Nils Holgerssons underbara resa. English

by Selma Lagerlöf

his story, Osa, the goose-girl,protested: "I cannot bear, little Mats, to hear you say that it is somiserable in Smaland," said she. "You forget entirely how much good soilthere is there. Only think of Moere district, by Kalmar Sound! I wonderwhere you'll find a richer grain region. There are fields upon fields,just like here in Skane. The soil is so good that I cannot imagineanything that couldn't grow there."

  "I can't help that," said little Mats. "I'm only relating what othershave said before."

  "And I have heard many say that there is not a more beautiful coast landthan Tjust. Think of the bays and islets, and the manors, and thegroves!" said Osa. "Yes, that's true enough," little Mats admitted. "Anddon't you remember," continued Osa, "the school teacher said that sucha lively and picturesque district as that bit of Smaland which liessouth of Lake Vettern is not to be found in all Sweden? Think of thebeautiful sea and the yellow coast-mountains, and of Grenna andJoenkoeping, with its match factory, and think of Huskvarna, and all thebig establishments there!" "Yes, that's true enough," said little Matsonce again. "And think of Visingsoe, little Mats, with the ruins and theoak forests and the legends! Think of the valley through which Emanflows, with all the villages and flour-mills and sawmills, and thecarpenter shops!" "Yes, that is true enough," said little Mats, andlooked troubled.

  All of a sudden he had looked up. "Now we are pretty stupid," said he."All this, of course, lies in our Lord's Smaland, in that part of theland which was already finished when Saint Peter undertook the job. It'sonly natural that it should be pretty and fine there. But in SaintPeter's Smaland it looks as it says in the legend. And it wasn'tsurprising that our Lord was distressed when he saw it," continuedlittle Mats, as he took up the thread of his story again. "Saint Peterdidn'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 havecreated people who can till the swamps and break up fields from thestone hills.'

  "That was the end of our Lord's patience--and he said: 'No! you can godown to Skane and make the Skaninge, but the Smalander I will createmyself.' And so our Lord created the Smalander, and made himquick-witted and contented and happy and thrifty and enterprising andcapable, that he might be able to get his livelihood in his poorcountry."

  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 askinghow Saint Peter had succeeded in creating the Skaninge.

  "Well, what do you think yourself?" said little Mats, and looked soscornful that Nils Holgersson threw himself upon him, to thrash him. ButMats was only a little tot, and Osa, the goose-girl, who was a yearolder than he, ran forward instantly to help him. Good-natured thoughshe was, she sprang like a lion as soon as anyone touched her brother.And Nils Holgersson did not care to fight a girl, but turned his back,and didn't look at those Smaland children for the rest of the day.

  THE CROWS

  THE EARTHEN CROCK

  In the southwest corner of Smaland lies a township called Sonnerbo. Itis a rather smooth and even country. And one who sees it in winter, whenit is covered with snow, cannot imagine that there is anything under thesnow but garden-plots, rye-fields and clover-meadows as is generally thecase in flat countries. But, in the beginning of April when the snowfinally melts away in Sonnerbo, it is apparent that that which lieshidden under it is only dry, sandy heaths, bare rocks, and big, marshyswamps. There are fields here and there, to be sure, but they are sosmall that they are scarcely worth mentioning; and one also finds a fewlittle red or gray farmhouses hidden away in some beech-coppice--almostas if they were afraid to show themselves.

  Where Sonnerbo township touches the boundaries of Halland, there is asandy heath which is so far-reaching that he who stands upon one edge ofit cannot look across to the other. Nothing except heather grows on theheath, and it wouldn't be easy either to coax other growths to thrivethere. To start with one would have to uproot the heather; for it isthus with heather: although it has only a little shrunken root, smallshrunken branches, and dry, shrunken leaves it fancies that it's a tree.Therefore it acts just like real trees--spreads itself out in forestfashion over wide areas; holds together faithfully, and causes allforeign 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 alow, stony ridge which passes over it. There you'll find juniper bushes,mountain ash, and a few large, fine oaks. At the time when NilsHolgersson travelled around with the wild geese, a little cabin stoodthere, with a bit of cleared ground around it. But the people who hadlived there at one time, had, for some reason or other, moved away. Thelittle cabin was empty, and the ground lay unused.

  When the tenants left the cabin they closed the damper, fastened thewindow-hooks, and locked the door. But no one had thought of the brokenwindow-pane which was only stuffed with a rag. After the showers of acouple of summers, the rag had moulded and shrunk, and, finally, a crowhad succeeded in poking it out.

  The ridge on the heather-heath was really not as desolate as one mightthink, for it was inhabited by a large crow-folk. Naturally, the crowsdid not live there all the year round. They moved to foreign lands inthe winter; in the autumn they travelled from one grain-field to anotherall over Goetaland, and picked grain; during the summer, they spreadthemselves over the farms in Sonnerbo township, and lived upon eggs andberries and birdlings; but every spring, when nesting time came, theycame back to the heather-heath.

  The one who had poked the rag from the window was a crow-cock named GarmWhitefeather; but he was never called anything but Fumle or Drumle, orout and out Fumle-Drumle, because he always acted awkwardly andstupidly, and wasn't good for anything except to make fun of.Fumle-Drumle was bigger and stronger than any of the other crows, butthat didn't help him in the least; he was--and remained--a butt forridicule. And it didn't profit him, either, that he came from very goodstock. If everything had gone smoothly, he should have been leader forthe whole flock, because this honour had, from time immemorial, belongedto the oldest Whitefeather. But long before Fumle-Drumle was born, thepower had gone from his family, and was now wielded by a cruel wildcrow, named Wind-Rush.

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

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

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

  Now, on the other hand, they were rather friendly toward him, andwillingly took him along with them on their hunting expeditions. Thereall 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 ragout of the window; and h
ad they known of this, they would have been verymuch astonished. Such a thing as daring to approach a human being'sdwelling, they had never believed of him. He kept the thing to himselfvery carefully; and he had his own good reasons for it. Wind-Rush alwaystreated him well in the daytime, and when the others were around; butone very dark night, when the comrades sat on the night branch, he wasattacked by a couple of crows and nearly murdered. After that he movedevery night, after dark, from his usual sleeping quarters into the emptycabin.

  Now one afternoon, when the crows had put their nests in order oncrow-ridge, they happened upon a remarkable find. Wind-Rush,Fumle-Drumle, and a couple of others had flown down into a big hollow inone corner of the heath. The