foresttracts, through which Klaraelven winds--narrow and rich in rapids. Hereand there one can see a charcoal kiln, a forest clearing, or a few low,chimneyless huts, occupied by Finns. But the forest as a whole is soextensive one might fancy it was far up in Lapland.
A LITTLE HOMESTEAD
_Thursday, October sixth_.
The wild geese followed Klaraelven as far as the big iron foundries atMonk Fors. Then they proceeded westward to Fryksdalen. Before they gotto Lake Fryken it began to grow dusky, and they lit in a little wetmorass on a wooded hill. The morass was certainly a good night quarterfor the wild geese, but the boy thought it dismal and rough, and wishedfor a better sleeping place. While he was still high in the air, he hadnoticed that below the ridge lay a number of farms, and with great hastehe proceeded to seek them out.
They were farther away than he had fancied and several times he wastempted to turn back. Presently the woods became less dense, and he cameto a road skirting the edge of the forest. From it branched a prettybirch-bordered lane, which led down to a farm, and immediately hehastened toward it.
First the boy entered a farm yard as large as a city marketplace andenclosed by a long row of red houses. As he crossed the yard, he sawanother farm where the dwelling-house faced a gravel path and a widelawn. Back of the house there was a garden thick with foliage. Thedwelling itself was small and humble, but the garden was edged by a rowof exceedingly tall mountain-ash trees, so close together that theyformed a real wall around it. It appeared to the boy as if he werecoming into a great, high-vaulted chamber, with the lovely blue sky fora ceiling. The mountain-ash were thick with clusters of red berries, thegrass plots were still green, of course, but that night there was a fullmoon, and as the bright moonlight fell upon the grass it looked as whiteas silver.
No human being was in sight and the boy could wander freely wherever hewished. When he was in the garden he saw something which almost put himin good humour. He had climbed a mountain-ash to eat berries, but beforehe could reach a cluster he caught sight of a barberry bush, which wasalso full of berries. He slid along the ash branch and clambered up intothe barberry bush, but he was no sooner there than he discovered acurrant bush, on which still hung long red clusters. Next he saw thatthe garden was full of gooseberries and raspberries and dog-rose bushes;that there were cabbages and turnips in the vegetable beds and berrieson every bush, seeds on the herbs and grain-filled ears on every blade.And there on the path--no, of course he could not mistake it--was a bigred apple which shone in the moonlight.
The boy sat down at the side of the path, with the big red apple infront of him, and began cutting little pieces from it with his sheathknife.
"It wouldn't be such a serious matter to be an elf all one's life if itwere always as easy to get good food as it is here," he thought.
He sat and mused as he ate, wondering finally if it would not be as wellfor him to remain here and let the wild geese travel south without him.
"I don't know for the life of me how I can ever explain to MortenGoosey-Gander that I cannot go home," thought he. "It would be betterwere I to leave him altogether. I could gather provisions enough for thewinter, as well as the squirrels do, and if I were to live in a darkcorner of the stable or the cow shed, I shouldn't freeze to death."
Just as he was thinking this, he heard a light rustle over his head,and a second later something which resembled a birch stump stood on theground beside him.
The stump twisted and turned, and two bright dots on top of it glowedlike coals of fire. It looked like some enchantment. However, the boysoon remarked that the stump had a hooked beak and big feather wreathsaround its glowing eyes. Then he knew that this was no enchantment.
"It is a real pleasure to meet a living creature," remarked the boy."Perhaps you will be good enough to tell me the name of this place, Mrs.Brown Owl, and what sort of folk live here."
That evening, as on all other evenings, the owl had perched on a rung ofthe big ladder propped against the roof, from which she had looked downtoward the gravel walks and grass plots, watching for rats. Very much toher surprise, not a single grayskin had appeared. She saw insteadsomething that looked like a human being, but much, much smaller, movingabout in the garden.
"That's the one who is scaring away the rats!" thought the owl. "What inthe world can it be? It's not a squirrel, nor a kitten, nor a weasel,"she observed. "I suppose that a bird who has lived on an old place likethis as long as I have ought to know about everything in the world; butthis is beyond my comprehension," she concluded.
She had been staring at the object that moved on the gravel path untilher eyes burned. Finally curiosity got the better of her and she flewdown to the ground to have a closer view of the stranger.
When the boy began to speak, the owl bent forward and looked him up anddown.
"He has neither claws nor horns," she remarked to herself, "yet whoknows but he may have a poisonous fang or some even more dangerousweapon. I must try to find out what he passes for before I venture totouch him."
"The place is called Marbacka," said the owl, "and gentlefolk lived hereonce upon a time. But you, yourself, who are you?"
"I think of moving in here," volunteered the boy without answering theowl's question. "Would it be possible, do you think?"
"Oh, yes--but it's not much of a place now compared to what it wasonce," said the owl. "You can weather it here I dare say. It all dependsupon what you expect to live on. Do you intend to take up the ratchase?"
"Oh, by no means!" declared the boy. "There is more fear of the ratseating me than that I shall do them any harm."
