Project Gutenberg's The Wonderful Adventures of Nils, by Selma Lagerloef

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Title: The Wonderful Adventures of Nils

Author: Selma Lagerloef

Release Date: February 4, 2004 [EBook #10935]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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[Transcriber's note: The inconsistent orthography of the original is
retained in this etext.]


THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES of NILS

by

SELMA LAGERLÖF


TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH
BY VELMA SWANSTON HOWARD



CONTENTS

The Boy

Akka from Kebnekaise

The Wonderful Journey of Nils

Glimminge Castle

The Great Crane Dance on Kullaberg

In Rainy Weather

The Stairway with the Three Steps

By Ronneby River

Karlskrona

The Trip to Öland

Öland's Southern Point

The Big Butterfly

Little Karl's Island

Two Cities

The Legend of Småland

The Crows

The Old Peasant Woman

From Taberg to Huskvarna

The Big Bird Lake

Ulvåsa-Lady

The Homespun Cloth

The Story of Karr and Grayskin

The Wind Witch

The Breaking Up of the Ice

Thumbietot and the Bears

The Flood

Dunfin

Stockholm

Gorgo the Eagle

On Over Gästrikland

A Day in Hälsingland

In Medelpad

A Morning in Ångermanland

Westbottom and Lapland

Osa, the Goose Girl, and Little Mats

With the Laplanders

Homeward Bound

Legends from Härjedalen

Vermland and Dalsland

The Treasure on the Island

The Journey to Vemminghög

Home at Last

The Parting with the Wild Geese


_Some of the purely geographical matter in the Swedish original of the
"Further Adventures of Nils" has been eliminated from the English
version.

The author has rendered valuable assistance in cutting certain chapters
and abridging others. Also, with the author's approval, cuts have been
made where the descriptive matter was merely of local interest.

But the story itself is intact.

V.S.H_.



THE BOY


THE ELF

_Sunday, March twentieth_.

Once there was a boy. He was--let us say--something like fourteen years
old; long and loose-jointed and towheaded. He wasn't good for much, that
boy. His chief delight was to eat and sleep; and after that--he liked
best to make mischief.

It was a Sunday morning and the boy's parents were getting ready to go
to church. The boy sat on the edge of the table, in his shirt sleeves,
and thought how lucky it was that both father and mother were going
away, and the coast would be clear for a couple of hours. "Good! Now I
can take down pop's gun and fire off a shot, without anybody's meddling
interference," he said to himself.

But it was almost as if father should have guessed the boy's thoughts,
for just as he was on the threshold--ready to start--he stopped short,
and turned toward the boy. "Since you won't come to church with mother
and me," he said, "the least you can do, is to read the service at home.
Will you promise to do so?" "Yes," said the boy, "that I can do easy
enough." And he thought, of course, that he wouldn't read any more than
he felt like reading.

The boy thought that never had he seen his mother so persistent. In a
second she was over by the shelf near the fireplace, and took down
Luther's Commentary and laid it on the table, in front of the
window--opened at the service for the day. She also opened the New
Testament, and placed it beside the Commentary. Finally, she drew up the
big arm-chair, which was bought at the parish auction the year before,
and which, as a rule, no one but father was permitted to occupy.

The boy sat thinking that his mother was giving herself altogether too
much trouble with this spread; for he had no intention of reading more
than a page or so. But now, for the second time, it was almost as if his
father were able to see right through him. He walked up to the boy, and
said in a severe tone: "Now, remember, that you are to read carefully!
For when we come back, I shall question you thoroughly; and if you have
skipped a single page, it will not go well with you."

"The service is fourteen and a half pages long," said his mother, just
as if she wanted to heap up the measure of his misfortune. "You'll have
to sit down and begin the reading at once, if you expect to get through
with it."

With that they departed. And as the boy stood in the doorway watching
them, he thought that he had been caught in a trap. "There they go
congratulating themselves, I suppose, in the belief that they've hit
upon something so good that I'll be forced to sit and hang over the
sermon the whole time that they are away," thought he.

But his father and mother were certainly not congratulating themselves
upon anything of the sort; but, on the contrary, they were very much
distressed. They were poor farmers, and their place was not much bigger
than a garden-plot. When they first moved there, the place couldn't feed
more than one pig and a pair of chickens; but they were uncommonly
industrious and capable folk--and now they had both cows and geese.
Things had turned out very well for them; and they would have gone to
church that beautiful morning--satisfied and happy--if they hadn't had
their son to think of. Father complained that he was dull and lazy; he
had not cared to learn anything at school, and he was such an all-round
good-for-nothing, that he could barely be made to tend geese. Mother did
not deny that this was true; but she was most distressed because he was
wild and bad; cruel to animals, and ill-willed toward human beings. "May
God soften his hard heart, and give him a better disposition!" said the
mother, "or else he will be a misfortune, both to himself and to us."

The boy stood for a long time and pondered whether he should read the
service or not. Finally, he came to the conclusion that, this time, it
was best to be obedient. He seated himself in the easy chair, and began
to read. But when he had been rattling away in an undertone for a little
while, this mumbling seemed to have a soothing effect upon him--and he
began to nod.

It was the most beautiful weather outside! It was only the twentieth of
March; but the boy lived in West Vemminghög Township, down in Southern
Skane, where the spring was already in full swing. It was not as yet
green, but it was fresh and budding. There was water in all the
trenches, and the colt's-foot on the edge of the ditch was in bloom. All
the weeds that grew in among the stones were brown and shiny. The
beech-woods in the distance seemed to swell and grow thicker with every
second. The skies were high--and a clear blue. The cottage door stood
ajar, and the lark's trill could be heard in the room. The hens and
geese pattered about in the yard, and the cows, who felt the spring air
away in their stalls, lowed their approval every now and then.

The boy read and nodded and fought against drowsiness. "No! I don't want
to fall asleep," thought he, "for then I'll not get through with this
thing the whole forenoon."

But--somehow--he fell asleep.

He did not know whether he had slept a short while, or a long while; but
he was awakened by hearing a slight noise back of him.

On the window-sill, facing the boy, stood a small looking-glass; and
almost the entire cottage could be seen in this. As the boy raised his
head, he happened to look in the glass; and then he saw that the cover
to his mother's chest had been opened.

His mother owned a great, heavy, iron-bound oak chest, which she
permitted no one but herself to open. Here she treasured all the things
she had inherited from her mother, and of these she was especially
careful. Here lay a couple of old-time peasant dresses, of red homespun
cloth, with short bodice and plaited shirt, and a pearl-bedecked breast
pin. There were starched white-linen head-dresses, and heavy silver
ornaments and chains. Folks don't care to go about dressed like that in
these days, and several times his mother had thought of getting rid of
the old things; but somehow, she hadn't had the heart to do it.

Now the boy saw distinctly--in the glass--that the chest-lid was open.
He could not understand how this had happened, for his mother had closed
the chest before she went away. She never would have left that precious
chest open when he was at home, alone.

He became low-spirited and apprehensive. He was afraid that a thief had
sneaked his way into the cottage. He didn't dare to move; but sat still
and stared into the looking-glass.

While he sat there and waited for the thief to make his appearance, he
began to wonder what that dark shadow was which fell across the edge of
the chest. He looked and looked--and did not want to believe his eyes.
But the thing, which at first seemed shadowy, became more and more
clear to him; and soon he saw that it was something real. It was no less
a thing than an elf who sat there--astride the edge of the chest!

To be sure, the boy had heard stories about elves, but he had never
dreamed that they were such tiny creatures. He was no taller than a
hand's breadth--this one, who sat on the edge of the chest. He had an
old, wrinkled and beardless face, and was dressed in a black frock coat,
knee-breeches and a broad-brimmed black hat. He was very trim and smart,
with his white laces about the throat and wrist-bands, his buckled
shoes, and the bows on his garters. He had taken from the chest an
embroidered piece, and sat and looked at the old-fashioned handiwork
with such an air of veneration, that he did not observe the boy had
awakened.

The boy was somewhat surprised to see the elf, but, on the other hand,
he was not particularly frightened. It was impossible to be afraid of
one who was so little. And since the elf was so absorbed in his own
thoughts that he neither saw nor heard, the boy thought that it would be
great fun to play a trick on him; to push him over into the chest and
shut the lid on him, or something of that kind.

But the boy was not so courageous that he dared to touch the elf with
his hands, instead he looked around the room for something to poke him
with. He let his gaze wander from the sofa to the leaf-table; from the
leaf-table to the fireplace. He looked at the kettles, then at the
coffee-urn, which stood on a shelf, near the fireplace; on the water
bucket near the door; and on the spoons and knives and forks and saucers
and plates, which could be seen through the half-open cupboard door. He
looked at his father's gun, which hung on the wall, beside the portrait
of the Danish royal family, and on the geraniums and fuchsias, which
blossomed in the window. And last, he caught sight of an old
butterfly-snare that hung on the window frame. He had hardly set eyes on
that butterfly-snare, before he reached over and snatched it and jumped
up and swung it alongside the edge of the chest. He was himself
astonished at the luck he had. He hardly knew how he had managed it--but
he had actually snared the elf. The poor little chap lay, head downward,
in the bottom of the long snare, and could not free himself.

The first moment the boy hadn't the least idea what he should do with
his prize. He was only particular to swing the snare backward and
forward; to prevent the elf from getting a foothold and clambering up.

The elf began to speak, and begged, oh! so pitifully, for his freedom.
He had brought them good luck--these many years--he said, and deserved
better treatment. Now, if the boy would set him free, he would give him
an old coin, a silver spoon, and a gold penny, as big as the case on his
father's silver watch.

The boy didn't think that this was much of an offer; but it so
happened--that after he had gotten the elf in his power, he was afraid
of him. He felt that he had entered into an agreement with something
weird and uncanny; something which did not belong to his world, and he
was only too glad to get rid of the horrid thing.

For this reason he agreed at once to the bargain, and held the snare
still, so the elf could crawl out of it. But when the elf was almost out
of the snare, the boy happened to think that he ought to have bargained
for large estates, and all sorts of good things. He should at least have
made this stipulation: that the elf must conjure the sermon into his
head. "What a fool I was to let him go!" thought he, and began to shake
the snare violently, so the elf would tumble down again.

But the instant the boy did this, he received such a stinging box on the
ear, that he thought his head would fly in pieces. He was dashed--first
against one wall, then against the other; he sank to the floor, and lay
there--senseless.

When he awoke, he was alone in the cottage. The chest-lid was down, and
the butterfly-snare hung in its usual place by the window. If he had not
felt how the right cheek burned, from that box on the ear, he would have
been tempted to believe the whole thing had been a dream. "At any rate,
father and mother will be sure to insist that it was nothing else,"
thought he. "They are not likely to make any allowances for that old
sermon, on account of the elf. It's best for me to get at that reading
again," thought he.

But as he walked toward the table, he noticed something remarkable. It
couldn't be possible that the cottage had grown. But why was he obliged
to take so many more steps than usual to get to the table? And what was
the matter with the chair? It looked no bigger than it did a while ago;
but now he had to step on the rung first, and then clamber up in order
to reach the seat. It was the same thing with the table. He could not
look over the top without climbing to the arm of the chair.

"What in all the world is this?" said the boy. "I believe the elf has
bewitched both the armchair and the table--and the whole cottage."

The Commentary lay on the table and, to all appearances, it was not
changed; but there must have been something queer about that too, for he
could not manage to read a single word of it, without actually standing
right in the book itself.

He read a couple of lines, and then he chanced to look up. With that,
his glance fell on the looking-glass; and then he cried aloud: "Look!
There's another one!"

For in the glass he saw plainly a little, little creature who was
dressed in a hood and leather breeches.

"Why, that one is dressed exactly like me!" said the boy, and clasped
his hands in astonishment. But then he saw that the thing in the mirror
did the same thing. Then he began to pull his hair and pinch his arms
and swing round; and instantly he did the same thing after him; he, who
was seen in the mirror.

The boy ran around the glass several times, to see if there wasn't a
little man hidden behind it, but he found no one there; and then he
began to shake with terror. For now he understood that the elf had
bewitched him, and that the creature whose image he saw in the
glass--was he, himself.

THE WILD GEESE

The boy simply could not make himself believe that he had been
transformed into an elf. "It can't be anything but a dream--a queer
fancy," thought he. "If I wait a few moments, I'll surely be turned back
into a human being again."

He placed himself before the glass and closed his eyes. He opened them
again after a couple of minutes, and then expected to find that it had
all passed over--but it hadn't. He was--and remained--just as little. In
other respects, he was the same as before. The thin, straw-coloured
hair; the freckles across his nose; the patches on his leather breeches
and the darns on his stockings, were all like themselves, with this
exception--that they had become diminished.

No, it would do no good for him to stand still and wait, of this he was
certain. He must try something else. And he thought the wisest thing
that he could do was to try and find the elf, and make his peace with
him.

And while he sought, he cried and prayed and promised everything he
could think of. Nevermore would he break his word to anyone; never again
would he be naughty; and never, never would he fall asleep again over
the sermon. If he might only be a human being once more, he would be
such a good and helpful and obedient boy. But no matter how much he
promised--it did not help him the least little bit.

Suddenly he remembered that he had heard his mother say, all the tiny
folk made their home in the cowsheds; and, at once, he concluded to go
there, and see if he couldn't find the elf. It was a lucky thing that
the cottage-door stood partly open, for he never could have reached the
bolt and opened it; but now he slipped through without any difficulty.

When he came out in the hallway, he looked around for his wooden shoes;
for in the house, to be sure, he had gone about in his stocking-feet. He
wondered how he should manage with these big, clumsy wooden shoes; but
just then, he saw a pair of tiny shoes on the doorstep. When he observed
that the elf had been so thoughtful that he had also bewitched the
wooden shoes, he was even more troubled. It was evidently his intention
that this affliction should last a long time.

On the wooden board-walk in front of the cottage, hopped a gray sparrow.
He had hardly set eyes on the boy before he called out: "Teetee! Teetee!
Look at Nils goosey-boy! Look at Thumbietot! Look at Nils Holgersson
Thumbietot!"

Instantly, both the geese and the chickens turned and stared at the boy;
and then they set up a fearful cackling. "Cock-el-i-coo," crowed the
rooster, "good enough for him! Cock-el-i-coo, he has pulled my comb."
"Ka, ka, kada, serves him right!" cried the hens; and with that they
kept up a continuous cackle. The geese got together in a tight group,
stuck their heads together and asked: "Who can have done this? Who can
have done this?"

But the strangest thing of all was, that the boy understood what they
said. He was so astonished, that he stood there as if rooted to the
doorstep, and listened. "It must be because I am changed into an elf,"
said he. "This is probably why I understand bird-talk."

He thought it was unbearable that the hens would not stop saying that it
served him right. He threw a stone at them and shouted:

"Shut up, you pack!"

But it hadn't occurred to him before, that he was no longer the sort of
boy the hens need fear. The whole henyard made a rush for him, and
formed a ring around him; then they all cried at once: "Ka, ka, kada,
served you right! Ka, ka, kada, served you right!"

The boy tried to get away, but the chickens ran after him and screamed,
until he thought he'd lose his hearing. It is more than likely that he
never could have gotten away from them, if the house cat hadn't come
along just then. As soon as the chickens saw the cat, they quieted down
and pretended to be thinking of nothing else than just to scratch in the
earth for worms.

Immediately the boy ran up to the cat. "You dear pussy!" said he, "you
must know all the corners and hiding places about here? You'll be a good
little kitty and tell me where I can find the elf."

The cat did not reply at once. He seated himself, curled his tail into
a graceful ring around his paws--and stared at the boy. It was a large
black cat with one white spot on his chest. His fur lay sleek and soft,
and shone in the sunlight. The claws were drawn in, and the eyes were a
dull gray, with just a little narrow dark streak down the centre. The
cat looked thoroughly good-natured and inoffensive.

"I know well enough where the elf lives," he said in a soft voice, "but
that doesn't say that I'm going to tell _you_ about it."

"Dear pussy, you must tell me where the elf lives!" said the boy. "Can't
you see how he has bewitched me?"

The cat opened his eyes a little, so that the green wickedness began to
shine forth. He spun round and purred with satisfaction before he
replied. "Shall I perhaps help you because you have so often grabbed me
by the tail?" he said at last.

Then the boy was furious and forgot entirely how little and helpless he
was now. "Oh! I can pull your tail again, I can," said he, and ran
toward the cat.

The next instant the cat was so changed that the boy could scarcely
believe it was the same animal. Every separate hair on his body stood on
end. The back was bent; the legs had become elongated; the claws scraped
the ground; the tail had grown thick and short; the ears were laid back;
the mouth was frothy; and the eyes were wide open and glistened like
sparks of red fire.

The boy didn't want to let himself be scared by a cat, and he took a
step forward. Then the cat made one spring and landed right on the boy;
knocked him down and stood over him--his forepaws on his chest, and his
jaws wide apart--over his throat.

The boy felt how the sharp claws sank through his vest and shirt and
into his skin; and how the sharp eye-teeth tickled his throat. He
shrieked for help, as loudly as he could, but no one came. He thought
surely that his last hour had come. Then he felt that the cat drew in
his claws and let go the hold on his throat.

"There!" he said, "that will do now. I'll let you go this time, for my
mistress's sake. I only wanted you to know which one of us two has the
power now."

With that the cat walked away--looking as smooth and pious as he did
when he first appeared on the scene. The boy was so crestfallen that he
didn't say a word, but only hurried to the cowhouse to look for the elf.

There were not more than three cows, all told. But when the boy came in,
there was such a bellowing and such a kick-up, that one might easily
have believed that there were at least thirty.

"Moo, moo, moo," bellowed Mayrose. "It is well there is such a thing as
justice in this world."

"Moo, moo, moo," sang the three of them in unison. He couldn't hear what
they said, for each one tried to out-bellow the others.

The boy wanted to ask after the elf, but he couldn't make himself heard
because the cows were in full uproar. They carried on as they used to do
when he let a strange dog in on them. They kicked with their hind legs,
shook their necks, stretched their heads, and measured the distance with
their horns.

"Come here, you!" said Mayrose, "and you'll get a kick that you won't
forget in a hurry!"

"Come here," said Gold Lily, "and you shall dance on my horns!"

"Come here, and you shall taste how it felt when you threw your wooden
shoes at me, as you did last summer!" bawled Star.

"Come here, and you shall be repaid for that wasp you let loose in my
ear!" growled Gold Lily.

Mayrose was the oldest and the wisest of them, and she was the very
maddest. "Come here!" said she, "that I may pay you back for the many
times that you have jerked the milk pail away from your mother; and for
all the snares you laid for her, when she came carrying the milk pails;
and for all the tears when she has stood here and wept over you!"

The boy wanted to tell them how he regretted that he had been unkind to
them; and that never, never--from now on--should he be anything but
good, if they would only tell him where the elf was. But the cows didn't
listen to him. They made such a racket that he began to fear one of them
would succeed in breaking loose; and he thought that the best thing for
him to do was to go quietly away from the cowhouse.

When he came out, he was thoroughly disheartened. He could understand
that no one on the place wanted to help him find the elf. And little
good would it do him, probably, if the elf were found.

He crawled up on the broad hedge which fenced in the farm, and which was
overgrown with briers and lichen. There he sat down to think about how
it would go with him, if he never became a human being again. When
father and mother came home from church, there would be a surprise for
them. Yes, a surprise--it would be all over the land; and people would
come flocking from East Vemminghög, and from Torp, and from Skerup. The
whole Vemminghög township would come to stare at him. Perhaps father and
mother would take him with them, and show him at the market place in
Kivik.

No, that was too horrible to think about. He would rather that no human
being should ever see him again.

His unhappiness was simply frightful! No one in all the world was so
unhappy as he. He was no longer a human being--but a freak.

Little by little he began to comprehend what it meant--to be no longer
human. He was separated from everything now; he could no longer play
with other boys, he could not take charge of the farm after his parents
were gone; and certainly no girl would think of marrying _him_.

He sat and looked at his home. It was a little log house, which lay as
if it had been crushed down to earth, under the high, sloping roof. The
outhouses were also small; and the patches of ground were so narrow that
a horse could barely turn around on them. But little and poor though the
place was, it was much too good for him _now_. He couldn't ask for any
better place than a hole under the stable floor.

It was wondrously beautiful weather! It budded, and it rippled, and it
murmured, and it twittered--all around him. But he sat there with such a
heavy sorrow. He should never be happy any more about anything.

Never had he seen the skies as blue as they were to-day. Birds of
passage came on their travels. They came from foreign lands, and had
travelled over the East sea, by way of Smygahuk, and were now on their
way North. They were of many different kinds; but he was only familiar
with the wild geese, who came flying in two long rows, which met at an
angle.

Several flocks of wild geese had already flown by. They flew very high,
still he could hear how they shrieked: "To the hills! Now we're off to
the hills!"

When the wild geese saw the tame geese, who walked about the farm, they
sank nearer the earth, and called: "Come along! Come along! We're off to
the hills!"

The tame geese could not resist the temptation to raise their heads and
listen, but they answered very sensibly: "We're pretty well off where we
are. We're pretty well off where we are."

It was, as we have said, an uncommonly fine day, with an atmosphere that
it must have been a real delight to fly in, so light and bracing. And
with each new wild geese-flock that flew by, the tame geese became more
and more unruly. A couple of times they flapped their wings, as if they
had half a mind to fly along. But then an old mother-goose would always
say to them: "Now don't be silly. Those creatures will have to suffer
both hunger and cold."

There was a young gander whom the wild geese had fired with a passion
for adventure. "If another flock comes this way, I'll follow them," said
he.

Then there came a new flock, who shrieked like the others, and the young
gander answered: "Wait a minute! Wait a minute! I'm coming."

He spread his wings and raised himself into the air; but he was so
unaccustomed to flying, that he fell to the ground again.

At any rate, the wild geese must have heard his call, for they turned
and flew back slowly to see if he was coming.

"Wait, wait!" he cried, and made another attempt to fly.

All this the boy heard, where he lay on the hedge. "It would be a great
pity," thought he, "if the big goosey-gander should go away. It would be
a big loss to father and mother if he was gone when they came home from
church."

When he thought of this, once again he entirely forgot that he was
little and helpless. He took one leap right down into the goose-flock,
and threw his arms around the neck of the goosey-gander. "Oh, no! You
don't fly away this time, sir!" cried he.

But just about then, the gander was considering how he should go to
work to raise himself from the ground. He couldn't stop to shake the boy
off, hence he had to go along with him--up in the air.

They bore on toward the heights so rapidly, that the boy fairly gasped.
Before he had time to think that he ought to let go his hold around the
gander's neck, he was so high up that he would have been killed
instantly, if he had fallen to the ground.

The only thing that he could do to make himself a little more
comfortable, was to try and get upon the gander's back. And there he
wriggled himself forthwith; but not without considerable trouble. And it
was not an easy matter, either, to hold himself secure on the slippery
back, between two swaying wings. He had to dig deep into feathers and
down with both hands, to keep from tumbling to the ground.

THE BIG CHECKED CLOTH

The boy had grown so giddy that it was a long while before he came to
himself. The winds howled and beat against him, and the rustle of
feathers and swaying of wings sounded like a whole storm. Thirteen geese
flew around him, flapping their wings and honking. They danced before
his eyes and they buzzed in his ears. He didn't know whether they flew
high or low, or in what direction they were travelling.

After a bit, he regained just enough sense to understand that he ought
to find out where the geese were taking him. But this was not so easy,
for he didn't know how he should ever muster up courage enough to look
down. He was sure he'd faint if he attempted it.

The wild geese were not flying very high because the new travelling
companion could not breathe in the very thinnest air. For his sake they
also flew a little slower than usual.

At last the boy just made himself cast one glance down to earth. Then he
thought that a great big rug lay spread beneath him, which was made up
of an incredible number of large and small checks.

"Where in all the world am I now?" he wondered.

He saw nothing but check upon check. Some were broad and ran crosswise,
and some were long and narrow--all over, there were angles and corners.
Nothing was round, and nothing was crooked.

"What kind of a big, checked cloth is this that I'm looking down on?"
said the boy to himself without expecting anyone to answer him.

But instantly the wild geese who flew about him called out: "Fields and
meadows. Fields and meadows."

Then he understood that the big, checked cloth he was travelling over
was the flat land of southern Sweden; and he began to comprehend why it
looked so checked and multi-coloured. The bright green checks he
recognised first; they were rye fields that had been sown in the fall,
and had kept themselves green under the winter snows. The yellowish-gray
checks were stubble-fields--the remains of the oat-crop which had grown
there the summer before. The brownish ones were old clover meadows: and
the black ones, deserted grazing lands or ploughed-up fallow pastures.
The brown checks with the yellow edges were, undoubtedly, beech-tree
forests; for in these you'll find the big trees which grow in the heart
of the forest--naked in winter; while the little beech-trees, which grow
along the borders, keep their dry, yellowed leaves way into the spring.
There were also dark checks with gray centres: these were the large,
built-up estates encircled by the small cottages with their blackening
straw roofs, and their stone-divided land-plots. And then there were
checks green in the middle with brown borders: these were the orchards,
where the grass-carpets were already turning green, although the trees
and bushes around them were still in their nude, brown bark.

The boy could not keep from laughing when he saw how checked everything
looked.

But when the wild geese heard him laugh, they called out--kind o'
reprovingly: "Fertile and good land. Fertile and good land."

The boy had already become serious. "To think that you can laugh; you,
who have met with the most terrible misfortune that can possibly happen
to a human being!" thought he. And for a moment he was pretty serious;
but it wasn't long before he was laughing again.

Now that he had grown somewhat accustomed to the ride and the speed, so
that he could think of something besides holding himself on the gander's
back, he began to notice how full the air was of birds flying northward.
And there was a shouting and a calling from flock to flock. "So you came
over to-day?" shrieked some. "Yes," answered the geese. "How do you
think the spring's getting on?" "Not a leaf on the trees and ice-cold
water in the lakes," came back the answer.

When the geese flew over a place where they saw any tame, half-naked
fowl, they shouted: "What's the name of this place? What's the name of
this place?" Then the roosters cocked their heads and answered: "Its
name's Lillgarde this year--the same as last year."

Most of the cottages were probably named after their owners--which is
the custom in Skåne. But instead of saying this is "Per Matssons," or
"Ola Bossons," the roosters hit upon the kind of names which, to their
way of thinking, were more appropriate. Those who lived on small farms,
and belonged to poor cottagers, cried: "This place is called
Grainscarce." And those who belonged to the poorest hut-dwellers
screamed: "The name of this place is Little-to-eat, Little-to-eat,
Little-to-eat."

The big, well-cared-for farms got high-sounding names from the
roosters--such as Luckymeadows, Eggberga and Moneyville.

But the roosters on the great landed estates were too high and mighty to
condescend to anything like jesting. One of them crowed and called out
with such gusto that it sounded as if he wanted to be heard clear up to
the sun: "This is Herr Dybeck's estate; the same this year as last year;
this year as last year."

A little further on strutted one rooster who crowed: "This is Swanholm,
surely all the world knows that!"

The boy observed that the geese did not fly straight forward; but
zigzagged hither and thither over the whole South country, just as
though they were glad to be in Skåne again and wanted to pay their
respects to every separate place.

They came to one place where there were a number of big, clumsy-looking
buildings with great, tall chimneys, and all around these were a lot of
smaller houses. "This is Jordberga Sugar Refinery," cried the roosters.
The boy shuddered as he sat there on the goose's back. He ought to have
recognised this place, for it was not very far from his home.

Here he had worked the year before as a watch boy; but, to be sure,
nothing was exactly like itself when one saw it like that--from up
above.

And think! Just think! Osa the goose girl and little Mats, who were his
comrades last year! Indeed the boy would have been glad to know if they
still were anywhere about here. Fancy what they would have said, had
they suspected that he was flying over their heads!

Soon Jordberga was lost to sight, and they travelled towards Svedala and
Skaber Lake and back again over Görringe Cloister and Häckeberga. The
boy saw more of Skåne in this one day than he had ever seen before--in
all the years that he had lived.

Whenever the wild geese happened across any tame geese, they had the
best fun! They flew forward very slowly and called down: "We're off to
the hills. Are you coming along? Are you coming along?"

But the tame geese answered: "It's still winter in this country. You're
out too soon. Fly back! Fly back!"

The wild geese lowered themselves that they might be heard a little
better, and called: "Come along! We'll teach you how to fly and swim."

Then the tame geese got mad and wouldn't answer them with a single honk.

The wild geese sank themselves still lower--until they almost touched
the ground--then, quick as lightning, they raised themselves, just as if
they'd been terribly frightened. "Oh, oh, oh!" they exclaimed. "Those
things were not geese. They were only sheep, they were only sheep."

The ones on the ground were beside themselves with rage and shrieked:
"May you be shot, the whole lot o' you! The whole lot o' you!"

When the boy heard all this teasing he laughed. Then he remembered how
badly things had gone with him, and he cried. But the next second, he
was laughing again.

Never before had he ridden so fast; and to ride fast and
recklessly--that he had always liked. And, of course, he had never
dreamed that it could be as fresh and bracing as it was, up in the air;
or that there rose from the earth such a fine scent of resin and soil.
Nor had he ever dreamed what it could be like--to ride so high above the
earth. It was just like flying away from sorrow and trouble and
annoyances of every kind that could be thought of.


AKKA FROM KEBNEKAISE


EVENING

The big tame goosey-gander that had followed them up in the air, felt
very proud of being permitted to travel back and forth over the South
country with the wild geese, and crack jokes with the tame birds. But in
spite of his keen delight, he began to tire as the afternoon wore on. He
tried to take deeper breaths and quicker wing-strokes, but even so he
remained several goose-lengths behind the others.

When the wild geese who flew last, noticed that the tame one couldn't
keep up with them, they began to call to the goose who rode in the
centre of the angle and led the procession: "Akka from Kebnekaise! Akka
from Kebnekaise!" "What do you want of me?" asked the leader. "The white
one will be left behind; the white one will be left behind." "Tell him
it's easier to fly fast than slow!" called the leader, and raced on as
before.

The goosey-gander certainly tried to follow the advice, and increase his
speed; but then he became so exhausted that he sank away down to the
drooping willows that bordered the fields and meadows.

"Akka, Akka, Akka from Kebnekaise!" cried those who flew last and saw
what a hard time he was having. "What do you want now?" asked the
leader--and she sounded awfully angry. "The white one sinks to the
earth; the white one sinks to the earth." "Tell him it's easier to fly
high than low!" shouted the leader, and she didn't slow up the least
little bit, but raced on as before.

The goosey-gander tried also to follow this advice; but when he wanted
to raise himself, he became so winded that he almost burst his breast.

"Akka, Akka!" again cried those who flew last. "Can't you let me fly in
peace?" asked the leader, and she sounded even madder than before.

"The white one is ready to collapse." "Tell him that he who has not the
strength to fly with the flock, can go back home!" cried the leader. She
certainly had no idea of decreasing her speed--but raced on as before.

"Oh! is that the way the wind blows," thought the goosey-gander. He
understood at once that the wild geese had never intended to take him
along up to Lapland. They had only lured him away from home in sport.

He felt thoroughly exasperated. To think that his strength should fail
him now, so he wouldn't be able to show these tramps that even a tame
goose was good for something! But the most provoking thing of all was
that he had fallen in with Akka from Kebnekaise. Tame goose that he was,
he had heard about a leader goose, named Akka, who was more than a
hundred years old. She had such a big name that the best wild geese in
the world followed her. But no one had such a contempt for tame geese
as Akka and her flock, and gladly would he have shown them that he was
their equal.

