down. I only wanted to ask you something, and if you can tell me
that, I shall--I shall--love you as long as I live.”
Old Marthie smiled, and Thorwald thought for a moment that she
looked almost handsome. And then she took his hand in hers and drew
him gently to her side.
“You are not a witch, are you, Marthie?” he said, a little
tremblingly. For Marthie’s association with the wicked fairy
godmother was yet very suggestive. Then, again, her cottage seemed
to be a very queer place; and it did not look like any other
cottage that he had ever seen before. Up under the ceiling, which
was black and sooty, hung bunches of dried herbs, and on shelves
along the wall stood flower-pots, some of which had blooming
flowers in them. The floor was freshly scrubbed, and strewn with
juniper-needles, and the whole room smelt very clean. In a corner,
between the stone hearth and the wall, a bed, made of plain deal
boards, was to be seen; a shaggy Maltese cat, with sleepy, yellow
eyes, was for the present occupying it, and he raised his head and
gazed knowingly at the visitor, as if to say: “I know what you have
come for.”
Old Marthie chuckled when Thorwald asked if she was a witch; and
somehow her chuckle had a pleasant and good-natured sound, the boy
thought, as he eyed her wistfully.
“Now I am sure you are not a witch,” cried he, “for witches never
laugh like that. I know, now, that you are a good woman, and that
you will want to help me if you can. I told you my mamma was very
ill” (the tears here again broke through his voice)--“so very ill
that the doctor says God will take her away from us. I sat at her
door all yesterday and cried, and when papa took me in to her, she
did not know me. Then I cried more. I asked papa why God makes
people so ill, and he said it was something I didn’t understand,
but I should understand some day. But, Marthie, I haven’t time to
wait, for by that time mamma may be gone, and I shall never know
where to find her; I must know now. And you, who are so very wise,
you will tell me what I can do to save my mamma. Couldn’t I do
something for God, Marthie--something that he would like? And then,
perhaps, he would allow mamma to stay with us always.”
The tears now came hot and fast, but the boy still stood erect, and
gazed with anxious questioning into the old woman’s face.
“You are a brave little lad,” she said, stroking his soft, curly
hair with her stiff, crooked fingers, “and happy is the mother of
such a boy. And old Marthie knows a thing or two, she also, and
you shall not have come to her in vain. Once, child, more than
eighteen hundred years ago, just on this very night, a strange
thing happened in this world, and I dare say you have heard of
it. Christ, the White, was born of Mary in the land of the Jews.
The angels came down from heaven, as we read in the Good Book,
and they sang strange and wonderful songs of praise. And they
scattered flowers, too--flowers which only blossomed until then in
heaven, in the sight of God. And one of these flowers,--sweet and
pure, like the tone of an angel’s voice expressed in color--one of
these wondrous flowers, I say, struck root in the soil, and has
multiplied, and remains in the world until this day. It blossoms
only on Christmas-eve--on the eve when Christ was born. Even in the
midst of the snow, and when it is so cold that the wolf shivers in
his den, this frail, pure flower peeps up for a few brief moments
above the shining white surface, and then is not seen again. It
is of a white or faintly bluish color; and he who touches it and
inhales its heavenly odor is immediately healed of every earthly
disease. But there is one singular thing about it--no one can see
it unless he be pure and innocent and good; to all others the
heavenly flower is invisible.”
“Oh, then I shall never find it, Marthie!” cried Thorwald, in great
suspense. “For I have often been very naughty.”
“I am very sorry to hear that,” said Marthie, and shook her head.
“And do you think it is of any use for me, then, to try to find the
flower?” exclaimed the boy, wildly. “O Marthie, help me! Help me!”
“Well, I think I should try,” said Marthie, calmly. “I don’t
believe you can have been such a dreadfully naughty boy; and you
probably were very sorry whenever you happened to do something
wrong.”
“Yes, yes, always, and I always begged papa’s and mamma’s pardon.”
“Then, listen to me! I will show you the Star of Bethlehem in the
sky--the same one that led the shepherds and the kings of the East
to the manger where Christ lay. Follow that straight on, through
the forest, across the frozen river, wherever it may lead you,
until you find the heavenly flower. And when you have found it,
hasten home to your mother, and put it up to her lips so that she
may inhale its breath; then she will be healed, and will bless her
little boy, who shunned no sacrifice for her sake.”
