CHAPTER XVI.

It was late in the autumn; the harvesters were at work housing the

grain. The day was clear, it had rained during the night; and in the

morning, therefore, the air was as mild as in summer-time. It was a

Saturday, and yet many boats were making their way across Black Water

toward the church; the men, in their shirt sleeves, were rowing; the

women sat in the stern, with light-colored kerchiefs on their heads. A

still greater number of boats were steering over to Boeen, in order to

move away from there later in grand procession, for on this day Baard

Boeen gave a wedding for his daughter Eli and Arne Nils' son Kampen.

All the doors were open; people were going in and out; children, with

pieces of cake in their hands, stood about the yard, afraid of their new

clothes, and looking shyly at one another; an old woman sat upon the

store-house steps alone,--it was Margit Kampen. She wore a large silver

ring, with several small rings fastened to the upper silver plate; now

and then she looked at it; Nils had given it to her the day of their

wedding and she had never worn it since.

The man who presided at the feast, and the two young groomsmen, the

priest's son and Eli's brother, went about in the two or three rooms,

offering refreshments to the wedding guests as they arrived to be

present on this great occasion. Up-stairs in Eli's room were the bride,

the priest's wife, and Mathilde,--the last-named had come from town for

the sole purpose of decking the bride; this the girls had promised each

other from their childhood. Arne--wearing a broadcloth suit, with

close-fitting roundabout and with a collar that Eli had made--stood in

one of the down-stairs rooms by the window on which Eli had written

"Arne."

Outside in the passage two persons met as they came each from some duty

of the day. One of them was on his way from the landing-place, where he

had been helping to put the church boats in order; he wore a black

broadcloth roundabout, with blue wadmal trousers, whose dye rubbed off,

so that his hands were blue; his white collar looked well with his fair

face and long light hair; his high forehead was calm; about the mouth

played a smile. It was Baard. She whom he met in the passage was just

coming from the kitchen. She was dressed for church, was tall and

slender, and walked with a firm though hurried step through the door.

When she met Baard she paused, and her mouth drew up to one side. It was

Birgit, his wife. Each had something to say, but it only found

expression through both standing still. Baard was the most embarrassed

of the two; he smiled more and more, but it was his embarrassment that

came to his aid, forcing him to start up-stairs without further delay.

"Perhaps you will come too," he said, as he passed, and Birgit

followed him. Up-stairs in the garret they were entirely alone; yet

Baard locked the door after them, and he was a long time about it. When

finally he turned, Birgit stood by the window gazing out; it was in

order to avoid looking into the room. Baard brought forth a small flask

from his breast pocket and a little silver cup. He wanted to pour out

some wine for his wife, but she would not have any, although he assured

her that it was wine that had been sent from the parsonage. Then he

drank himself, but paused several times to offer the cup to her. He

corked the flask, put both it and the cup away in his breast-pocket

again, and sat down on a chest. It very evidently pained him that his

wife would not drink with him.

He breathed heavily several times. Birgit stood leaning with one hand

against the window frame. Baard had something to say, but now it seemed

even harder to speak than before.

"Birgit!" said he, "I dare say you are thinking of the same to-day that

I am."

Then he heard her move from one side of the window to the other, and

again she leaned her head on her arm.

"Oh, yes; you know who I mean. He it was who parted us two. I thought it

would not go beyond the wedding, but it has lasted much longer."

He heard her sigh, he saw her again change her place; but he did not see

her face. He himself was struggling so hard that he had to wipe his face

with his jacket sleeve. After a long conflict he began again: "To-day a

son of his, well-educated and handsome, becomes one of us, and to him we

have given our only daughter. Now, how would it be, Birgit, if we two

were to have our wedding to-day?"

His voice trembled, and he cleared his throat. Birgit, who had raised

her head, now leaned it on her arm again, but said nothing. Baard waited

for some time; he heard her breathe, but he got no answer,--and he had

nothing further to say himself either. He looked up and grew very pale;

for she did not even turn her head. Then he rose.