He flew slowly behind the rest, while he deliberated whether he should
turn back or continue. Finally, the little creature that he carried on
his back said: "Dear Morten Goosey-gander, you know well enough that it
is simply impossible for you, who have never flown, to go with the wild
geese all the way up to Lapland. Won't you turn back before you kill
yourself?"

But the farmer's lad was about the worst thing the goosey-gander knew
anything about, and as soon as it dawned on him that this puny creature
actually believed that he couldn't make the trip, he decided to stick it
out. "If you say another word about this, I'll drop you into the first
ditch we ride over!" said he, and at the same time his fury gave him so
much strength that he began to fly almost as well as any of the others.

It isn't likely that he could have kept this pace up very long, neither
was it necessary; for, just then, the sun sank quickly; and at sunset
the geese flew down, and before the boy and the goosey-gander knew what
had happened, they stood on the shores of Vomb Lake.

"They probably intend that we shall spend the night here," thought the
boy, and jumped down from the goose's back.

He stood on a narrow beach by a fair-sized lake. It was ugly to look
upon, because it was almost entirely covered with an ice-crust that was
blackened and uneven and full of cracks and holes--as spring ice
generally is.

The ice was already breaking up. It was loose and floating and had a
broad belt of dark, shiny water all around it; but there was still
enough of it left to spread chill and winter terror over the place.

On the other side of the lake there appeared to be an open and light
country, but where the geese had lighted there was a thick pine-growth.
It looked as if the forest of firs and pines had the power to bind the
winter to itself. Everywhere else the ground was bare; but beneath the
sharp pine-branches lay snow that had been melting and freezing, melting
and freezing, until it was hard as ice.

The boy thought he had struck an arctic wilderness, and he was so
miserable that he wanted to scream. He was hungry too. He hadn't eaten a
bite the whole day. But where should he find any food? Nothing eatable
grew on either ground or tree in the month of March.

Yes, where was he to find food, and who would give him shelter, and who
would fix his bed, and who would protect him from the wild beasts?

For now the sun was away and frost came from the lake, and darkness sank
down from heaven, and terror stole forward on the twilight's trail, and
in the forest it began to patter and rustle.

Now the good humour which the boy had felt when he was up in the air,
was gone, and in his misery he looked around for his travelling
companions. He had no one but them to cling to now.

Then he saw that the goosey-gander was having even a worse time of it
than he. He was lying prostrate on the spot where he had alighted; and
it looked as if he were ready to die. His neck lay flat against the
ground, his eyes were closed, and his breathing sounded like a feeble
hissing.

"Dear Morten Goosey-Gander," said the boy, "try to get a swallow of
water! It isn't two steps to the lake."

But the goosey-gander didn't stir.

The boy had certainly been cruel to all animals, and to the
goosey-gander in times gone by; but now he felt that the goosey-gander
was the only comfort he had left, and he was dreadfully afraid of losing
him.

At once the boy began to push and drag him, to get him into the water,
but the goosey-gander was big and heavy, and it was mighty hard work for
the boy; but at last he succeeded.

The goosey-gander got in head first. For an instant he lay motionless in
the slime, but soon he poked up his head, shook the water from his eyes
and sniffed. Then he swam, proudly, between reeds and seaweed.

The wild geese were in the lake before him. They had not looked around
for either the goosey-gander or for his rider, but had made straight
for the water. They had bathed and primped, and now they lay and gulped
half-rotten pond-weed and water-clover.

The white goosey-gander had the good fortune to spy a perch. He grabbed
it quickly, swam ashore with it, and laid it down in front of the boy.
"Here's a thank you for helping me into the water," said he.

It was the first time the boy had heard a friendly word that day. He was
so happy that he wanted to throw his arms around the goosey-gander's
neck, but he refrained; and he was also thankful for the gift. At first
he must have thought that it would be impossible to eat raw fish, and
then he had a notion to try it.

He felt to see if he still had his sheath-knife with him; and, sure
enough, there it hung--on the back button of his trousers, although it
was so diminished that it was hardly as long as a match. Well, at any
rate, it served to scale and cleanse fish with; and it wasn't long
before the perch was eaten.

When the boy had satisfied his hunger, he felt a little ashamed because
he had been able to eat a raw thing. "It's evident that I'm not a human
being any longer, but a real elf," thought he.

While the boy ate, the goosey-gander stood silently beside him. But when
he had swallowed the last bite, he said in a low voice: "It's a fact
that we have run across a stuck-up goose folk who despise all tame
birds."

"Yes, I've observed that," said the boy.

"What a triumph it would be for me if I could follow them clear up to
Lapland, and show them that even a tame goose can do things!"

"Y-e-e-s," said the boy, and drawled it out because he didn't believe
the goosey-gander could ever do it; yet he didn't wish to contradict
him. "But I don't think I can get along all alone on such a journey,"
said the goosey-gander. "I'd like to ask if you couldn't come along and
help me?" The boy, of course, hadn't expected anything but to return to
his home as soon as possible, and he was so surprised that he hardly
knew what he should reply. "I thought that we were enemies, you and I,"
said he. But this the goosey-gander seemed to have forgotten entirely.
He only remembered that the boy had but just saved his life.

"I suppose I really ought to go home to father and mother," said the
boy. "Oh! I'll get you back to them some time in the fall," said the
goosey-gander. "I shall not leave you until I put you down on your own
doorstep."

The boy thought it might be just as well for him if he escaped showing
himself before his parents for a while. He was not disinclined to favour
the scheme, and was just on the point of saying that he agreed to
it--when they heard a loud rumbling behind them. It was the wild geese
who had come up from the lake--all at one time--and stood shaking the
water from their backs. After that they arranged themselves in a long
row--with the leader-goose in the centre--and came toward them.

As the white goosey-gander sized up the wild geese, he felt ill at ease.
He had expected that they should be more like tame geese, and that he
should feel a closer kinship with them. They were much smaller than he,
and none of them were white. They were all gray with a sprinkling of
brown. He was almost afraid of their eyes. They were yellow, and shone
as if a fire had been kindled back of them. The goosey-gander had always
been taught that it was most fitting to move slowly and with a rolling
motion, but these creatures did not walk--they half ran. He grew most
alarmed, however, when he looked at their feet. These were large, and
the soles were torn and ragged-looking. It was evident that the wild
geese never questioned what they tramped upon. They took no by-paths.
They were very neat and well cared for in other respects, but one could
see by their feet that they were poor wilderness-folk.

The goosey-gander only had time to whisper to the boy: "Speak up quickly
for yourself, but don't tell them who you are!"--before the geese were
upon them.

When the wild geese had stopped in front of them, they curtsied with
their necks many times, and the goosey-gander did likewise many more
times. As soon as the ceremonies were over, the leader-goose said: "Now
I presume we shall hear what kind of creatures you are."

"There isn't much to tell about me," said the goosey-gander. "I was born
in Skanor last spring. In the fall I was sold to Holger Nilsson of West
Vemminghög, and there I have lived ever since." "You don't seem to have
any pedigree to boast of," said the leader-goose. "What is it, then,
that makes you so high-minded that you wish to associate with wild
geese?" "It may be because I want to show you wild geese that we tame
ones may also be good for something," said the goosey-gander. "Yes, it
would be well if you could show us that," said the leader-goose. "We
have already observed how much you know about flying; but you are more
skilled, perhaps, in other sports. Possibly you are strong in a swimming
match?" "No, I can't boast that I am," said the goosey-gander. It seemed
to him that the leader-goose had already made up her mind to send him
home, so he didn't much care how he answered. "I never swam any farther
than across a marl-ditch," he continued. "Then I presume you're a crack
sprinter," said the goose. "I have never seen a tame goose run, nor have
I ever done it myself," said the goosey-gander; and he made things
appear much worse than they really were.

The big white one was sure now that the leader-goose would say that
under no circumstances could they take him along. He was very much
astonished when she said: "You answer questions courageously; and he who
has courage can become a good travelling companion, even if he is
ignorant in the beginning. What do you say to stopping with us for a
couple of days, until we can see what you are good for?" "That suits
me!" said the goosey-gander--and he was thoroughly happy.

Thereupon the leader-goose pointed with her bill and said: "But who is
that you have with you? I've never seen anything like him before."
"That's my comrade," said the goosey-gander. "He's been a goose-tender
all his life. He'll be useful all right to take with us on the trip."
"Yes, he may be all right for a tame goose," answered the wild one.
"What do you call him?" "He has several names," said the
goosey-gander--hesitantly, not knowing what he should hit upon in a
hurry, for he didn't want to reveal the fact that the boy had a human
name. "Oh! his name is Thumbietot," he said at last. "Does he belong to
the elf family?" asked the leader-goose. "At what time do you wild geese
usually retire?" said the goosey-gander quickly--trying to evade that
last question. "My eyes close of their own accord about this time."

One could easily see that the goose who talked with the gander was very
old. Her entire feather outfit was ice-gray, without any dark streaks.
The head was larger, the legs coarser, and the feet were more worn than
any of the others. The feathers were stiff; the shoulders knotty; the
neck thin. All this was due to age. It was only upon the eyes that time
had had no effect. They shone brighter--as if they were younger--than
any of the others!

She turned, very haughtily, toward the goosey-gander. "Understand, Mr.
Tame-goose, that I am Akka from Kebnekaise! And that the goose who flies
nearest me--to the right--is Iksi from Vassijaure, and the one to the
left, is Kaksi from Nuolja! Understand, also, that the second right-hand
goose is Kolmi from Sarjektjakko, and the second, left, is Neljä from
Svappavaara; and behind them fly Viisi from Oviksfjällen and Kuusi from
Sjangeli! And know that these, as well as the six goslings who fly
last--three to the right, and three to the left--are all high mountain
geese of the finest breed! You must not take us for land-lubbers who
strike up a chance acquaintance with any and everyone! And you must not
think that we permit anyone to share our quarters, that will not tell us
who his ancestors were."

When Akka, the leader-goose, talked in this way, the boy stepped briskly
forward. It had distressed him that the goosey-gander, who had spoken up
so glibly for himself, should give such evasive answers when it
concerned him. "I don't care to make a secret of who I am," said he. "My
name is Nils Holgersson. I'm a farmer's son, and, until to-day, I have
been a human being; but this morning--" He got no further. As soon as he
had said that he was human the leader-goose staggered three steps
backward, and the rest of them even farther back. They all extended
their necks and hissed angrily at him.

"I have suspected this ever since I first saw you here on these shores,"
said Akka; "and now you can clear out of here at once. We tolerate no
human beings among us."

"It isn't possible," said the goosey-gander, meditatively, "that you
wild geese can be afraid of anyone who is so tiny! By to-morrow, of
course, he'll turn back home. You can surely let him stay with us
overnight. None of us can afford to let such a poor little creature
wander off by himself in the night--among weasels and foxes!"

The wild goose came nearer. But it was evident that it was hard for her
to master her fear. "I have been taught to fear everything in human
shape--be it big or little," said she. "But if you will answer for this
one, and swear that he will not harm us, he can stay with us to-night.
But I don't believe our night quarters are suitable either for him or
you, for we intend to roost on the broken ice out here."

She thought, of course, that the goosey-gander would be doubtful when
he heard this, but he never let on. "She is pretty wise who knows how to
choose such a safe bed," said he.

"You will be answerable for his return to his own to-morrow."

"Then I, too, will have to leave you," said the goosey-gander. "I have
sworn that I would not forsake him."

"You are free to fly whither you will," said the leader-goose.

With this, she raised her wings and flew out over the ice and one after
another the wild geese followed her.

The boy was very sad to think that his trip to Lapland would not come
off, and, in the bargain, he was afraid of the chilly night quarters.
"It will be worse and worse," said he. "In the first place, we'll freeze
to death on the ice."

But the gander was in a good humour. "There's no danger," said he. "Only
make haste, I beg of you, and gather together as much grass and litter
as you can well carry."

When the boy had his arms full of dried grass, the goosey-gander grabbed
him by the shirt-band, lifted him, and flew out on the ice, where the
wild geese were already fast asleep, with their bills tucked under their
wings.

"Now spread out the grass on the ice, so there'll be something to stand
on, to keep me from freezing fast. You help me and I'll help you," said
the goosey-gander.

This the boy did. And when he had finished, the goosey-gander picked
him up, once again, by the shirt-band, and tucked him under his wing. "I
think you'll lie snug and warm there," said the goosey-gander as he
covered him with his wing.

The boy was so imbedded in down that he couldn't answer, and he was nice
and comfy. Oh, but he was tired!--And in less than two winks he was fast
asleep.

NIGHT

It is a fact that ice is always treacherous and not to be trusted. In
the middle of the night the loosened ice-cake on Vomb Lake moved about,
until one corner of it touched the shore. Now it happened that Mr.
Smirre Fox, who lived at this time in Övid Cloister Park--on the east
side of the lake--caught a glimpse of that one corner, while he was out
on his night chase. Smirre had seen the wild geese early in the evening,
and hadn't dared to hope that he might get at one of them, but now he
walked right out on the ice.

When Smirre was very near to the geese, his claws scraped the ice, and
the geese awoke, flapped their wings, and prepared for flight. But
Smirre was too quick for them. He darted forward as though he'd been
shot; grabbed a goose by the wing, and ran toward land again.

But this night the wild geese were not alone on the ice, for they had a
human being among them--little as he was. The boy had awakened when the
goosey-gander spread his wings. He had tumbled down on the ice and was
sitting there, dazed. He hadn't grasped the whys and wherefores of all
this confusion, until he caught sight of a little long-legged dog who
ran over the ice with a goose in his mouth.

In a minute the boy was after that dog, to try and take the goose away
from him. He must have heard the goosey-gander call to him: "Have a
care, Thumbietot! Have a care!" But the boy thought that such a little
runt of a dog was nothing to be afraid of and he rushed ahead.

The wild goose that Smirre Fox tugged after him, heard the clatter as
the boy's wooden shoes beat against the ice, and she could hardly
believe her ears. "Does that infant think he can take me away from the
fox?" she wondered. And in spite of her misery, she began to cackle
right merrily, deep down in her windpipe. It was almost as if she had
laughed.

"The first thing he knows, he'll fall through a crack in the ice,"
thought she.

But dark as the night was, the boy saw distinctly all the cracks and
holes there were, and took daring leaps over them. This was because he
had the elf's good eyesight now, and could see in the dark. He saw both
lake and shore just as clearly as if it had been daylight.

Smirre Fox left the ice where it touched the shore. And just as he was
working his way up to the land-edge, the boy shouted: "Drop that goose,
you sneak!"

Smirre didn't know who was calling to him, and wasted no time in looking
around, but increased his pace. The fox made straight for the forest and
the boy followed him, with never a thought of the danger he was running.
All he thought about was the contemptuous way in which he had been
received by the wild geese; and he made up his mind to let them see that
a human being was something higher than all else created.

He shouted, again and again, to that dog, to make him drop his game.
"What kind of a dog are you, who can steal a whole goose and not feel
ashamed of yourself? Drop her at once! or you'll see what a beating
you'll get. Drop her, I say, or I'll tell your master how you behave!"

When Smirre Fox saw that he had been mistaken for a scary dog, he was so
amused that he came near dropping the goose. Smirre was a great
plunderer who wasn't satisfied with only hunting rats and pigeons in the
fields, but he also ventured into the farmyards to steal chickens and
geese. He knew that he was feared throughout the district; and anything
as idiotic as this he had not heard since he was a baby.

The boy ran so fast that the thick beech-trees appeared to be running
past him--backward, but he caught up with Smirre. Finally, he was so
close to him that he got a hold on his tail. "Now I'll take the goose
from you anyway," cried he, and held on as hard as ever he could, but he
hadn't strength enough to stop Smirre. The fox dragged him along until
the dry foliage whirled around him.

But now it began to dawn on Smirre how harmless the thing was that
pursued him. He stopped short, put the goose on the ground, and stood on
her with his forepaws, so she couldn't fly away. He was just about to
bite off her neck--but then he couldn't resist the desire to tease the
boy a little. "Hurry off and complain to the master, for now I'm going
to bite the goose to death!" said he.

Certainly the one who was surprised when he saw what a pointed nose, and
heard what a hoarse and angry voice that dog which he was pursuing
had,--was the boy! But now he was so enraged because the fox had made
fun of him, that he never thought of being frightened. He took a firmer
hold on the tail, braced himself against a beech trunk; and just as the
fox opened his jaws over the goose's throat, he pulled as hard as he
could. Smirre was so astonished that he let himself be pulled backward a
couple of steps--and the wild goose got away. She fluttered upward
feebly and heavily. One wing was so badly wounded that she could barely
use it. In addition to this, she could not see in the night darkness of
the forest but was as helpless as the blind. Therefore she could in no
way help the boy; so she groped her way through the branches and flew
down to the lake again.

Then Smirre made a dash for the boy. "If I don't get the one, I shall
certainly have the other," said he; and you could tell by his voice how
mad he was. "Oh, don't you believe it!" said the boy, who was in the
best of spirits because he had saved the goose. He held fast by the
fox-tail, and swung with it--to one side--when the fox tried to catch
him.

There was such a dance in that forest that the dry beech-leaves fairly
flew! Smirre swung round and round, but the tail swung too; while the
boy kept a tight grip on it, so the fox could not grab him.

The boy was so gay after his success that in the beginning, he laughed
and made fun of the fox. But Smirre was persevering--as old hunters
generally are--and the boy began to fear that he should be captured in
the end. Then he caught sight of a little, young beech-tree that had
shot up as slender as a rod, that it might soon reach the free air above
the canopy of branches which the old beeches spread above it.

Quick as a flash, he let go of the fox-tail and climbed the beech tree.
Smirre Fox was so excited that he continued to dance around after his
tail.

"Don't bother with the dance any longer!" said the boy.

But Smirre couldn't endure the humiliation of his failure to get the
better of such a little tot, so he lay down under the tree, that he
might keep a close watch on him.

The boy didn't have any too good a time of it where he sat, astride a
frail branch. The young beech did not, as yet, reach the high
branch-canopy, so the boy couldn't get over to another tree, and he
didn't dare to come down again. He was so cold and numb that he almost
lost his hold around the branch; and he was dreadfully sleepy; but he
didn't dare fall asleep for fear of tumbling down.

My! but it was dismal to sit in that way the whole night through, out in
the forest! He never before understood the real meaning of "night." It
was just as if the whole world had become petrified, and never could
come to life again.

Then it commenced to dawn. The boy was glad that everything began to
look like itself once more; although the chill was even sharper than it
had been during the night.

Finally, when the sun got up, it wasn't yellow but red. The boy thought
it looked as though it were angry and he wondered what it was angry
about. Perhaps it was because the night had made it so cold and gloomy
on earth, while the sun was away.

The sunbeams came down in great clusters, to see what the night had been
up to. It could be seen how everything blushed--as if they all had
guilty consciences. The clouds in the skies; the satiny beech-limbs; the
little intertwined branches of the forest-canopy; the hoar-frost that
covered the foliage on the ground--everything grew flushed and red. More
and more sunbeams came bursting through space, and soon the night's
terrors were driven away, and such a marvellous lot of living things
came forward. The black woodpecker, with the red neck, began to hammer
with its bill on the branch. The squirrel glided from his nest with a
nut, and sat down on a branch and began to shell it. The starling came
flying with a worm, and the bulfinch sang in the tree-top.

Then the boy understood that the sun had said to all these tiny
creatures: "Wake up now, and come out of your nests! I'm here! Now you
need be afraid of nothing."

The wild-goose call was heard from the lake, as they were preparing for
flight; and soon all fourteen geese came flying through the forest. The
boy tried to call to them, but they flew so high that his voice couldn't
reach them. They probably believed the fox had eaten him up; and they
didn't trouble themselves to look for him.

The boy came near crying with regret; but the sun stood up
there--orange-coloured and happy--and put courage into the whole world.
"It isn't worth while, Nils Holgersson, for you to be troubled about
anything, as long as I'm here," said the sun.

GOOSE-PLAY

_Monday, March twenty-first_.

Everything remained unchanged in the forest--about as long as it takes a
goose to eat her breakfast. But just as the morning was verging on
forenoon, a goose came flying, all by herself, under the thick
tree-canopy. She groped her way hesitatingly, between the stems and
branches, and flew very slowly. As soon as Smirre Fox saw her, he left
his place under the beech tree, and sneaked up toward her. The wild
goose didn't avoid the fox, but flew very close to him. Smirre made a
high jump for her but he missed her; and the goose went on her way down
to the lake.

It was not long before another goose came flying. She took the same
route as the first one; and flew still lower and slower. She, too, flew
close to Smirre Fox, and he made such a high spring for her, that his
ears brushed her feet. But she, too, got away from him unhurt, and went
her way toward the lake, silent as a shadow.

A little while passed and then there came another wild goose. She flew
still slower and lower; and it seemed even more difficult for her to
find her way between the beech-branches. Smirre made a powerful spring!
He was within a hair's breadth of catching her; but that goose also
managed to save herself.

Just after she had disappeared, came a fourth. She flew so slowly, and
so badly, that Smirre Fox thought he could catch her without much
effort, but he was afraid of failure now, and concluded to let her fly
past--unmolested. She took the same direction the others had taken; and
just as she was come right above Smirre, she sank down so far that he
was tempted to jump for her. He jumped so high that he touched her with
his tail. But she flung herself quickly to one side and saved her life.

Before Smirre got through panting, three more geese came flying in a
row. They flew just like the rest, and Smirre made high springs for them
all, but he did not succeed in catching any one of them.

After that came five geese; but these flew better than the others. And
although it seemed as if they wanted to lure Smirre to jump, he
withstood the temptation. After quite a long time came one single goose.
It was the thirteenth. This one was so old that she was gray all over,
without a dark speck anywhere on her body. She didn't appear to use one
wing very well, but flew so wretchedly and crookedly, that she almost
touched the ground. Smirre not only made a high leap for her, but he
pursued her, running and jumping all the way down to the lake. But not
even this time did he get anything for his trouble.

When the fourteenth goose came along, it looked very pretty because it
was white. And as its great wings swayed, it glistened like a light, in
the dark forest. When Smirre Fox saw this one, he mustered all his
resources and jumped half-way up to the tree-canopy. But the white one
flew by unhurt like the rest.

Now it was quiet for a moment under the beeches. It looked as if the
whole wild-goose-flock had travelled past.

Suddenly Smirre remembered his prisoner and raised his eyes toward the
young beech-tree. And just as he might have expected--the boy had
disappeared.

But Smirre didn't have much time to think about him; for now the first
goose came back again from the lake and flew slowly under the canopy. In
spite of all his ill luck, Smirre was glad that she came back, and
darted after her with a high leap. But he had been in too much of a
hurry, and hadn't taken the time to calculate the distance, and he
landed at one side of the goose. Then there came still another goose;
then a third; a fourth; a fifth; and so on, until the angle closed in
with the old ice-gray one, and the big white one. They all flew low and
slow. Just as they swayed in the vicinity of Smirre Fox, they sank
down--kind of inviting-like--for him to take them. Smirre ran after them
and made leaps a couple of fathoms high--but he couldn't manage to get
hold of a single one of them.

It was the most awful day that Smirre Fox had ever experienced. The wild
geese kept on travelling over his head. They came and went--came and
went. Great splendid geese who had eaten themselves fat on the German
heaths and grain fields, swayed all day through the woods, and so close
to him that he touched them many times; yet he was not permitted to
appease his hunger with a single one of them.

The winter was hardly gone yet, and Smirre recalled nights and days when
he had been forced to tramp around in idleness, with not so much as a
hare to hunt, when the rats hid themselves under the frozen earth; and
when the chickens were all shut up. But all the winter's hunger had not
been as hard to endure as this day's miscalculations.

Smirre was no young fox. He had had the dogs after him many a time, and
had heard the bullets whizz around his ears. He had lain in hiding, down
in the lair, while the dachshunds crept into the crevices and all but
found him. But all the anguish that Smirre Fox had been forced to suffer
under this hot chase, was not to be compared with what he suffered every
time that he missed one of the wild geese.

In the morning, when the play began, Smirre Fox had looked so stunning
that the geese were amazed when they saw him. Smirre loved display. His
coat was a brilliant red; his breast white; his nose black; and his tail
was as bushy as a plume. But when the evening of this day was come,
Smirre's coat hung in loose folds. He was bathed in sweat; his eyes were
without lustre; his tongue hung far out from his gaping jaws; and froth
oozed from his mouth.

In the afternoon Smirre was so exhausted that he grew delirious. He saw
nothing before his eyes but flying geese. He made leaps for sun-spots
which he saw on the ground; and for a poor little butterfly that had
come out of his chrysalis too soon.

The wild geese flew and flew, unceasingly. All day long they continued
to torment Smirre. They were not moved to pity because Smirre was done
up, fevered, and out of his head. They continued without a let-up,
although they understood that he hardly saw them, and that he jumped
after their shadows.

When Smirre Fox sank down on a pile of dry leaves, weak and powerless
and almost ready to give up the ghost, they stopped teasing him.

"Now you know, Mr. Fox, what happens to the one who dares to come near
Akka of Kebnekaise!" they shouted in his ear; and with that they left
him in peace.


THE WONDERFUL JOURNEY OF NILS


ON THE FARM

_Thursday, March twenty-fourth_.

Just at that time a thing happened in Skåne which created a good deal of
discussion and even got into the newspapers but which many believed to
be a fable, because they had not been able to explain it.

It was about like this: A lady squirrel had been captured in the
hazelbrush that grew on the shores of Vomb Lake, and was carried to a
farmhouse close by. All the folks on the farm--both young and old--were
delighted with the pretty creature with the bushy tail, the wise,
inquisitive eyes, and the natty little feet. They intended to amuse
themselves all summer by watching its nimble movements; its ingenious
way of shelling nuts; and its droll play. They immediately put in order
an old squirrel cage with a little green house and a wire-cylinder
wheel. The little house, which had both doors and windows, the lady
squirrel was to use as a dining room and bedroom. For this reason they
placed therein a bed of leaves, a bowl of milk and some nuts. The
cylinder wheel, on the other hand, she was to use as a play-house, where
she could run and climb and swing round.

The people believed that they had arranged things very comfortably for
the lady squirrel, and they were astonished because she didn't seem to
be contented; but, instead, she sat there, downcast and moody, in a
corner of her room. Every now and again, she would let out a shrill,
agonised cry. She did not touch the food; and not once did she swing
round on the wheel. "It's probably because she's frightened," said the
farmer folk. "To-morrow, when she feels more at home, she will both eat
and play."

Meanwhile, the women folk on the farm were making preparations for a
feast; and just on that day when the lady squirrel had been captured,
they were busy with an elaborate bake. They had had bad luck with
something: either the dough wouldn't rise, or else they had been
dilatory, for they were obliged to work long after dark.

Naturally there was a great deal of excitement and bustle in the
kitchen, and probably no one there took time to think about the
squirrel, or to wonder how she was getting on. But there was an old
grandma in the house who was too aged to take a hand in the baking; this
she herself understood, but just the same she did not relish the idea of
being left out of the game. She felt rather downhearted; and for this
reason she did not go to bed but seated herself by the sitting-room
window and looked out.

They had opened the kitchen door on account of the heat; and through it
a clear ray of light streamed out on the yard; and it became so well
lighted out there that the old woman could see all the cracks and holes
in the plastering on the wall opposite. She also saw the squirrel cage
which hung just where the light fell clearest. And she noticed how the
squirrel ran from her room to the wheel, and from the wheel to her room,
all night long, without stopping an instant. She thought it was a
strange sort of unrest that had come over the animal; but she believed,
of course, that the strong light kept her awake.

Between the cow-house and the stable there was a broad, handsome
carriage-gate; this too came within the light-radius. As the night wore
on, the old grandma saw a tiny creature, no bigger than a hand's
breadth, cautiously steal his way through the gate. He was dressed in
leather breeches and wooden shoes like any other working man. The old
grandma knew at once that it was the elf, and she was not the least bit
frightened. She had always heard that the elf kept himself somewhere
about the place, although she had never seen him before; and an elf, to
be sure, brought good luck wherever he appeared.

As soon as the elf came into the stone-paved yard, he ran right up to
the squirrel cage. And since it hung so high that he could not reach it,
he went over to the store-house after a rod; placed it against the cage,
and swung himself up--in the same way that a sailor climbs a rope. When
he had reached the cage, he shook the door of the little green house as
if he wanted to open it; but the old grandma didn't move; for she knew
that the children had put a padlock on the door, as they feared that the
boys on the neighbouring farms would try to steal the squirrel. The old
woman saw that when the boy could not get the door open, the lady
squirrel came out to the wire wheel. There they held a long conference
together. And when the boy had listened to all that the imprisoned
animal had to say to him, he slid down the rod to the ground, and ran
out through the carriage-gate.

The old woman didn't expect to see anything more of the elf that night,
nevertheless, she remained at the window. After a few moments had gone
by, he returned. He was in such a hurry that it seemed to her as though
his feet hardly touched the ground; and he rushed right up to the
squirrel cage. The old woman, with her far-sighted eyes, saw him
distinctly; and she also saw that he carried something in his hands; but
what it was she couldn't imagine. The thing he carried in his left hand
he laid down on the pavement; but that which he held in his right hand
he took with him to the cage. He kicked so hard with his wooden shoes on
the little window that the glass was broken. He poked in the thing which
he held in his hand to the lady squirrel. Then he slid down again, and
took up that which he had laid upon the ground, and climbed up to the
cage with that also. The next instant he ran off again with such haste
that the old woman could hardly follow him with her eyes.

But now it was the old grandma who could no longer sit still in the
cottage; but who, very slowly, went out to the back yard and stationed
herself in the shadow of the pump to await the elf's return. And there
was one other who had also seen him and had become curious. This was the
house cat. He crept along slyly and stopped close to the wall, just two
steps away from the stream of light. They both stood and waited, long
and patiently, on that chilly March night, and the old woman was just
beginning to think about going in again, when she heard a clatter on the
pavement, and saw that the little mite of an elf came trotting along
once more, carrying a burden in each hand, as he had done before. That
which he bore squealed and squirmed. And now a light dawned on the old
grandma. She understood that the elf had hurried down to the hazel-grove
and brought back the lady squirrel's babies; and that he was carrying
them to her so they shouldn't starve to death.

The old grandma stood very still, so as not to disturb them; and it did
not look as if the elf had noticed her. He was just going to lay one of
the babies on the ground so that he could swing himself up to the cage
with the other one--when he saw the house cat's green eyes glisten close
beside him. He stood there, bewildered, with a young one in each hand.

He turned around and looked in all directions; then he became aware of
the old grandma's presence. Then he did not hesitate long; but walked
forward, stretched his arms as high as he could reach, for her to take
one of the baby squirrels.

The old grandma did not wish to prove herself unworthy of the
confidence, so she bent down and took the baby squirrel, and stood there
and held it until the boy had swung himself up to the cage with the
other one. Then he came back for the one he had entrusted to her care.

The next morning, when the farm folk had gathered together for
breakfast, it was impossible for the old woman to refrain from telling
them of what she had seen the night before. They all laughed at her, of
course, and said that she had been only dreaming. There were no baby
squirrels this early in the year.

But she was sure of her ground, and begged them to take a look into the
squirrel cage and this they did. And there lay on the bed of leaves,
four tiny half-naked, half blind baby squirrels, who were at least a
couple of days old.