“But I didn’t tell you, Marthie, that I made Grim Hering-Luck
tattoo a ship on my right arm, although papa had told me that I
mustn’t do it. Do you still think I shall find the heavenly flower?”
“I shouldn’t wonder if you did, child,” responded Marthie, with a
reassuring nod of her head. “It is high time for you to start, now,
and you mustn’t loiter by the way.”
“No, no; you need not tell me that!” cried the boy, seizing his
cap eagerly, and slipping out through the lower panel of the door.
He jumped into the bands of his skees, and cast his glance up to
the vast nocturnal sky, which glittered with myriads of twinkling
stars. Which of all these was the Star of Bethlehem? He was just
about to rush back into the cottage, when he felt a hand upon his
shoulder, and saw Wise Marthie’s kindly but withered face close to
his.
“Look toward the east, child,” she said, almost solemnly.
“I don’t know where the east is, Marthie,” said Thorwald,
dolefully. “I always get mixed up about the points of the compass.
If they would only fix four big poles, one in each corner of the
earth, that everybody could see, then I should always know where to
turn.”
“There is the east,” said Marthie, pointing with a long, crooked
finger toward the distant mountain-tops, which, with their hoods
of ice, flashed and glistened in the moonlight. “Do you see that
bright, silvery star which is just rising between those two snowy
peaks?”
“Yes, yes, Marthie. I see it! I see it!”
“That is the Star of Bethlehem. You will know it by its white,
radiant light. Follow that, and its rays will lead you to the
flower which can conquer Death, as it led the shepherds and the
kings of old to Him over whom Death had no power.”
“Thank you, Marthie. Thank you!”
The second “thank you” hardly reached the ears of the old woman,
for the boy had shot like an arrow down over the steep bank, and
was now half-way out upon the ice. The snow surged and danced in
eddies behind him, and the cold stung his face like sharp, tiny
needles. But he hardly minded it, for he saw the star of Bethlehem
beaming large and radiant upon the blue horizon, and he thought of
his dear mother, whom he was to rescue from the hands of Death. But
the flower--the flower--where was that? He searched carefully all
about him in the snow, but he saw no trace of it. “I wonder,” he
thought, “if it can blossom in the snow? I should rather think that
Christ allows the angels to fling down a few of them every year
on his birthday, to help those that are sick and suffering; they
say he is very kind and good, and I shouldn’t wonder if he sees
me now, and will tell the angels to throw down the precious flower
right in my path.”
II.
The world was cold and white round about him. The tall pines stood
wrapped in cloaks of snow, which looked like great white ulsters,
and they were buttoned straight up to the chin--only a green
finger-tip and a few tufts of dark-green hair showed faintly, at
the end of the sleeves and above the collar. The alders and the
birches, who had no such comfortable coats to keep out the cold,
stood naked in the keen light of the stars and the aurora, and they
shivered to the very marrow. To Thorwald it seemed as if they were
stretching their bare, lean hands against the heavens, praying for
warmer weather. A family of cedar-birds, who had lovely red caps
on their heads and gray uniforms of the most fashionable tint, had
snugged close together on a sheltered pine-branch, and they were
carrying on a subdued twittering conversation just as Thorwald
passed the river-bank, pushing himself rapidly over the snow by
means of his skee-staff. But it was strictly a family matter they
were discussing, which it would be indiscreet in me to divulge.
They did, however, shake down a handful of loose snow on Thorwald’s
head, just to let him know that he was very impolite to take so
little notice of them. They did not know, of course, that his
mother was ill; otherwise, I am sure, they would have forgiven him.
Hush! What was that? Thorwald thought he heard distant voices
behind him in the snow. He looked all about him, but saw nothing.
Then, following the guidance of the star, he still pressed onward.
