the little chap who flies around with the wild geese, and whom
they call Thumbietot?" "Oh, you're not so far out of the way,"
said the boy.
"What luck that I should have run across you!
Perhaps you can tell me who killed this water-snake?"
"The stone which I rolled down on him killed him," replied the boy, and related
how the whole thing happened. "That was cleverly done for one who is as
tiny as you are!" said the raven.
"I have a friend in these parts who will be glad to know that this snake has been
killed, and I should like to render you a service in return."
"Then tell me why you are glad the water- snake is dead," responded the boy.
"It's a long story," said the raven; "you wouldn't have the patience to listen to
it."
But the boy insisted that he had, and then the raven told him the whole story about
Karr and Grayskin and Helpless, the water- snake.
When he had finished, the boy sat quietly for a moment, looking straight ahead.
Then he spoke: "I seem to like the forest better since
hearing this.
I wonder if there is anything left of the old Liberty Forest."'
"Most of it has been destroyed," said Bataki.
"The trees look as if they had passed through a fire.
They'll have to be cleared away, and it will take many years before the forest will
be what it once was."
"That snake deserved his death!" declared the boy.
"But I wonder if it could be possible that he was so wise he could send sickness to
the caterpillars?"
"Perhaps he knew that they frequently became sick in that way," intimated Bataki.
"Yes, that may be; but all the same, I must say that he was a very wily snake."
The boy stopped talking because he saw the raven was not listening to him, but sitting
with gaze averted. "Hark!" he said.
"Karr is in the vicinity.
Won't he be happy when he sees that Helpless is dead!"
The boy turned his head in the direction of the sound.
"He's talking with the wild geese," he said.
"Oh, you may be sure that he has dragged himself down to the strand to get the
latest news about Grayskin!"
Both the boy and the raven jumped to the ground, and hastened down to the shore.
All the geese had come out of the lake, and stood talking with an old dog, who was so
weak and decrepit that it seemed as if he might drop dead at any moment.
"There's Karr," said Bataki to the boy.
"Let him hear first what the wild geese have to say to him; later we shall tell him
that the water-snake is dead." Presently they heard Akka talking to Karr.
"It happened last year while we were making our usual spring trip," remarked the
leader-goose.
"We started out one morning--Yksi, Kaksi, and I, and we flew over the great boundary
forests between Dalecarlia and Hälsingland. Under us we, saw only thick pine forests.
The snow was still deep among the trees, and the creeks were mostly frozen.
"Suddenly we noticed three poachers down in the forest!
They were on skis, had dogs in leash, carried knives in their belts, but had no
guns.
"As there was a hard crust on the snow, they did not bother to take the winding
forest paths, but skied straight ahead. Apparently they knew very well where they
must go to find what they were seeking.
"We wild geese flew on, high up in the air, so that the whole forest under us was
visible.
When we sighted the poachers we wanted to find out where the game was, so we circled
up and down, peering through the trees.
Then, in a dense thicket, we saw something that looked like big, moss-covered rocks,
but couldn't be rocks, for there was no snow on them.
"We shot down, suddenly, and lit in the centre of the thicket.
The three rocks moved. They were three elk--a bull and two cows--
resting in the bleak forest.
"When we alighted, the elk bull rose and came toward us.
He was the most superb animal we had ever seen.
When he saw that it was only some poor wild geese that had awakened him, he lay down
again. "'No, old granddaddy, you mustn't go back
to sleep!'
I cried. 'Flee as fast as you can!
There are poachers in the forest, and they are bound for this very deer fold.'
"'Thank you, goose mother!' said the elk.
He seemed to be dropping to sleep while he was speaking.
'But surely you must know that we elk are under the protection of the law at this
time of the year.
Those poachers are probably out for fox,' he yawned.
"'There are plenty of fox trails in the forest, but the poachers are not looking
for them.
Believe me, old granddaddy! They know that you are lying here, and are
coming to attack you.
They have no guns with them--only spears and knives--for they dare not fire a shot
at this season.' "The elk bull lay there calmly, but the elk
cows seemed to feel uneasy.
"'It may be as the geese say,' they remarked, beginning to bestir themselves.
"'You just lie down!' said the elk bull. 'There are no poachers coming here; of that
you may be certain.'
"There was nothing more to be done, so we wild geese rose again into the air.
But we continued to circle over the place, to see how it would turn out for the elk.
"We had hardly reached our regular flying altitude, when we saw the elk bull come out
from the thicket. He sniffed the air a little, then walked
straight toward the poachers.
As he strode along he stepped upon dry twigs that crackled noisily.
A big barren marsh lay just beyond him.
Thither he went and took his stand in the middle, where there was nothing to hide him
from view. "There he stood until the poachers emerged
from the woods.
Then he turned and fled in the opposite direction.
The poachers let loose the dogs, and they themselves skied after him at full speed.
"The elk threw back his head and loped as fast as he could.
He kicked up snow until it flew like a blizzard about him.
Both dogs and men were left far behind.
Then the elk stopped, as if to await their approach.
When they were within sight he dashed ahead again.
We understood that he was purposely tempting the hunters away from the place
where the cows were.
We thought it brave of him to face danger himself, in order that those who were dear
to him might be left in safety. None of us wanted to leave the place until
we had seen how all this was to end.
"Thus the chase continued for two hours or more.
We wondered that the poachers went to the trouble of pursuing the elk when they were
not armed with rifles.
They couldn't have thought that they could succeed in tiring out a runner like him!
"Then we noticed that the elk no longer ran so rapidly.
He stepped on the snow more carefully, and every time he lifted his feet, blood could
be seen in his tracks. "We understood why the poachers had been so
persistent!
They had counted on help from the snow. The elk was heavy, and with every step he
sank to the bottom of the drift. The hard crust on the snow was scraping his
legs.
It scraped away the fur, and tore out pieces of flesh, so that he was in torture
every time he put his foot down.
"The poachers and the dogs, who were so light that the ice crust could hold their
weight, pursued him all the while. He ran on and on--his steps becoming more
and more uncertain and faltering.
He gasped for breath. Not only did he suffer intense pain, but he
was also exhausted from wading through the deep snowdrifts.
"At last he lost all patience.
He paused to let poachers and dogs come upon him, and was ready to fight them.
As he stood there waiting, he glanced upward.
When he saw us wild geese circling above him, he cried out:
"'Stay here, wild geese, until all is over!
And the next time you fly over Kolmården, look up Karr, and ask him if he doesn't
think that his friend Grayskin has met with a happy end?'"
When Akka had gone so far in her story the old dog rose and walked nearer to her.
"Grayskin led a good life," he said. "He understands me.
He knows that I'm a brave dog, and that I shall be glad to hear that he had a happy
end. Now tell me how--"
He raised his tail and threw back his head, as if to give himself a bold and proud
bearing--then he collapsed. "Karr!
Karr!" called a man's voice from the forest.
The old dog rose obediently. "My master is calling me," he said, "and I
must not tarry longer.
I just saw him load his gun. Now we two are going into the forest for
the last time. "Many thanks, wild goose!
I know everything that I need know to die content!"