When the farmer himself saw the young ones, he said: "Be it as it may
with this; but one thing is certain, we, on this farm, have behaved in
such a manner that we are shamed before both animals and human beings."
And, thereupon, he took the mother squirrel and all her young ones from
the cage, and laid them in the old grandma's lap. "Go thou out to the
hazel-grove with them," said he, "and let them have their freedom back
again!"

It was this event that was so much talked about, and which even got into
the newspapers, but which the majority would not credit because they
were not able to explain how anything like that could have happened.

VITTSKÖVLE

_Saturday, March twenty-sixth_.

Two days later, another strange thing happened. A flock of wild geese
came flying one morning, and lit on a meadow down in Eastern Skåne not
very far from Vittskövle manor. In the flock were thirteen wild geese,
of the usual gray variety, and one white goosey-gander, who carried on
his back a tiny lad dressed in yellow leather breeches, green vest, and
a white woollen toboggan hood.

They were now very near the Eastern sea; and on the meadow where the
geese had alighted the soil was sandy, as it usually is on the
sea-coast. It looked as if, formerly, there had been flying sand in this
vicinity which had to be held down; for in several directions large,
planted pine-woods could be seen.

When the wild geese had been feeding a while, several children came
along, and walked on the edge of the meadow. The goose who was on guard
at once raised herself into the air with noisy wing-strokes, so the
whole flock should hear that there was danger on foot. All the wild
geese flew upward; but the white one trotted along on the ground
unconcerned. When he saw the others fly he raised his head and called
after them: "You needn't fly away from these! They are only a couple of
children!"

The little creature who had been riding on his back, sat down upon a
knoll on the outskirts of the wood and picked a pine-cone in pieces,
that he might get at the seeds. The children were so close to him that
he did not dare to run across the meadow to the white one. He concealed
himself under a big, dry thistle-leaf, and at the same time gave a
warning-cry. But the white one had evidently made up his mind not to let
himself be scared. He walked along on the ground all the while; and not
once did he look to see in what direction they were going.

Meanwhile, they turned from the path, walked across the field, getting
nearer and nearer to the goosey-gander. When he finally did look up,
they were right upon him. He was so dumfounded, and became so confused,
he forgot that he could fly, and tried to get out of their reach by
running. But the children followed, chasing him into a ditch, and there
they caught him. The larger of the two stuck him under his arm and
carried him off.

When the boy, who lay under the thistle-leaf saw this, he sprang up as
if he wanted to take the goosey-gander away from them; then he must have
remembered how little and powerless he was, for he threw himself on the
knoll and beat upon the ground with his clenched fists.

The goosey-gander cried with all his might for help: "Thumbietot, come
and help me! Oh, Thumbietot, come and help me!" The boy began to laugh
in the midst of his distress. "Oh, yes! I'm just the right one to help
anybody, I am!" said he.

Anyway he got up and followed the goosey-gander. "I can't help him,"
said he, "but I shall at least find out where they are taking him."

The children had a good start; but the boy had no difficulty in keeping
them within sight until they came to a hollow where a brook gushed
forth. But here he was obliged to run alongside of it for some little
time, before he could find a place narrow enough for him to jump over.

When he came up from the hollow the children had disappeared. He could
see their footprints on a narrow path which led to the woods, and these
he continued to follow.

Soon he came to a cross-road. Here the children must have separated, for
there were footprints in two directions. The boy looked now as if all
hope had fled. Then he saw a little white down on a heather-knoll, and
he understood that the goosey-gander had dropped this by the wayside to
let him know in which direction he had been carried; and therefore he
continued his search. He followed the children through the entire wood.
The goosey-gander he did not see; but wherever he was likely to miss his
way, lay a little white down to put him right.

The boy continued faithfully to follow the bits of down. They led him
out of the wood, across a couple of meadows, up on a road, and finally
through the entrance of a broad _allée_. At the end of the _allée_ there
were gables and towers of red tiling, decorated with bright borders and
other ornamentations that glittered and shone. When the boy saw that
this was some great manor, he thought he knew what had become of the
goosey-gander. "No doubt the children have carried the goosey-gander to
the manor and sold him there. By this time he's probably butchered," he
said to himself. But he did not seem to be satisfied with anything less
than proof positive, and with renewed courage he ran forward. He met no
one in the _allée_--and that was well, for such as he are generally
afraid of being seen by human beings.

The mansion which he came to was a splendid, old-time structure with
four great wings which inclosed a courtyard. On the east wing, there was
a high arch leading into the courtyard. This far the boy ran without
hesitation, but when he got there he stopped. He dared not venture
farther, but stood still and pondered what he should do now.

There he stood, with his finger on his nose, thinking, when he heard
footsteps behind him; and as he turned around he saw a whole company
march up the _allée_. In haste he stole behind a water-barrel which
stood near the arch, and hid himself.

Those who came up were some twenty young men from a folk-high-school,
out on a walking tour. They were accompanied by one of the instructors.
When they were come as far as the arch, the teacher requested them to
wait there a moment, while he went in and asked if they might see the
old castle of Vittskövle.

The newcomers were warm and tired; as if they had been on a long tramp.
One of them was so thirsty that he went over to the water-barrel and
stooped down to drink. He had a tin box such as botanists use hanging
about his neck. He evidently thought that this was in his way, for he
threw it down on the ground. With this, the lid flew open, and one could
see that there were a few spring flowers in it.

The botanist's box dropped just in front of the boy; and he must have
thought that here was his opportunity to get into the castle and find
out what had become of the goosey-gander. He smuggled himself quickly
into the box and concealed himself as well as he could under the
anemones and colt's-foot.

He was hardly hidden before the young man picked the box up, hung it
around his neck, and slammed down the cover.

Then the teacher came back, and said that they had been given
permission to enter the castle. At first he conducted them no farther
than the courtyard. There he stopped and began to talk to them about
this ancient structure.

He called their attention to the first human beings who had inhabited
this country, and who had been obliged to live in mountain-grottoes and
earth-caves; in the dens of wild beasts, and in the brushwood; and that
a very long period had elapsed before they learned to build themselves
huts from the trunks of trees. And afterward how long had they not been
forced to labour and struggle, before they had advanced from the log
cabin, with its single room, to the building of a castle with a hundred
rooms--like Vittskövle!

It was about three hundred and fifty years ago that the rich and
powerful built such castles for themselves, he said. It was very evident
that Vittskövle had been erected at a time when wars and robbers made it
unsafe in Skåne. All around the castle was a deep trench filled with
water; and across this there had been a bridge in bygone days that could
be hoisted up. Over the gate-arch there is, even to this day, a
watch-tower; and all along the sides of the castle ran sentry-galleries,
and in the corners stood towers with walls a metre thick. Yet the castle
had not been erected in the most savage war time; for Jens Brahe, who
built it, had also studied to make of it a beautiful and decorative
ornament. If they could see the big, solid stone structure at Glimminge,
which had been built only a generation earlier, they would readily see
that Jans Holgersen Ulfstand, the builder, hadn't figured upon anything
else--only to build big and strong and secure, without bestowing a
thought upon making it beautiful and comfortable. If they visited such
castles as Marsvinsholm, Snogeholm and Övid's Cloister--which were
erected a hundred years or so later--they would find that the times had
become less warlike. The gentlemen who built these places, had not
furnished them with fortifications; but had only taken pains to provide
themselves with great, splendid dwelling houses.

The teacher talked at length--and in detail; and the boy who lay shut up
in the box was pretty impatient; but he must have lain very still, for
the owner of the box hadn't the least suspicion that he was carrying him
along.

Finally the company went into the castle. But if the boy had hoped for
a chance to crawl out of that box, he was deceived; for the student
carried it upon him all the while, and the boy was obliged to accompany
him through all the rooms. It was a tedious tramp. The teacher stopped
every other minute to explain and instruct.

In one room he found an old fireplace, and before this he stopped to
talk about the different kinds of fireplaces that had been used in the
course of time. The first indoors fireplace had been a big, flat stone
on the floor of the hut, with an opening in the roof which let in both
wind and rain. The next had been a big stone hearth with no opening in
the roof. This must have made the hut very warm, but it also filled it
with soot and smoke. When Vittskövle was built, the people had advanced
far enough to open the fireplace, which, at that time, had a wide
chimney for the smoke; but it also took most of the warmth up in the air
with it.

If that boy had ever in his life been cross and impatient, he was given
a good lesson in patience that day. It must have been a whole hour now
that he had lain perfectly still.

In the next room they came to, the teacher stopped before an old-time
bed with its high canopy and rich curtains. Immediately he began to talk
about the beds and bed places of olden days.

The teacher didn't hurry himself; but then he did not know, of course,
that a poor little creature lay shut up in a botanist's box, and only
waited for him to get through. When they came to a room with gilded
leather hangings, he talked to them about how the people had dressed
their walls and ceilings ever since the beginning of time. And when he
came to an old family portrait, he told them all about the different
changes in dress. And in the banquet halls he described ancient customs
of celebrating weddings and funerals.

Thereupon, the teacher talked a little about the excellent men and women
who had lived in the castle; about the old Brahes, and the old
Barnekows; of Christian Barnekow, who had given his horse to the king to
help him escape; of Margareta Ascheberg who had been married to Kjell
Barnekow and who, when a widow, had managed the estates and the whole
district for fifty-three years; of banker Hageman, a farmer's son from
Vittskövle, who had grown so rich that he had bought the entire estate;
about the Stjernsvärds, who had given the people of Skåne better
ploughs, which enabled them to discard the ridiculous old wooden ploughs
that three oxen were hardly able to drag. During all this, the boy lay
still. If he had ever been mischievous and shut the cellar door on his
father or mother, he understood now how they had felt; for it was hours
and hours before that teacher got through.

At last the teacher went out into the courtyard again. And there he
discoursed upon the tireless labour of mankind to procure for themselves
tools and weapons, clothes and houses and ornaments. He said that such
an old castle as Vittskövle was a mile-post on time's highway. Here one
could see how far the people had advanced three hundred and fifty years
ago; and one could judge for oneself whether things had gone forward or
backward since their time.

But this dissertation the boy escaped hearing; for the student who
carried him was thirsty again, and stole into the kitchen to ask for a
drink of water. When the boy was carried into the kitchen, he should
have tried to look around for the goosey-gander. He had begun to move;
and as he did this, he happened to press too hard against the lid--and
it flew open. As botanists' box-lids are always flying open, the student
thought no more about the matter but pressed it down again. Then the
cook asked him if he had a snake in the box.

"No, I have only a few plants," the student replied. "It was certainly
something that moved there," insisted the cook. The student threw back
the lid to show her that she was mistaken. "See for yourself--if--"

But he got no further, for now the boy dared not stay in the box any
longer, but with one bound he stood on the floor, and out he rushed.
The maids hardly had time to see what it was that ran, but they hurried
after it, nevertheless.

The teacher still stood and talked when he was interrupted by shrill
cries. "Catch him, catch him!" shrieked those who had come from the
kitchen; and all the young men raced after the boy, who glided away
faster than a rat. They tried to intercept him at the gate, but it was
not so easy to get a hold on such a little creature, so, luckily, he got
out in the open.

The boy did not dare to run down toward the open _allée,_ but turned in
another direction. He rushed through the garden into the back yard. All
the while the people raced after him, shrieking and laughing. The poor
little thing ran as hard as ever he could to get out of their way; but
still it looked as though the people would catch up with him.

As he rushed past a labourer's cottage, he heard a goose cackle, and saw
a white down lying on the doorstep. There, at last, was the
goosey-gander! He had been on the wrong track before. He thought no more
of housemaids and men, who were hounding him, but climbed up the
steps--and into the hallway. Farther he couldn't come, for the door was
locked. He heard how the goosey-gander cried and moaned inside, but he
couldn't get the door open. The hunters that were pursuing him came
nearer and nearer, and, in the room, the goosey-gander cried more and
more pitifully. In this direst of needs the boy finally plucked up
courage and pounded on the door with all his might.

A child opened it, and the boy looked into the room. In the middle of
the floor sat a woman who held the goosey-gander tight to clip his
quill-feathers. It was her children who had found him, and she didn't
want to do him any harm. It was her intention to let him in among her
own geese, had she only succeeded in clipping his wings so he couldn't
fly away. But a worse fate could hardly have happened to the
goosey-gander, and he shrieked and moaned with all his might.

And a lucky thing it was that the woman hadn't started the clipping
sooner. Now only two quills had fallen under the shears' when the door
was opened--and the boy stood on the door-sill. But a creature like
that the woman had never seen before. She couldn't believe anything else
but that it was Goa-Nisse himself; and in her terror she dropped the
shears, clasped her hands--and forgot to hold on to the goosey-gander.

As soon as he felt himself freed, he ran toward the door. He didn't give
himself time to stop; but, as he ran past him, he grabbed the boy by the
neck-band and carried him along with him. On the stoop he spread his
wings and flew up in the air; at the same time he made a graceful sweep
with his neck and seated the boy on his smooth, downy back.

And off they flew--while all Vittskövle stood and stared after them.

IN ÖVID CLOISTER PARK

All that day, when the wild geese played with the fox, the boy lay and
slept in a deserted squirrel nest. When he awoke, along toward evening,
he felt very uneasy. "Well, now I shall soon be sent home again! Then
I'll have to exhibit myself before father and mother," thought he. But
when he looked up and saw the wild geese, who lay and bathed in Vomb
Lake--not one of them said a word about his going. "They probably think
the white one is too tired to travel home with me to-night," thought the
boy.

The next morning the geese were awake at daybreak, long before sunrise.
Now the boy felt sure that he'd have to go home; but, curiously enough,
both he and the white goosey-gander were permitted to follow the wild
ones on their morning tour. The boy couldn't comprehend the reason for
the delay, but he figured it out in this way, that the wild geese did
not care to send the goosey-gander on such a long journey until they had
both eaten their fill. Come what might, he was only glad for every
moment that should pass before he must face his parents.

The wild geese travelled over Övid's Cloister estate which was situated
in a beautiful park east of the lake, and looked very imposing with its
great castle; its well planned court surrounded by low walls and
pavilions; its fine old-time garden with covered arbours, streams and
fountains; its wonderful trees, trimmed bushes, and its evenly mown
lawns with their beds of beautiful spring flowers.

When the wild geese rode over the estate in the early morning hour there
was no human being about. When they had carefully assured themselves of
this, they lowered themselves toward the dog kennel, and shouted: "What
kind of a little hut is this? What kind of a little hut is this?"

Instantly the dog came out of his kennel--furiously angry--and barked at
the air.

"Do you call this a hut, you tramps! Can't you see that this is a great
stone castle? Can't you see what fine terraces, and what a lot of pretty
walls and windows and great doors it has, bow, wow, wow, wow? Don't you
see the grounds, can't you see the garden, can't you see the
conservatories, can't you see the marble statues? You call this a hut,
do you? Do huts have parks with beech-groves and hazel-bushes and
trailing vines and oak trees and firs and hunting-grounds filled with
game, wow, wow, wow? Do you call this a hut? Have you seen huts with so
many outhouses around them that they look like a whole village? You must
know of a lot of huts that have their own church and their own
parsonage; and that rule over the district and the peasant homes and the
neighbouring farms and barracks, wow, wow, wow? Do you call this a hut?
To this hut belong the richest possessions in Skåne, you beggars! You
can't see a bit of land, from where you hang in the clouds, that does
not obey commands from this hut, wow, wow, wow!"

All this the dog managed to cry out in one breath; and the wild geese
flew back and forth over the estate, and listened to him until he was
winded. But then they cried: "What are you so mad about? We didn't ask
about the castle; we only wanted to know about your kennel, stupid!"

When the boy heard this joke, he laughed; then a thought stole in on him
which at once made him serious. "Think how many of these amusing things
you would hear, if you could go with the wild geese through the whole
country, all the way up to Lapland!" said he to himself. "And just now,
when you are in such a bad fix, a trip like that would be the best thing
you could hit upon."

The wild geese travelled to one of the wide fields, east of the estate,
to eat grass-roots, and they kept this up for hours. In the meantime,
the boy wandered in the great park which bordered the field. He hunted
up a beech-nut grove and began to look up at the bushes, to see if a
nut from last fall still hung there. But again and again the thought of
the trip came over him, as he walked in the park. He pictured to himself
what a fine time he would have if he went with the wild geese. To freeze
and starve: that he believed he should have to do often enough; but as a
recompense, he would escape both work and study.

As he walked there, the old gray leader-goose came up to him, and asked
if he had found anything eatable. No, that he hadn't, he replied, and
then she tried to help him. She couldn't find any nuts either, but she
discovered a couple of dried blossoms that hung on a brier-bush. These
the boy ate with a good relish. But he wondered what mother would say,
if she knew that he had lived on raw fish and old winter-dried blossoms.

When the wild geese had finally eaten themselves full, they bore off
toward the lake again, where they amused themselves with games until
almost dinner time.

The wild geese challenged the white goosey-gander to take part in all
kinds of sports. They had swimming races, running races, and flying
races with him. The big tame one did his level best to hold his own, but
the clever wild geese beat him every time. All the while, the boy sat on
the goosey-gander's back and encouraged him, and had as much fun as the
rest. They laughed and screamed and cackled, and it was remarkable that
the people on the estate didn't hear them.

When the wild geese were tired of play, they flew out on the ice and
rested for a couple of hours. The afternoon they spent in pretty much
the same way as the forenoon. First, a couple of hours feeding, then
bathing and play in the water near the ice-edge until sunset, when they
immediately arranged themselves for sleep.

"This is just the life that suits me," thought the boy when he crept in
under the gander's wing. "But to-morrow, I suppose I'll be sent home."

Before he fell asleep, he lay and thought that if he might go along with
the wild geese, he would escape all scoldings because he was lazy. Then
he could cut loose every day, and his only worry would be to get
something to eat. But he needed so little nowadays; and there would
always be a way to get that.

So he pictured the whole scene to himself; what he should see, and all
the adventures that he would be in on. Yes, it would be something
different from the wear and tear at home. "If I could only go with the
wild geese on their travels, I shouldn't grieve because I'd been
transformed," thought the boy.

He wasn't afraid of anything--except being sent home; but not even on
Wednesday did the geese say anything to him about going. That day passed
in the same way as Tuesday; and the boy grew more and more contented
with the outdoor life. He thought that he had the lovely Övid Cloister
park--which was as large as a forest--all to himself; and he wasn't
anxious to go back to the stuffy cabin and the little patch of ground
there at home.

On Wednesday he believed that the wild geese thought of keeping him with
them; but on Thursday he lost hope again.

Thursday began just like the other days; the geese fed on the broad
meadows, and the boy hunted for food in the park. After a while Akka
came to him, and asked if he had found anything to eat. No, he had not;
and then she looked up a dry caraway herb, that had kept all its tiny
seeds intact.

When the boy had eaten, Akka said that she thought he ran around in the
park altogether too recklessly. She wondered if he knew how many enemies
he had to guard against--he, who was so little. No, he didn't know
anything at all about that. Then Akka began to enumerate them for him.

Whenever he walked in the park, she said, that he must look out for the
fox and the marten; when he came to the shores of the lake, he must
think of the otters; as he sat on the stone wall, he must not forget the
weasels, who could creep through the smallest holes; and if he wished to
lie down and sleep on a pile of leaves, he must first find out if the
adders were not sleeping their winter sleep in the same pile. As soon as
he came out in the open fields, he should keep an eye out for hawks and
buzzards; for eagles and falcons that soared in the air. In the
bramble-bush he could be captured by the sparrow-hawks; magpies and
crows were found everywhere and in these he mustn't place any too much
confidence. As soon as it was dusk, he must keep his ears open and
listen for the big owls, who flew along with such soundless wing-strokes
that they could come right up to him before he was aware of their
presence.

When the boy heard that there were so many who were after his life, he
thought that it would be simply impossible for him to escape. He was not
particularly afraid to die, but he didn't like the idea of being eaten
up, so he asked Akka what he should do to protect himself from the
carnivorous animals.

Akka answered at once that the boy should try to get on good terms with
all the small animals in the woods and fields: with the squirrel-folk,
and the hare-family; with bullfinches and the titmice and woodpeckers
and larks. If he made friends with them, they could warn him against
dangers, find hiding places for him, and protect him.

But later in the day, when the boy tried to profit by this counsel, and
turned to Sirle Squirrel to ask for his protection, it was evident that
he did not care to help him. "You surely can't expect anything from me,
or the rest of the small animals!" said Sirle. "Don't you think we know
that you are Nils the goose boy, who tore down the swallow's nest last
year, crushed the starling's eggs, threw baby crows in the marl-ditch,
caught thrushes in snares, and put squirrels in cages? You just help
yourself as well as you can; and you may be thankful that we do not form
a league against you, and drive you back to your own kind!"

This was just the sort of answer the boy would not have let go
unpunished, in the days when he was Nils the goose boy. But now he was
only fearful lest the wild geese, too, had found out how wicked he could
be. He had been so anxious for fear he wouldn't be permitted to stay
with the wild geese, that he hadn't dared to get into the least little
mischief since he joined their company. It was true that he didn't have
the power to do much harm now, but, little as he was, he could have
destroyed many birds' nests, and crushed many eggs, if he'd been in a
mind to. Now he had been good. He hadn't pulled a feather from a
goose-wing, or given anyone a rude answer; and every morning when he
called upon Akka he had always removed his cap and bowed.

All day Thursday he thought it was surely on account of his wickedness
that the wild geese did not care to take him along up to Lapland. And in
the evening, when he heard that Sirle Squirrel's wife had been stolen,
and her children were starving to death, he made up his mind to help
them. And we have already been told how well he succeeded.

When the boy came into the park on Friday, he heard the bulfinches sing
in every bush, of how Sirle Squirrel's wife had been carried away from
her children by cruel robbers, and how Nils, the goose boy, had risked
his life among human beings, and taken the little squirrel children to
her.

"And who is so honoured in Övid Cloister park now, as Thumbietot!" sang
the bullfinch; "he, whom all feared when he was Nils the goose boy?
Sirle Squirrel will give him nuts; the poor hares are going to play with
him; the small wild animals will carry him on their backs, and fly away
with him when Smirre Fox approaches. The titmice are going to warn him
against the hawk, and the finches and larks will sing of his valour."

The boy was absolutely certain that both Akka and the wild geese had
heard all this. But still Friday passed and not one word did they say
about his remaining with them.

Until Saturday the wild geese fed in the fields around Övid, undisturbed
by Smirre Fox.

But on Saturday morning, when they came out in the meadows, he lay in
wait for them, and chased them from one field to another, and they were
not allowed to eat in peace. When Akka understood that he didn't intend
to leave them in peace, she came to a decision quickly, raised herself
into the air and flew with her flock several miles away, over Färs'
plains and Linderödsosen's hills. They did not stop before they had
arrived in the district of Vittskövle.

But at Vittskövle the goosey-gander was stolen, and how it happened has
already been related. If the boy had not used all his powers to help him
he would never again have been found.

On Saturday evening, as the boy came back to Vomb Lake with the
goosey-gander, he thought that he had done a good day's work; and he
speculated a good deal on what Akka and the wild geese would say to him.
The wild geese were not at all sparing in their praises, but they did
not say the word he was longing to hear.

Then Sunday came again. A whole week had gone by since the boy had been
bewitched, and he was still just as little.

But he didn't appear to be giving himself any extra worry on account of
this thing. On Sunday afternoon he sat huddled together in a big, fluffy
osier-bush, down by the lake, and blew on a reed-pipe. All around him
there sat as many finches and bullfinches and starlings as the bush
could well hold--who sang songs which he tried to teach himself to play.
But the boy was not at home in this art. He blew so false that the
feathers raised themselves on the little music-masters and they shrieked
and fluttered in their despair. The boy laughed so heartily at their
excitement, that he dropped his pipe.

He began once again, and that went just as badly. Then all the little
birds wailed: "To-day you play worse than usual, Thumbietot! You don't
take one true note! Where are your thoughts, Thumbietot?"

"They are elsewhere," said the boy--and this was true. He sat there and
pondered how long he would be allowed to remain with the wild geese; or
if he should be sent home perhaps to-day.

Finally the boy threw down his pipe and jumped from the bush. He had
seen Akka, and all the wild geese, coming toward him in a long row. They
walked so uncommonly slow and dignified-like, that the boy immediately
understood that now he should learn what they intended to do with him.

When they stopped at last, Akka said: "You may well have reason to
wonder at me, Thumbietot, who have not said thanks to you for saving me
from Smirre Fox. But I am one of those who would rather give thanks by
deeds than words. I have sent word to the elf that bewitched you. At
first he didn't want to hear anything about curing you; but I have sent
message upon message to him, and told him how well you have conducted
yourself among us. He greets you, and says, that as soon as you turn
back home, you shall be human again."

But think of it! Just as happy as the boy had been when the wild geese
began to speak, just that miserable was he when they had finished. He
didn't say a word, but turned away and wept.

"What in all the world is this?" said Akka. "It looks as though you had
expected more of me than I have offered you."

But the boy was thinking of the care-free days and the banter; and of
adventure and freedom and travel, high above the earth, that he should
miss, and he actually bawled with grief. "I don't want to be human,"
said he. "I want to go with you to Lapland." "I'll tell you something,"
said Akka. "That elf is very touchy, and I'm afraid that if you do not
accept his offer now, it will be difficult for you to coax him another
time."

It was a strange thing about that boy--as long as he had lived, he had
never cared for anyone. He had not cared for his father or mother; not
for the school teacher; not for his school-mates; nor for the boys in
the neighbourhood. All that they had wished to have him do--whether it
had been work or play--he had only thought tiresome. Therefore there was
no one whom he missed or longed for.

The only ones that he had come anywhere near agreeing with, were Osa,
the goose girl, and little Mats--a couple of children who had tended
geese in the fields, like himself. But he didn't care particularly for
them either. No, far from it! "I don't want to be human," bawled the
boy. "I want to go with you to Lapland. That's why I've been good for a
whole week!" "I don't want to forbid you to come along with us as far as
you like," said Akka, "but think first if you wouldn't rather go home
again. A day may come when you will regret this."

"No," said the boy, "that's nothing to regret. I have never been as well
off as here with you."

"Well then, let it be as you wish," said Akka.

"Thanks!" said the boy, and he felt so happy that he had to cry for very
joy--just as he had cried before from sorrow.


GLIMMINGE CASTLE


BLACK RATS AND GRAY RATS

In south-eastern Skåne--not far from the sea there is an old castle
called Glimminge. It is a big and substantial stone house; and can be
seen over the plain for miles around. It is not more than four stories
high; but it is so ponderous that an ordinary farmhouse, which stands on
the same estate, looks like a little children's playhouse in comparison.

The big stone house has such thick ceilings and partitions that there is
scarcely room in its interior for anything but the thick walls. The
stairs are narrow, the entrances small; and the rooms few. That the
walls might retain their strength, there are only the fewest number of
windows in the upper stories, and none at all are found in the lower
ones. In the old war times, the people were just as glad that they could
shut themselves up in a strong and massive house like this, as one is
nowadays to be able to creep into furs in a snapping cold winter. But
when the time of peace came, they did not care to live in the dark and
cold stone halls of the old castle any longer. They have long since
deserted the big Glimminge castle, and moved into dwelling places where
the light and air can penetrate.

At the time when Nils Holgersson wandered around with the wild geese,
there were no human beings in Glimminge castle; but for all that, it was
not without inhabitants. Every summer there lived a stork couple in a
large nest on the roof. In a nest in the attic lived a pair of gray
owls; in the secret passages hung bats; in the kitchen oven lived an old
cat; and down in the cellar there were hundreds of old black rats.

Rats are not held in very high esteem by other animals; but the black
rats at Glimminge castle were an exception. They were always mentioned
with respect, because they had shown great valour in battle with their
enemies; and much endurance under the great misfortunes which had
befallen their kind. They nominally belong to a rat-folk who, at one
time, had been very numerous and powerful, but who were now dying out.
During a long period of time, the black rats owned Skåne and the whole
country. They were found in every cellar; in every attic; in larders and
cowhouses and barns; in breweries and flour-mills; in churches and
castles; in every man-constructed building. But now they were banished
from all this--and were almost exterminated. Only in one and another old
and secluded place could one run across a few of them; and nowhere were
they to be found in such large numbers as in Glimminge castle.

When an animal folk die out, it is generally the human kind who are the
cause of it; but that was not the case in this instance. The people had
certainly struggled with the black rats, but they had not been able to
do them any harm worth mentioning. Those who had conquered them were an
animal folk of their own kind, who were called gray rats.

These gray rats had not lived in the land since time immemorial, like
the black rats, but descended from a couple of poor immigrants who
landed in Malmö from a Libyan sloop about a hundred years ago. They were
homeless, starved-out wretches who stuck close to the harbour, swam
among the piles under the bridges, and ate refuse that was thrown in the
water. They never ventured into the city, which was owned by the black
rats.

But gradually, as the gray rats increased in number they grew bolder.
At first they moved over to some waste places and condemned old houses
which the black rats had abandoned. They hunted their food in gutters
and dirt heaps, and made the most of all the rubbish that the black rats
did not deign to take care of. They were hardy, contented and fearless;
and within a few years they had become so powerful that they undertook
to drive the black rats out of Malmö. They took from them attics,
cellars and storerooms, starved them out or bit them to death for they
were not at all afraid of fighting.

When Malmö was captured, they marched forward in small and large
companies to conquer the whole country. It is almost impossible to
comprehend why the black rats did not muster themselves into a great,
united war-expedition to exterminate the gray rats, while these were
still few in numbers. But the black rats were so certain of their power
that they could not believe it possible for them to lose it. They sat
still on their estates, and in the meantime the gray rats took from them
farm after farm, city after city. They were starved out, forced out,
rooted out. In Skåne they had not been able to maintain themselves in a
single place except Glimminge castle.

The old castle had such secure walls and such few rat passages led
through these, that the black rats had managed to protect themselves,
and to prevent the gray rats from crowding in. Night after night, year
after year, the struggle had continued between the aggressors and the
defenders; but the black rats had kept faithful watch, and had fought
with the utmost contempt for death, and, thanks to the fine old house,
they had always conquered.

It will have to be acknowledged that as long as the black rats were in
power they were as much shunned by all other living creatures as the
gray rats are in our day--and for just cause; they had thrown themselves
upon poor, fettered prisoners, and tortured them; they had ravished the
dead; they had stolen the last turnip from the cellars of the poor;
bitten off the feet of sleeping geese; robbed eggs and chicks from the
hens; and committed a thousand depredations. But since they had come to
grief, all this seemed to have been forgotten; and no one could help but
marvel at the last of a race that had held out so long against its
enemies.

The gray rats that lived in the courtyard at Glimminge and in the
vicinity, kept up a continuous warfare and tried to watch out for every
possible chance to capture the castle. One would fancy that they should
have allowed the little company of black rats to occupy Glimminge castle
in peace, since they themselves had acquired all the rest of the
country; but you may be sure this thought never occurred to them. They
were wont to say that it was a point of honour with them to conquer the
black rats at some time or other. But those who were acquainted with the
gray rats must have known that it was because the human kind used
Glimminge castle as a grain store-house that the gray ones could not
rest before they had taken possession of the place.

THE STORK

_Monday, March twenty-eighth_.

Early one morning the wild geese who stood and slept on the ice in Vomb
Lake were awakened by long calls from the air. "Trirop, Trirop!" it
sounded, "Trianut, the crane, sends greetings to Akka, the wild goose,
and her flock. To-morrow will be the day of the great crane dance on
Kullaberg."

