It was a bright morning in January, and, as it happened, Lars’s
fourteenth birthday. To his great delight, his mother had gone down to
the judge’s to sell some ptarmigans, and his father had gone to fell
some timber up in the glen. Accordingly he could secure the rifle
without being observed. He took an affectionate good-by of Stella,
who rubbed her soft nose against his own, playfully pulled at his
coat-collar, and blew her sweet, warm breath into his face. Lars was a
simple-hearted boy, in spite of his age, and quite a child at heart.
He had lived so secluded from all society, and breathed so long the
atmosphere of fairy tales, that he could see nothing at all absurd
in what he was about to undertake. The youngest son in the story-book
always did just that sort of thing, and everybody praised and admired
him for it. Lars meant, for once, to put the story-book hero into the
shade. He engaged little Marit to watch over Stella while he was gone,
and under no circumstances to betray him--all of which Marit solemnly
promised.
With his rifle on his shoulder and his skees on his feet, Lars glided
slowly along over the glittering surface of the snow, for the mountain
was steep, and he had to zigzag in long lines before he reached the
upper heights, where the bear was said to have his haunts. The place
where Bruin had his winter den had once been pointed out to him, and
he remembered yet how pale his father was, when he found that he had
strayed by chance into so dangerous a neighborhood. Lars’s heart, too,
beat rather uneasily as he saw the two heaps of stones, called “The
Parson” and “The Deacon,” and the two huge fir-trees which marked the
dreaded spot. It had been customary from immemorial time for each person
who passed along the road to throw a large stone on the Parson’s heap,
and a small one on the Deacon’s; but since the Gausdale Bruin had gone
into winter quarters there, the stone heaps had ceased to grow.
Under the great knotted roots of the fir-trees there was a hole, which
was more than half-covered with snow; and it was noticeable that there
was not a track of bird or beast to be seen anywhere around it. Lars,
who on the way had been buoyed up by the sense of his heroism, began
now to feel strangely uncomfortable. It was so awfully hushed and still
round about him; not the scream of a bird--not even the falling of a
broken bough was to be heard. The pines stood in lines and in clumps,
solemn, like a funeral procession, shrouded in sepulchral white. Even if
a crow had cawed it would have been a relief to the frightened boy--for
it must be confessed that he was a trifle frightened--if only a little
shower of snow had fallen upon his head from the heavily laden branches,
he would have been grateful for it, for it would have broken the spell
of this oppressive silence.
There could be no doubt of it; inside, under those tree-roots slept
Stella’s foe--the dreaded enchanted beast who had put the boldest
of hunters to flight, and set lords and baronets by the ears for the
privilege of possessing his skin. Lars became suddenly aware that it
was a foolhardy thing he had undertaken, and that he had better betake
himself home. But then, again, had not Witch-Martha said that she had
been waiting for him; that he was destined by fate to accomplish this
deed, just as the youngest son had been in the story-book. Yes, to be
sure, she had said that; and it was a comforting thought.
Accordingly, having again examined his rifle, which he had carefully
loaded with the silver bullet before leaving home, he started boldly
forward, climbed up on the little hillock between the two trees, and
began to pound it lustily with the butt-end of his gun. He listened
for a moment tremulously, and heard distinctly long, heavy sighs from
within.
His heart stood still. The bear was awake! Soon he would have to face
it! A minute more elapsed; Lars’s heart shot up into his throat. He
leaped down, placed himself in front of the entrance to the den, and
cocked his rifle. Three long minutes passed. Bruin had evidently gone to
sleep again. Wild with excitement, the boy rushed forward and drove his
skee-staff straight into the den with all his might. A sullen growl was
heard, like a deep and menacing thunder. There could be no doubt that
now the monster would take him to task for his impertinence.