At the same moment there was a gentle knock at the door, and a soft

voice asked, "Are you coming, mother?" It was Eli. There was something

in the tone that made Baard involuntarily pause and glance at Birgit.

Birgit also raised her head; she looked towards the door, and her eyes

fell on Baard's pale face. "Are you coming, mother?" was once more asked

from without.

"Yes, I am coming now!" said Birgit, in a broken voice, as she firmly

crossed the floor to where Baard stood, gave him her hand, and burst

into the most passionate weeping. The two hands met, they were both

toil-worn now, but they clasped as firmly as though they had been

seeking each other for twenty years. They still clung together as they

went toward the door, and when a while later the bridal procession was

passing down to the landing-place, and Arne gave his hand to Eli to take

the lead, Baard, seeing it, took his wife by the hand, contrary to all

custom, and followed them, smiling contentedly.

Behind them, Margit Kampen walked alone, as was her wont.

Baard was in high spirits that day; he sat talking with the rowers. One

of these who kept looking up at the mountains remarked, that it was

strange that even such a steep rock could be clad.

"It must, whether it would or no," said Baard, and his eyes wandered

all along the procession until they rested on the bridal pair and his

wife. "Who could have foretold this twenty years ago?" said he.

EARLY TALES AND SKETCHES.

THE RAILROAD AND THE CHURCHYARD.

CHAPTER I.

Knud Aakre belonged to an old family in the parish, where it had always

been renowned for its intelligence and its devotion to the public

welfare. His father had worked his way up to the priesthood, but had

died early, and as the widow came from a peasant stock, the children

were brought up as peasants. Knud had, therefore, received only the

education afforded by the public schools of his day; but his father's

library had early inspired him with a love of knowledge. This was

further stimulated by his friend Henrik Wergeland, who frequently

visited him, sent him books, seeds, and much valuable counsel. Following

some of the latter, Knud early founded a club, which in the beginning

had a very miscellaneous object, for instance: "to give the members

practice in debating and to study the constitution," but which later was

turned into a practical agricultural society for the entire bailiwick.

According to Wergeland's advice, he also founded a parish library,

giving his father's books as its first endowment. A suggestion from the

same quarter led him to start a Sunday-school on his gard, for those who

might wish to learn writing, arithmetic, and history. All this drew

attention to him, so that he was elected member of the parish board of

supervisors, of which he soon became chairman. In this capacity, he took

a deep interest in the schools, which he brought into a remarkably good

condition.

Knud Aakre was a short man, brisk in his movements, with small, restless

eyes and very disorderly hair. He had large lips, which were in constant

motion, and a row of splendid teeth which always seemed to be working

with them, for they glistened while his words were snapped out, crisp

and clear, crackling like sparks from a great fire.

Foremost among the many he had helped to gain an education was his

neighbor Lars Hoegstad. Lars was not much younger than Knud, but he had

developed more slowly. Knud liked to talk about what he read and

thought, and he found in Lars, whose manner was quiet and grave, a good

listener, who by degrees grew to be a man of excellent judgment. The

relations between them soon became such that Knud was never willing to

take any important step without first consulting Lars Hoegstad, and the

matter on hand was thus likely to gain some practical amendment. So Knud

drew his neighbor into the board of supervisors, and gradually into

everything in which he himself took part. They always drove together to

the meetings of the board, where Lars never spoke; but on the way back

and forth Knud learned his opinions. The two were looked upon as

inseparable.

* * * * *

One fine autumn day the board of supervisors convened to consider, among

other things, a proposal from the bailiff to sell the parish grain

magazine and with the proceeds establish a small savings-bank. Knud

Aakre, the chairman, would undoubtedly have approved this measure had he

relied on his unbiased judgment. But he was prejudiced, partly because

the proposal came from the bailiff, whom Wergeland did not like, and who

was consequently no favorite of Knud's either, and partly because the

grain magazine had been built by his influential paternal grandfather

and by him presented to the parish. Indeed, Knud was rather inclined to

view the proposition as a personal insult, therefore he had not spoken

of it to any one, not even to Lars, and the latter never entered on a

topic that had not first been set afloat by some one else.