Akka raised her head and answered at once: "Greetings and thanks!
Greetings and thanks!"

With that, the cranes flew farther; and the wild geese heard them for a
long while--where they travelled and called out over every field, and
every wooded hill: "Trianut sends greetings. To-morrow will be the day
of the great crane dance on Kullaberg."

The wild geese were very happy over this invitation. "You're in luck,"
they said to the white goosey-gander, "to be permitted to attend the
great crane dance on Kullaberg!" "Is it then so remarkable to see cranes
dance?" asked the goosey-gander. "It is something that you have never
even dreamed about!" replied the wild geese.

"Now we must think out what we shall do with Thumbietot to-morrow--so
that no harm can come to him, while we run over to Kullaberg," said
Akka. "Thumbietot shall not be left alone!" said the goosey-gander. "If
the cranes won't let him see their dance, then I'll stay with him."

"No human being has ever been permitted to attend the Animal's Congress,
at Kullaberg," said Akka, "and I shouldn't dare to take Thumbietot
along. But We'll discuss this more at length later in the day. Now we
must first and foremost think about getting something to eat."

With that Akka gave the signal to adjourn. On this day she also sought
her feeding-place a good distance away, on Smirre Fox's account, and she
didn't alight until she came to the swampy meadows a little south of
Glimminge castle.

All that day the boy sat on the shores of a little pond, and blew on
reed-pipes. He was out of sorts because he shouldn't see the crane
dance, and he just couldn't say a word, either to the goosey-gander, or
to any of the others.

It was pretty hard that Akka should still doubt him. When a boy had
given up being human, just to travel around with a few wild geese, they
surely ought to understand that he had no desire to betray them. Then,
too, they ought to understand that when he had renounced so much to
follow them, it was their duty to let him see all the wonders they could
show him.

"I'll have to speak my mind right out to them," thought he. But hour
after hour passed, still he hadn't come round to it. It may sound
remarkable--but the boy had actually acquired a kind of respect for the
old leader-goose. He felt that it was not easy to pit his will against
hers.

On one side of the swampy meadow, where the wild geese fed, there was a
broad stone hedge. Toward evening when the boy finally raised his head,
to speak to Akka, his glance happened to rest on this hedge. He uttered
a little cry of surprise, and all the wild geese instantly looked up,
and stared in the same direction. At first, both the geese and the boy
thought that all the round, gray stones in the hedge had acquired legs,
and were starting on a run; but soon they saw that it was a company of
rats who ran over it. They moved very rapidly, and ran forward, tightly
packed, line upon line, and were so numerous that, for some time, they
covered the entire stone hedge.

The boy had been afraid of rats, even when he was a big, strong human
being. Then what must his feelings be now, when he was so tiny that two
or three of them could overpower him? One shudder after another
travelled down his spinal column as he stood and stared at them.

But strangely enough, the wild geese seemed to feel the same aversion
toward the rats that he did. They did not speak to them; and when they
were gone, they shook themselves as if their feathers had been
mud-spattered.

"Such a lot of gray rats abroad!" said Iksi from Vassipaure. "That's not
a good omen."

The boy intended to take advantage of this opportunity to say to Akka
that he thought she ought to let him go with them to Kullaberg, but he
was prevented anew, for all of a sudden a big bird came down in the
midst of the geese.

One could believe, when one looked at this bird, that he had borrowed
body, neck and head from a little white goose. But in addition to this,
he had procured for himself large black wings, long red legs, and a
thick bill, which was too large for the little head, and weighed it down
until it gave him a sad and worried look.

Akka at once straightened out the folds of her wings, and curtsied many
times as she approached the stork. She wasn't specially surprised to see
him in Skåne so early in the spring, because she knew that the male
storks are in the habit of coming in good season to take a look at the
nest, and see that it hasn't been damaged during the winter, before the
female storks go to the trouble of flying over the East sea. But she
wondered very much what it might signify that he sought her out, since
storks prefer to associate with members of their own family.

"I can hardly believe that there is anything wrong with your house, Herr
Ermenrich," said Akka.

It was apparent now that it is true what they say: a stork can seldom
open his bill without complaining. But what made the thing he said sound
even more doleful was that it was difficult for him to speak out. He
stood for a long time and only clattered with his bill; afterward he
spoke in a hoarse and feeble voice. He complained about everything: the
nest--which was situated at the very top of the roof-tree at Glimminge
castle--had been totally destroyed by winter storms; and no food could
he get any more in Skåne. The people of Skåne were appropriating all his
possessions. They dug out his marshes and laid waste his swamps. He
intended to move away from this country, and never return to it again.

While the stork grumbled, Akka, the wild goose who had neither home nor
protection, could not help thinking to herself: "If I had things as
comfortable as you have, Herr Ermenrich, I should be above complaining.
You have remained a free and wild bird; and still you stand so well with
human beings that no one will fire a shot at you, or steal an egg from
your nest." But all this she kept to herself. To the stork she only
remarked, that she couldn't believe he would be willing to move from a
house where storks had resided ever since it was built.

Then the stork suddenly asked the geese if they had seen the gray rats
who were marching toward Glimminge castle. When Akka replied that she
had seen the horrid creatures, he began to tell her about the brave
black rats who, for years, had defended the castle. "But this night
Glimminge castle will fall into the gray rats' power," sighed the stork.

"And why just this night, Herr Ermenrich?" asked Akka.

"Well, because nearly all the black rats went over to Kullaberg last
night," said the stork, "since they had counted on all the rest of the
animals also hurrying there. But you see that the gray rats have stayed
at home; and now they are mustering to storm the castle to-night, when
it will be defended by only a few old creatures who are too feeble to go
over to Kullaberg. They'll probably accomplish their purpose. But I have
lived here in harmony with the black rats for so many years, that it
does not please me to live in a place inhabited by their enemies."

Akka understood now that the stork had become so enraged over the gray
rats' mode of action, that he had sought her out as an excuse to
complain about them. But after the manner of storks, he certainly had
done nothing to avert the disaster. "Have you sent word to the black
rats, Herr Ermenrich?" she asked. "No," replied the stork, "that
wouldn't be of any use. Before they can get back, the castle will be
taken." "You mustn't be so sure of that, Herr Ermenrich," said Akka. "I
know an old wild goose, I do, who will gladly prevent outrages of this
kind."

When Akka said this, the stork raised his head and stared at her. And it
was not surprising, for Akka had neither claws nor bill that were fit
for fighting; and, in the bargain, she was a day bird, and as soon as it
grew dark she fell helplessly asleep, while the rats did their fighting
at night.

But Akka had evidently made up her mind to help the black rats. She
called Iksi from Vassijaure, and ordered him to take the wild geese over
to Vonib Lake; and when the geese made excuses, she said
authoritatively: "I believe it will be best for us all that you obey me.
I must fly over to the big stone house, and if you follow me, the people
on the place will be sure to see us, and shoot us down. The only one
that I want to take with me on this trip is Thumbietot. He can be of
great service to me because he has good eyes, and can keep awake at
night."

The boy was in his most contrary mood that day. And when he heard what
Akka said, he raised himself to his full height and stepped forward, his
hands behind him and his nose in the air, and he intended to say that
he, most assuredly, did not wish to take a hand in the fight with gray
rats. She might look around for assistance elsewhere.

But the instant the boy was seen, the stork began to move. He had stood
before, as storks generally stand, with head bent downward and the bill
pressed against the neck. But now a gurgle was heard deep down in his
windpipe; as though he would have laughed. Quick as a flash, he lowered
the bill, grabbed the boy, and tossed him a couple of metres in the
air. This feat he performed seven times, while the boy shrieked and the
geese shouted: "What are you trying to do, Herr Ermenrich? That's not a
frog. That's a human being, Herr Ermenrich."

Finally the stork put the boy down entirely unhurt. Thereupon he said to
Akka, "I'll fly back to Glimminge castle now, mother Akka. All who live
there were very much worried when I left. You may be sure they'll be
very glad when I tell them that Akka, the wild goose, and Thumbietot,
the human elf, are on their way to rescue them." With that the stork
craned his neck, raised his wings, and darted off like an arrow when it
leaves a well-drawn bow. Akka understood that he was making fun of her,
but she didn't let it bother her. She waited until the boy had found his
wooden shoes, which the stork had shaken off; then she put him on her
back and followed the stork. On his own account, the boy made no
objection, and said not a word about not wanting to go along. He had
become so furious with the stork, that he actually sat and puffed. That
long, red-legged thing believed he was of no account just because he was
little; but he would show him what kind of a man Nils Holgersson from
West Vemminghög was.

A couple of moments later Akka stood in the storks' nest. It had a wheel
for foundation, and over this lay several grass-mats, and some twigs.
The nest was so old that many shrubs and plants had taken root up there;
and when the mother stork sat on her eggs in the round hole in the
middle of the nest, she not only had the beautiful outlook over a goodly
portion of Skåne to enjoy, but she had also the wild brier-blossoms and
house-leeks to look upon.

Both Akka and the boy saw immediately that something was going on here
which turned upside down the most regular order. On the edge of the
stork-nest sat two gray owls, an old, gray-streaked cat, and a dozen
old, decrepit rats with protruding teeth and watery eyes. They were not
exactly the sort of animals one usually finds living peaceably together.

Not one of them turned around to look at Akka, or to bid her welcome.
They thought of nothing except to sit and stare at some long, gray
lines, which came into sight here and there--on the winter-naked
meadows.

All the black rats were silent. One could see that they were in deep
despair, and probably knew that they could neither defend their own
lives nor the castle. The two owls sat and rolled their big eyes, and
twisted their great, encircling eyebrows, and talked in hollow,
ghost-like voices, about the awful cruelty of the gray rats, and that
they would have to move away from their nest, because they had heard it
said of them that they spared neither eggs nor baby birds. The old
gray-streaked cat was positive that the gray rats would bite him to
death, since they were coming into the castle in such great numbers, and
he scolded the black rats incessantly. "How could you be so idiotic as
to let your best fighters go away?" said he. "How could you trust the
gray rats? It is absolutely unpardonable!"

The twelve black rats did not say a word. But the stork, despite his
misery, could not refrain from teasing the cat. "Don't worry so, Monsie
house-cat!" said he. "Can't you see that mother Akka and Thumbietot have
come to save the castle? You can be certain that they'll succeed. Now I
must stand up to sleep--and I do so with the utmost calm. To-morrow,
when I awaken, there won't be a single gray rat in Glimminge castle."

The boy winked at Akka, and made a sign--as the stork stood upon the
very edge of the nest, with one leg drawn up, to sleep--that he wanted
to push him down to the ground; but Akka restrained him. She did not
seem to be the least bit angry. Instead, she said in a confident tone of
voice: "It would be pretty poor business if one who is as old as I am
could not manage to get out of worse difficulties than this. If only Mr.
and Mrs. Owl, who can stay awake all night, will fly off with a couple
of messages for me, I think that all will go well."

Both owls were willing. Then Akka bade the gentleman owl that he should
go and seek the black rats who had gone off, and counsel them to hurry
home immediately. The lady owl she sent to Flammea, the steeple-owl,
who lived in Lund cathedral, with a commission which was so secret that
Akka only dared to confide it to her in a whisper.

THE RAT CHARMER

It was getting on toward midnight when the gray rats after a diligent
search succeeded in finding an open air-hole in the cellar. This was
pretty high upon the wall; but the rats got up on one another's
shoulders, and it wasn't long before the most daring among them sat in
the air-hole, ready to force its way into Glimminge castle, outside
whose walls so many of its forebears had fallen.

The gray rat sat still for a moment in the hole, and waited for an
attack from within. The leader of the defenders was certainly away, but
she assumed that the black rats who were still in the castle wouldn't
surrender without a struggle. With thumping heart she listened for the
slightest sound, but everything remained quiet. Then the leader of the
gray rats plucked up courage and jumped down in the coal-black cellar.

One after another of the gray rats followed the leader. They all kept
very quiet; and all expected to be ambushed by the black rats. Not until
so many of them had crowded into the cellar that the floor couldn't hold
any more, did they venture farther.

Although they had never before been inside the building, they had no
difficulty in finding their way. They soon found the passages in the
walls which the black rats had used to get to the upper floors. Before
they began to clamber up these narrow and steep steps, they listened
again with great attention. They felt more frightened because the black
rats held themselves aloof in this way, than if they had met them in
open battle. They could hardly believe their luck when they reached the
first story without any mishaps.

Immediately upon their entrance the gray rats caught the scent of the
grain, which was stored in great bins on the floor. But it was not as
yet time for them to begin to enjoy their conquest. They searched first,
with the utmost caution, through the sombre, empty rooms. They ran up in
the fireplace, which stood on the floor in the old castle kitchen, and
they almost tumbled into the well, in the inner room. Not one of the
narrow peep-holes did they leave uninspected, but they found no black
rats. When this floor was wholly in their possession, they began, with
the same caution, to acquire the next. Then they had to venture on a
bold and dangerous climb through the walls, while, with breathless
anxiety, they awaited an assault from the enemy. And although they were
tempted by the most delicious odour from the grain bins, they forced
themselves most systematically to inspect the old-time warriors'
pillar-propped kitchen; their stone table, and fireplace; the deep
window-niches, and the hole in the floor--which in olden time had been
opened to pour down boiling pitch on the intruding enemy.

All this time the black rats were invisible. The gray ones groped their
way to the third story, and into the lord of the castle's great banquet
hall--which stood there cold and empty, like all the other rooms in the
old house. They even groped their way to the upper story, which had but
one big, barren room. The only place they did not think of exploring was
the big stork-nest on the roof--where, just at this time, the lady owl
awakened Akka, and informed her that Flammea, the steeple owl, had
granted her request, and had sent her the thing she wished for.

Since the gray rats had so conscientiously inspected the entire castle,
they felt at ease. They took it for granted that the black rats had
flown, and didn't intend to offer any resistance; and, with light
hearts, they ran up into the grain bins.

But the gray rats had hardly swallowed the first wheat-grains, before
the sound of a little shrill pipe was heard from the yard. The gray rats
raised their heads, listened anxiously, ran a few steps as if they
intended to leave the bin, then they turned back and began to eat once
more.

Again the pipe sounded a sharp and piercing note--and now something
wonderful happened. One rat, two rats--yes, a whole lot of rats left the
grain, jumped from the bins and hurried down cellar by the shortest cut,
to get out of the house. Still there were many gray rats left. These
thought of all the toil and trouble it had cost them to win Glimminge
castle, and they did not want to leave it. But again they caught the
tones from the pipe, and had to follow them. With wild excitement they
rushed up from the bins, slid down through the narrow holes in the
walls, and tumbled over each other in their eagerness to get out.

In the middle of the courtyard stood a tiny creature, who blew upon a
pipe. All round him he had a whole circle of rats who listened to him,
astonished and fascinated; and every moment brought more. Once he took
the pipe from his lips--only for a second--put his thumb to his nose and
wiggled his fingers at the gray rats; and then it looked as if they
wanted to throw themselves on him and bite him to death; but as soon as
he blew on his pipe they were in his power.

When the tiny creature had played all the gray rats out of Glimminge
castle, he began to wander slowly from the courtyard out on the highway;
and all the gray rats followed him, because the tones from that pipe
sounded so sweet to their ears that they could not resist them.

The tiny creature walked before them and charmed them along with him,
on the road to Vallby. He led them into all sorts of crooks and turns
and bends--on through hedges and down into ditches--and wherever he went
they had to follow. He blew continuously on his pipe, which appeared to
be made from an animal's horn, although the horn was so small that, in
our days, there were no animals from whose foreheads it could have been
broken. No one knew, either, who had made it. Flammea, the steeple-owl,
had found it in a niche, in Lund cathedral. She had shown it to Bataki,
the raven; and they had both figured out that this was the kind of horn
that was used in former times by those who wished to gain power over
rats and mice. But the raven was Akka's friend; and it was from him she
had learned that Flammea owned a treasure like this. And it was true
that the rats could not resist the pipe. The boy walked before them and
played as long as the starlight lasted--and all the while they followed
him. He played at daybreak; he played at sunrise; and the whole time the
entire procession of gray rats followed him, and were enticed farther
and farther away from the big grain loft at Glimminge castle.


THE GREAT CRANE DANCE ON KULLABERG


_Tuesday, March twenty-ninth_.

Although there are many magnificent buildings in Skåne, it must be
acknowledged that there's not one among them that has such pretty walls
as old Kullaberg.

Kullaberg is low and rather long. It is not by any means a big or
imposing mountain. On its broad summit you'll find woods and grain
fields, and one and another heather-heath. Here and there, round
heather-knolls and barren cliffs rise up. It is not especially pretty up
there. It looks a good deal like all the other upland places in Skåne.

He who walks along the path which runs across the middle of the
mountain, can't help feeling a little disappointed. Then he happens,
perhaps, to turn away from the path, and wanders off toward the
mountain's sides and looks down over the bluffs; and then, all at once,
he will discover so much that is worth seeing, he hardly knows how he'll
find time to take in the whole of it. For it happens that Kullaberg
does not stand on the land, with plains and valleys around it, like
other mountains; but it has plunged into the sea, as far out as it could
get. Not even the tiniest strip of land lies below the mountain to
protect it against the breakers; but these reach all the way up to the
mountain walls, and can polish and mould them to suit themselves. This
is why the walls stand there as richly ornamented as the sea and its
helpmeet, the wind, have been able to effect. You'll find steep ravines
that are deeply chiselled in the mountain's sides; and black crags that
have become smooth and shiny under the constant lashing of the winds.
There are solitary rock-columns that spring right up out of the water,
and dark grottoes with narrow entrances. There are barren, perpendicular
precipices, and soft, leaf-clad inclines. There are small points, and
small inlets, and small rolling stones that are rattlingly washed up and
down with every dashing breaker. There are majestic cliff-arches that
project over the water. There are sharp stones that are constantly
sprayed by a white foam; and others that mirror themselves in
unchangeable dark-green still water. There are giant troll-caverns
shaped in the rock, and great crevices that lure the wanderer to venture
into the mountain's depths--all the way to Kullman's Hollow.

And over and around all these cliffs and rocks crawl entangled tendrils
and weeds. Trees grow there also, but the wind's power is so great that
trees have to transform themselves into clinging vines, that they may
get a firm hold on the steep precipices. The oaks creep along on the
ground, while their foliage hangs over them like a low ceiling; and
long-limbed beeches stand in the ravines like great leaf-tents.

These remarkable mountain walls, with the blue sea beneath them, and the
clear penetrating air above them, is what makes Kullaberg so dear to the
people that great crowds of them haunt the place every day as long as
the summer lasts. But it is more difficult to tell what it is that makes
it so attractive to animals, that every year they gather there for a big
play-meeting. This is a custom that has been observed since time
immemorial; and one should have been there when the first sea-wave was
dashed into foam against the shore, to be able to explain just why
Kullaberg was chosen as a rendezvous, in preference to all other places.

When the meeting is to take place, the stags and roebucks and hares and
foxes and all the other four-footers make the journey to Kullaberg the
night before, so as not to be observed by the human beings. Just before
sunrise they all march up to the playground, which is a heather-heath on
the left side of the road, and not very far from the mountain's most
extreme point. The playground is inclosed on all sides by round knolls,
which conceal it from any and all who do not happen to come right upon
it. And in the month of March it is not at all likely that any
pedestrians will stray off up there. All the strangers who usually
stroll around on the rocks, and clamber up the mountain's sides the fall
storms have driven away these many months past. And the lighthouse
keeper out there on the point; the old fru on the mountain farm, and the
mountain peasant and his house-folk go their accustomed ways, and do not
run about on the desolate heather-fields.

When the four-footers have arrived on the playground, they take their
places on the round knolls. Each animal family keeps to itself, although
it is understood that, on a day like this, universal peace reigns, and
no one need fear attack. On this day a little hare might wander over to
the foxes' hill, without losing as much as one of his long ears. But
still the animals arrange themselves into separate groups. This is an
old custom.

After they have all taken their places, they begin to look around for
the birds. It is always beautiful weather on this day. The cranes are
good weather prophets, and would not call the animals together if they
expected rain. Although the air is clear, and nothing obstructs the
vision, the four-footers see no birds. This is strange. The sun stands
high in the heavens, and the birds should already be on their way.

But what the animals, on the other hand, observe, is one and another
little dark cloud that comes slowly forward over the plain. And look!
one of these clouds comes gradually along the coast of Öresund, and up
toward Kullaberg. When the cloud has come just over the playground it
stops, and, simultaneously, the entire cloud begins to ring and chirp,
as if it was made of nothing but tone. It rises and sinks, rises and
sinks, but all the while it rings and chirps. At last the whole cloud
falls down over a knoll--all at once--and the next instant the knoll is
entirely covered with gray larks, pretty red-white-gray bulfinches,
speckled starlings and greenish-yellow titmice.

Soon after that, another cloud comes over the plain. This stops over
every bit of land; over peasant cottage and palace; over towns and
cities; over farms and railway stations; over fishing hamlets and sugar
refineries. Every time it stops, it draws to itself a little whirling
column of gray dust-grains from the ground. In this way it grows and
grows. And at last, when it is all gathered up and heads for Kullaberg,
it is no longer a cloud but a whole mist, which is so big that it throws
a shadow on the ground all the way from Höganäs to Mölle. When it stops
over the playground it hides the sun; and for a long while it had to
rain gray sparrows on one of the knolls, before those who had been
flying in the innermost part of the mist could again catch a glimpse of
the daylight.

But still the biggest of these bird-clouds is the one which now appears.
This has been formed of birds who have travelled from every direction to
join it. It is dark bluish-gray, and no sun-ray can penetrate it. It is
full of the ghastliest noises, the most frightful shrieks, the grimmest
laughter, and most ill-luck-boding croaking! All on the playground are
glad when it finally resolves itself into a storm of fluttering and
croaking: of crows and jackdaws and rooks and ravens.

Thereupon not only clouds are seen in the heavens, but a variety of
stripes and figures. Then straight, dotted lines appear in the East and
Northeast. These are forest-birds from Göinge districts: black grouse
and wood grouse who come flying in long lines a couple of metres apart.
Swimming-birds that live around Måkläppen, just out of Falsterbo, now
come floating over Öresund in many extraordinary figures: in triangular
and long curves; in sharp hooks and semicircles.

To the great reunion held the year that Nils Holgersson travelled
around with the wild geese, came Akka and her flock--later than all the
others. And that was not to be wondered at, for Akka had to fly over the
whole of Skåne to get to Kullaberg. Beside, as soon as she awoke, she
had been obliged to go out and hunt for Thumbietot, who, for many hours,
had gone and played to the gray rats, and lured them far away from
Glimminge castle. Mr. Owl had returned with the news that the black rats
would be at home immediately after sunrise; and there was no longer any
danger in letting the steeple-owl's pipe be hushed, and to give the gray
rats the liberty to go where they pleased.

But it was not Akka who discovered the boy where he walked with his long
following, and quickly sank down over him and caught him with the bill
and swung into the air with him, but it was Herr Ermenrich, the stork!
For Herr Ermenrich had also gone out to look for him; and after he had
borne him up to the stork-nest, he begged his forgiveness for having
treated him with disrespect the evening before.

This pleased the boy immensely, and the stork and he became good
friends. Akka, too, showed him that she felt very kindly toward him; she
stroked her old head several times against his arms, and commended him
because he had helped those who were in trouble.

But this one must say to the boy's credit: that he did not want to
accept praise which he had not earned. "No, mother Akka," he said, "you
mustn't think that I lured the gray rats away to help the black ones. I
only wanted to show Herr Ermenrich that I was of some consequence."

He had hardly said this before Akka turned to the stork and asked if he
thought it was advisable to take Thumbietot along to Kullaberg. "I mean,
that we can rely on him as upon ourselves," said she. The stork at once
advised, most enthusiastically, that Thumbietot be permitted to come
along. "Certainly you shall take Thumbietot along to Kullaberg, mother
Akka," said he. "It is fortunate for us that we can repay him for all
that he has endured this night for our sakes. And since it still grieves
me to think that I did not conduct myself in a becoming manner toward
him the other evening, it is I who will carry him on my back--all the
way to the meeting place."

There isn't much that tastes better than to receive praise from those
who are themselves wise and capable; and the boy had certainly never
felt so happy as he did when the wild goose and the stork talked about
him in this way.

Thus the boy made the trip to Kullaberg, riding stork-back. Although he
knew that this was a great honour, it caused him much anxiety, for Herr
Ermenrich was a master flyer, and started off at a very different pace
from the wild geese. While Akka flew her straight way with even
wing-strokes, the stork amused himself by performing a lot of flying
tricks. Now he lay still in an immeasurable height, and floated in the
air without moving his wings, now he flung himself downward with such
sudden haste that it seemed as though he would fall to the ground,
helpless as a stone; now he had lots of fun flying all around Akka, in
great and small circles, like a whirlwind. The boy had never been on a
ride of this sort before; and although he sat there all the while in
terror, he had to acknowledge to himself that he had never before known
what a good flight meant.

Only a single pause was made during the journey, and that was at Vomb
Lake when Akka joined her travelling companions, and called to them that
the gray rats had been vanquished. After that, the travellers flew
straight to Kullaberg.

There they descended to the knoll reserved for the wild geese; and as
the boy let his glance wander from knoll to knoll, he saw on one of them
the many-pointed antlers of the stags; and on another, the gray herons'
neck-crests. One knoll was red with foxes, one was gray with rats; one
was covered with black ravens who shrieked continually, one with larks
who simply couldn't keep still, but kept on throwing themselves in the
air and singing for very joy.

Just as it has ever been the custom on Kullaberg, it was the crows who
began the day's games and frolics with their flying-dance. They divided
themselves into two flocks, that flew toward each other, met, turned,
and began all over again. This dance had many repetitions, and appeared
to the spectators who were not familiar with the dance as altogether too
monotonous. The crows were very proud of their dance, but all the others
were glad when it was over. It appeared to the animals about as gloomy
and meaningless as the winter-storms' play with the snow-flakes. It
depressed them to watch it, and they waited eagerly for something that
should give them a little pleasure.

They did not have to wait in vain, either; for as soon as the crows had
finished, the hares came running. They dashed forward in a long row,
without any apparent order. In some of the figures, one single hare
came; in others, they ran three and four abreast. They had all raised
themselves on two legs, and they rushed forward with such rapidity that
their long ears swayed in all directions. As they ran, they spun round,
made high leaps and beat their forepaws against their hind-paws so that
they rattled. Some performed a long succession of somersaults, others
doubled themselves up and rolled over like wheels; one stood on one leg
and swung round; one walked upon his forepaws. There was no regulation
whatever, but there was much that was droll in the hares' play; and the
many animals who stood and watched them began to breathe faster. Now it
was spring; joy and rapture were advancing. Winter was over; summer was
coming. Soon it was only play to live.

When the hares had romped themselves out, it was the great forest birds'
turn to perform. Hundreds of wood-grouse in shining dark-brown array,
and with bright red eyebrows, flung themselves up into a great oak that
stood in the centre of the playground. The one who sat upon the topmost
branch fluffed up his feathers, lowered his wings, and lifted his tail
so that the white covert-feathers were seen. Thereupon he stretched his
neck and sent forth a couple of deep notes from his thick throat.
"Tjack, tjack, tjack," it sounded. More than this he could not utter. It
only gurgled a few times way down in the throat. Then he closed his eyes
and whispered: "Sis, sis, sis. Hear how pretty! Sis, sis, sis." At the
same time he fell into such an ecstasy that he no longer knew what was
going on around him.

While the first wood grouse was sissing, the three nearest--under
him--began to sing; and before they had finished their song, the ten who
sat lower down joined in; and thus it continued from branch to branch,
until the entire hundred grouse sang and gurgled and sissed. They all
fell into the same ecstasy during their song, and this affected the
other animals like a contagious transport. Lately the blood had flowed
lightly and agreeably; now it began to grow heavy and hot. "Yes, this is
surely spring," thought all the animal folk. "Winter chill has vanished.
The fires of spring burn over the earth."

When the black grouse saw that the brown grouse were having such
success, they could no longer keep quiet. As there was no tree for them
to light on, they rushed down on the playground, where the heather stood
so high that only their beautifully turned tail-feathers and their
thick bills were visible--and they began to sing: "Orr, orr, orr."

Just as the black grouse began to compete with the brown grouse,
something unprecedented happened. While all the animals thought of
nothing but the grouse-game, a fox stole slowly over to the wild geese's
knoll. He glided very cautiously, and came way up on the knoll before
anyone noticed him. Suddenly a goose caught sight of him; and as she
could not believe that a fox had sneaked in among the geese for any good
purpose, she began to cry: "Have a care, wild geese! Have a care!" The
fox struck her across the throat--mostly, perhaps, because he wanted to
make her keep quiet--but the wild geese had already heard the cry and
they all raised themselves in the air. And when they had flown up, the
animals saw Smirre Fox standing on the wild geese's knoll, with a dead
goose in his mouth.

But because he had in this way broken the play-day's peace, such a
punishment was meted out to Smirre Fox that, for the rest of his days,
he must regret he had not been able to control his thirst for revenge,
but had attempted to approach Akka and her flock in this manner.

He was immediately surrounded by a crowd of foxes, and doomed in
accordance with an old custom, which demands that whosoever disturbs the
peace on the great play-day, must go into exile. Not a fox wished to
lighten the sentence, since they all knew that the instant they
attempted anything of the sort, they would be driven from the
playground, and would nevermore be permitted to enter it. Banishment was
pronounced upon Smirre without opposition. He was forbidden to remain in
Skåne. He was banished from wife and kindred; from hunting grounds,
home, resting places and retreats, which he had hitherto owned; and he
must tempt fortune in foreign lands. So that all foxes in Skåne should
know that Smirre was outlawed in the district, the oldest of the foxes
bit off his right earlap. As soon as this was done, all the young foxes
began to yowl from blood-thirst, and threw themselves on Smirre. For him
there was no alternative except to take flight; and with all the young
foxes in hot pursuit, he rushed away from Kullaberg.

All this happened while black grouse and brown grouse were going on with
their games. But these birds lose themselves so completely in their
song, that they neither hear nor see. Nor had they permitted themselves
to be disturbed.

The forest birds' contest was barely over, before the stags from
Häckeberga came forward to show their wrestling game. There were several
pairs of stags who fought at the same time. They rushed at each other
with tremendous force, struck their antlers dashingly together, so that
their points were entangled; and tried to force each other backward. The
heather-heaths were torn up beneath their hoofs; the breath came like
smoke from their nostrils; out of their throats strained hideous
bellowings, and the froth oozed down on their shoulders.

On the knolls round about there was breathless silence while the skilled
stag-wrestlers clinched. In all the animals new emotions were awakened.
Each and all felt courageous and, strong; enlivened by returning powers;
born again with the spring; sprightly, and ready for all kinds of
adventures. They felt no enmity toward each other, although, everywhere,
wings were lifted, neck-feathers raised and claws sharpened. If the
stags from Häckeberga had continued another instant, a wild struggle
would have arisen on the knolls, for all had been gripped with a burning
desire to show that they too were full of life because the winter's
impotence was over and strength surged through their bodies.

But the stags stopped wrestling just at the right moment, and instantly
a whisper went from knoll to knoll: "The cranes are coming!"