He quitted the river-bed and traversed a wide sloping meadow;
he had to take a zigzag course, like a ship that is tacking,
because the slope was too steep to ascend in a straight line. He
was beginning to feel tired. The muscles in his legs ached, and
he often shifted the staff from hand to hand, in order to rest
the one or the other of his arms. He gazed now fixedly upon the
snow, taking only an occasional glance at the sky, to see that he
was going in the right direction; the strange hum of voices in
the air yet haunted his ears, and he sometimes imagined he heard
words moving to a wonderful melody. Was it the angels that were
singing, inspiring him with courage for his quest? He dared hardly
believe it, and yet his heart beat joyously at the thought. Ah!
what is that which glitters so strangely in the snow? A starry
gleam, a twinkling, like a spark gathering its light into a little
glittering point, just as it is about to be quenched. Thorwald
leaps from his skees and plunges his hand into the snow. The frozen
crust cuts his wrist cruelly; and he feels that he is bleeding.
With a wrench he pulls his hand up; his heart throbs in his throat;
he gazes with wild expectation, but sees--nothing. His wrist is
bleeding, and his hand is full of blood. Poor Thorwald could hardly
trust his eyes. He certainly had seen something glittering on the
snow. He felt a great lump in his throat, and it would have been a
great relief to him, at that moment, to sit down and give vent to
the tears that were crowding to his eyelids. But just then a clear,
sweet strain of music broke through the air, and Thorwald heard
distinctly these words, sung by voices of children:
“Lead, O Star of Bethlehem,
Me through death and danger,
Unto Christ, who on this night
Lay cradled in a manger.”
Thorwald gathered all his strength and again leaped into his skees;
he was now on the border of a dense pine-forest, and as he looked
into it, he could not help shuddering. It was so dark under the
thick, snow-burdened branches, and the moon only broke through here
and there, and scattered patches of light over the tree-tops and
on the white carpet of the snow. Yet, perhaps it was within this
very wood that the heavenly blossom had fallen. He must not lose
heart now, when he was perhaps so near his goal. Thrusting his
staff vigorously into the snow-crust, he pushed himself forward and
glided in between the tall, silent trunks; at the same moment the
air again quivered lightly, as with the breath of invisible beings,
and he heard words which, as far as he could afterward recollect
them, sounded as follows:
“Make my soul as white and pure
As the heavenly blossom--
As the flower of grace and truth
That blooms upon Thy bosom.”
Thorwald hardly felt the touch of the snow beneath his feet; he
seemed rather to be soaring through the air, and the trunks of the
huge dark trees marched in close columns, like an army in rapid
retreat, before his enraptured vision. Christ did see him! Christ
would send him the heavenly flower! All over the snow sparkling
stars were scattered, and they gleamed and twinkled and beckoned to
him, but whenever he stretched out his hand for them they suddenly
vanished. The trees began to assume strange, wild shapes, and to
resemble old men and women, with long beards and large hooked
noses. They nodded knowingly to one another, and raised up their
gnarled toes from the ground in which they were rooted, and tried
to trip up the little boy who had dared to interrupt their solemn
conversation. One old fir shook the snow from her shoulders, and
stretched out a long, strangely twisted arm, and was on the point
of seizing Thorwald by the hair, when fortunately he saw the
coming danger, and darted away down the hill-side at quickened
speed. A long, bright streak of light suddenly illuminated the
eastern sky, something fell through the air, and left a golden
trail of fire behind it; surely it was the heavenly flower that
was thrown down by an angel in response to his prayer! Forward and
ever forward--over roots and stumps and stones--stumbling, rising
again, sinking from weariness and exhaustion, kneeling to pray on
the frozen snow, crawling painfully back and tottering into the
skee-bands; but only forward, ever forward! The earth rolls with
a surging motion under his feet, the old trees join their rugged
hands and dance, in wild, senile glee, around him, lifting their
twisted limbs, and sometimes, with their talons, trying to sweep
the stars from the sky. Thorwald struggled with all his force to
break through the ring they had made around him. He saw plainly
the flower, beaming with a pale radiance upon the snow, and he
strove with all his might to reach it, but something held him back,
and though he was once or twice within an inch of it, he could
never quite grasp it with his fingers. Then, all of a sudden, the
strange song again vibrated through the air, and he saw a huge star
glittering among the underbrush; a flock of children clad in white
robes were dancing about it, and they were singing Christmas carols
in praise of the new-born Saviour. As they approached nearer and
nearer, the hope revived in Thorwald’s heart. Ah, there the flower
of healing was, lying close at his feet. He made a desperate leap
and clutched it in his grasp--then saw and felt no more.