Again the boy seized his rifle; and his nerves, though tense as
stretched bow-strings, seemed suddenly calm and steady. He lifted the
rifle to his cheek, and resolved not to shoot until he had a clear aim
at heart or brain. Bruin, though Lars could hear him rummaging within,
was in no hurry to come out, But he sighed and growled uproariously,
and presently showed a terrible, long-clawed paw, which he thrust out
through his door and then again withdrew. But apparently it took him a
long while to get his mind clear as to the cause of the disturbance;
for fully five minutes had elapsed when suddenly a big tuft of moss
was tossed out upon the snow, followed by a cloud of dust and an angry
creaking of the tree-roots.
Great masses of snow were shaken from the swaying tops of the firs, and
fell with light thuds upon the ground. In the face of this unexpected
shower, which entirely hid the entrance to the den, Lars was obliged to
fall back a dozen paces; but, as the glittering drizzle cleared away,
he saw an enormous brown beast standing upon its hind legs, with widely
distended jaws. He was conscious of no fear, but of a curious numbness
in his limbs, and strange noises, as of warning shouts and cries,
filling his ears.
Fortunately, the great glare of the sun-smitten snow dazzled Bruin; he
advanced slowly, roaring savagely, but staring rather blindly before
him out of his small, evil-looking eyes. Suddenly, when he was but a few
yards distant, he raised his great paw, as if to rub away the cobwebs
that obscured his sight.
It was the moment for which the boy had waited. Now he had a clear aim!
Quickly he pulled the trigger; the shot reverberated from mountain to
mountain, and in the same instant the huge brown bulk rolled in the
snow, gave a gasp, and was dead! The spell was broken! The silver bullet
had pierced his heart. There was a curious unreality about the whole
thing to Lars. He scarcely knew whether he was really himself or the
hero of the fairy-tale.
All that was left for him to do now was to go home and marry Stella, the
delivered princess.
The noises about him seemed to come nearer and nearer; and now they
sounded like human voices. He looked about him, and to his amazement
saw his father and Marit, followed by two wood-cutters, who, with
raised axes, were running toward him. Then he did not know exactly what
happened; but he felt himself lifted up by two strong arms, and tears
fell hot and fast upon his face.
“My boy! my boy!” said the voice in his ears, “I expected to find you
dead.”
“No, but the bear is dead,” said Lars, innocently.
“I didn’t mean to tell on you, Lars,” cried Marit, “but I was so afraid,
and then I had to.”
The rumor soon filled the whole valley that the great Gausdale Bruin was
dead, and that the boy Lars Tomlevold had killed him. It is needless to
say that Lars Tomlevold became the parish hero from that day. He did not
dare to confess in the presence of all this praise and wonder that at
heart he was bitterly disappointed; for when he came home, throbbing
with wild expectancy, there stood Stella before the kitchen door,
munching a piece of bread; and when she hailed him with a low whinny, he
burst into tears. But he dared not tell any one why he was weeping.
This story might have ended here, but it has a little sequel. The $1,750
which Bruin had to his credit in the bank had increased to $2,290;
and it was all paid to Lars. A few years later, Martin Janson, who had
inherited the estate of Moe from old Lars, failed in consequence of his
daring forest speculations, and young Lars was enabled to buy the farm
at auction at less than half its value. Thus he had the happiness to
bring his mother back to the place of her birth, of which she had been
wrongfully deprived; and Stella, who was now twenty-one years old,
occupied once more her handsome box-stall, as in the days of her glory.
And although she never proved to be a princess, she was treated as if
she were one, during the few years that remained to her.
[Footnote 1: In Norway confirmation is always preceded by a public examination of
the candidates in the aisle of the church. The order in which they are
arranged is supposed to indicate their attainments, but does, as a rule,
indicate the rank and social position of their parents.]
[Footnote 2: Norwegian snow-shoes.]
[Footnote 3: The genius of cattle, represented as a beautiful maiden disfigured
by a heifer’s tail, which she is always trying to hide, though often
unsuccessfully.]