And then came the gray, dusk-clad birds with plumes in their wings, and
red feather-ornaments on their necks. The big birds with their tall
legs, their slender throats, their small heads, came gliding down the
knoll with an abandon that was full of mystery. As they glided forward
they swung round--half flying, half dancing. With wings gracefully
lifted, they moved with an inconceivable rapidity. There was something
marvellous and strange about their dance. It was as though gray shadows
had played a game which the eye could scarcely follow. It was as if
they had learned it from the mists that hover over desolate morasses.
There was witchcraft in it. All those who had never before been on
Kullaberg understood why the whole meeting took its name from the
crane's dance. There was wildness in it; but yet the feeling which it
awakened was a delicious longing. No one thought any more about
struggling. Instead, both the winged and those who had no wings, all
wanted to raise themselves eternally, lift themselves above the clouds,
seek that which was hidden beyond them, leave the oppressive body that
dragged them down to earth and soar away toward the infinite.

Such longing after the unattainable, after the hidden mysteries back of
this life, the animals felt only once a year; and this was on the day
when they beheld the great crane dance.


IN RAINY WEATHER


_Wednesday, March thirtieth_.

It was the first rainy day of the trip. As long as the wild geese had
remained in the vicinity of Vomb Lake, they had had beautiful weather;
but on the day when they set out to travel farther north, it began to
rain, and for several hours the boy had to sit on the goose-back,
soaking wet, and shivering with the cold.

In the morning when they started, it had been clear and mild. The wild
geese had flown high up in the air--evenly, and without haste--with Akka
at the head maintaining strict discipline, and the rest in two oblique
lines back of her. They had not taken the time to shout any witty
sarcasms to the animals on the ground; but, as it was simply impossible
for them to keep perfectly silent, they sang out continually--in rhythm
with the wing-strokes--their usual coaxing call: "Where are you? Here
am I. Where are you? Here am I."

They all took part in this persistent calling, and only stopped, now and
then, to show the goosey-gander the landmarks they were travelling over.
The places on this route included Linderödsosen's dry hills, Ovesholm's
manor, Christianstad's church steeple, Bäckaskog's royal castle on the
narrow isthmus between Oppmann's lake and Ivö's lake, Ryss mountain's
steep precipice.

It had been a monotonous trip, and when the rain-clouds made their
appearance the boy thought it was a real diversion. In the old days,
when he had only seen a rain-cloud from below, he had imagined that they
were gray and disagreeable; but it was a very different thing to be up
amongst them. Now he saw distinctly that the clouds were enormous carts,
which drove through the heavens with sky-high loads. Some of them were
piled up with huge, gray sacks, some with barrels; some were so large
that they could hold a whole lake; and a few were filled with big
utensils and bottles which were piled up to an immense height. And when
so many of them had driven forward that they filled the whole sky, it
appeared as though someone had given a signal, for all at once, water
commenced to pour down over the earth, from utensils, barrels, bottles
and sacks.

Just as the first spring-showers pattered against the ground, there
arose such shouts of joy from all the small birds in groves and
pastures, that the whole air rang with them and the boy leaped high
where he sat. "Now we'll have rain. Rain gives us spring; spring gives
us flowers and green leaves; green leaves and flowers give us worms and
insects; worms and insects give us food; and plentiful and good food is
the best thing there is," sang the birds.

The wild geese, too, were glad of the rain which came to awaken the
growing things from their long sleep, and to drive holes in the
ice-roofs on the lakes. They were not able to keep up that seriousness
any longer, but began to send merry calls over the neighbourhood.

When they flew over the big potato patches, which are so plentiful in
the country around Christianstad--and which still lay bare and
black--they screamed: "Wake up and be useful! Here comes something that
will awaken you. You have idled long enough now."

When they saw people who hurried to get out of the rain, they reproved
them saying: "What are you in such a hurry about? Can't you see that
it's raining rye-loaves and cookies?"

It was a big, thick mist that moved northward briskly, and followed
close upon the geese. They seemed to think that they dragged the mist
along with them; and, just now, when they saw great orchards beneath
them, they called out proudly: "Here we come with anemones; here we come
with roses; here we come with apple blossoms and cherry buds; here we
come with peas and beans and turnips and cabbages. He who wills can take
them. He who wills can take them."

Thus it had sounded while the first showers fell, and when all were
still glad of the rain. But when it continued to fall the whole
afternoon, the wild geese grew impatient, and cried to the thirsty
forests around Ivös lake: "Haven't you got enough yet? Haven't you got
enough yet?"

The heavens were growing grayer and grayer and the sun hid itself so
well that one couldn't imagine where it was. The rain fell faster and
faster, and beat harder and harder against the wings, as it tried to
find its way between the oily outside feathers, into their skins. The
earth was hidden by fogs; lakes, mountains, and woods floated together
in an indistinct maze, and the landmarks could not be distinguished. The
flight became slower and slower; the joyful cries were hushed; and the
boy felt the cold more and more keenly.

But still he had kept up his courage as long as he had ridden through
the air. And in the afternoon, when they had lighted under a little
stunted pine, in the middle of a large morass, where all was wet, and
all was cold; where some knolls were covered with snow, and others stood
up naked in a puddle of half-melted ice-water, even then, he had not
felt discouraged, but ran about in fine spirits, and hunted for
cranberries and frozen whortleberries. But then came evening, and
darkness sank down on them so close, that not even such eyes as the
boy's could see through it; and all the wilderness became so strangely
grim and awful. The boy lay tucked in under the goosey-gander's wing,
but could not sleep because he was cold and wet. He heard such a lot of
rustling and rattling and stealthy steps and menacing voices, that he
was terror-stricken and didn't know where he should go. He must go
somewhere, where there was light and heat, if he wasn't going to be
entirely scared to death.

"If I should venture where there are human beings, just for this night?"
thought the boy. "Only so I could sit by a fire for a moment, and get a
little food. I could go back to the wild geese before sunrise."

He crept from under the wing and slid down to the ground. He didn't
awaken either the goosey-gander or any of the other geese, but stole,
silently and unobserved, through the morass.

He didn't know exactly where on earth he was: if he was in Skåne, in
Småland, or in Blekinge. But just before he had gotten down in the
morass, he had caught a glimpse of a large village, and thither he
directed his steps. It wasn't long, either, before he discovered a road;
and soon he was on the village street, which was long, and had planted
trees on both sides, and was bordered with garden after garden.

The boy had come to one of the big cathedral towns, which are so common
on the uplands, but can hardly be seen at all down in the plain.

The houses were of wood, and very prettily constructed. Most of them had
gables and fronts, edged with carved mouldings, and glass doors, with
here and there a coloured pane, opening on verandas. The walls were
painted in light oil-colours; the doors and window-frames shone in blues
and greens, and even in reds. While the boy walked about and viewed the
houses, he could hear, all the way out to the road, how the people who
sat in the warm cottages chattered and laughed. The words he could not
distinguish, but he thought it was just lovely to hear human voices. "I
wonder what they would say if I knocked and begged to be let in,"
thought he.

This was, of course, what he had intended to do all along, but now that
he saw the lighted windows, his fear of the darkness was gone. Instead,
he felt again that shyness which always came over him now when he was
near human beings. "I'll take a look around the town for a while
longer," thought he, "before I ask anyone to take me in."

On one house there was a balcony. And just as the boy walked by, the
doors were thrown open, and a yellow light streamed through the fine,
sheer curtains. Then a pretty young fru came out on the balcony and
leaned over the railing. "It's raining; now we shall soon have spring,"
said she. When the boy saw her he felt a strange anxiety. It was as
though he wanted to weep. For the first time he was a bit uneasy because
he had shut himself out from the human kind.

Shortly after that he walked by a shop. Outside the shop stood a red
corn-drill. He stopped and looked at it; and finally crawled up to the
driver's place, and seated himself. When he had got there, he smacked
with his lips and pretended that he sat and drove. He thought what fun
it would be to be permitted to drive such a pretty machine over a
grainfield. For a moment he forgot what he was like now; then he
remembered it, and jumped down quickly from the machine. Then a greater
unrest came over him. After all, human beings were very wonderful and
clever.

He walked by the post-office, and then he thought of all the newspapers
which came every day, with news from all the four corners of the earth.
He saw the apothecary's shop and the doctor's home, and he thought about
the power of human beings, which was so great that they were able to
battle with sickness and death. He came to the church. Then he thought
how human beings had built it, that they might hear about another world
than the one in which they lived, of God and the resurrection and
eternal life. And the longer he walked there, the better he liked human
beings.

It is so with children that they never think any farther ahead than the
length of their noses. That which lies nearest them, they want
promptly, without caring what it may cost them. Nils Holgersson had not
understood what he was losing when he chose to remain an elf; but now he
began to be dreadfully afraid that, perhaps, he should never again get
back to his right form.

How in all the world should he go to work in order to become human? This
he wanted, oh! so much, to know.

He crawled up on a doorstep, and seated himself in the pouring rain and
meditated. He sat there one whole hour--two whole hours, and he thought
so hard that his forehead lay in furrows; but he was none the wiser. It
seemed as though the thoughts only rolled round and round in his head.
The longer he sat there, the more impossible it seemed to him to find
any solution.

"This thing is certainly much too difficult for one who has learned as
little as I have," he thought at last. "It will probably wind up by my
having to go back among human beings after all. I must ask the minister
and the doctor and the schoolmaster and others who are learned, and may
know a cure for such things."

This he concluded that he would do at once, and shook himself--for he
was as wet as a dog that has been in a water-pool.

Just about then he saw that a big owl came flying along, and alighted on
one of the trees that bordered the village street. The next instant a
lady owl, who sat under the cornice of the house, began to call out:
"Kivitt, Kivitt! Are you at home again, Mr. Gray Owl? What kind of a
time did you have abroad?"

"Thank you, Lady Brown Owl. I had a very comfortable time," said the
gray owl. "Has anything out of the ordinary happened here at home during
my absence?"

"Not here in Blekinge, Mr. Gray Owl; but in Skåne a marvellous thing has
happened! A boy has been transformed by an elf into a goblin no bigger
than a squirrel; and since then he has gone to Lapland with a tame
goose."

"That's a remarkable bit of news, a remarkable bit of news. Can he never
be human again, Lady Brown Owl? Can he never be human again?"

"That's a secret, Mr. Gray Owl; but you shall hear it just the same.
The elf has said that if the boy watches over the goosey-gander, so that
he comes home safe and sound, and--"

"What more, Lady Brown Owl? What more? What more?"

"Fly with me up to the church tower, Mr. Gray Owl, and you shall hear
the whole story! I fear there may be someone listening down here in the
street." With that, the owls flew their way; but the boy flung his cap
in the air, and shouted: "If I only watch over the goosey-gander, so
that he gets back safe and sound, then I shall become a human being
again. Hurrah! Hurrah! Then I shall become a human being again!"

He shouted "hurrah" until it was strange that they did not hear him in
the houses--but they didn't, and he hurried back to the wild geese, out
in the wet morass, as fast as his legs could carry him.


THE STAIRWAY WITH THE THREE STEPS


_Thursday, March thirty-first_.

The following day the wild geese intended to travel northward through
Allbo district, in Småland. They sent Iksi and Kaksi to spy out the
land. But when they returned, they said that all the water was frozen,
and all the land was snow-covered. "We may as well remain where we are,"
said the wild geese. "We cannot travel over a country where there is
neither water nor food." "If we remain where we are, we may have to wait
here until the next moon," said Akka. "It is better to go eastward,
through Blekinge, and see if we can't get to Småland by way of Möre,
which lies near the coast, and has an early spring."

Thus the boy came to ride over Blekinge the next day. Now, that it was
light again, he was in a merry mood once more, and could not comprehend
what had come over him the night before. He certainly didn't want to
give up the journey and the outdoor life now.

There lay a thick fog over Blekinge. The boy couldn't see how it looked
out there. "I wonder if it is a good, or a poor country that I'm riding
over," thought he, and tried to search his memory for the things which
he had heard about the country at school. But at the same time he knew
well enough that this was useless, as he had never been in the habit of
studying his lessons.

At once the boy saw the whole school before him. The children sat by the
little desks and raised their hands; the teacher sat in the lectern and
looked displeased; and he himself stood before the map and should answer
some question about Blekinge, but he hadn't a word to say. The
schoolmaster's face grew darker and darker for every second that passed,
and the boy thought the teacher was more particular that they should
know their geography, than anything else. Now he came down from the
lectern, took the pointer from the boy, and sent him back to his seat.
"This won't end well," the boy thought then.

But the schoolmaster had gone over to a window, and had stood there for
a moment and looked out, and then he had whistled to himself once. Then
he had gone up into the lectern and said that he would tell them
something about Blekinge. And that which he then talked about had been
so amusing that the boy had listened. When he only stopped and thought
for a moment, he remembered every word.

"Småland is a tall house with spruce trees on the roof," said the
teacher, "and leading up to it is a broad stairway with three big steps;
and this stairway is called Blekinge. It is a stairway that is well
constructed. It stretches forty-two miles along the frontage of Småland
house, and anyone who wishes to go all the way down to the East sea, by
way of the stairs, has twenty-four miles to wander.

"A good long time must have elapsed since the stairway was
built. Both days and years have gone by since the steps were hewn from
gray stones and laid down--evenly and smoothly--for a convenient track
between Småland and the East sea.

"Since the stairway is so old, one can, of course, understand that it
doesn't look just the same now, as it did when it was new. I don't know
how much they troubled themselves about such matters at that time; but
big as it was, no broom could have kept it clean. After a couple of
years, moss and lichen began to grow on it. In the autumn dry leaves and
dry grass blew down over it; and in the spring it was piled up with
falling stones and gravel. And as all these things were left there to
mould, they finally gathered so much soil on the steps that not only
herbs and grass, but even bushes and trees could take root there.

"But, at the same time, a great disparity has arisen between the three
steps. The topmost step, which lies nearest Småland, is mostly covered
with poor soil and small stones, and no trees except birches and
bird-cherry and spruce--which can stand the cold on the heights, and are
satisfied with little--can thrive up there. One understands best how
poor and dry it is there, when one sees how small the field-plots are,
that are ploughed up from the forest lands; and how many little cabins
the people build for themselves; and how far it is between the churches.
But on the middle step there is better soil, and it does not lie bound
down under such severe cold, either. This one can see at a glance, since
the trees are both higher and of finer quality. There you'll find maple
and oak and linden and weeping-birch and hazel trees growing, but no
cone-trees to speak of. And it is still more noticeable because of the
amount of cultivated land that you will find there; and also because the
people have built themselves great and beautiful houses. On the middle
step, there are many churches, with large towns around them; and in
every way it makes a better and finer appearance than the top step.

"But the very lowest step is the best of all. It is covered with good
rich soil; and, where it lies and bathes in the sea, it hasn't the
slightest feeling of the Småland chill. Beeches and chestnut
and walnut trees thrive down here; and they grow so big that they tower
above the church-roofs. Here lie also the largest grain-fields; but the
people have not only timber and farming to live upon, but they are also
occupied with fishing and trading and seafaring. For this reason you
will find the most costly residences and the prettiest churches here;
and the parishes have developed into villages and cities.

"But this is not all that is said of the three steps. For one must
realise that when it rains on the roof of the big Småland house, or when
the snow melts up there, the water has to go somewhere; and then,
naturally, a lot of it is spilled over the big stairway. In the
beginning it probably oozed over the whole stairway, big as it was; then
cracks appeared in it, and, gradually, the water has accustomed itself
to flow alongside of it, in well dug-out grooves. And water is water,
whatever one does with it. It never has any rest. In one place it cuts
and files away, and in another it adds to. Those grooves it has dug into
vales, and the walls of the vales it has decked with soil; and bushes
and trees and vines have clung to them ever since--so thick, and in such
profusion, that they almost hide the stream of water that winds its way
down there in the deep. But when the streams come to the landings between
the steps, they throw themselves headlong over them; this is why the
water comes with such a seething rush, that it gathers strength with
which to move mill-wheels and machinery--these, too, have sprung up by
every waterfall.

"But this does not tell all that is said of the land with the three
steps. It must also be told that up in the big house in Småland there
lived once upon a time a giant, who had grown very old. And it fatigued
him in his extreme age, to be forced to walk down that long stairway in
order to catch salmon from the sea. To him it seemed much more suitable
that the salmon should come up to him, where he lived.

"Therefore, he went up on the roof of his great house; and there he
stood and threw stones down into the East sea. He threw them with such
force that they flew over the whole of Blekinge and dropped into the
sea. And when the stones came down, the salmon got so scared that they
came up from the sea and fled toward the Blekinge streams; ran through
the rapids; flung themselves with high leaps over the waterfalls, and
stopped.

"How true this is, one can see by the number of islands and points that
lie along the coast of Blekinge, and which are nothing in the world but
the big stones that the giant threw.

"One can also tell because the salmon always go up in the Blekinge
streams and work their way up through rapids and still water, all the
way to Småland.

"That giant is worthy of great thanks and much honour from the Blekinge
people; for salmon in the streams, and stone-cutting on the island--that
means work which gives food to many of them even to this day."


BY RONNEBY RIVER


_Friday, April first_.

Neither the wild geese nor Smirre Fox had believed that they should ever
run across each other after they had left Skåne. But now it turned out
so that the wild geese happened to take the route over Blekinge and
thither Smirre Fox had also gone.

So far he had kept himself in the northern parts of the province; and
since he had not as yet seen any manor parks, or hunting grounds filled
with game and dainty young deer, he was more disgruntled than he could
say.

One afternoon, when Smirre tramped around in the desolate forest
district of Mellanbygden, not far from Ronneby River, he saw a flock of
wild geese fly through the air. Instantly he observed that one of the
geese was white and then he knew, of course, with whom he had to deal.

Smirre began immediately to hunt the geese--just as much for the
pleasure of getting a good square meal, as for the desire to be avenged
for all the humiliation that they had heaped upon him. He saw that they
flew eastward until they came to Ronneby River. Then they changed their
course, and followed the river toward the south. He understood that they
intended to seek a sleeping-place along the river-banks, and he thought
that he should be able to get hold of a pair of them without much
trouble. But when Smirre finally discovered the place where the wild
geese had taken refuge, he observed they had chosen such a
well-protected spot, that he couldn't get near.

Ronneby River isn't any big or important body of water; nevertheless, it
is just as much talked of, for the sake of its pretty shores. At several
points it forces its way forward between steep mountain-walls that stand
upright out of the water, and are entirely overgrown with honeysuckle
and bird-cherry, mountain-ash and osier; and there isn't much that can
be more delightful than to row out on the little dark river on a
pleasant summer day, and look upward on all the soft green that fastens
itself to the rugged mountain-sides.

But now, when the wild geese and Smirre came to the river, it was cold
and blustery spring-winter; all the trees were nude, and there was
probably no one who thought the least little bit about whether the shore
was ugly or pretty. The wild geese thanked their good fortune that they
had found a sand-strip large enough for them to stand upon, on a steep
mountain wall. In front of them rushed the river, which was strong and
violent in the snow-melting time; behind them they had an impassable
mountain rock wall, and overhanging branches screened them. They
couldn't have it better.

The geese were asleep instantly; but the boy couldn't get a wink of
sleep. As soon as the sun had disappeared he was seized with a fear of
the darkness, and a wilderness-terror, and he longed for human beings.
Where he lay--tucked in under the goose-wing--he could see nothing, and
only hear a little; and he thought if any harm came to the
goosey-gander, he couldn't save him.

Noises and rustlings were heard from all directions, and he grew so
uneasy that he had to creep from under the wing and seat himself on the
ground, beside the goose.

Long-sighted Smirre stood on the mountain's summit and looked down upon
the wild geese. "You may as well give this pursuit up first as last," he
said to himself. "You can't climb such a steep mountain; you can't swim
in such a wild torrent; and there isn't the tiniest strip of land below
the mountain which leads to the sleeping-place. Those geese are too wise
for you. Don't ever bother yourself again to hunt them!"

But Smirre, like all foxes, had found it hard to give up an undertaking
already begun, and so he lay down on the extremest point of the mountain
edge, and did not take his eyes off the wild geese. While he lay and
watched them, he thought of all the harm they had done him. Yes, it was
their fault that he had been driven from Skåne, and had been obliged to
move to poverty-stricken Blekinge. He worked himself up to such a pitch,
as he lay there, that he wished the wild geese were dead, even if he,
himself, should not have the satisfaction of eating them.

When Smirre's resentment had reached this height, he heard rasping in a
large pine that grew close to him, and saw a squirrel come down from the
tree, hotly pursued by a marten. Neither of them noticed Smirre; and he
sat quietly and watched the chase, which went from tree to tree. He
looked at the squirrel, who moved among the branches as lightly as
though he'd been able to fly. He looked at the marten, who was not as
skilled at climbing as the squirrel, but who still ran up and along the
branches just as securely as if they had been even paths in the forest.
"If I could only climb half as well as either of them," thought the fox,
"those things down there wouldn't sleep in peace very long!"

As soon as the squirrel had been captured, and the chase was ended,
Smirre walked over to the marten, but stopped two steps away from him,
to signify that he did not wish to cheat him of his prey. He greeted the
marten in a very friendly manner, and wished him good luck with his
catch. Smirre chose his words well--as foxes always do. The marten, on
the contrary, who, with his long and slender body, his fine head, his
soft skin, and his light brown neck-piece, looked like a little marvel
of beauty--but in reality was nothing but a crude forest dweller--hardly
answered him. "It surprises me," said Smirre, "that such a fine hunter
as you are should be satisfied with chasing squirrels when there is much
better game within reach." Here he paused; but when the marten only
grinned impudently at him, he continued: "Can it be possible that you
haven't seen the wild geese that stand under the mountain wall? or are
you not a good enough climber to get down to them?"

This time he had no need to wait for an answer. The marten rushed up to
him with back bent, and every separate hair on end. "Have you seen wild
geese?" he hissed. "Where are they? Tell me instantly, or I'll bite your
neck off!" "No! you must remember that I'm twice your size--so be a
little polite. I ask nothing better than to show you the wild geese."

The next instant the marten was on his way down the steep; and while
Smirre sat and watched how he swung his snake-like body from branch to
branch, he thought: "That pretty tree-hunter has the wickedest heart in
all the forest. I believe that the wild geese will have me to thank for
a bloody awakening."

But just as Smirre was waiting to hear the geese's death-rattle, he saw
the marten tumble from branch to branch--and plump into the river so the
water splashed high. Soon thereafter, wings beat loudly and strongly and
all the geese went up in a hurried flight.

Smirre intended to hurry after the geese, but he was so curious to know
how they had been saved, that he sat there until the marten came
clambering up. That poor thing was soaked in mud, and stopped every now
and then to rub his head with his forepaws. "Now wasn't that just what I
thought--that you were a booby, and would go and tumble into the river?"
said Smirre, contemptuously.

"I haven't acted boobyishly. You don't need to scold me," said the
marten. "I sat--all ready--on one of the lowest branches and thought how
I should manage to tear a whole lot of geese to pieces, when a little
creature, no bigger than a squirrel, jumped up and threw a stone at my
head with such force, that I fell into the water; and before I had time
to pick myself up--"

The marten didn't have to say any more. He had no audience. Smirre was
already a long way off in pursuit of the wild geese.

In the meantime Akka had flown southward in search of a new
sleeping-place. There was still a little daylight; and, beside, the
half-moon stood high in the heavens, so that she could see a little.
Luckily, she was well acquainted in these parts, because it had
happened more than once that she had been wind-driven to Blekinge when
she travelled over the East sea in the spring.

She followed the river as long as she saw it winding through the
moon-lit landscape like a black, shining snake. In this way she came way
down to Djupafors--where the river first hides itself in an underground
channel--and then clear and transparent, as though it were made of
glass, rushes down in a narrow cleft, and breaks into bits against its
bottom in glittering drops and flying foam. Below the white falls lay a
few stones, between which the water rushed away in a wild torrent
cataract. Here mother Akka alighted. This was another good
sleeping-place--especially this late in the evening, when no human
beings moved about. At sunset the geese would hardly have been able to
camp there, for Djupafors does not lie in any wilderness. On one side of
the falls is a paper factory; on the other--which is steep, and
tree-grown--is Djupadal's park, where people are always strolling about
on the steep and slippery paths to enjoy the wild stream's rushing
movement down in the ravine.

It was about the same here as at the former place; none of the
travellers thought the least little bit that they had come to a pretty
and well-known place. They thought rather that it was ghastly and
dangerous to stand and sleep on slippery, wet stones, in the middle of a
rumbling waterfall. But they had to be content, if only they were
protected from carnivorous animals.

The geese fell asleep instantly, while the boy could find no rest in
sleep, but sat beside them that he might watch over the goosey-gander.

After a while, Smirre came running along the river-shore. He spied the
geese immediately where they stood out in the foaming whirlpools, and
understood that he couldn't get at them here, either. Still he couldn't
make up his mind to abandon them, but seated himself on the shore and
looked at them. He felt very much humbled, and thought that his entire
reputation as a hunter was at stake.

All of a sudden, he saw an otter come creeping up from the falls with a
fish in his mouth. Smirre approached him but stopped within two steps of
him, to show him that he didn't wish to take his game from him.

"You're a remarkable one, who can content yourself with catching a fish,
while the stones are covered with geese!" said Smirre. He was so eager,
that he hadn't taken the time to arrange his words as carefully as he
was wont to do. The otter didn't turn his head once in the direction of
the river. He was a vagabond--like all otters--and had fished many times
by Vomb Lake, and probably knew Smirre Fox. "I know very well how you
act when you want to coax away a salmon-trout, Smirre," said he.

"Oh! is it you, Gripe?" said Smirre, and was delighted; for he knew that
this particular otter was a quick and accomplished swimmer. "I don't
wonder that you do not care to look at the wild geese, since you can't
manage to get out to them." But the otter, who had swimming-webs between
his toes, and a stiff tail--which was as good as an oar--and a skin that
was water-proof, didn't wish to have it said of him that there was a
waterfall that he wasn't able to manage. He turned toward the stream;
and as soon as he caught sight of the wild geese, he threw the fish
away, and rushed down the steep shore and into the river.

If it had been a little later in the spring, so that the nightingales in
Djupafors had been at home, they would have sung for many a day of
Gripe's struggle with the rapid. For the otter was thrust back by the
waves many times, and carried down river; but he fought his way steadily
up again. He swam forward in still water; he crawled over stones, and
gradually came nearer the wild geese. It was a perilous trip, which
might well have earned the right to be sung by the nightingales.

Smirre followed the otter's course with his eyes as well as he could. At
last he saw that the otter was in the act of climbing up to the wild
geese. But just then it shrieked shrill and wild. The otter tumbled
backward into the water, and dashed away as if he had been a blind
kitten. An instant later, there was a great crackling of geese's wings.
They raised themselves and flew away to find another sleeping-place.

The otter soon came on land. He said nothing, but commenced to lick one
of his forepaws. When Smirre sneered at him because he hadn't succeeded,
he broke out: "It was not the fault of my swimming-art, Smirre. I had
raced all the way over to the geese, and was about to climb up to them,
when a tiny creature came running, and jabbed me in the foot with some
sharp iron. It hurt so, I lost my footing, and then the current took
me."

He didn't have to say any more. Smirre was already far away on his way
to the wild geese.

Once again Akka and her flock had to take a night fly. Fortunately, the
moon had not gone down; and with the aid of its light, she succeeded in
finding another of those sleeping-places which she knew in that
neighbourhood. Again she followed the shining river toward the south.
Over Djupadal's manor, and over Ronneby's dark roofs and white
waterfalls she swayed forward without alighting. But a little south of
the city and not far from the sea, lies Ronneby health-spring, with its
bath house and spring house; with its big hotel and summer cottages for
the spring's guests. All these stand empty and desolate in winter--which
the birds know perfectly well; and many are the bird-companies who seek
shelter on the deserted buildings' balustrades and balconies during hard
storm-times.

Here the wild geese lit on a balcony, and, as usual, they fell asleep at
once. The boy, on the contrary, could not sleep because he hadn't cared
to creep in under the goosey-gander's wing.

The balcony faced south, so the boy had an outlook over the sea. And
since he could not sleep, he sat there and saw how pretty it looked when
sea and land meet, here in Blekinge.

You see that sea and land can meet in many different ways. In many
places the land comes down toward the sea with flat, tufted meadows, and
the sea meets the land with flying sand, which piles up in mounds and
drifts. It appears as though they both disliked each other so much that
they only wished to show the poorest they possessed. But it can also
happen that, when the land comes toward the sea, it raises a wall of
hills in front of it--as though the sea were something dangerous. When
the land does this, the sea comes up to it with fiery wrath, and beats
and roars and lashes against the rocks, and looks as if it would tear
the land-hill to pieces.

But in Blekinge it is altogether different when sea and land meet. There
the land breaks itself up into points and islands and islets; and the
sea divides itself into fiords and bays and sounds; and it is, perhaps,
this which makes it look as if they must meet in happiness and harmony.

Think now first and foremost of the sea! Far out it lies desolate and
empty and big, and has nothing else to do but to roll its gray billows.
When it comes toward the land, it happens across the first obstacle.
This it immediately overpowers; tears away everything green, and makes
it as gray as itself. Then it meets still another obstacle. With this it
does the same thing. And still another. Yes, the same thing happens to
this also. It is stripped and plundered, as if it had fallen into
robbers' hands. Then the obstacles come nearer and nearer together, and
then the sea must understand that the land sends toward it her littlest
children, in order to move it to pity. It also becomes more friendly the
farther in it comes; rolls its waves less high; moderates its storms;
lets the green things stay in cracks and crevices; separates itself into
small sounds and inlets, and becomes at last so harmless in the land,
that little boats dare venture out on it. It certainly cannot recognise
itself--so mild and friendly has it grown.

And then think of the hillside! It lies uniform, and looks the same
almost everywhere. It consists of flat grain-fields, with one and
another birch-grove between them; or else of long stretches of forest
ranges. It appears as if it had thought about nothing but grain and
turnips and potatoes and spruce and pine. Then comes a sea-fiord that
cuts far into it. It doesn't mind that, but borders it with birch and
alder, just as if it was an ordinary fresh-water lake. Then still
another wave comes driving in. Nor does the hillside bother itself about
cringing to this, but it, too, gets the same covering as the first one.
Then the fiords begin to broaden and separate, they break up fields and
woods and then the hillside cannot help but notice them. "I believe it
is the sea itself that is coming," says the hillside, and then it begins
to adorn itself. It wreathes itself with blossoms, travels up and down
in hills and throws islands into the sea. It no longer cares about pines
and spruces, but casts them off like old every day clothes, and parades
later with big oaks and lindens and chestnuts, and with blossoming leafy
bowers, and becomes as gorgeous as a manor-park. And when it meets the
sea, it is so changed that it doesn't know itself. All this one cannot
see very well until summertime; but, at any rate, the boy observed how
mild and friendly nature was; and he began to feel calmer than he had
been before, that night. Then, suddenly, he heard a sharp and ugly yowl
from the bath-house park; and when he stood up he saw, in the white
moonlight, a fox standing on the pavement under the balcony. For Smirre
had followed the wild geese once more. But when he had found the place
where they were quartered, he had understood that it was impossible to
get at them in any way; then he had not been able to keep from yowling
with chagrin.

When the fox yowled in this manner, old Akka, the leader-goose, was
awakened. Although she could see nothing, she thought she recognised the
voice. "Is it you who are out to-night, Smirre?" said she. "Yes," said
Smirre, "it is I; and I want to ask what you geese think of the night
that I have given you?"