III.
The white children were children of earth, not, as Thorwald had
imagined, angels from heaven. It is a custom in Norway for the
children of the poor to go about on Christmas eve, from house to
house, carrying a large canvas star, with one or more lanterns
within it, and sing Christmas carols. They are always dressed in
white robes, and people call them star-children. Whenever they
station themselves in the snow before the front door, and lift up
their tiny, shrill voices, old and young crowd to the windows,
and the little boys and girls who are born to comfort and plenty,
and never have known want, throw pennies to them, and wish them a
merry Christmas. When they have finished singing, they are invited
in to share in the mirth of the children of the house, and are made
to sit down with them to the Christmas table, and perhaps to dance
with them around the Christmas tree.
It was a company of these star-children who now found Thorwald
lying senseless in the forest, and whose sweet voices he had heard
in the distance. The oldest of them, a boy of twelve, hung up his
star on the branch of a fir-tree, and stooped down over the pale
little face, which, from the force of the fall, was half buried in
the snow. He lifted Thorwald’s head and gazed anxiously into his
features, while the others stood in a ring about him, staring with
wide-open eyes and frightened faces.
“This is Thorwald, the judge’s son,” he said. “Come, boys, we must
carry him home. He must have been taken ill while he was running on
skees. But let us first make a litter of branches to carry him on.”
The boys all fell to work with a will, cutting flexible twigs with
their pocket-knives, and the little girls sat down on the snow
and twined them firmly together, for they were used to work, and,
indeed, some of them made their living by weaving baskets. In a
few minutes the litter was ready, and Thorwald, who was still
unconscious, was laid upon it. Then six boys took hold, one at
each corner and two in the middle, and as the crust of the snow
was very thick, and strong enough to bear them, it was only once
or twice that any of them broke through. When they reached the
river, however, they were very tired, and were obliged for a while
to halt. Some one proposed that they should sing as they walked,
as that would make the time pass more quickly, and make their
burden seem lighter, and immediately some one began a beautiful
Christmas carol, and all the others joined in with one accord. It
was a pretty sight to see them as they went marching across the
river, one small boy of six walking at the head of the procession,
carrying the great star, then the six larger boys carrying the
litter, and at last twelve little white-robed girls, tripping two
abreast over the shining surface of the ice. But, in spite of
their singing, they were very tired by the time they had gained
the highway on the other side of the river. They did not like
to confess it; but when they saw the light from Wise Marthie’s
windows, the oldest boy proposed that they should stop there for a
few minutes to rest, and the other five said, in a careless sort
of way, that they had no objection. Only the girls were a wee bit
frightened, because they had heard that Wise Marthie was a witch.
The boys, however, laughed at that, and the little fellow with
the star ran forward and knocked at the door, with Thorwald’s
skee-staff.
“Lord ha’ mercy on us!” cried Marthie, as she opened the
peeping-hole in her door, and saw the insensible form which the
boys bore between them; then flinging open both portions of the
door, she rushed out, snatched Thorwald up in her arms, and carried
him into the cottage.
“Come in, children,” she said, “come in and warm yourselves for
a moment. Then hurry up to the judge’s, and tell the folk there
that the little lad is here at my cottage. You will not go away
empty-handed; for the judge is a man who pays for more than he
gets. And this boy, you know, is the apple of his eye. Lord! Lord!
I sent his dog, Hector, after him, and I knew the beast would let
me know if the boy came to harm; but, likely as not, the wind was
the wrong way, and the poor beast could not trace the skee-track on
the frozen snow. Mercy! mercy! and he is in a dead swoon.”
IV.
When Thorwald waked up, he lay in his bed, in his own room, and in
his hand he held a pale-blue flower. He saw the doctor standing at
his bedside.
“Mamma--my mamma,” he whispered.
“Yes, it is time that we should go to your mamma,” said the doctor,
and his voice shook.
And he took the boy by the hand and led him to his mother’s
bed-chamber. Thorwald began to tremble--a terrible dread had come
over him; but he clutched the flower convulsively, and prayed that
he might not come too late. A dim, shaded lamp burned in a corner
of the room, his father was sitting on a chair, resting his head
in his palms, and weeping. To his astonishment, he saw an old
woman stooping over the pillow where his mother’s head lay; it was
Wise Marthie. Unable to contain himself any longer, he rushed,
breathless with excitement, up to the bedside.
