drifts so high that people could barely get back to their homes byevening. If it chanced to be summer and good harvest weather,Ysaetter-Kaisa would sit quietly until the first hayricks had beenloaded, then down she would come with a couple of heavy showers, whichput an end to the work for that day.
It was only too true that she seldom thought of anything else thanraising mischief. The charcoal burners up in the Kil mountains hardlydared take a cat-nap, for as soon as she saw an unwatched kiln, shestole up and blew on it until it began to burn in a great flame. If themetal drivers from Laxa and Svarta were out late of an evening,Ysaetter-Kaisa would veil the roads and the country round about in suchdark clouds that both men and horses lost their way and drove the heavytrucks down into swamps and morasses.
If, on a summer's day, the dean's wife at Glanshammar had spread the teatable in the garden and along would come a gust of wind that lifted thecloth from the table and turned over cups and saucers, they knew who hadraised the mischief! If the mayor of Oerebro's hat blew off, so that hehad to run across the whole square after it; if the wash on the lineblew away and got covered with dirt, or if the smoke poured into thecabins and seemed unable to find its way out through the chimney, it waseasy enough to guess who was out making merry!
Although Ysaetter-Kaisa was fond of all sorts of tantalizing games, therewas nothing really bad about her. One could see that she was hardest onthose who were quarrelsome, stingy, or wicked; while honest folk andpoor little children she would take under her wing. Old people say ofher that, once, when Asker church was burning, Ysaetter-Kaisa sweptthrough the air, lit amid fire and smoke on the church roof, and avertedthe disaster.
All the same the Naerke folk were often rather tired of Ysaetter-Kaisa,but she never tired of playing her tricks on them. As she sat on theedge of a cloud and looked down upon Naerke, which rested so peacefullyand comfortably beneath her, she must have thought: "The inhabitantswould fare much too well if I were not in existence. They would growsleepy and dull. There must be some one like myself to rouse them andkeep them in good spirits."
Then she would laugh wildly and, chattering like a magpie, would rushoff, dancing and spinning from one end of the plain to the other. When aNaerke man saw her come dragging her dust trail over the plain, he couldnot help smiling. Provoking and tiresome she certainly was, but she hada merry spirit. It was just as refreshing for the peasants to meetYsaetter-Kaisa as it was for the plain to be lashed by the windstorm.
Nowadays 'tis said that Ysaetter-Kaisa is dead and gone, like all otherwitches, but this one can hardly believe. It is as if some one were tocome and tell you that henceforth the air would always be still on theplain, and the wind would never more dance across it with blusteringbreezes and drenching showers.
He who fancies that Ysaetter-Kaisa is dead and gone may as well hear whatoccurred in Naerke the year that Nils Holgersson travelled over that partof 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 Oerebro; it rained intorrents and people thought: "This is exactly as in Ysaetter-Kaisa'stime! At fairs she used to be more prankish than usual. It was quite inher line to arrange a downpour like this on a market eve."
As the day wore on, the rain increased, and toward evening came regularcloud-bursts. The roads were like bottomless swamps. The farmers who hadstarted from home with their cattle early in the morning, that theymight arrive at a seasonable hour, fared badly. Cows and oxen were sotired they could hardly move, and many of the poor beasts dropped downin the middle of the road, to show that they were too exhausted to goany farther. All who lived along the roadside had to open their doors tothe market-bound travellers, and harbour them as best they could. Farmhouses, barns, and sheds were soon crowded to their limit.
Meanwhile, those who could struggle along toward the inn did so; butwhen they arrived they wished they had stopped at some cabin along theroad. All the cribs in the barn and all the stalls in the stable werealready occupied. There was no other choice than to let horses andcattle stand out in the rain. Their masters could barely manage to getunder cover.
The crush and mud and slush in the barn yard were frightful! Some of theanimals were standing in puddles and could not even lie down. There werethoughtful masters, of course, who procured straw for their animals tolie on, and spread blankets over them; but there were those, also, whosat in the inn, drinking and gambling, entirely forgetful of the dumbcreatures which they should have protected.
The boy and the wild geese had come to a little wooded island in HjaelmarLake that evening. The island was separated from the main land by anarrow and shallow stream, and at low tide one could pass over itdry-shod.