"Do you mean to say that it is you who have sent the marten and otter
against us?" asked Akka. "A good turn shouldn't be denied," said Smirre.
"You once played the goose-game with me, now I have begun to play the
fox-game with you; and I'm not inclined to let up on it so long as a
single one of you still lives even if I have to follow you the world
over!"

"You, Smirre, ought at least to think whether it is right for you, who
are weaponed with both teeth and claws, to hound us in this way; we, who
are without defence," said Akka.

Smirre thought that Akka sounded scared, and he said quickly: "If you,
Akka, will take that Thumbietot--who has so often opposed me--and throw
him down to me, I'll promise to make peace with you. Then I'll never
more pursue you or any of yours." "I'm not going to give you
Thumbietot," said Akka. "From the youngest of us to the oldest, we would
willingly give our lives for his sake!" "Since you're so fond of him,"
said Smirre, "I'll promise you that he shall be the first among you that
I will wreak vengeance upon."

Akka said no more, and after Smirre had sent up a few more yowls, all
was still. The boy lay all the while awake. Now it was Akka's words to
the fox that prevented him from sleeping. Never had he dreamed that he
should hear anything so great as that anyone was willing to risk life
for his sake. From that moment, it could no longer be said of Nils
Holgersson that he did not care for anyone.


KARLSKRONA


_Saturday, April second_.

It was a moonlight evening in Karlskrona--calm and beautiful. But
earlier in the day, there had been rain and wind; and the people must
have thought that the bad weather still continued, for hardly one of
them had ventured out on the streets.

While the city lay there so desolate, Akka, the wild goose, and her
flock, came flying toward it over Vemmön and Pantarholmen. They were out
in the late evening to seek a sleeping place on the islands. They
couldn't remain inland because they were disturbed by Smirre Fox
wherever they lighted.

When the boy rode along high up in the air, and looked at the sea and
the islands which spread themselves before him, he thought that
everything appeared so strange and spook-like. The heavens were no
longer blue, but encased him like a globe of green glass. The sea was
milk-white, and as far as he could see rolled small white waves tipped
with silver ripples. In the midst of all this white lay numerous little
islets, absolutely coal black. Whether they were big or little, whether
they were as even as meadows, or full of cliffs, they looked just as
black. Even dwelling houses and churches and windmills, which at other
times are white or red, were outlined in black against the green sky.
The boy thought it was as if the earth had been transformed, and he was
come to another world.

He thought that just for this one night he wanted to be brave, and not
afraid--when he saw something that really frightened him. It was a high
cliff island, which was covered with big, angular blocks; and between
the blocks shone specks of bright, shining gold. He couldn't keep from
thinking of Maglestone, by Trolle-Ljungby, which the trolls sometimes
raised upon high gold pillars; and he wondered if this was something
like that.

But with the stones and the gold it might have gone fairly well, if such
a lot of horrid things had not been lying all around the island. It
looked like whales and sharks and other big sea-monsters. But the boy
understood that it was the sea-trolls, who had gathered around the
island and intended to crawl up on it, to fight with the land-trolls who
lived there. And those on the land were probably afraid, for he saw how
a big giant stood on the highest point of the island and raised his
arms--as if in despair over all the misfortune that should come to him
and his island.

The boy was not a little terrified when he noticed that Akka began to
descend right over that particular island! "No, for pity's sake! We
must not light there," said he.

But the geese continued to descend, and soon the boy was astonished that
he could have seen things so awry. In the first place, the big stone
blocks were nothing but houses. The whole island was a city; and the
shining gold specks were street lamps and lighted window-panes. The
giant, who stood highest up on the island, and raised his arms, was a
church with two cross-towers; all the sea-trolls and monsters, which he
thought he had seen, were boats and ships of every description, that lay
anchored all around the island. On the side which lay toward the land
were mostly row-boats and sailboats and small coast steamers; but on the
side that faced the sea lay armour-clad battleships; some were broad,
with very thick, slanting smokestacks; others were long and narrow, and
so constructed that they could glide through the water like fishes.

Now what city might this be? That, the boy could figure out because he
saw all the battleships. All his life he had loved ships, although he
had had nothing to do with any, except the galleys which he had sailed
in the road ditches. He knew very well that this city--where so many
battleships lay--couldn't be any place but Karlskrona.

The boy's grandfather had been an old marine; and as long as he had
lived, he had talked of Karlskrona every day; of the great warship dock,
and of all the other things to be seen in that city. The boy felt
perfectly at home, and he was glad that he should see all this of which
he had heard so much.

But he only had a glimpse of the towers and fortifications which barred
the entrance to the harbour, and the many buildings, and the
shipyard--before Akka came down on one of the flat church-towers.

This was a pretty safe place for those who wanted to get away from a
fox, and the boy began to wonder if he couldn't venture to crawl in
under the goosey-gander's wing for this one night. Yes, that he might
safely do. It would do him good to get a little sleep. He should try to
see a little more of the dock and the ships after it had grown light.

The boy himself thought it was strange that he could keep still and wait
until the next morning to see the ships. He certainly had not slept five
minutes before he slipped out from under the wing and slid down the
lightning-rod and the waterspout all the way down to the ground.

Soon he stood on a big square which spread itself in front of the
church. It was covered with round stones, and was just as difficult for
him to travel over, as it is for big people to walk on a tufted meadow.
Those who are accustomed to live in the open--or way out in the
country--always feel uneasy when they come into a city, where the houses
stand straight and forbidding, and the streets are open, so that
everyone can see who goes there. And it happened in the same way with
the boy. When he stood on the big Karlskrona square, and looked at the
German church, and town hall, and the cathedral from which he had just
descended, he couldn't do anything but wish that he was back on the
tower again with the geese.

It was a lucky thing that the square was entirely deserted. There wasn't
a human being about--unless he counted a statue that stood on a high
pedestal. The boy gazed long at the statue, which represented a big,
brawny man in a three-cornered hat, long waistcoat, knee-breeches and
coarse shoes, and wondered what kind of a one he was. He held a long
stick in his hand, and he looked as if he would know how to make use of
it, too--for he had an awfully severe countenance, with a big, hooked
nose and an ugly mouth.

"What is that long-lipped thing doing here?" said the boy at last. He
had never felt so small and insignificant as he did that night. He tried
to jolly himself up a bit by saying something audacious. Then he thought
no more about the statue, but betook himself to a wide street which led
down to the sea.

But the boy hadn't gone far before he heard that someone was following
him. Someone was walking behind him, who stamped on the stone pavement
with heavy footsteps, and pounded on the ground with a hard stick. It
sounded as if the bronze man up in the square had gone out for a
promenade.

The boy listened after the steps, while he ran down the street, and he
became more and more convinced that it was the bronze man. The ground
trembled, and the houses shook. It couldn't be anyone but he, who walked
so heavily, and the boy grew panic-stricken when he thought of what he
had just said to him. He did not dare to turn his head to find out if it
really was he.

"Perhaps he is only out walking for recreation," thought the boy.
"Surely he can't be offended with me for the words I spoke. They were
not at all badly meant."

Instead of going straight on, and trying to get down to the dock, the
boy turned into a side street which led east. First and foremost, he
wanted to get away from the one who tramped after him.

But the next instant he heard that the bronze man had switched off to
the same street; and then the boy was so scared that he didn't know what
he would do with himself. And how hard it was to find any hiding places
in a city where all the gates were closed! Then he saw on his right an
old frame church, which lay a short distance away from the street in the
centre of a large grove. Not an instant did he pause to consider, but
rushed on toward the church. "If I can only get there, then I'll surely
be shielded from all harm," thought he.

As he ran forward, he suddenly caught sight of a man who stood on a
gravel path and beckoned to him. "There is certainly someone who will
help me!" thought the boy; he became intensely happy, and hurried off in
that direction. He was actually so frightened that the heart of him
fairly thumped in his breast.

But when he came up to the man who stood on the edge of the gravel path,
upon a low pedestal, he was absolutely thunderstruck. "Surely, it can't
have been that one who beckoned to me!" thought he; for he saw that the
entire man was made of wood.

He stood there and stared at him. He was a thick-set man on short legs,
with a broad, ruddy countenance, shiny, black hair and full black beard.
On his head he wore a wooden hat; on his body, a brown wooden coat;
around his waist, a black wooden belt; on his legs he had wide wooden
knee-breeches and wooden stockings; and on his feet black wooden shoes.
He was newly painted and newly varnished, so that he glistened and shone
in the moonlight. This undoubtedly had a good deal to do with giving him
such a good-natured appearance, that the boy at once placed confidence
in him.

In his left hand he held a wooden slate, and there the boy read:

_Most humbly I beg you,
  Though voice I may lack:
Come drop a penny, do;
  But lift my hat!_

Oh ho! the man was only a poor-box. The boy felt that he had been done.
He had expected that this should be something really remarkable. And now
he remembered that grandpa had also spoken of the wooden man, and said
that all the children in Karlskrona were so fond of him. And that must
have been true, for he, too, found it hard to part with the wooden man.
He had something so old-timy about him, that one could well take him to
be many hundred years old; and at the same time, he looked so strong and
bold, and animated--just as one might imagine that folks looked in olden
times.

The boy had so much fun looking at the wooden man, that he entirely
forgot the one from whom he was fleeing. But now he heard him. He turned
from the street and came into the churchyard. He followed him here too!
Where should the boy go?

Just then he saw the wooden man bend down to him and stretch forth his
big, broad hand. It was impossible to believe anything but good of him;
and with one jump, the boy stood in his hand. The wooden man lifted him
to his hat--and stuck him under it.

The boy was just hidden, and the wooden man had just gotten his arm in
its right place again, when the bronze man stopped in front of him and
banged the stick on the ground, so that the wooden man shook on his
pedestal. Thereupon the bronze man said in a strong and resonant voice:
"Who might this one be?"

The wooden man's arm went up, so that it creaked in the old woodwork,
and he touched his hat brim as he replied: "Rosenbom, by Your Majesty's
leave. Once upon a time boatswain on the man-of-war, _Dristigheten_;
after completed service, sexton at the Admiral's church--and, lately,
carved in wood and exhibited in the churchyard as a poor-box."

The boy gave a start when he heard that the wooden man said "Your
Majesty." For now, when he thought about it, he knew that the statue on
the square represented the one who had founded the city. It was probably
no less an one than Charles the Eleventh himself, whom he had
encountered.

"He gives a good account of himself," said the bronze man. "Can he also
tell me if he has seen a little brat who runs around in the city
to-night? He's an impudent rascal, if I get hold of him, I'll teach him
manners!" With that, he again pounded on the ground with his stick, and
looked fearfully angry.

"By Your Majesty's leave, I have seen him," said the wooden man; and the
boy was so scared that he commenced to shake where he sat under the hat
and looked at the bronze man through a crack in the wood. But he calmed
down when the wooden man continued: "Your Majesty is on the wrong track.
That youngster certainly intended to run into the shipyard, and conceal
himself there."

"Does he say so, Rosenbom? Well then, don't stand still on the pedestal
any longer but come with me and help me find him. Four eyes are better
than two, Rosenbom."

But the wooden man answered in a doleful voice: "I would most humbly beg
to be permitted to stay where I am. I look well and sleek because of the
paint, but I'm old and mouldy, and cannot stand moving about."

The bronze man was not one of those who liked to be contradicted. "What
sort of notions are these? Come along, Rosenbom!" Then he raised his
stick and gave the other one a resounding whack on the shoulder. "Does
Rosenbom not see that he holds together?"

With that they broke off and walked forward on the streets of
Karlskrona--large and mighty--until they came to a high gate, which led
to the shipyard. Just outside and on guard walked one of the navy's
jack-tars, but the bronze man strutted past him and kicked the gate open
without the jack-tar's pretending to notice it.

As soon as they had gotten into the shipyard, they saw before them a
wide, expansive harbor separated by pile-bridges. In the different
harbour basins, lay the warships, which looked bigger, and more
awe-inspiring close to, like this, than lately, when the boy had seen
them from up above. "Then it wasn't so crazy after all, to imagine that
they were sea-trolls," thought he.

"Where does Rosenbom think it most advisable for us to begin the
search?" said the bronze man.

"Such an one as he could most easily conceal himself in the hall of
models," replied the wooden man.

On a narrow land-strip which stretched to the right from the gate, all
along the harbour, lay ancient structures. The bronze man walked over to
a building with low walls, small windows, and a conspicuous roof. He
pounded on the door with his stick until it burst open; and tramped up a
pair of worn-out steps. Soon they came into a large hall, which was
filled with tackled and full-rigged little ships. The boy understood
without being told, that these were models for the ships which had been
built for the Swedish navy.

There were ships of many different varieties. There were old men-of-war,
whose sides bristled with cannon, and which had high structures fore and
aft, and their masts weighed down with a network of sails and ropes.
There were small island-boats with rowing-benches along the sides; there
were undecked cannon sloops and richly gilded frigates, which were
models of the ones the kings had used on their travels. Finally, there
were also the heavy, broad armour-plated ships with towers and cannon
on deck--such as are in use nowadays; and narrow, shining torpedo boats
which resembled long, slender fishes.

When the boy was carried around among all this, he was awed. "Fancy that
such big, splendid ships have been built here in Sweden!" he thought to
himself.

He had plenty of time to see all that was to be seen in there; for when
the bronze man saw the models, he forgot everything else. He examined
them all, from the first to the last, and asked about them. And
Rosenbom, the boatswain on the _Dristigheten_, told as much as he knew
of the ships' builders, and of those who had manned them; and of the
fates they had met. He told them about Chapman and Puke and Trolle; of
Hoagland and Svensksund--all the way along until 1809--after that he had
not been there.

Both he and the bronze man had the most to say about the fine old wooden
ships. The new battleships they didn't exactly appear to understand.

"I can hear that Rosenbom doesn't know anything about these new-fangled
things," said the bronze man. "Therefore, let us go and look at
something else; for this amuses me, Rosenbom."

By this time he had entirely given up his search for the boy, who felt
calm and secure where he sat in the wooden hat.

Thereupon both men wandered through the big establishment: sail-making
shops, anchor smithy, machine and carpenter shops. They saw the mast
sheers and the docks; the large magazines, the arsenal, the rope-bridge
and the big discarded dock, which had been blasted in the rock. They
went out upon the pile-bridges, where the naval vessels lay moored,
stepped on board and examined them like two old sea-dogs; wondered;
disapproved; approved; and became indignant.

The boy sat in safety under the wooden hat, and heard all about how they
had laboured and struggled in this place, to equip the navies which had
gone out from here. He heard how life and blood had been risked; how the
last penny had been sacrificed to build the warships; how skilled men
had strained all their powers, in order to perfect these ships which
had been their fatherland's safeguard. A couple of times the tears came
to the boy's eyes, as he heard all this.

And the very last, they went into an open court, where the galley models
of old men-of-war were grouped; and a more remarkable sight the boy had
never beheld; for these models had inconceivably powerful and
terror-striking faces. They were big, fearless and savage: filled with
the same proud spirit that had fitted out the great ships. They were
from another time than his. He thought that he shrivelled up before
them.

But when they came in here, the bronze man said to the wooden man:
"Take off thy hat, Rosenbom, for those that stand here! They have all
fought for the fatherland."

And Rosenbom--like the bronze man--had forgotten why they had begun this
tramp. Without thinking, he lifted the wooden hat from his head and
shouted:

"I take off my hat to the one who chose the harbour and founded the
shipyard and recreated the navy; to the monarch who has awakened all
this into life!"

"Thanks, Rosenbom! That was well spoken. Rosenbom is a fine man. But
what is this, Rosenbom?"

For there stood Nils Holgersson, right on the top of Rosenbom's bald
pate. He wasn't afraid any longer; but raised his white toboggan hood,
and shouted: "Hurrah for you, Longlip!"

The bronze man struck the ground hard with his stick; but the boy never
learned what he had intended to do for now the sun ran up, and, at the
same time, both the bronze man and the wooden man vanished--as if they
had been made of mists. While he still stood and stared after them, the
wild geese flew up from the church tower, and swayed back and forth over
the city. Instantly they caught sight of Nils Holgersson; and then the
big white one darted down from the sky and fetched him.


THE TRIP TO ÖLAND


_Sunday, April third_.

The wild geese went out on a wooded island to feed. There they happened
to run across a few gray geese, who were surprised to see them--since
they knew very well that their kinsmen, the wild geese, usually travel
over the interior of the country.

They were curious and inquisitive, and wouldn't be satisfied with less
than that the wild geese should tell them all about the persecution
which they had to endure from Smirre Fox. When they had finished, a
gray goose, who appeared to be as old and as wise as Akka herself, said:
"It was a great misfortune for you that Smirre Fox was declared an
outlaw in his own land. He'll be sure to keep his word, and follow you
all the way up to Lapland. If I were in your place, I shouldn't travel
north over Småland, but would take the outside route over Öland instead,
so that he'll be thrown off the track entirely. To really mislead him,
you must remain for a couple of days on Öland's southern point. There
you'll find lots of food and lots of company. I don't believe you'll
regret it, if you go over there."

It was certainly very sensible advice, and the wild geese concluded to
follow it. As soon as they had eaten all they could hold, they started
on the trip to Öland. None of them had ever been there before, but the
gray goose had given them excellent directions. They only had to travel
direct south until they came to a large bird-track, which extended all
along the Blekinge coast. All the birds who had winter residences by the
West sea, and who now intended to travel to Finland and Russia, flew
forward there--and, in passing, they were always in the habit of
stopping at Öland to rest. The wild geese would have no trouble in
finding guides.

That day it was perfectly still and warm--like a summer's day--the best
weather in the world for a sea trip. The only grave thing about it was
that it was not quite clear, for the sky was gray and veiled. Here and
there were enormous mist-clouds which hung way down to the sea's outer
edge, and obstructed the view.

When the travellers had gotten away from the wooded island, the sea
spread itself so smooth and mirror-like, that the boy as he looked down
thought the water had disappeared. There was no longer any earth under
him. He had nothing but mist and sky around him. He grew very dizzy, and
held himself tight on the goose-back, more frightened than when he sat
there for the first time. It seemed as though he couldn't possibly hold
on; he must fall in some direction.

It was even worse when they reached the big bird-track, of which the
gray goose had spoken. Actually, there came flock after flock flying in
exactly the same direction. They seemed to follow a fixed route. There
were ducks and gray geese, surf-scoters and guillemots, loons and
pin-tail ducks and mergansers and grebes and oyster-catchers and
sea-grouse. But now, when the boy leaned forward, and looked in the
direction where the sea ought to lie, he saw the whole bird procession
reflected in the water. But he was so dizzy that he didn't understand
how this had come about: he thought that the whole bird procession flew
with their bellies upside down. Still he didn't wonder at this so much,
for he did not himself know which was up, and which was down.

The birds were tired out and impatient to get on. None of them shrieked
or said a funny thing, and this made everything seem peculiarly unreal.

"Think, if we have travelled away from the earth!" he said to himself.
"Think, if we are on our way up to heaven!"

He saw nothing but mists and birds around him, and began to look upon it
as reasonable that they were travelling heaven-ward. He was glad, and
wondered what he should see up there. The dizziness passed all at once.
He was so exceedingly happy at the thought that he was on his way to
heaven and was leaving this earth.

Just about then he heard a couple of loud shots, and saw two white
smoke-columns ascend.

There was a sudden awakening, and an unrest among the birds. "Hunters!
Hunters!" they cried. "Fly high! Fly away!"

Then the boy saw, finally, that they were travelling all the while over
the sea-coast, and that they certainly were not in heaven. In a long row
lay small boats filled with hunters, who fired shot upon shot. The
nearest bird-flocks hadn't noticed them in time. They had flown too low.
Several dark bodies sank down toward the sea; and for every one that
fell, there arose cries of anguish from the living.

It was strange for one who had but lately believed himself in heaven, to
wake up suddenly to such fear and lamentation. Akka shot toward the
heights as fast as she could, and the flock followed with the greatest
possible speed. The wild geese got safely out of the way, but the boy
couldn't get over his amazement. "To think that anyone could wish to
shoot upon such as Akka and Yksi and Kaksi and the goosey-gander and the
others! Human beings had no conception of what they did."

So it bore on again, in the still air, and everything was as quiet as
heretofore--with the exception that some of the tired birds called out
every now and then: "Are we not there soon? Are you sure we're on the
right track?" Hereupon, those who flew in the centre answered: "We are
flying straight to Öland; straight to Öland."

The gray geese were tired out, and the loons flew around them. "Don't be
in such a rush!" cried the ducks. "You'll eat up all the food before we
get there." "Oh! there'll be enough for both you and us," answered the
loons.

Before they had gotten so far that they saw Öland, there came a light
wind against them. It brought with it something that resembled immense
clouds of white smoke--just as if there was a big fire somewhere.

When the birds saw the first white spiral haze, they became uneasy and
increased their speed. But that which resembled smoke blew thicker and
thicker, and at last it enveloped them altogether. They smelled no
smoke; and the smoke was not dark and dry, but white and damp. Suddenly
the boy understood that it was nothing but a mist.

When the mist became so thick that one couldn't see a goose-length
ahead, the birds began to carry on like real lunatics. All these, who
before had travelled forward in such perfect order, began to play in the
mist. They flew hither and thither, to entice one another astray. "Be
careful!" they cried. "You're only travelling round and round. Turn
back, for pity's sake! You'll never get to Öland in this way."

They all knew perfectly well where the island was, but they did their
best to lead each other astray. "Look at those wagtails!" rang out in
the mist. "They are going back toward the North Sea!" "Have a care, wild
geese!" shrieked someone from another direction. "If you continue like
this, you'll get clear up to Rügen."

There was, of course, no danger that the birds who were accustomed to
travel here would permit themselves to be lured in a wrong direction.
But the ones who had a hard time of it were the wild geese. The jesters
observed that they were uncertain as to the way, and did all they could
to confuse them.

"Where do you intend to go, good people?" called a swan. He came right
up to Akka, and looked sympathetic and serious.

"We shall travel to Öland; but we have never been there before," said
Akka. She thought that this was a bird to be trusted.

"It's too bad," said the swan. "They have lured you in the wrong
direction. You're on the road to Blekinge. Now come with me, and I'll
put you right!"

And so he flew off with them; and when he had taken them so far away
from the track that they heard no calls, he disappeared in the mist.

They flew around for a while at random. They had barely succeeded in
finding the birds again, when a duck approached them. "It's best that
you lie down on the water until the mist clears," said the duck. "It is
evident that you are not accustomed to look out for yourselves on
journeys."

Those rogues succeeded in making Akka's head swim. As near as the boy
could make out, the wild geese flew round and round for a long time.

"Be careful! Can't you see that you are flying up and down?" shouted a
loon as he rushed by. The boy positively clutched the goosey-gander
around the neck. This was something which he had feared for a long time.

No one can tell when they would have arrived, if they hadn't heard a
rolling and muffled sound in the distance.

Then Akka craned her neck, snapped hard with her wings, and rushed on at
full speed. Now she had something to go by. The gray goose had told her
not to light on Öland's southern point, because there was a cannon
there, which the people used to shoot the mist with. Now she knew the
way, and now no one in the world should lead her astray again.


ÖLAND'S SOUTHERN POINT


_April third to sixth_.

On the most southerly part of Öland lies a royal demesne, which is
called Ottenby. It is a rather large estate which extends from shore to
shore, straight across the island; and it is remarkable because it has
always been a haunt for large bird-companies. In the seventeenth
century, when the kings used to go over to Öland to hunt, the entire
estate was nothing but a deer park. In the eighteenth century there was
a stud there, where blooded race-horses were bred; and a sheep farm,
where several hundred sheep were maintained. In our days you'll find
neither blooded horses nor sheep at Ottenby. In place of them live
great herds of young horses, which are to be used by the cavalry.

In all the land there is certainly no place that could be a better abode
for animals. Along the extreme eastern shore lies the old sheep meadow,
which is a mile and a half long, and the largest meadow in all Öland,
where animals can graze and play and run about, as free as if they were
in a wilderness. And there you will find the celebrated Ottenby grove
with the hundred-year-old oaks, which give shade from the sun, and
shelter from the severe Öland winds. And we must not forget the long
Ottenby wall, which stretches from shore to shore, and separates Ottenby
from the rest of the island, so that the animals may know how far the
old royal demesne extends, and be careful about getting in on other
ground, where they are not so well protected.

You'll find plenty of tame animals at Ottenby, but that isn't all. One
could almost believe that the wild ones also felt that on an old crown
property both the wild and the tame ones can count upon shelter and
protection--since they venture there in such great numbers.

Besides, there are still a few stags of the old descent left; and
burrow-ducks and partridges love to live there, and it offers a resting
place, in the spring and late summer, for thousands of migratory birds.
Above all, it is the swampy eastern shore below the sheep meadow, where
the migratory birds alight, to rest and feed.

When the wild geese and Nils Holgersson had finally found their way to
Öland, they came down, like all the rest, on the shore near the sheep
meadow. The mist lay thick over the island, just as it had over the sea.
But still the boy was amazed at all the birds which he discerned, only
on the little narrow stretch of shore which he could see.

It was a low sand-shore with stones and pools, and a lot of cast-up
sea-weed. If the boy had been permitted to choose, it isn't likely that
he would have thought of alighting there; but the birds probably looked
upon this as a veritable paradise. Ducks and geese walked about and fed
on the meadow; nearer the water, ran snipe, and other coast-birds. The
loons lay in the sea and fished, but the life and movement was upon the
long sea-weed banks along the coast. There the birds stood side by side
close together and picked grub-worms--which must have been found there
in limitless quantities for it was very evident that there was never any
complaint over a lack of food.

The great majority were going to travel farther, and had only alighted
to take a short rest; and as soon as the leader of a flock thought that
his comrades had recovered themselves sufficiently he said, "If you are
ready now, we may as well move on."

"No, wait, wait! We haven't had anything like enough," said the
followers.

"You surely don't believe that I intend to let you eat so much that you
will not be able to move?" said the leader, and flapped his wings and
started off. Along the outermost sea-weed banks lay a flock of swans.
They didn't bother about going on land, but rested themselves by lying
and rocking on the water. Now and then they dived down with their necks
and brought up food from the sea-bottom. When they had gotten hold of
anything very good, they indulged in loud shouts that sounded like
trumpet calls.

When the boy heard that there were swans on the shoals, he hurried out
to the sea-weed banks. He had never before seen wild swans at close
range. He had luck on his side, so that he got close up to them.

The boy was not the only one who had heard the swans. Both the wild
geese and the gray geese and the loons swam out between the banks, laid
themselves in a ring around the swans and stared at them. The swans
ruffled their feathers, raised their wings like sails, and lifted their
necks high in the air. Occasionally one and another of them swam up to a
goose, or a great loon, or a diving-duck, and said a few words. And then
it appeared as though the one addressed hardly dared raise his bill to
reply.

But then there was a little loon--a tiny mischievous baggage--who
couldn't stand all this ceremony. He dived suddenly, and disappeared
under the water's edge. Soon after that, one of the swans let out a
scream, and swam off so quickly that the water foamed. Then he stopped
and began to look majestic once more. But soon, another one shrieked in
the same way as the first one, and then a third.

The little loon wasn't able to stay under water any longer, but appeared
on the water's edge, little and black and venomous. The swans rushed
toward him; but when they saw what a poor little thing it was, they
turned abruptly--as if they considered themselves too good to quarrel
with him. Then the little loon dived again, and pinched their feet. It
certainly must have hurt; and the worst of it was, that they could not
maintain their dignity. At once they took a decided stand. They began to
beat the air with their wings so that it thundered; came forward a
bit--as though they were running on the water--got wind under their
wings, and raised themselves.

When the swans were gone they were greatly missed; and those who had
lately been amused by the little loon's antics scolded him for his
thoughtlessness.

The boy walked toward land again. There he stationed himself to see how
the pool-snipe played. They resembled small storks; like these, they had
little bodies, long legs and necks, and light, swaying movements; only
they were not gray, but brown. They stood in a long row on the shore
where it was washed by waves. As soon as a wave rolled in, the whole row
ran backward; as soon as it receded, they followed it. And they kept
this up for hours.

The showiest of all the birds were the burrow-ducks. They were
undoubtedly related to the ordinary ducks; for, like these, they too had
a thick-set body, broad bill, and webbed feet; but they were much more
elaborately gotten up. The feather dress, itself, was white; around
their necks they wore a broad gold band; the wing-mirror shone in green,
red, and black; and the wing-edges were black, and the head was dark
green and shimmered like satin.

As soon as any of these appeared on the shore, the others said: "Now,
just look at those things! They know how to tog themselves out." "If
they were not so conspicuous, they wouldn't have to dig their nests in
the earth, but could lay above ground, like anyone else," said a brown
mallard-duck. "They may try as much as they please, still they'll never
get anywhere with such noses," said a gray goose. And this was actually
true. The burrow-ducks had a big knob on the base of the bill, which
spoiled their appearance.

Close to the shore, sea-gulls and sea-swallows moved forward on the
water and fished. "What kind of fish are you catching?" asked a wild
goose. "It's a stickleback. It's Öland stickleback. It's the best
stickleback in the world," said a gull. "Won't you taste of it?" And he
flew up to the goose, with his mouth full of the little fishes, and
wanted to give her some. "Ugh! Do you think that I eat such filth?" said
the wild goose.

The next morning it was just as cloudy. The wild geese walked about on
the meadow and fed; but the boy had gone to the seashore to gather
mussels. There were plenty of them; and when he thought that the next
day, perhaps, they would be in some place where they couldn't get any
food at all, he concluded that he would try to make himself a little
bag, which he could fill with mussels. He found an old sedge on the
meadow, which was strong and tough; and out of this he began to braid a
knapsack. He worked at this for several hours, but he was well satisfied
with it when it was finished.

At dinner time all the wild geese came running and asked him if he had
seen anything of the white goosey-gander. "No, he has not been with me,"
said the boy. "We had him with us all along until just lately," said
Akka, "but now we no longer know where he's to be found."

The boy jumped up, and was terribly frightened. He asked if any fox or
eagle had put in an appearance, or if any human being had been seen in
the neighbourhood. But no one had noticed anything dangerous. The
goosey-gander had probably lost his way in the mist.

But it was just as great a misfortune for the boy, in whatever way the
white one had been lost, and he started off immediately to hunt for him.
The mist shielded him, so that he could run wherever he wished without
being seen, but it also prevented him from seeing. He ran southward
along the shore--all the way down to the lighthouse and the mist cannon
on the island's extreme point. It was the same bird confusion
everywhere, but no goosey-gander. He ventured over to Ottenby estate,
and he searched every one of the old, hollow oaks in Ottenby grove, but
he saw no trace of the goosey-gander.

He searched until it began to grow dark. Then he had to turn back again
to the eastern shore. He walked with heavy steps, and was fearfully
blue. He didn't know what would become of him if he couldn't find the
goosey-gander. There was no one whom he could spare less.

But when he wandered over the sheep meadow, what was that big, white
thing that came toward him in the mist if it wasn't the goosey-gander?
He was all right, and very glad that, at last, he had been able to find
his way back to the others. The mist had made him so dizzy, he said,
that he had wandered around on the big meadow all day long. The boy
threw his arms around his neck, for very joy, and begged him to take
care of himself, and not wander away from the others. And he promised,
positively, that he never would do this again. No, never again.

But the next morning, when the boy went down to the beach and hunted for
mussels, the geese came running and asked if he had seen the
goosey-gander. No, of course he hadn't. "Well, then the goosey-gander
was lost again. He had gone astray in the mist, just as he had done the
day before."