"It can't be that he is as harmless as he says," thought the brown owl."All the same I believe I'll make an attempt...." She rose into the air,and in a second her claws were fastened in Nils Holgersson's shoulderand she was trying to hack at his eyes.
The boy shielded both eyes with one hand and tried to free himself withthe other, at the same time calling with all his might for help. Herealized that he was in deadly peril and thought that this time, surely,it was all over with him!
Now I must tell you of a strange coincidence: The very year that NilsHolgersson travelled with the wild geese there was a woman who thoughtof writing a book about Sweden, which would be suitable for children toread in the schools. She had thought of this from Christmas time untilthe following autumn; but not a line of the book had she written. Atlast she became so tired of the whole thing that she said to herself:"You are not fitted for such work. Sit down and compose stories andlegends, as usual, and let another write this book, which has got to beserious and instructive, and in which there must not be one untruthfulword."
It was as good as settled that she would abandon the idea. But shethought, very naturally, it would have been agreeable to write somethingbeautiful about Sweden, and it was hard for her to relinquish her work.Finally, it occurred to her that maybe it was because she lived in acity, with only gray streets and house walls around her, that she couldmake no headway with the writing. Perhaps if she were to go into thecountry, where she could see woods and fields, that it might go better.
She was from Vermland, and it was perfectly clear to her that shewished to begin the book with that province. First of all she wouldwrite about the place where she had grown up. It was a little homestead,far removed from the great world, where many old-time habits and customswere retained. She thought that it would be entertaining for children tohear of the manifold duties which had succeeded one another the yeararound. She wanted to tell them how they celebrated Christmas and NewYear and Easter and Midsummer Day in her home; what kind of housefurnishings they had; what the kitchen and larder were like, and how thecow shed, stable, lodge, and bath house had looked. But when she was towrite about it the pen would not move. Why this was she could not in theleast understand; nevertheless it was so.
True, she remembered it all just as distinctly as if she were stillliving in the midst of it. She argued with herself that since she wasgoing into the country anyway, perhaps she ought to
make a little tripto the old homestead that she might see it again before writing aboutit. She had not been there in many years and did not think it half badto have a reason for the journey. In fact she had always longed to bethere, no matter in what part of the world she happened to be. She hadseen many places that were more pretentious and prettier. But nowherecould she find such comfort and protection as in the home of herchildhood.
It was not such an easy matter for her to go home as one might think,for the estate had been sold to people she did not know. She felt, to besure, that they would receive her well, but she did not care to go tothe old place to sit and talk with strangers, for she wanted to recallhow it had been in times gone by. That was why she planned it so as toarrive there late in the evening, when the day's work was done and thepeople were indoors.
She had never imagined that it would be so wonderful to come home! Asshe sat in the cart and drove toward the old homestead she fancied thatshe was growing younger and younger every minute, and that soon shewould no longer be an oldish person with hair that was turning gray,but a little girl in short skirts with a long flaxen braid. As sherecognized each farm along the road, she could not picture anything elsethan that everything at home would be as in bygone days. Her father andmother and brothers and sisters would be standing on the porch towelcome her; the old housekeeper would run to the kitchen window to seewho was coming, and Nero and Freja and another dog or two would comebounding and jumping up on her.
The nearer she approached the place the happier she felt. It was autumn,which meant a busy time with a round of duties. It must have been allthese varying duties which prevented home from ever being monotonous.All along the way the farmers were digging potatoes, and probably theywould be doing likewise at her home. That meant that they must beginimmediately to grate potatoes and make potato flour. The autumn had beena mild one; she wondered if everything in the garden had already beenstored. The cabbages were still out, but perhaps the hops had beenpicked, and all the apples.
It would be well if they were not having house cleaning at home. Autumnfair time was drawing nigh, everywhere the cleaning and scouring had tobe done before the fair opened. That was regarded as a great event--moreespecially by the servants. It was a pleasure to go into the kitchen onMarket Eve and see the newly scoured floor strewn with juniper twigs,the whitewashed walls and the shining copper utensils which weresuspended from the ceiling.
Even after the fair festivities were over there would not be much of abreathing spell, for then came the work on the flax. During dog days theflax had been spread out on a meadow to mould. Now it was laid in theold bath house, where the stove was lighted to dry it out. When it wasdry enough to handle all the women in the neighbourhood were calledtogether. They sat outside the bath house and picked the flax to pieces.Then they beat it with swingles, to separate the fine white fibres fromthe dry stems. As they worked, the women grew gray with dust; their hairand clothing were covered with flax seed, but they did not seem to mindit. All day the swingles pounded, and the chatter went on, so that whenone went near the old bath house it sounded as if a blustering storm hadbroken loose there.
After the work with the flax, came the big hard-tack baking, the sheepshearing, and the servants' moving time. In November there were busyslaughter days, with salting of meats, sausage making, baking of bloodpudding, and candle steeping. The seamstress who used to make up theirhomespun dresses had to come at this time, of course, and those werealways two pleasant weeks--when the women folk sat together and busiedthemselves with sewing. The cobbler, who made shoes for the entirehousehold, sat working at the same time in the men-servants' quarters,and one never tired of watching him as he cut the leather and soled andheeled the shoes and put eyelets in the shoestring holes.