As chairman, Knud Aakre read the proposal without adding any comments;

but, as was his wont, his eyes sought Lars, who usually sat or stood a

little aside, holding a straw between his teeth,--he always had one when

he took part in a conversation; he either used it as a tooth-pick, or he

let it hang loosely in one corner of his mouth, turning it more rapidly

or more slowly, according to the mood he was in. To his surprise Knud

saw that the straw was moving very fast.

"Do you think we should agree to this?" he asked, quickly.

Lars answered, dryly,--

"Yes, I do."

The whole board, feeling that Knud held quite a different opinion,

looked in astonishment at Lars, but the latter said no more, nor was he

further questioned. Knud turned to another matter, as though nothing had

transpired. Not until the close of the meeting did he resume the

subject, and then asked, with apparent indifference, if it would not be

well to send the proposal back to the bailiff for further consideration,

as it certainly did not meet the views of the people, for the parish

valued the grain magazine. No one replied. Knud asked whether he should

enter the resolution in the register, the measure did not seem to be a

wise one.

"Against one vote," added Lars.

"Against two," cried another, promptly.

"Against three," came from a third; and before the chairman could

realize what was taking place, a majority had voted in favor of the

proposal.

Knud was so surprised that he forgot to offer any opposition. He

recorded the proceedings and read, in a low voice: "The measure is

recommended,--adjourned."

His face was fiery red as he rose and put up the minute-book; but he

determined to bring forward the question once more at the meeting of

the representatives. Out in the yard, he put his horse to the wagon, and

Lars came and took his seat at his side. They discussed various topics

on their way home, but not the one they had nearest at heart.

The next day Knud's wife sought Lars's wife to inquire if there was

anything wrong between the two men, for Knud had acted so strangely when

he came home. A short distance above the gard buildings she met Lars's

wife, who was on her way to ask the same question, for her husband, too,

had been out of sorts the day before. Lars's wife was a quiet, bashful

person, somewhat cowed, not by harsh words, but by silence, for Lars

never spoke to her unless she had done something amiss, or he feared

that she might do wrong. Knud Aakre's wife, on the other hand, talked

more with her husband, and particularly about the board, for lately it

had taken his thoughts, work, and affection away from her and the

children. She was as jealous of it as of a woman; she wept at night over

the board and quarreled with her husband about it during the day. But

for that very reason she could say nothing about it now when for once he

had returned home unhappy; for she immediately became more wretched than

he, and for her life she could not rest until she had discovered what

was the matter. Consequently, when Lars's wife could not give her the

desired information, she had to go out in the parish to seek it. Here

she obtained it, and of course was at once of her husband's opinion;

she found Lars incomprehensible, not to say wicked. When, however, she

let her husband perceive this, she felt that as yet there was no breach

between Lars and him; that, on the contrary, he clung warmly to him.

The representatives met. Lars Hoegstad drove over to Aakre in the

morning; Knud came out of the house and took his seat beside him. They

exchanged the usual greetings, spoke perhaps rather less than was their

wont on the way, and not of the proposal. All the members of the board

were present; some, too, had found their way in as spectators, which

Knud did not like, for it showed that there was a stir in town about the

matter. Lars was armed with his straw, and he stood by the stove warming

himself, for the autumn was beginning to be cold. The chairman read the

proposal, in a subdued, cautious manner, remarking when he was through,

that it must be remembered this came from the bailiff, who was not apt

to be very felicitous in his propositions. The building, it was well

known, was a gift, and it is not customary to part with gifts, least of

all when there is no need of doing so.