It rained just as hard on the island as it did everywhere else. The boycould not sleep for the water that kept dripping down on him. Finally hegot up and began to walk. He fancied that he felt the rain less when hemoved about.
He had hardly circled the island, when he heard a splashing in thestream. 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 wasbroken-winded and stiff-kneed and so thin that every rib could be seenunder the hide. He bore neither harness nor saddle--only an old bridle,from which dangled a half-rotted rope-end. Obviously he had had nodifficulty in breaking loose.
The horse walked straight toward the spot where the wild geese weresleeping. 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 meetyou!"
"Have you heard of me?" asked the boy, astonished.
"I've got ears, even if I am old! There are many who talk of younowadays."
As he spoke, the horse bent his head that he might see better, and theboy 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 togrief in his old age," he thought.
"I wish you would come with me and help me with something," pleaded thehorse.
The boy thought it would be embarrassing to accompany a creature wholooked 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 thehorse. "But perhaps you don't dare to go with an old tramp of a horselike me."
"Certainly I dare!" said the boy.
"Then wake the geese, so that we can arrange with them where they shallcome for you to-morrow," said the horse.
The boy was soon seated on the animal's back. The old nag trotted alongbetter than he had thought possible. It was a long ride in the rain anddarkness before they halted near a large inn, where everything lookedterribly uninviting! The wheel tracks were so deep in the road that theboy feared he might drown should he fall down into them. Alongside thefence, which enclosed the yard, some thirty or forty horses and cattlewere tied, with no protection against the rain, and in the yard werewagons piled with packing cases, where sheep, calves, hogs, and chickenswere shut in.
The horse walked over to the fence and stationed himself. The boyremained seated upon his back, and, with his good night eyes, plainlysaw how badly the animals fared.
"How do you happen to be standing out here in the rain?" he asked.
"We're on our way to a fair at Oerebro, but we were obliged to put uphere on account of the rain. This is an inn; but so many travellers havealready arrived that there's no room for us in the barns."
The boy made no reply, but sat quietly looking about him. Not many ofthe animals were asleep, and on all sides he heard complaints andindignant protests. They had reason enough for grumbling, for theweather was even worse than it had been earlier in the day. A freezingwind had begun to blow, and the rain which came beating down on themwas turning to snow. It was easy enough to understand what the horsewanted the boy to help him with.
"Do you see that fine farm yard
directly opposite the inn?" remarked thehorse.
"Yes, I see it," answered the boy, "and I can't comprehend why theyhaven't tried to find shelter for all of you in there. They are alreadyfull, perhaps?"
"No, there are no strangers in that place," said the horse. "The peoplewho live on that farm are so stingy and selfish that it would be uselessfor 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 thereis 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 getus in over there."
"I don't think I could venture--" hesitated the boy. But he felt sosorry 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 outhouseswere locked and the keys gone. He stood there, puzzled and helpless,when aid came to him from an unexpected source. A gust of wind camesweeping along with terrific force and flung open a shed door right infront 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, "butthere's a big, empty hay shed that they have forgotten to bolt. I canlead you into that."
"Thank you!" said the horse. "It will seem good to sleep once more onfamiliar ground. It's the only happiness I can expect in this life."
Meanwhile, at the flourishing farm opposite the inn, the family sat upmuch 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 inthe rain and had got wet, like every one else, and at supper he askedhis old mother, who was still mistress of the place, to light a fire onthe hearth that he might dry his clothes. The mother kindled a feebleblaze--for in that house they were not wasteful with wood--and themaster hung his coat on the back of a chair, and placed it before thefire. With one foot on top of the andiron and a hand resting on hisknee, he stood gazing into the embers. Thus he stood for two wholehours, 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 thenight before she went to her own room and seated herself. At intervalsshe 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 hepassed the inn a horse dealer had asked him if he would not like topurchase a horse, and had shown him an old nag so weather-beaten that heasked the dealer if he took him for a fool, since he wished to palm offsuch a played-out beast on him.
"Oh, no!" said the horse dealer. "I only thought that, inasmuch as thehorse once belonged to you, you might wish to give him a comfortablehome in his old age; he has need of it."