The boy ran off in great terror and began to search. He found one place
where the Ottenby wall was so tumble-down that he could climb over it.
Later, he went about, first on the shore which gradually widened and
became so large that there was room for fields and meadows and
farms--then up on the flat highland, which lay in the middle of the
island, and where there were no buildings except windmills, and where
the turf was so thin that the white cement shone under it.

Meanwhile, he could not find the goosey-gander; and as it drew on toward
evening, and the boy must return to the beach, he couldn't believe
anything but that his travelling companion was lost. He was so
depressed, he did not know what to do with himself.

He had just climbed over the wall again when he heard a stone crash down
close beside him. As he turned to see what it was, he thought that he
could distinguish something that moved on a stone pile which lay close
to the wall. He stole nearer, and saw the goosey-gander come trudging
wearily over the stone pile, with several long fibres in his mouth. The
goosey-gander didn't see the boy, and the boy did not call to him, but
thought it advisable to find out first why the goosey-gander time and
again disappeared in this manner.

And he soon learned the reason for it. Up in the stone pile lay a young
gray goose, who cried with joy when the goosey-gander came. The boy
crept near, so that he heard what they said; then he found out that the
gray goose had been wounded in one wing, so that she could not fly, and
that her flock had travelled away from her, and left her alone. She had
been near death's door with hunger, when the white goosey-gander had
heard her call, the other day, and had sought her out. Ever since, he
had been carrying food to her. They had both hoped that she would be
well before they left the island, but, as yet, she could neither fly nor
walk. She was very much worried over this, but he comforted her with the
thought that he shouldn't travel for a long time. At last he bade her
good-night, and promised to come the next day.

The boy let the goosey-gander go; and as soon as he was gone, he stole,
in turn, up to the stone heap. He was angry because he had been
deceived, and now he wanted to say to that gray goose that the
goosey-gander was his property. He was going to take the boy up to
Lapland, and there would be no talk of his staying here on her account.
But now, when he saw the young gray goose close to, he understood, not
only why the goosey-gander had gone and carried food to her for two
days, but also why he had not wished to mention that he had helped her.
She had the prettiest little head; her feather-dress was like soft
satin, and the eyes were mild and pleading.

When she saw the boy, she wanted to run away; but the left wing was out
of joint and dragged on the ground, so that it interfered with her
movements.

"You mustn't be afraid of me," said the boy, and didn't look nearly so
angry as he had intended to appear. "I'm Thumbietot, Morten
Goosey-gander's comrade," he continued. Then he stood there, and didn't
know what he wanted to say.

Occasionally one finds something among animals which makes one wonder
what sort of creatures they really are. One is almost afraid that they
may be transformed human beings. It was something like this with the
gray goose. As soon as Thumbietot said who he was, she lowered her neck
and head very charmingly before him, and said in a voice that was so
pretty that he couldn't believe it was a goose who spoke: "I am very
glad that you have come here to help me. The white goosey-gander has
told me that no one is as wise and as good as you."

She said this with such dignity, that the boy grew really embarrassed.
"This surely can't be any bird," thought he. "It is certainly some
bewitched princess."

He was filled with a desire to help her, and ran his hand under the
feathers, and felt along the wing-bone. The bone was not broken, but
there was something wrong with the joint. He got his finger down into
the empty cavity. "Be careful, now!" he said; and got a firm grip on the
bone-pipe and fitted it into the place where it ought to be. He did it
very quickly and well, considering it was the first time that he had
attempted anything of the sort. But it must have hurt very much, for the
poor young goose uttered a single shrill cry, and then sank down among
the stones without showing a sign of life.

The boy was terribly frightened. He had only wished to help her, and now
she was dead. He made a big jump from the stone pile, and ran away. He
thought it was as though he had murdered a human being.

The next morning it was clear and free from mist, and Akka said that now
they should continue their travels. All the others were willing to go,
but the white goosey-gander made excuses. The boy understood well enough
that he didn't care to leave the gray goose. Akka did not listen to him,
but started off.

The boy jumped up on the goosey-gander's back, and the white one
followed the flock--albeit slowly and unwillingly. The boy was mighty
glad that they could fly away from the island. He was conscience-stricken
on account of the gray goose, and had not cared to tell the goosey-gander
how it had turned out when he had tried to cure her. It would probably be
best if Morten goosey-gander never found out about this, he thought,
though he wondered, at the same time, how the white one had the heart to
leave the gray goose.

But suddenly the goosey-gander turned. The thought of the young gray
goose had overpowered him. It could go as it would with the Lapland
trip: he couldn't go with the others when he knew that she lay alone and
ill, and would starve to death.

With a few wing-strokes he was over the stone pile; but then, there lay
no young gray goose between the stones. "Dunfin! Dunfin! Where art
thou?" called the goosey-gander.

"The fox has probably been here and taken her," thought the boy. But at
that moment he heard a pretty voice answer the goosey-gander. "Here am
I, goosey-gander; here am I! I have only been taking a morning bath."
And up from the water came the little gray goose--fresh and in good
trim--and told how Thumbietot had pulled her wing into place, and that
she was entirely well, and ready to follow them on the journey.

The drops of water lay like pearl-dew on her shimmery satin-like
feathers, and Thumbietot thought once again that she was a real little
princess.


THE BIG BUTTERFLY


_Wednesday, April sixth_.

The geese travelled alongside the coast of the long island, which lay
distinctly visible under them. The boy felt happy and light of heart
during the trip. He was just as pleased and well satisfied as he had
been glum and depressed the day before, when he roamed around down on
the island, and hunted for the goosey-gander.

He saw now that the interior of the island consisted of a barren high
plain, with a wreath of fertile land along the coast; and he began to
comprehend the meaning of something which he had heard the other
evening.

He had just seated himself to rest a bit by one of the many windmills on
the highland, when a couple of shepherds came along with the dogs beside
them, and a large herd of sheep in their train. The boy had not been
afraid because he was well concealed under the windmill stairs. But as
it turned out, the shepherds came and seated themselves on the same
stairway, and then there was nothing for him to do but to keep perfectly
still.

One of the shepherds was young, and looked about as folks do mostly; the
other was an old queer one. His body was large and knotty, but the head
was small, and the face had sensitive and delicate features. It appeared
as though the body and head didn't want to fit together at all.

One moment he sat silent and gazed into the mist, with an unutterably
weary expression. Then he began to talk to his companion. Then the other
one took out some bread and cheese from his knapsack, to eat his evening
meal. He answered scarcely anything, but listened very patiently, just
as if he were thinking: "I might as well give you the pleasure of
letting you chatter a while."

"Now I shall tell you something, Eric," said the old shepherd. "I have
figured out that in former days, when both human beings and animals were
much larger than they are now, that the butterflies, too, must have been
uncommonly large. And once there was a butterfly that was many miles
long, and had wings as wide as seas. Those wings were blue, and shone
like silver, and so gorgeous that, when the butterfly was out flying,
all the other animals stood still and stared at it. It had this
drawback, however, that it was too large. The wings had hard work to
carry it. But probably all would have gone very well, if the butterfly
had been wise enough to remain on the hillside. But it wasn't; it
ventured out over the East sea. And it hadn't gotten very far before the
storm came along and began to tear at its wings. Well, it's easy to
understand, Eric, how things would go when the East sea storm commenced
to wrestle with frail butterfly-wings. It wasn't long before they were
torn away and scattered; and then, of course, the poor butterfly fell
into the sea. At first it was tossed backward and forward on the
billows, and then it was stranded upon a few cliff-foundations outside
of 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."


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 scum
and small birds; it also snatched with it the wild geese, threw them on
end, and cast them toward the sea.

It was a rough storm. The wild geese tried to turn back, time and again,
but they couldn't do it and were driven out toward the East sea. The
storm had already blown them past 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
orgies. He saw skeletons whose flesh had been eaten, and bodies that
were half-eaten, and others which they had scarcely tasted, but had
allowed to lie untouched. It was heart-rending to see how the wild
beasts had thrown themselves upon the sheep just for sport--just to
hunt them and tear them to death.

The big ram did not pause in front of the dead, but walked by them in
silence. But the boy, meanwhile, could not help seeing all the horror.

Then the big ram went up on the mountain height again; but when he was
there he stopped and said: "If someone who is capable and wise could see
all the misery which prevails here, he surely would not be able to rest
until these foxes had been punished." "The foxes must live, too," said
the boy. "Yes," said the big ram, "those who do not tear in pieces more
animals than they need for their sustenance, they may as well live. But
these are felons." "The peasants who own the island ought to come here
and help you," insisted the boy. "They have rowed over a number of
times," replied the ram, "but the foxes always hid themselves in the
grottoes and crevices, so they could not get near them, to shoot them."
"You surely cannot mean, father, that a poor little creature like me
should be able to get at them, when neither you nor the peasants have
succeeded in getting the better of them." "He that is little and spry
can put many things to rights," said the big ram.

They talked no more about this, and the boy went over and seated himself
among the wild geese who fed on the highland. Although he had not cared
to show his feelings before the ram, he was very sad on the sheep's
account, and he would have been glad to help them. "I can at least talk
with Akka and Morten goosey-gander about the matter," thought he.
"Perhaps they can help me with a good suggestion."

A little later the white goosey-gander took the boy on his back and went
over the mountain plain, and in the direction of Hell's Hole at that.

He wandered, care-free, on the open mountain roof--apparently
unconscious of how large and white he was. He didn't seek protection
behind tufts, or any other protuberances, but went straight ahead. It
was strange that he was not more careful, for it was apparent that he
had fared badly in yesterday's storm. He limped on his right leg, and
the left wing hung and dragged as if it might be broken.

He acted as if there were no danger, pecked at a 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.


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.


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.


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-cock named Garm
Whitefeather; but he was never called anything but Fumle or Drumle, or
out and out Fumle-Drumle, because he always acted awkwardly and
stupidly, and wasn't good for anything except to make fun of.
Fumle-Drumle was bigger and stronger than any of the other crows, but
that didn't help him in the least; he was--and remained--a butt for
ridicule. And it didn't profit him, either, that he came from very good
stock. If everything had gone smoothly, he should have been leader for
the whole flock, because this honour had, from time immemorial, belonged
to the oldest Whitefeather. But long before Fumle-Drumle was born, the
power had gone from his family, and was now wielded by a cruel wild
crow, named Wind-Rush.

This transference of power was due to the fact that the crows on
crow-ridge desired to change their manner of living. Possibly there are
many who think that everything in the shape of crow lives in the same
way; but this is not so. There are entire crow-folk who lead honourable
lives--that is to say, they only eat grain, worms, caterpillars, and
dead animals; and there are others who lead a regular bandit's life, who
throw themselves upon baby-hares and small birds, and plunder every
single bird's nest they set eyes on.

The ancient Whitefeathers had been strict and temperate; and as long as
they had led the flock, the crows had been compelled to conduct
themselves in such a way that other birds could speak no ill of them.
But the crows were numerous, and poverty was great among them. They
didn't care to go the whole length of living a strictly moral life, so
they rebelled against the Whitefeathers, and gave the power to
Wind-Rush, who was the worst nest-plunderer and robber that could be
imagined--if his wife, Wind-Air, wasn't worse still. Under their
government the crows had begun to lead such a life that now they were
more feared than pigeon-hawks and leech-owls.

Naturally, Fumle-Drumle had nothing to say in the flock. The crows were
all of the opinion that he did not in the least take after his
forefathers, and that he wouldn't suit as a leader. No one would have
mentioned him, if he hadn't constantly committed fresh blunders. A few,
who were quite sensible, sometimes said perhaps it was lucky for
Fumle-Drumle that he was such a bungling idiot, otherwise Wind-Rush and
Wind-Air would hardly have allowed him--who was of the old chieftain
stock--to remain with the flock.

Now, on the other hand, they were rather friendly toward him, and
willingly took him along with them on their hunting expeditions. There
all could observe how much more skilful and daring they were than he.

None of the crows knew that it was Fumle-Drumle who had pecked the rag
out of the window; and had they known of this, they would have been very
much astonished. Such a thing as daring to approach a human being's
dwelling, they had never believed of him. He kept the thing to himself
very carefully; and he had his own good reasons for it. Wind-Rush always
treated him well in the daytime, and when the others were around; but
one very dark night, when the comrades sat on the night branch, he was
attacked by a couple of crows and nearly murdered. After that he moved
every night, after dark, from his usual sleeping quarters into the empty
cabin.

Now one afternoon, when the crows had put their nests in order on
crow-ridge, they happened upon a remarkable find. Wind-Rush,
Fumle-Drumle, and a couple of others had flown down into a big hollow in
one corner of the heath. The hollow was nothing but a 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 murder in this way. You ought to begin to lead new lives, for
I can tell you that human beings have grown so tired of your wickedness
they are trying with all their might to root you out. And then there
will soon be an end of you."

When Wind-Rush and the crows heard this, they were so furious that they
intended to throw themselves upon him and tear him in pieces. But
Fumle-Drumle laughed and cawed, and stood in front of him. "Oh, no, no!"
said he, and seemed absolutely terrified. "What think you that Wind-Air
will say if you tear Thumbietot in pieces before he has gotten that
silver money for us?" "It has to be you, Fumle-Drumle, that's afraid of
women-folk," said Rush. But, at any rate, both he and the others left
Thumbietot in peace.

Shortly after that the crows went further. Until now the boy thought
that Småland wasn't such a poor country as he had heard. Of course it
was woody and full of mountain-ridges, but alongside the islands and
lakes lay cultivated grounds, and any real desolation he hadn't come
upon. But the farther inland they came, the fewer were the villages and
cottages. Toward the last, he thought that he was riding over a
veritable wilderness where he saw nothing but swamps and heaths and
juniper-hills.

The sun had gone down, but it was still perfect daylight when the crows
reached the large heather-heath. Wind-Rush sent a crow on ahead, to say
that he had met with success; and when it was known, Wind-Air, with
several hundred crows from Crow-Ridge, flew to meet the arrivals. In the
midst of the deafening cawing which the crows emitted, Fumle-Drumle said
to the boy: "You have been so comical and so jolly during the trip that
I am really fond of you. Therefore I want to give you some good advice.
As soon as we light, you'll be requested to do a bit of work which may
seem very easy to you; but beware of doing it!"

Soon thereafter Fumle-Drumle put Nils Holgersson down in the bottom of
a sandpit. The boy flung himself down, rolled over, and lay there as
though he was simply done up with fatigue. Such a lot of crows fluttered
about him that the air rustled like a wind-storm, but he didn't look up.

"Thumbietot," said Wind-Rush, "get up now! You shall help us with a
matter which will be very easy for you."

The boy didn't move, but pretended to be asleep. Then Wind-Rush took him
by the arm, and dragged him over the sand to an earthen crock of
old-time make, that was standing in the pit. "Get up, Thumbietot," said
he, "and open this crock!" "Why can't you let me sleep?" said the boy.
"I'm too tired to do anything to-night. Wait until to-morrow!"

"Open the crock!" said Wind-Rush, shaking him. "How shall a poor little
child be able to open such a crock? Why, it's quite as large as I am
myself." "Open it!" commanded Wind-Rush once more, "or it will be a
sorry thing for you." The boy got up, tottered over to the crock,
fumbled the clasp, and let his arms fall. "I'm not usually so weak,"
said he. "If you will only let me sleep until morning, I think that I'll
be able to manage with that clasp."

But Wind-Rush was impatient, and he rushed forward and pinched the boy
in the leg. That sort of treatment the boy didn't care to suffer from a
crow. He jerked himself loose quickly, ran a couple of paces backward,
drew his knife from the sheath, and held it extended in front of him.
"You'd better be careful!" he cried to Wind-Rush.

This one too was so enraged that he didn't dodge the danger. He rushed
at the boy, just as though he'd been blind, and ran so straight against
the knife, that it entered through his eye into the head. The boy drew
the knife back quickly, but Wind-Rush only struck out with his wings,
then he fell down--dead.

"Wind-Rush is dead! The stranger has killed our chieftain, Wind-Rush!"
cried the nearest crows, and then there was a terrible uproar. Some
wailed, others cried for vengeance. They all ran or fluttered up to the
boy, with Fumle-Drumle in the lead. But he acted badly as usual. He only
fluttered and spread his wings over the boy, and prevented the others
from coming forward and running their bills into him.

The boy thought that things looked very bad for him now. He couldn't run
away from the crows, and there was no place where he could hide. Then he
happened to think of the earthen crock. He took a firm hold on the
clasp, and pulled it off. Then he hopped into the crock to hide in it.
But the crock was a poor hiding place, for it was nearly filled to the
brim with little, thin silver coins. The boy couldn't get far enough
down, so he stooped and began to throw out the coins.

Until now the crows had fluttered around him in a thick swarm and pecked
at him, but when he threw out the coins they immediately forgot their
thirst for vengeance, and hurried to gather the money. The boy threw out
handfuls of it, and all the crows--yes, even Wind-Air herself--picked
them up. And everyone who succeeded in picking up a coin ran off to the
nest with the utmost speed to conceal it.

When the boy had thrown out all the silver pennies from the crock he
glanced up. Not more than a single crow was left in the sandpit. That
was Fumle-Drumle, with the white feather in his wing; he who had carried
Thumbietot. "You have rendered me a greater service than you
understand," said the crow--with a very different voice, and a different
intonation than the one he had used heretofore--"and I want to save your
life. Sit down on my back, and I'll take you to a hiding place where you
can be secure for to-night. To-morrow, I'll arrange it so that you will
get back to the wild geese."

THE CABIN

_Thursday, April fourteenth_.

The following morning when the boy awoke, he lay in a bed. When he saw
that he was in a house with four walls around him, and a roof over him,
he thought that he was at home. "I wonder if mother will come soon with
some coffee," he muttered to himself where he lay half-awake. Then he
remembered that he was in a deserted cabin on the crow-ridge, and that
Fumle-Drumle with the white feather had borne him there the night
before.

The boy was sore all over after the journey he had made the day before,
and he thought it was lovely to lie still while he waited for
Fumle-Drumle who had promised to come and fetch him.

Curtains of checked cotton hung before the bed, and he drew them aside
to look out into the cabin. It dawned upon him instantly that he had
never seen the mate to a cabin like this. The walls consisted of nothing
but a couple of rows of logs; then the roof began. There was no interior
ceiling, so he could look clear up to the roof-tree. The cabin was so
small that it appeared to have been built rather for such as he than for
real people. However, the fireplace and chimney were so large, he
thought that he had never seen larger. The entrance door was in a
gable-wall at the side of the fireplace, and was so narrow that it was
more like a wicket than a door. In the other gable-wall he saw a low and
broad window with many panes. There was scarcely any movable furniture
in the cabin. The bench on one side, and the table under the window,
were also stationary--also the big bed where he lay, and the
many-coloured cupboard.

The boy could not help wondering who owned the cabin, and why it was
deserted. It certainly looked as though the people who had lived there
expected to return. The coffee-urn and the gruel-pot stood on the
hearth, and there was some wood in the fireplace; the oven-rake and
baker's peel stood in a corner; the spinning wheel was raised on a
bench; on the shelf over the window lay oakum and flax, a couple of
skeins of yarn, a candle, and a bunch of matches.

Yes, it surely looked as if those who had lived there had intended to
come back. There were bed-clothes on the bed; and on the walls there
still hung long strips of cloth, upon which three riders named Kasper,
Melchior, and Baltasar were painted. The same horses and riders were
pictured many times. They rode around the whole cabin, and continued
their ride even up toward the joists.

But in the roof the boy saw something which brought him to his senses in
a jiffy. It was a couple of loaves of big bread-cakes that hung there
upon a spit. They looked old and mouldy, but it was bread all the same.
He gave them a knock with the oven-rake and one piece fell to the floor.
He ate, and stuffed his bag full. It was incredible how good bread was,
anyway.

He looked around the cabin once more, to try and discover if there was
anything else which he might find useful to take along. "I may as well
take what I need, since no one else cares about it," thought he. But
most of the things were too big and heavy. The only things that he
could carry might be a few matches perhaps.

He clambered up on the table, and swung with the help of the curtains up
to the window-shelf. While he stood there and stuffed the matches into
his bag, the crow with the white feather came in through the window.
"Well here I am at last," said Fumle-Drumle as he lit on the table. "I
couldn't get here any sooner because we crows have elected a new
chieftain in Wind-Rush's place." "Whom have you chosen?" said the boy.
"Well, we have chosen one who will not permit robbery and injustice. We
have elected Garm Whitefeather, lately called Fumle-Drumle," answered
he, drawing himself up until he looked absolutely regal. "That was a
good choice," said the boy and congratulated him. "You may well wish me
luck," said Garm; then he told the boy about the time they had had with
Wind-Rush and Wind-Air.

During this recital the boy heard a voice outside the window which he
thought sounded familiar. "Is he here?"--inquired the fox. "Yes, he's
hidden in there," answered a crow-voice. "Be careful, Thumbietot!" cried
Garm. "Wind-Air stands without with that fox who wants to eat you." More
he didn't have time to say, for Smirre dashed against the window. The
old, rotten window-frame gave way, and the next second Smirre stood upon
the window-table. Garm Whitefeather, who didn't have time to fly away,
he killed instantly. Thereupon he jumped down to the floor, and looked
around for the boy. He tried to hide behind a big oakum-spiral, but
Smirre had already spied him, and was crouched for the final spring. The
cabin was so small, and so low, the boy understood that the fox could
reach him without the least difficulty. But just at that moment the boy
was not without weapons of defence. He struck a match quickly, touched
the curtains, and when they were in flames, he threw them down upon
Smirre Fox. When the fire enveloped the fox, he was seized with a mad
terror. He thought no more about the boy, but rushed wildly out of the
cabin.

But it looked as if the boy had escaped one danger to throw himself into
a greater one. From the tuft of oakum which he had flung at Smirre the
fire had spread to the bed-hangings. He jumped down and tried to smother
it, but it blazed too quickly now. The cabin was soon filled with smoke,
and Smirre Fox, who had remained just outside the window, began to grasp
the state of affairs within. "Well, Thumbietot," he called out, "which
do you choose now: to be broiled alive in there, or to come out here to
me? Of course, I should prefer to have the pleasure of eating you; but
in whichever way death meets you it will be dear to me."

The boy could not think but what the fox was right, for the fire was
making rapid headway. The whole bed was now in a blaze, and smoke rose
from the floor; and along the painted wall-strips the fire crept from
rider to rider. The boy jumped up in the fireplace, and tried to open
the oven door, when he heard a key which turned around slowly in the
lock. It must be human beings coming. And in the dire extremity in which
he found himself, he was not afraid, but only glad. He was already on
the threshold when the door opened. He saw a couple of children facing
him; but how they looked when they saw the cabin in flames, he took no
time to find out; but rushed past them into the open.

He didn't dare run far. He knew, of course, that Smirre Fox lay in wait
for him, and he understood that he must remain near the children. He
turned round to see what sort of folk they were, but he hadn't looked at
them a second before he ran up to them and cried: "Oh, good-day, Osa
goose-girl! Oh, good-day, little Mats!"

For when the boy saw those children he forgot entirely where he was.
Crows and burning cabin and talking animals had vanished from his
memory. He was walking on a stubble-field, in West 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.


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-cock, a starling and a
drake; they had all wailed about a little culprit who had disturbed
their song, and who was named Caught-by-Crows, Captured-by-Crows, and
Stolen-by-Crows. In this way, they were enabled to trace Thumbietot all
the way to the heather-heath in Sonnerbo township.

As soon as the goosey-gander and Dunfin had found Thumbietot, they had
started toward the north, in order to reach Taberg. But it had been a
long road to travel, and the darkness was upon them before they had
sighted the mountain top. "If we only get there by to-morrow, surely all
our troubles will be over," thought the boy, and dug down into the straw
to have it warmer. All the while the cow fussed and fumed in the stall.
Then, all of a sudden, she began to talk to the boy. "Everything is
wrong with me," said the cow. "I am neither milked nor tended. I have no
night fodder in my manger, and no bed has been made under me. My
mistress came here at dusk, to put things in order for me, but she felt
so ill, that she had to go in soon again, and she has not returned."

"It's distressing that I should be little and powerless," said the boy.
"I don't believe that I am able to help you." "You can't make me believe
that you are powerless because you are little," said the cow. "All the
elves that I've ever heard of, were so strong that they could pull a
whole load of hay and strike a cow dead with one fist." The boy couldn't
help laughing at the cow. "They were a very different kind of elf from
me," said he. "But I'll loosen your halter and open the door for you, so
that you can go out and drink in one of the pools on the place, and then
I'll try to climb up to the hayloft and throw down some hay in your
manger." "Yes, that would be some help," said the cow.

The boy did as he had said; and when the cow stood with a full manger in
front of her, he thought that at last he should get some sleep. But he
had hardly crept down in the bed before she began, anew, to talk to him.

"You'll be clean put out with me if I ask you for one thing more," said
the cow. "Oh, no I won't, if it's only something that I'm able to do,"
said the boy. "Then I will ask you to go into the cabin, directly
opposite, and find out how my mistress is getting along. I fear some
misfortune has come to her." "No! I can't do that," said the boy. "I
dare not show myself before human beings." "'Surely you're not afraid of
an old and sick woman," said the cow. "But you do not need to go into
the cabin. Just stand outside the door and peep in through the crack!"
"Oh! if that is all you ask of me, I'll do it of course," said the boy.

With that he opened the cowshed door and went out in the yard. It was a
fearful night! Neither moon nor stars shone; the wind blew a gale, and
the rain came down in torrents. And the worst of all was that seven
great owls sat in a row on the eaves of the cabin. It was awful just to
hear them, where they sat and grumbled at the weather; but it was even
worse to think what would happen to him if one of them should set eyes
on him. That would be the last of him.

"Pity him who is little!" said the boy as he ventured out in the yard.
And he had a right to say this, for he was blown down twice before he
got to the house: once the wind swept him into a pool, which was so deep
that he came near drowning. But he got there nevertheless.

He clambered up a pair of steps, scrambled over a threshold, and came
into the hallway. The cabin door was closed, but down in one corner a
large piece had been cut away, that the cat might go in and out. It was
no difficulty whatever for the boy to see how things were in the cabin.

He had hardly cast a glance in there before he staggered back and turned
his head away. An old, gray-haired woman lay stretched out on the floor
within. She neither moved nor moaned; and her face shone strangely
white. It was as if an invisible moon had thrown a feeble light over it.

The boy remembered that when his grandfather had died, his face had also
become so strangely white-like. And he understood that the old woman who
lay on the cabin floor must be dead. Death had probably come to her so
suddenly that she didn't even have time to lie down on her bed.

As he thought of being alone with the dead in the middle of the dark
night, he was terribly afraid. He threw himself headlong down the steps,
and rushed back to the cowshed.

When he told the cow what he had seen in the cabin, she stopped eating.
"So my mistress is dead," said she. "Then it will soon be over for me
as well." "There will always be someone to look out for you," said the
boy comfortingly. "Ah! you don't know," said the cow, "that I am already
twice as old as a cow usually is before she is laid upon the
slaughter-bench. But then I do not care to live any longer, since she,
in there, can come no more to care for me."

She said nothing more for a while, but the boy observed, no doubt, that
she neither slept nor ate. It was not long before she began to speak
again. "Is she lying on the bare floor?" she asked. "She is," said the
boy. "She had a habit of coming out to the cowshed," she continued, "and
talking about everything that troubled her. I understood what she said,
although I could not answer her. These last few days she talked of how
afraid she was lest there would be no one with her when she died. She
was anxious for fear no one should close her eyes and fold her hands
across her breast, after she was dead. Perhaps you'll go in and do
this?" The boy hesitated. He remembered that when his grandfather had
died, mother had been very careful about putting everything to rights.
He knew this was something which had to be done. But, on the other hand,
he felt that he didn't care go to the dead, in the ghastly night. He
didn't say no; neither did he take a step toward the cowshed door. For a
couple of seconds the old cow was silent--just as if she had expected an
answer. But when the boy said nothing, she did not repeat her request.
Instead, she began to talk with him of her mistress.

There was much to tell, first and foremost, about all the children which
she had brought up. They had been in the cowshed every day, and in the
summer they had taken the cattle to pasture on the swamp and in the
groves, so the old cow knew all about them. They had been splendid, all
of them, and happy and industrious. A cow knew well enough what her
caretakers were good for.

There was also much to be said about the farm. It had not always been as
poor as it was now. It was very large--although the greater part of it
consisted of swamps and stony groves. There was not much room for
fields, but there was plenty of good fodder everywhere. At one time
there had been a cow for every stall in the cowshed; and the oxshed,
which was now empty, had at one time been filled with oxen. And then
there was life and gayety, both in cabin and cowhouse. When the mistress
opened the cowshed door she would hum and sing, and all the cows lowed
with gladness when they heard her coming.

But the good man had died when the children were so small that they
could not be of any assistance, and the mistress had to take charge of
the farm, and all the work and responsibility. She had been as strong as
a man, and had both ploughed and reaped. In the evenings, when she came
into the cowshed to milk, sometimes she was so tired that she wept. Then
she dashed away her tears, and was cheerful again. "It doesn't matter.
Good times are coming again for me too, if only my children grow up.
Yes, if they only grow up."

But as soon as the children were grown, a strange longing came over
them. They didn't want to stay at home, but went away to a strange
country. Their mother never got any help from them. A couple of her
children were married before they went away, and they had left their
children behind, in the old home. And now these children followed the
mistress in the cowshed, just as her own had done. They tended the cows,
and were fine, good folk. And, in the evenings, when the mistress was so
tired out that she could fall asleep in the middle of the milking, she
would rouse herself again to renewed courage by thinking of them. "Good
times are coming for me, too," said she--and shook off sleep--"when once
they are grown."

But when these children grew up, they went away to their parents in the
strange land. No one came back--no one stayed at home--the old mistress
was left alone on the farm.

Probably she had never asked them to remain with her. "Think you,
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."


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."


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.


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.'"


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.


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 tramp
around in the forest a little longer."

They went again into the pine wood. Presently they came to an open glade
illuminated by the moonlight, where grass and flowers shimmered beneath
the dew. Some large animals were grazing on this forest meadow--an elk
bull, several elk cows and a number of elk calves. When Grayskin caught
sight of them he stopped short. He hardly glanced at the cows or the
young ones, but stared at the old bull, which had broad antlers with
many taglets, a high hump, and a long-haired fur piece hanging down from
his throat.

"What kind of an animal is that?" asked Grayskin in wonderment.

"He is called Antler-Crown," said Karr, "and he is your kinsman. One of
these days you, too, will have broad antlers, like those, and just such
a mane; and if you were to remain in the forest, very likely you, also,
would have a herd to lead."

"If he is my kinsman, I must go closer and have a look at him," said
Grayskin. "I never dreamed that an animal could be so stately!"

Grayskin walked over to the elk, but almost immediately he came back to
Karr, who had remained at the edge of the clearing.

"You were not very well received, were you?" said Karr.

"I told him that this was the first time I had run across any of my
kinsmen, and asked if I might walk with them on their meadow. But they
drove me back, threatening me with their antlers."

"You did right to retreat," said Karr. "A young elk bull with only a
taglet crown must be careful about fighting with an old elk. Another
would have disgraced his name in the whole forest by retreating without
resistance, but such things needn't worry you who are going to move to a
foreign land."

Karr had barely finished speaking when Grayskin turned and walked down
to the meadow. The old elk came toward him, and instantly they began to
fight. Their antlers met and clashed, and Grayskin was driven backward
over the whole meadow. Apparently he did not know how to make use of his
strength; but when he came to the edge of the forest, he planted his
feet on the ground, pushed hard with his antlers, and began to force
Antler-Crown back.