Lars, who never before had spoken at the meetings, now took the floor,

to the astonishment of all. His voice trembled, but whether it did so

out of regard for Knud, or from anxiety lest his own cause should be

lost, shall remain unsaid. But his arguments were good and clear, and

full of a logic and confidence which had scarcely been heard at these

meetings before. And when he had gone over all the ground, he added, in

conclusion:--

"What does it matter if the proposal does come from the bailiff? This

affects the question as little as who erected the building, or in what

way it came into the public possession."

Knud Aakre had grown very red in the face (he blushed easily), and he

shifted uneasily from side to side, as was his wont when he was

impatient, but none the less did he exert himself to be circumspect and

to speak in a low voice. There were savings-banks enough in the country,

he thought, and quite near at hand, he might almost say _too_ near. But

if, after all, it was deemed expedient to have one, there were surely

other ways of reaching it than those leading over the gifts of the dead

and the love of the living. His voice was a little unsteady when he said

this, but quickly recovered as he proceeded to speak of the grain

magazine in itself, and to show what its advantages were.

Lars answered him thoroughly on the last point, and then added,--

"However, one thing and another lead me to doubt whether this parish is

managed for the sake of the living or the dead; furthermore, whether it

is the love and hatred of a single family which controls matters here,

or the good of the whole."

Knud answered quickly,--

"I do not know whether he who has just spoken has been least benefited

by this family,--both by the dead and by him who now lives."

The first shot was aimed at the fact that Knud's powerful grandfather

had saved the gard for Lars's paternal grandfather, when the latter, on

his part, was absent on a little excursion to the penitentiary.

The straw which long had been in brisk motion, suddenly became still.

"It is not my way to keep talking everywhere about myself and my

family," said Lars, then turned again with calm superiority to the

subject under discussion, briefly reviewing all the points with one

definite object. Knud had to admit to himself that he had never viewed

the matter from such a broad standpoint; involuntarily he raised his

eyes and looked at Lars, who stood before him, tall, heavily built, with

clearness on the vigorous brow and in the deep eyes. The lips were

tightly compressed, the straw still played in the corner of his mouth;

all the surrounding lines indicated vigor. He kept his hands behind him,

and stood rigidly erect, while his voice was as deep and as hollow as

if it proceeded from the depths of the earth. For the first time in his

life Knud saw him as he was, and in his inmost soul he was afraid of

him; for this man must always have been his superior. He had taken all

Knud himself knew and could impart; he had rejected the tares and

retained what had produced this strong, hidden growth.

He had been fostered and loved by Knud, but had now become a giant who

hated Knud deeply, terribly. Knud could not explain to himself why, but

as he looked at Lars he instinctively felt this to be so, and all else

becoming swallowed up in this thought he started up, exclaiming,--

"But Lars! Lars! what in Heaven's name is the matter with you?" His

agitation overcame him,--"you, whom I have--you who have"--

Powerless to utter another word, he sat down; but in his effort to gain

the mastery over the emotion he deemed Lars unworthy of seeing, he

brought his fist down with violence on the table, while his eyes flashed

beneath his stiff, disorderly hair, which always hung over them. Lars

acted as if he had not been interrupted, and turning toward the others

he asked if this was to be the decisive blow; for if such were the case

there was no need for further remarks.

This calmness was more than Knud could endure.

"What is it that has come among us?" cried he. "We who have, until

to-day, been actuated by love and zeal alone, are now stirred up against

each other, as though goaded on by some evil spirit," and he cast a

fiery glance at Lars, who replied,--

"It must be you yourself who bring in this spirit, Knud; for I have kept

strictly to the matter before us. But you never can see the advantage of

anything you do not want yourself; now we shall learn what becomes of

the love and the zeal when once this matter is decided as we wish."

"Have I then illy served the interests of the parish?"

There was no reply. This grieved Knud, and he continued,--

"I really did persuade myself that I had accomplished various

things--various things which have been of advantage to the parish; but

perhaps I have deceived myself."