“Mamma! Mamma!” he cried, flourishing his prize in the air. “I am
going to make you well. Look here!”
He thrust the flower eagerly into her face, gazing all the while
exultantly into her beloved features.
“My sweet, my darling child,” whispered she, while her eyes kindled
with a heavenly joy. “How can a mother die who has such a noble
son?”
And she clasped her little boy in her arms, and drew him close to
her bosom. Thus they lay long, weeping for joy--mother and son. An
hour later the doctor stole on tiptoe toward the bed, and found
them both sleeping.
When the morrow’s sun peeped in through the white curtains, the
mother awoke from her long, health-giving slumber; but Thorwald
lay yet peacefully sleeping at her side. And as the mother’s
glance fell upon the flower, now limp and withered, yet clutched
tightly in the little grimy, scratched and frost-bitten fist, the
tears--happy tears--again blinded her eyes. She stretched out her
hand, took the withered flower, pressed it to her lips, and then
hid it next to her heart. And there she wears it in a locket of
gold until this day.
BIG HANS AND LITTLE HANS.
I.
On the northwestern coast of Norway the mountains hide their heads
in the clouds and dip their feet in the sea. In fact, the cliffs
are in some places so tall and steep that streams, flowing from the
inland glaciers and plunging over their sides, vanish in the air,
being blown in a misty spray out over the ocean. In other places
there may be a narrow slope, where a few potatoes, some garden
vegetables, and perhaps even a patch of wheat, may be induced to
grow by dint of much coaxing; for the summer, though short, is
mild and genial in those high latitudes, and has none of that
fierce intensity which, with us, forces the vegetation into sudden
maturity, and sends our people flying toward all the points of the
compass during the first weeks in June.
It was on such a sunny little slope, right under the black
mountain-wall, that Halvor Myrbraaten had built his cottage. Halvor
was a merry fellow, who went about humming snatches of hymns and
old songs and dance-melodies all day long, and sometimes mixed
up both words and tune wofully; and when his memory failed him,
sang anything that popped into his head. Some people said they had
heard him humming the multiplication table to the tune of “Old
Norway’s Lion,” and whole pages out of Luther’s Catechism to jolly
dance-tunes. Not that he ever meant to be irreverent; it was just
his way of amusing himself. He was an odd stick, people thought,
and not of much use to his family. Whatever he did, “luck” went
against him. But it affected his temper very little. Halvor was
still light-hearted and good-natured, and went about humming as
usual. If he went out hunting, and came home with an empty pouch,
it did not interfere in the least with his gayety; but knowing
well the reception which was in store for him; it did occasionally
happen that he paused with a quizzical look before opening the
door, and perhaps, after a minute’s reflection, concluded to
spend the night in the barn; for Turid, his wife, had a mind of
her own, and knew how to express herself with emphasis. She was,
as everyone admitted, a very worthy and competent woman, and
accomplished more in a day than her husband did in a fortnight.
But worthy and competent people are not invariably the pleasantest
people to associate with, and the gay and genial good-for-nothing
Halvor, with his bright irresponsible smile and his pleasant ways,
was a far more popular person in the parish than his austere,
estimable, over-worked wife. For one thing, with all her poverty,
she had a great deal of pride; and people who had never suspected
that one so poor could have any objection to receiving alms had
been much offended by her curt way of refusing their proffered
gifts. Halvor, they said, showed a more realizing sense of his
position: he had the humble and contrite heart which was becoming
in an unsuccessful man, and accepted with equal cheerfulness and
gratitude whatever was offered him, from a dollar bill to a pair of
worn-out mittens. It was, in fact, this extreme readiness to accept
things which first made difficulty between Halvor and his wife. It
seemed to him a pure waste of labor to work for a thing which he
could get for nothing; and it seemed to her a waste of something
still more precious to accept as a gift what one might have
honestly earned by work. But as she could never hope to have Halvor
agree with her on this point, she comforted herself by impressing
her own horror of alms-taking upon her children; and the children,
in their turn, impressed the same sound principles upon their pet
kid and the pussy cat.