Then he looked at the horse and recognized it as one which he himselfhad raised and broken in; but it did not occur to him to purchase suchan old and useless creature on that account. No, indeed! He was not onewho squandered his money.
All the same, the sight of the horse had awakened many, memories--and itwas the memories that kept him awake.
That horse had been a fine animal. His father had let him tend it fromthe 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 hehad been obliged to steal out and smuggle oats to it.
Once, when he ventured to talk with his father about letting him buy abroadcloth suit, or having the cart painted, his father stood as ifpetrified, and he thought the old man would have a stroke. He tried tomake his father understand that, when he had a fine horse to drive, heshould look presentable himself.
The father made no reply, but two days later he took the horse to Oerebroand sold it.
It was cruel of him. But it was plain that his father had feared thatthis horse might lead him into vanity and extravagance. And now, so longafterward, he had to admit that his father was right. A horse like thatsurely would have been a temptation. At first he had grieved terriblyover his loss. Many a time he had gone down to Oerebro, just to stand ona street corner and see the horse pass by, or to steal into the stableand give him a lump of sugar. He thought: "If I ever get the farm, thefirst 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 thoughtof 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 wasgrown and the two had worked together, the father had gained absolutepower over him. The boy had come to think that everything his father didwas right, and, after he became the master, he only tried to do exactlyas his father would have done.
He knew, of course, that folk said his father was stingy; but it waswell to keep a tight hold on one's purse and not throw away moneyneedlessly. The goods one has received should not be wasted. It wasbetter to live on a debt-free place and be called stingy, than to carryheavy mortgages, like other farm owners.
He had gone so far in his mind when he was called back by a strangesound. 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 hewas about to lose his temper, when he realized that it was all amistake. The wind was beginning to rage, and he had been standing theregetting so sleepy that he mistook the howling of the wind in the chimneyfor 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 heremembered that he had not yet gone the rounds of the farm yard, as itwas his custom to do every night, to make sure that all doors wereclosed and all lights extinguished. This was something he had neverneglected since he became master. He drew on his coat and went out inthe storm.
He found everything as it should be, save that the door to the empty hayshed 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 wentback to the house, removed his coat, and hung it before the fire. Evennow he did not retire, but began pacing the floor. The storm without,with its biting wind and snow-blended rain, was terrible, and his oldhorse was standing in this storm without so much as a blanket to protecthim! 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 eleventimes. Just then he was untying the animals to lead them to the shed inthe farm yard opposite. It took some time to rouse them and get theminto line. When all were ready, they marched in a long procession intothe stingy farmer's yard, with the boy as their guide. While the boy hadbeen assembling them, the farmer had gone the rounds of the farm yardand locked the hay shed, so that when the animals came along the doorwas closed. The boy stood there dismayed. He could not let the creaturesstand 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 tothe old horse, and off he ran.
On the path right in front of the house he paused to think out how heshould get inside. As he stood there he noticed two little wandererscoming down the road, who stopped before the inn.
The boy saw at once that they were two little girls, and ran towardthem.
"Come now, Britta Maja!" said one, "you mustn't cry any more. Now we areat 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 atthe farm house opposite there are no guests. Go there instead."
The little
girls heard the words distinctly, though they could not seethe 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 promptlyanswered:
"We don't care to enter that place, because those who live there arestingy and cruel. It is their fault that we two must go out on thehighways 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 andknocked.
The master was standing by the fire thinking of the horse when he heardthe knocking. He stepped to the door to see what was up, thinking allthe while that he would not let himself be tempted into admitting anywayfarer. As he fumbled the lock, a gust of wind came along, wrenchedthe door from his hand and swung it open. To close it, he had to stepout on the porch, and, when he stepped back into the house, the twolittle girls were standing within.
They were two poor beggar girls, ragged, dirty, and starving--two littletots bent under the burden of their beggar's packs, which were as largeas themselves.
"Who are you that go prowling about at this hour of the night?" said themaster gruffly.
The two children did not answer immediately, but first removed theirpacks. Then they walked up to the man and stretched forth their tinyhands in greeting.
"We are Anna and Britta Maja from the Engaerd," said the elder, "and wewere going to ask for a night's lodging."
He did not take the outstretched hands and was just about to drive outthe beggar children, when a fresh recollection faced
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