He was again overcome by his feelings; for his was a fiery nature, ever

variable in its moods, and the breach with Lars pained him so deeply

that he could scarcely control himself. Lars answered,--

"Yes, I know you appropriate the credit for all that is done here, and

if one should judge by the amount of speaking at these meetings, you

certainly have accomplished the most."

"Is that the way of it?" shouted Knud, looking sharply at Lars. "It is

you who deserve the entire honor?"

"Since we must finally talk about ourselves," said Lars, "I am free to

admit that every question has been carefully considered by both of us

before it was introduced here."

Here little Knud Aakre regained his ready speech:--

"Take the honor, in God's name; I am quite able to live without it;

there are other things that are harder to lose!"

Involuntarily Lars evaded his gaze, but said, as he set the straw in

very rapid motion,--

"If I were to express _my_ opinion, I should say that there is not very

much to take credit for. No doubt the priest and the school-masters are

content with what has been done; but certainly the common people say

that up to the present time the taxes of this parish have grown heavier

and heavier."

Here arose a murmur in the crowd, and the people grew very restless.

Lars continued,--

"Finally, to-day we have a matter brought before us that might make the

parish some little amends for all it has paid out; this is perhaps the

reason why it encounters such opposition. This is a question which

concerns the parish; it is for the welfare of all; it is our duty to

protect it from becoming a mere family matter."

People exchanged glances, and spoke in half-audible tones; one of them

remarked, as he rose to go for his dinner-pail, that these were the

truest words he had heard in these meetings for many years. Now all rose

from their seats, the conversation became general, and Knud Aakre, who

alone remained sitting, felt that all was lost, fearfully lost, and made

no further effort to save it. The truth was, he possessed something of

the temperament attributed to Frenchmen: he was very good at a first,

second, or even third attack, but poor at self-defense, for his

sensibilities overwhelmed his thoughts.

He was unable to comprehend this, nor could he sit still any longer, and

so resigning his place to the vice-chairman, he left. The others could

not refrain from a smile.

He had come to the meeting in company with Lars, but went home alone,

although the way was long. It was a cold autumn day, the forest was

jagged and bare, the meadow gray-yellow, frost was beginning here and

there to remain on the road-side. Disappointment is a terrible

companion. Knud felt so small, so desolate, as he walked along; but Lars

appeared everywhere before him, towering up to the sky, in the dusk of

the evening, like a giant. It vexed him to think it was his own fault

that this had been the decisive battle; he had staked too much on one

single little issue. But surprise, pain, anger, had mastered him; they

still burned, tingled, moaned, and stormed within him. He heard the

rumbling of cart-wheels behind him; it was Lars driving his superb horse

past him, in a brisk trot, making the hard road resound like distant

thunder. Knud watched the broad-shouldered form that sat erect in the

cart, while the horse, eager for home, sped onward, without any effort

on the part of Lars, who merely gave him a loose rein. It was but a

picture of this man's power: he was driving onward to the goal! Knud

felt himself cast out of his cart, to stagger on alone in the chill

autumn air.

In his home at Aakre Knud's wife was waiting for him. She knew that a

battle was inevitable; she had never in her life trusted Lars, and now

she was positively afraid of him. It had been no comfort to her that he

and her husband had driven away together; it would not have consoled her

had they returned in the same way. But darkness had fallen and they had

not come. She stood in the doorway, gazing out on the road in front of

the house; she walked down the hill and back again, but no cart

appeared.

Finally she hears a rattling on the hard road, her heart throbs as the

wheels go round, she clings to the casement, peering out into the night;

the cart draws near; only one is in it; she recognizes Lars, who sees

and recognizes her, but drives past without stopping. Now she became

thoroughly alarmed. Her limbs gave way under her, she tottered in and

sank down on the bench by the window. The children gathered anxiously

about her, the youngest one asked for papa; she never spoke with them

but of him. He had such a noble disposition, and this was what made her

love him; but now his heart was not with his family, it was engrossed in

all sorts of business which brought him only unhappiness, and

consequently they were all unhappy.

