Many years ago an epidemic swept over Dalland, to which thousands of
persons fell victims. Many people fled to the forests, or to other
regions; the churches were deserted, and those remaining were not
enough to bury the dead. At this stage an old Finlander came along, who
informed the few survivors that they need not hope for cessation of the
scourge until they had buried some living thing.
The advice was followed. First a cock was buried alive, but the plague
continued as violent as ever; next, a goat, but this also proved
ineffectual. At last a poor boy, who frequented the neighborhood,
begging, was lured to a wood-covered hill at the point where the river
Daleborg empties into Lake Venem. Here a deep hole was dug, the boy
meantime sitting near, enjoying a piece of bread and butter that had
been given him. When the grave was deep enough the boy was dropped into
it and the diggers began hurriedly to shovel the dirt upon him. The lad
begged and prayed them not to throw dirt upon his bread and butter, but
the spades flew faster, and in a few minutes, still alive, he was
entirely covered and left to his fate.
Whether this stayed the plague is not known, but many who after night
pass the hill, hear, it is said, a voice as if from a dying child,
crying, “Buried alive! buried alive!”