Grayskin fought quietly, while Antler-Crown puffed and snorted. The old
elk, in his turn, was now being forced backward over the meadow.
Suddenly a loud crash was heard! A taglet in the old elk's antlers had
snapped. He tore himself loose, and dashed into the forest.

Karr was still standing at the forest border when Grayskin came along.

"Now that you have seen what there is in the forest," said Karr, "will
you come home with me?"

"Yes, it's about time," observed the elk.

Both were silent on the way home. Karr sighed several times, as if he
was disappointed about something; but Grayskin stepped along--his head
in the air--and seemed delighted over the adventure. He walked ahead
unhesitatingly until they came to the enclosure. There he paused. He
looked in at the narrow pen where he had lived up till now; saw the
beaten ground, the stale fodder, the little trough where he had drunk
water, and the dark shed in which he had slept.

"The elk are one with the forest!" he cried. Then he threw back his
head, so that his neck rested against his back, and rushed wildly into
the woods.

HELPLESS, THE WATER-SNAKE

In a pine thicket in the heart of Liberty Forest, every year, in the
month of August, there appeared a few grayish-white moths of the kind
which are called nun moths. They were small and few in number, and
scarcely any one noticed them. When they had fluttered about in the
depth of the forest a couple of nights, they laid a few thousand eggs on
the branches of trees; and shortly afterward dropped lifeless to the
ground.

When spring came, little prickly caterpillars crawled out from the eggs
and began to eat the pine needles. They had good appetites, but they
never seemed to do the trees any serious harm, because they were hotly
pursued by birds. It was seldom that more than a few hundred
caterpillars escaped the pursuers.

The poor things that lived to be full grown crawled up on the branches,
spun white webs around themselves, and sat for a couple of weeks as
motionless pupae. During this period, as a rule, more than half of them
were abducted. If a hundred nun moths came forth in August, winged and
perfect, it was reckoned a good year for them.

This sort of uncertain and obscure existence did the moths lead for many
years in Liberty Forest. There were no insect folk in the whole country
that were so scarce, and they would have remained quite harmless and
powerless had they not, most unexpectedly, received a helper.

This fact has some connection with Grayskin's flight from the
game-keeper's paddock. Grayskin roamed the forest that he might become
more familiar with the place. Late in the afternoon he happened to
squeeze through some thickets behind a clearing where the soil was muddy
and slimy, and in the centre of it was a murky pool. This open space was
encircled by tall pines almost bare from age and miasmic air. Grayskin
was displeased with the place and would have left it at once had he not
caught sight of some bright green calla leaves which grew near the pool.

As he bent his head toward the calla stalks, he happened to disturb a
big black snake, which lay sleeping under them. Grayskin had heard Karr
speak of the poisonous adders that were to be found in the forest. So,
when the snake raised its head, shot out its tongue and hissed at him,
he thought he had encountered an awfully dangerous reptile. He was
terrified and, raising his foot, he struck so hard with his hoof that he
crushed the snake's head. Then, away he ran in hot haste!

As soon as Grayskin had gone, another snake, just as long and as black
as the first, came up from the pool. It crawled over to the dead one,
and licked the poor, crushed-in head.

"Can it be true that you are dead, old Harmless?" hissed the snake. "We
two have lived together so many years; we two have been so happy with
each other, and have fared so well here in the swamp, that we have lived
to be older than all the other water-snakes in the forest! This is the
worst sorrow that could have befallen me!"

The snake was so broken-hearted that his long body writhed as if it had
been wounded. Even the frogs, who lived in constant fear of him, were
sorry for him.

"What a wicked creature he must be to murder a poor water-snake that
cannot defend itself!" hissed the snake. "He certainly deserves a severe
punishment. As sure as my name is Helpless and I'm the oldest
water-snake in the whole forest, I'll be avenged! I shall not rest until
that elk lies as dead on the ground as my poor old snake-wife."

When the snake had made this vow he curled up into a hoop and began to
ponder. One can hardly imagine anything that would be more difficult for
a poor 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!"


THE WIND WITCH


IN NÄRKE

In bygone days there was something in Närke the like of which was not to
be found elsewhere: it was a witch, named Ysätter-Kaisa.

The name Kaisa had been given her because she had a good deal to do with
wind and storm--and these wind witches are always so called. The surname
was added because she was supposed to have come from Ysätter swamp in
Asker parish.

It seemed as though her real abode must have been at Asker; but she used
also to appear at other places. Nowhere in all Närke could one be sure
of not meeting her.

She was no dark, mournful witch, but gay and frolicsome; and what she
loved most of all was a gale of wind. As soon as there was wind enough,
off she would fly to the Närke plain for a good dance. On days when a
whirlwind swept the plain, Ysätter-Kaisa had fun! She would stand right
in the wind and spin round, her long hair flying up among the clouds and
the long trail of her robe sweeping the ground, like a dust cloud, while
the whole plain lay spread out under her, like a ballroom floor.

Of a morning Ysätter-Kaisa would sit up in some tall pine at the top of
a precipice, and look across the plain. If it happened to be winter and
she saw many teams on the roads she hurriedly blew up a blizzard, piling
the drifts so high that people could barely get back to their homes by
evening. If it chanced to be summer and good harvest weather,
Ysätter-Kaisa would sit quietly until the first hayricks had been
loaded, then down she would come with a couple of heavy showers, which
put an end to the work for that day.

It was only too true that she seldom thought of anything else than
raising mischief. The charcoal burners up in the Kil mountains hardly
dared take a cat-nap, for as soon as she saw an unwatched kiln, she
stole up and blew on it until it began to burn in a great flame. If the
metal drivers from Laxå and Svartå were out late of an evening,
Ysätter-Kaisa would veil the roads and the country round about in such
dark clouds that both men and horses lost their way and drove the heavy
trucks down into swamps and morasses.

If, on a summer's day, the dean's wife at Glanshammar had spread the tea
table in the garden and along would come a gust of wind that lifted the
cloth from the table and turned over cups and saucers, they knew who had
raised the mischief! If the mayor of Örebro's hat blew off, so that he
had to run across the whole square after it; if the wash on the line
blew away and got covered with dirt, or if the smoke poured into the
cabins and seemed unable to find its way out through the chimney, it was
easy enough to guess who was out making merry!

Although Ysätter-Kaisa was fond of all sorts of tantalizing games, there
was nothing really bad about her. One could see that she was hardest on
those who were quarrelsome, stingy, or wicked; while honest folk and
poor little children she would take under her wing. Old people say of
her that, once, when Asker church was burning, Ysätter-Kaisa swept
through the air, lit amid fire and smoke on the church roof, and averted
the disaster.

All the same the Närke folk were often rather tired of Ysätter-Kaisa,
but she never tired of playing her tricks on them. As she sat on the
edge of a cloud and looked down upon Närke, which rested so peacefully
and comfortably beneath her, she must have thought: "The inhabitants
would fare much too well if I were not in existence. They would grow
sleepy and dull. There must be some one like myself to rouse them and
keep them in good spirits."

Then she would laugh wildly and, chattering like a magpie, would rush
off, dancing and spinning from one end of the plain to the other. When a
Närke man saw her come dragging her dust trail over the plain, he could
not help smiling. Provoking and tiresome she certainly was, but she had
a merry spirit. It was just as refreshing for the peasants to meet
Ysätter-Kaisa as it was for the plain to be lashed by the windstorm.

Nowadays 'tis said that Ysätter-Kaisa is dead and gone, like all other
witches, but this one can hardly believe. It is as if some one were to
come and tell you that henceforth the air would always be still on the
plain, and the wind would never more dance across it with blustering
breezes and drenching showers.

He who fancies that Ysätter-Kaisa is dead and gone may as well hear what
occurred in Närke the year that Nils Holgersson travelled over that part
of the country. Then let him tell what he thinks about it.

MARKET EVE

_Wednesday, April twenty-seventh_.

It was the day before the big Cattle Fair at Örebro; it rained in
torrents and people thought: "This is exactly as in Ysätter-Kaisa's
time! At fairs she used to be more prankish than usual. It was quite in
her line to arrange a downpour like this on a market eve."

As the day wore on, the rain increased, and toward evening came regular
cloud-bursts. The roads were like bottomless swamps. The farmers who had
started from home with their cattle early in the morning, that they
might arrive at a seasonable hour, fared badly. Cows and oxen were so
tired they could hardly move, and many of the poor beasts dropped down
in the middle of the road, to show that they were too exhausted to go
any farther. All who lived along the roadside had to open their doors to
the market-bound travellers, and harbour them as best they could. Farm
houses, barns, and sheds were soon crowded to their limit.

Meanwhile, those who could struggle along toward the inn did so; but
when they arrived they wished they had stopped at some cabin along the
road. All the cribs in the barn and all the stalls in the stable were
already occupied. There was no other choice than to let horses and
cattle stand out in the rain. Their masters could barely manage to get
under cover.

The crush and mud and slush in the barn yard were frightful! Some of the
animals were standing in puddles and could not even lie down. There were
thoughtful masters, of course, who procured straw for their animals to
lie on, and spread blankets over them; but there were those, also, who
sat in the inn, drinking and gambling, entirely forgetful of the dumb
creatures which they should have protected.

The boy and the wild geese had come to a little wooded island in Hjälmar
Lake that evening. The island was separated from the main land by a
narrow and shallow stream, and at low tide one could pass over it
dry-shod.

It rained just as hard on the island as it did everywhere else. The boy
could not sleep for the water that kept dripping down on him. Finally he
got up and began to walk. He fancied that he felt the rain less when he
moved about.

He had hardly circled the island, when he heard a splashing in the
stream. Presently he saw a solitary horse tramping among the trees.
Never in all his life had he seen such a wreck of a horse! He was
broken-winded and stiff-kneed and so thin that every rib could be seen
under the hide. He bore neither harness nor saddle--only an old bridle,
from which dangled a half-rotted rope-end. Obviously he had had no
difficulty in breaking loose.

The horse walked straight toward the spot where the wild geese were
sleeping. The boy was afraid that he would step on them.

"Where are you going? Feel your ground!" shouted the boy.

"Oh, there you are!" exclaimed the horse. "I've walked miles to meet
you!"

"Have you heard of me?" asked the boy, astonished.

"I've got ears, even if I am old! There are many who talk of you
nowadays."

As he spoke, the horse bent his head that he might see better, and the
boy noticed that he had a small head, beautiful eyes, and a soft,
sensitive nose.

"He must have been a good horse at the start, though he has come to
grief in his old age," he thought.

"I wish you would come with me and help me with something," pleaded the
horse.

The boy thought it would be embarrassing to accompany a creature who
looked so wretched, and excused himself on account of the bad weather.

"You'll be no worse off on my back than you are lying here," said the
horse. "But perhaps you don't dare to go with an old tramp of a horse
like me."

"Certainly I dare!" said the boy.

"Then wake the geese, so that we can arrange with them where they shall
come for you to-morrow," said the horse.

The boy was soon seated on the animal's back. The old nag trotted along
better than he had thought possible. It was a long ride in the rain and
darkness before they halted near a large inn, where everything looked
terribly uninviting! The wheel tracks were so deep in the road that the
boy feared he might drown should he fall down into them. Alongside the
fence, which enclosed the yard, some thirty or forty horses and cattle
were tied, with no protection against the rain, and in the yard were
wagons piled with packing cases, where sheep, calves, hogs, and chickens
were shut in.

The horse walked over to the fence and stationed himself. The boy
remained seated upon his back, and, with his good night eyes, plainly
saw how badly the animals fared.

"How do you happen to be standing out here in the rain?" he asked.

"We're on our way to a fair at Örebro, but we were obliged to put up
here on account of the rain. This is an inn; but so many travellers have
already arrived that there's no room for us in the barns."

The boy made no reply, but sat quietly looking about him. Not many of
the animals were asleep, and on all sides he heard complaints and
indignant protests. They had reason enough for grumbling, for the
weather was even worse than it had been earlier in the day. A freezing
wind had begun to blow, and the rain which came beating down on them
was turning to snow. It was easy enough to understand what the horse
wanted the boy to help him with.

"Do you see that fine farm yard directly opposite the inn?" remarked the
horse.

"Yes, I see it," answered the boy, "and I can't comprehend why they
haven't tried to find shelter for all of you in there. They are already
full, perhaps?"

"No, there are no strangers in that place," said the horse. "The people
who live on that farm are so stingy and selfish that it would be useless
for any one to ask them for harbour."

"If that's the case, I suppose you'll have to stand where you are."

"I was born and raised on that farm," said the horse; "I know that there
is a large barn and a big cow shed, with many empty stalls and mangers,
and I was wondering if you couldn't manage in some way or other to get
us in over there."

"I don't think I could venture--" hesitated the boy. But he felt so
sorry for the poor beasts that he wanted at least to try.

He ran into the strange barn yard and saw at once that all the outhouses
were locked and the keys gone. He stood there, puzzled and helpless,
when aid came to him from an unexpected source. A gust of wind came
sweeping along with terrific force and flung open a shed door right in
front of him.

The boy was not long in getting back to the horse.

"It isn't possible to get into the barn or the cow house," he said, "but
there's a big, empty hay shed that they have forgotten to bolt. I can
lead you into that."

"Thank you!" said the horse. "It will seem good to sleep once more on
familiar ground. It's the only happiness I can expect in this life."

Meanwhile, at the flourishing farm opposite the inn, the family sat up
much later than usual that evening.

The master of the place was a man of thirty-five, tall and dignified,
with a handsome but melancholy face. During the day he had been out in
the rain and had got wet, like every one else, and at supper he asked
his old mother, who was still mistress of the place, to light a fire on
the hearth that he might dry his clothes. The mother kindled a feeble
blaze--for in that house they were not wasteful with wood--and the
master hung his coat on the back of a chair, and placed it before the
fire. With one foot on top of the andiron and a hand resting on his
knee, he stood gazing into the embers. Thus he stood for two whole
hours, making no move other than to cast a log on the fire now and then.

The mistress removed the supper things and turned down his bed for the
night before she went to her own room and seated herself. At intervals
she came to the door and looked wonderingly at her son.

"It's nothing, mother. I'm only thinking," he said.

His thoughts were on something that had occurred shortly before: When he
passed the inn a horse dealer had asked him if he would not like to
purchase a horse, and had shown him an old nag so weather-beaten that he
asked the dealer if he took him for a fool, since he wished to palm off
such a played-out beast on him.

"Oh, no!" said the horse dealer. "I only thought that, inasmuch as the
horse once belonged to you, you might wish to give him a comfortable
home in his old age; he has need of it."

Then he looked at the horse and recognized it as one which he himself
had raised and broken in; but it did not occur to him to purchase such
an old and useless creature on that account. No, indeed! He was not one
who squandered his money.

All the same, the sight of the horse had awakened many, memories--and it
was the memories that kept him awake.

That horse had been a fine animal. His father had let him tend it from
the start. He had broken it in and had loved it above everything else.
His father had complained that he used to feed it too well, and often he
had been obliged to steal out and smuggle oats to it.

Once, when he ventured to talk with his father about letting him buy a
broadcloth suit, or having the cart painted, his father stood as if
petrified, and he thought the old man would have a stroke. He tried to
make his father understand that, when he had a fine horse to drive, he
should look presentable himself.

The father made no reply, but two days later he took the horse to Örebro
and sold it.

It was cruel of him. But it was plain that his father had feared that
this horse might lead him into vanity and extravagance. And now, so long
afterward, he had to admit that his father was right. A horse like that
surely would have been a temptation. At first he had grieved terribly
over his loss. Many a time he had gone down to Örebro, just to stand on
a street corner and see the horse pass by, or to steal into the stable
and give him a lump of sugar. He thought: "If I ever get the farm, the
first thing I do will be to buy back my horse."

Now his father was gone and he himself had been master for two years,
but he had not made a move toward buying the horse. He had not thought
of him for ever so long, until to-night.

It was strange that he should have forgotten the beast so entirely!

His father had been a very headstrong, domineering man. When his son was
grown and the two had worked together, the father had gained absolute
power over him. The boy had come to think that everything his father did
was right, and, after he became the master, he only tried to do exactly
as his father would have done.

He knew, of course, that folk said his father was stingy; but it was
well to keep a tight hold on one's purse and not throw away money
needlessly. The goods one has received should not be wasted. It was
better to live on a debt-free place and be called stingy, than to carry
heavy mortgages, like other farm owners.

He had gone so far in his mind when he was called back by a strange
sound. It was as if a shrill, mocking voice were repeating his thoughts:
"It's better to keep a firm hold on one's purse and be called stingy,
than to be in debt, like other farm owners."

It sounded as if some one was trying to make sport of his wisdom and he
was about to lose his temper, when he realized that it was all a
mistake. The wind was beginning to rage, and he had been standing there
getting so sleepy that he mistook the howling of the wind in the chimney
for human speech.

He glanced up at the wall clock, which just then struck eleven.

"It's time that you were in bed," he remarked to himself. Then he
remembered that he had not yet gone the rounds of the farm yard, as it
was his custom to do every night, to make sure that all doors were
closed and all lights extinguished. This was something he had never
neglected since he became master. He drew on his coat and went out in
the storm.

He found everything as it should be, save that the door to the empty hay
shed had been blown open by the wind. He stepped inside for the key,
locked the shed door and put the key into his coat pocket. Then he went
back to the house, removed his coat, and hung it before the fire. Even
now he did not retire, but began pacing the floor. The storm without,
with its biting wind and snow-blended rain, was terrible, and his old
horse was standing in this storm without so much as a blanket to protect
him! He should at least have given his old friend a roof over his head,
since he had come such a long distance.

At the inn across the way the boy heard an old wall clock strike eleven
times. Just then he was untying the animals to lead them to the shed in
the farm yard opposite. It took some time to rouse them and get them
into line. When all were ready, they marched in a long procession into
the stingy farmer's yard, with the boy as their guide. While the boy had
been assembling them, the farmer had gone the rounds of the farm yard
and locked the hay shed, so that when the animals came along the door
was closed. The boy stood there dismayed. He could not let the creatures
stand out there! He must go into the house and find the key.

"Keep them quiet out here while I go in and fetch the key!" he said to
the old horse, and off he ran.

On the path right in front of the house he paused to think out how he
should get inside. As he stood there he noticed two little wanderers
coming down the road, who stopped before the inn.

The boy saw at once that they were two little girls, and ran toward
them.

"Come now, Britta Maja!" said one, "you mustn't cry any more. Now we are
at the inn. Here they will surely take us in."

The girl had but just said this when the boy called to her:

"No, you mustn't try to get in there. It is simply impossible. But at
the farm house opposite there are no guests. Go there instead."

The little girls heard the words distinctly, though they could not see
the one who spoke to them. They did not wonder much at that, however,
for the night was as black as pitch. The larger of the girls promptly
answered:

"We don't care to enter that place, because those who live there are
stingy and cruel. It is their fault that we two must go out on the
highways and beg."

"That may be so," said the boy, "but all the same you should go there.
You shall see that it will be well for you."

"We can try, but it is doubtful that they will even let us enter,"
observed the two little girls as they walked up to the house and
knocked.

The master was standing by the fire thinking of the horse when he heard
the knocking. He stepped to the door to see what was up, thinking all
the while that he would not let himself be tempted into admitting any
wayfarer. As he fumbled the lock, a gust of wind came along, wrenched
the door from his hand and swung it open. To close it, he had to step
out on the porch, and, when he stepped back into the house, the two
little girls were standing within.

They were two poor beggar girls, ragged, dirty, and starving--two little
tots bent under the burden of their beggar's packs, which were as large
as themselves.

"Who are you that go prowling about at this hour of the night?" said the
master gruffly.

The two children did not answer immediately, but first removed their
packs. Then they walked up to the man and stretched forth their tiny
hands in greeting.

"We are Anna and Britta Maja from the Engärd," said the elder, "and we
were going to ask for a night's lodging."

He did not take the outstretched hands and was just about to drive out
the beggar children, when a fresh recollection faced him. Engärd--was
not that a little cabin where a poor widow with five children had lived?
The widow had owed his father a few hundred kroner and in order to get
back his money he had sold her cabin. After that the widow, with her
three eldest children, went to Norrland to seek employment, and the two
youngest became a charge on the parish.

As he called this to mind he grew bitter. He knew that his father had
been severely censured for squeezing out that money, which by right
belonged to him.

"What are you doing nowadays?" he asked in a cross tone. "Didn't the
board of charities take charge of you? Why do you roam around and beg?"

"It's not our fault," replied the larger girl. "The people with whom we
are living have sent us out to beg."

"Well, your packs are filled," the farmer observed, "so you can't
complain. Now you'd better take out some of the food you have with you
and eat your fill, for here you'll get no food, as all the women folk
are in bed. Later you may lie down in the corner by the hearth, so you
won't have to freeze."

He waved his hand, as if to ward them off, and his eyes took on a hard
look. He was thankful that he had had a father who had been careful of
his property. Otherwise, he might perhaps have been forced in childhood
to run about and beg, as these children now did.

No sooner had he thought this out to the end than the shrill, mocking
voice he had heard once before that evening repeated it, word for word.

He listened, and at once understood that it was nothing--only the wind
roaring in the chimney. But the queer thing about it was, when the wind
repeated his thoughts, they seemed so strangely stupid and hard and
false!

The children meanwhile had stretched themselves, side by side, on the
floor. They were not quiet, but lay there muttering.

"Do be still, won't you?" he growled, for he was in such an irritable
mood that he could have beaten them.

But the mumbling continued, and again he called for silence.

"When mother went away," piped a clear little voice, "she made me
promise that every night I would say my evening prayer. I must do this,
and Britta Maja too. As soon as we have said 'God who cares for little
children--' we'll be quiet."

The master sat quite still while the little ones said their prayers,
then he rose and began pacing back and forth, back and forth, wringing
his hands all the while, as though he had met with some great sorrow.

"The horse driven out and wrecked, these two children turned into road
beggars--both father's doings! Perhaps father did not do right after
all?" he thought.

He sat down again and buried his head in his hands. Suddenly his lips
began to quiver and into his eyes came tears, which he hastily wiped
away. Fresh tears came, and he was just as prompt to brush these away;
but it was useless, for more followed.

When his mother stepped into the room, he swung his chair quickly and
turned his back to her. She must have noticed something unusual, for she
stood quietly behind him a long while, as if waiting for him to speak.
She realized how difficult it always is for men to talk of the things
they feel most deeply. She must help him of course.

From her bedroom she had observed all that had taken place in the living
room, so that she did not have to ask questions. She walked very softly
over to the two sleeping children, lifted them, and bore them to her own
bed. Then she went back to her son.

"Lars," she said, as if she did not see that he was weeping, "you had
better let me keep these children."

"What, mother?" he gasped, trying to smother the sobs.

"I have been suffering for years--ever since father took the cabin from
their mother, and so have you."

"Yes, but--"

"I want to keep them here and make something of them; they are too good
to beg."

He could not speak, for now the tears were beyond his control; but he
took his old mother's withered hand and patted it.

Then he jumped up, as if something had frightened him.

"What would father have said of this?"

"Father had his day at ruling," retorted the mother. "Now it is your
day. As long as father lived we had to obey him. Now is the time to show
what you are."

Her son was so astonished that he ceased crying.

"But I have just shown what I am!" he returned.

"No, you haven't," protested the mother. "You only try to be like him.
Father experienced hard times, which made him fear poverty. He believed
that he had to think of himself first. But you have never had any
difficulties that should make you hard. You have more than you need, and
it would be unnatural of you not to think of others."

When the two little girls entered the house the boy slipped in behind
them and secreted himself in a dark corner. He had not been there long
before he caught a glimpse of the shed key, which the farmer had thrust
into his coat pocket.

"When the master of the house drives the children out, I'll take the key
and ran," he thought.

But the children were not driven out and the boy crouched in the corner,
not knowing what he should do next.

The mother talked long with her son, and while she was speaking he
stopped weeping. Gradually his features softened; he looked like another
person. All the while he was stroking the wasted old hand.

"Now we may as well retire," said the old lady when she saw that he was
calm again.

"No," he said, suddenly rising, "I cannot retire yet. There's a stranger
without whom I must shelter to-night!"

He said nothing further, but quickly drew on his coat, lit the lantern
and went out. There were the same wind and chill without, but as he
stepped to the porch he began to sing softly. He wondered if the horse
would know him, and if he would be glad to come back to his old stable.

As he crossed the house yard he heard a door slam.

"That shed door has blown open again," he thought, and went over to
close it.

A moment later he stood by the shed and was just going to shut the door,
when he heard a rustling within.

The boy, who had watched his opportunity, had run directly to the shed,
where he left the animals, but they were no longer out in the rain: A
strong wind had long since thrown open the door and helped them to get a
roof over their heads. The patter which the master heard was occasioned
by the boy running into the shed.

By the light of the lantern the man could see into the shed. The whole
floor was covered with sleeping cattle. There was no human being to be
seen; the animals were not bound, but were lying, here and there, in the
straw.

He was enraged at the intrusion and began storming and shrieking to
rouse the sleepers and drive them out. But the creatures lay still and
would not let themselves be disturbed. The only one that rose was an old
horse that came slowly toward him.

All of a sudden the man became silent. He recognized the beast by its
gait. He raised the lantern, and the horse came over and laid its head
on his shoulder. The master patted and stroked it.

"My old horsy, my old horsy!" he said. "What have they done to you? Yes,
dear, I'll buy you back. You'll never again have to leave this place.
You shall do whatever you like, horsy mine! Those whom you have brought
with you may remain here, but you shall come with me to the stable. Now
I can give you all the oats you are able to eat, without having to
smuggle them. And you're not all used up, either! The handsomest horse
on the church knoll--that's what you shall be once more! There, there!
There, there!"


THE BREAKING UP OF THE ICE


_Thursday, April twenty-eighth_.

The following day the weather was clear and beautiful. There was a
strong west wind; people were glad of that, for it dried up the roads,
which had been soaked by the heavy rains of the day before.

Early in the morning the two Småland children, Osa, the goose girl, and
little Mats, were out on the highway leading from Sörmland to Närke. The
road ran alongside the southern shore of Hjälmar Lake and the children
were walking along looking at the ice, which covered the greater part of
it. The morning sun darted its clear rays upon the ice, which did not
look dark and forbidding, like most spring ice, but sparkled temptingly.
As far as they could see, the ice was firm and dry. The rain had run
down into cracks and hollows, or been absorbed by the ice itself. The
children saw only the sound ice.

Osa, the goose girl, and little Mats were on their way North, and they
could not help thinking of all the steps they would be saved if they
could cut straight across the lake instead of going around it. They
knew, to be sure, that spring ice is treacherous, but this looked
perfectly secure. They could see that it was several inches thick near
the shore. They saw a path which they might follow, and the opposite
shore appeared to be so near that they ought to be able to get there in
an hour.

"Come, let's try!" said little Mats. "If we only look before us, so that
we don't go down into some hole, we can do it."

So they went out on the lake. The ice was not very slippery, but rather
easy to walk upon. There was more water on it than they expected to see,
and here and there were cracks, where the water purled up. One had to
watch out for such places; but that was easy to do in broad daylight,
with the sun shining.

The children advanced rapidly, and talked only of how sensible they were
to have gone out on the ice instead of tramping the slushy road.

When they had been walking a while they came to Vin Island, where an old
woman had sighted them from her window. She rushed from her cabin, waved
them back, and shouted something which they could not hear. They
understood perfectly well that she was warning them not to come any
farther; but they thought there was no immediate danger. It would be
stupid for them to leave the ice when all was going so well!

Therefore they went on past Vin Island and had a stretch of seven miles
of ice ahead of them.

Out there was so much water that the children were obliged to take
roundabout ways; but that was sport to them. They vied with each other
as to which could find the soundest ice. They were neither tired nor
hungry. The whole day was before them, and they laughed at each obstacle
they met.

Now and then they cast a glance ahead at the farther shore. It still
appeared far away, although they had been walking a good hour. They were
rather surprised that the lake was so broad.

"The shore seems to be moving farther away from us," little Mats
observed.

Out there the children were not protected against the wind, which was
becoming stronger and stronger every minute, and was pressing their
clothing so close to their bodies that they could hardly go on. The cold
wind was the first disagreeable thing they had met with on the journey.

But the amazing part of it was that the wind came sweeping along with a
loud roar--as if it brought with it the noise of a large mill or
factory, though nothing of the kind was to be found out there on the
ice. They had walked to the west of the big island, Valen; now they
thought they were nearing the north shore. Suddenly the wind began to
blow more and more, while the loud roaring increased so rapidly that
they began to feel uneasy.

All at once it occurred to them that the roar was caused by the foaming
and rushing of the waves breaking against a shore. Even this seemed
improbable, since the lake was still covered with ice.

At all events, they paused and looked about. They noticed far in the
west a white bank which stretched clear across the lake. At first they
thought it was a snowbank alongside a road. Later they realized it was
the foam-capped waves dashing against the ice! They took hold of hands
and ran without saying a word. Open sea lay beyond in the west, and
suddenly the streak of foam appeared to be moving eastward. They
wondered if the ice was going to break all over. What was going to
happen? They felt now that they were in great danger.

All at once it seemed as if the ice under their feet rose--rose and
sank, as if some one from below were pushing it. Presently they heard a
hollow boom, and then there were cracks in the ice all around them. The
children could see how they crept along under the ice-covering.

The next moment all was still, then the rising and sinking began again.
Thereupon the cracks began to widen into crevices through which the
water bubbled up. By and by the crevices became gaps. Soon after that
the ice was divided into large floes.

"Osa," said little Mats, "this must be the breaking up of the ice!"

"Why, so it is, little Mats," said Osa, "but as yet we can get to land.
Run for your life!"

As a matter of fact, the wind and waves had a good deal of work to do
yet to clear the ice from the lake. The hardest part was done when the
ice-cake burst into pieces, but all these pieces must be broken and
hurled against each other, to be crushed, worn down, and dissolved.
There was still a great deal of hard and sound ice left, which formed
large, unbroken surfaces.

The greatest danger for the children lay in the fact that they had no
general view of the ice. They did not see the places where the gaps were
so wide that they could not possibly jump over them, nor did they know
where to find any floes that would hold them, so they wandered aimlessly
back and forth, going farther out on the lake instead of nearer land. At
last, confused and terrified, they stood still and wept.

Then a flock of wild geese in rapid flight came rushing by. They
shrieked loudly and sharply; but the strange thing was that above the
geese-cackle the little children heard these words:

"You must go to the right, the right, the right!" They began at once to
follow the advice; but before long they were again standing irresolute,
facing another broad gap.

Again they heard the geese shrieking above them, and again, amid the
geese-cackle, they distinguished a few words:

"Stand where you are! Stand where you are!"

The children did not say a word to each other, but obeyed and stood
still. Soon after that the ice-floes floated together, so that they
could cross the gap. Then they took hold of hands again and ran. They
were afraid not only of the peril, but of the mysterious help that had
come to them.

Soon they had to stop again, and immediately the sound of the voice
reached them.

"Straight ahead, straight ahead!" it said.

This leading continued for about half an hour; by that time they had
reached Ljunger Point, where they left the ice and waded to shore. They
were still terribly frightened, even though they were on firm land. They
did not stop to look back at the lake--where the waves were pitching the
ice-floes faster and faster--but ran on. When they had gone a short
distance along the point, Osa