But the greatest rush came around Christmas time. Lucia Day--when thehousemaid went about dressed in white, with candles in her hair, andserved coffee to everybody at five in the morning--came as a sort ofreminder that for the next two weeks they could not count on much sleep.For now they must brew the Christmas ale, steep the Christmas fish inlye, and do their Christmas baking and Christmas scouring.
She was in the middle of the baking, with pans of Christmas buns andcooky platters all around her, when the driver drew in the reins at theend of the lane as she had requested. She started like one suddenlyawakened from a sound sleep. It was dismal for her who had just dreamedherself surrounded by all her people to be sitting alone in the lateevening. As she stepped from the wagon and started to walk up the longlane that she might come unobserved to her old home, she felt so keenlythe contrast between then and now that she would have preferred to turnback.
"Of what use is it to come here?" she sighed. "It can't be the same asin the old days!"
On the other hand she felt that since she had travelled such a longdistance, she would see the place at all events, so continued to walkon, although she was more depressed with every step that she took.
She had heard that it was very much changed; and it certainly was! Butshe did not observe this now in the evening. She thought, rather, thateverything was quite the same. There was the pond, which in her youthhad been full of carp and where no one dared fish, because it wasfather's wish that the carp should be left in peace. Over there were themen-servants' quarters, the larder and barn, with the farm yard bellover one gable and the weather-vane over the other. The house yard waslike a circular room, with no outlook in any direction, as it had beenin her father's time--for he had not the heart to cut down as much as abush.
She lingered in the shadow under the big mountain-ash at the entrance tothe farm, and stood looking about her. As she stood there a strangething happened; a flock of doves came and lit beside her.
She could hardly believe that they were real birds, for doves are not inthe habit of moving about after sundown. It must have been the beautifulmoonlight that had awakened these. They must have thought it was dawnand flown from their dove-cotes, only to become confused, hardly knowingwhere they were. When they saw a human being they flew over to her, asif she would set them right.
There had been many flocks of doves at the manor when her parents livedthere, for the doves were among the creatures which her father had takenunder his special care. If one ever mentioned the killing of a dove, itput him in a bad humour. She was pleased that the pretty birds had cometo meet her in the old home. Who could tell but the doves had flown outin the night to show her they had not forgotten that once upon a timethey had a good home there.
Perhaps her father had sent his birds with a greeting to her, so thatshe would not feel so sad and lonely when she came to her former home.
As she thought of this, there welled up within her such an intenselonging for the old times that her eyes filled with tears. Life hadbeen beautiful in this place. They had had weeks of work broken by manyholiday festivities. They had toiled hard all day, but at evening theyhad gathered around the lamp and read Tegner and Runeberg, "_Fru"_Lenngren and "_Mamsell"_ Bremer. They had cultivated grain, but alsoroses and jasmine. They had spun flax, but had sung folk-songs as theyspun. They had worked hard at their history and grammar, but they hadalso played theatre and written verses. They had stood at the kitchenstove and prepared food, but had learned, also, to play the flute andguitar, the violin and piano. They had planted cabbages and turnips,peas and beans in one garden, but they had another full of apples andpears and all kinds of berries. They had lived by themselves, and thiswas why so many stories and legends were stowed away in their memories.They had worn homespun clothes, but they had also been able to leadcare-free and independent lives.
"Nowhere else in the world do they know how to get so much out of lifeas they did at one of these little homesteads in my childhood!" shethought. "There was just enough work and just enough play, and every daythere was a joy. How I should love to come back here again! Now that Ihave seen the place, it is hard to leave it."
Then she turned to the flock of doves and said to them--laughing atherself all the while:
The moment she had said this the flock of doves rose and flew away. Shetried to follow them with her eyes, but they vanished instantly. It wasas if the whole white company had dissolved in the shimmering air.
The doves had only just gone when she heard a couple of piercing criesfrom the garden, and as she hastened thither she saw a singular sight.There stood a tiny midget, no taller than a hand's breadth, strugglingwith a brown owl. At first she was so astonished that she could notmove. But when the midget cried more and more pitifully, she stepped upquickly and parted the fighters. The owl swung herself into a tree, butthe midget stood on the gravel path, without attempting either to hideor to run away.
"Thanks for your help," he said. "But it was very stupid of you to letthe owl escape. I can't get away from here, because she is sitting up inthe tree watching me."
"It was thoughtless of me to let her go. But to make amends, can't Iaccompany you to your home?" asked she who wrote stories, somewhatsurprised to think that in this unexpected fashion she had got intoconversation with one of the tiny folk. Still she was not so muchsurprised after all. It was as if all the while she had been awaitingsome extraordinary experience, while she walked in the moonlight outsideher old home.
"The fact is, I had thought of stopping here over night," said themidget. "If you will only show me a safe sleeping place, I shall not beobliged to return to the forest before daybreak."
"Must I show you a place to sleep? Are you not at home
Nils Holgerssons underbara resa. English Page 78