If only no misfortune had befallen him! Knud was so hot-tempered. Why

had Lars come home alone? Why did he not stop? Should she run after him,

or down the road after her husband? She was in an agony of distress, and

the children pressed around her, asking what was the matter. But this

she would not tell them, so rising she said they must eat supper alone,

then got everything ready and helped them. All the while she kept

glancing out on the road. He did not come. She undressed the children

and put them to bed, and the youngest repeated the evening prayer while

she bowed over him. She herself prayed with such fervor in the words

which the infant lips so soothingly uttered that she did not heed the

steps outside.

Knud stood upon the threshold, gazing at his little company at prayer.

The mother drew herself up; all the children shouted: "Papa!" but he

seated himself at once, and said, softly:

"Oh, let him say it once more!"

The mother turned again to the bedside, that he, meanwhile, should not

see her face, for it would have seemed like intruding on his grief

before he felt the need of revealing it. The little one folded its hands

over its breast, all the rest did likewise, and it repeated,--

"I, a little child, pray Heaven

That my sins may be forgiven,

With time I'll larger, wiser grow,

And my father and mother joy shall know,

If only Thou, dearest, dearest Lord,

Will help me to keep Thy precious word!

And now to our Heavenly Father's merciful keeping

Our souls let us trust while we're sleeping."

What peace now fell upon the room! Not a minute had elapsed ere all the

children were sleeping as in the arms of God; but the mother moved

softly away and placed supper before the father, who was, however,

unable to eat. But after he had gone to bed, he said,--

"Henceforth I shall be at home."

And his wife lay at his side trembling with joy which she dared not

betray; and she thanked God for all that had happened, for whatever it

might be it had resulted in good!

CHAPTER II.

In the course of a year Lars had become chairman of the parish board of

supervisors, president of the savings-bank, and leading commissioner in

the court of reconciliation; in short, he held every office to which his

election had been possible. In the board of supervisors for the amt

(county) he was silent during the first year, but the second year he

created the same sensation when he spoke as in the parish board; for

here, too, coming forward in opposition to him who had previously been

the guiding power, he became victorious over the entire rank and file

and was from that time himself the leader. From this his path led him to

the storthing (parliament), where his fame had preceded him, and where

consequently there was no lack of challenges. But here, although steady

and firm, he always remained retiring. He did not care for power except

where he was well known, nor would he endanger his leadership at home by

a possible defeat abroad.

For he had a pleasant life at home. When he stood by the church wall on

Sundays, and the congregation walked slowly past, saluting him and

stealing side glances at him, and one after another paused in order to

exchange a few words with him,--then truly it might be said that he

controlled the entire parish with a straw, for of course this hung in

the corner of his mouth.

He deserved his honors. The road leading to the church, he had opened;

the new church they were standing beside, he had built; this and much

more was the fruit of the savings-bank which he had founded and now

managed himself. For its resources were further made fruitful, and the

parish was constantly held up as an example to all others of

self-management and good order.

Knud Aakre had entirely withdrawn from the field, although at first he

attended a few of the meetings of the board, because he had promised

himself that he would continue to offer his services, even if it were

not altogether pleasing to his pride. In the first proposal he had made,

he became so greatly perplexed by Lars, who insisted upon having it

represented in all its details, that, somewhat hurt, he said: "When

Columbus discovered America he did not have it divided into parishes and

deaneries; this came gradually;" whereupon Lars, in his reply, compared

the discovery of America with Knud's proposal,--it so happened that this

treated of stable improvements,--and afterwards Knud was known by no

other name in the board than "Discovery of America." So Knud thought

that as his usefulness had ceased, so too had his obligations to work,

and he refused to accept further reelections.

But he continued to be industrious; and in order that he might still

have a field for usefulness, he enlarged his Sunday-school, and placed

it, by means of small contributions from the attendants, in

communication with the mission cause, of which he soon became the centre

and leader in his own and the surrounding counties. Thereupon Lars

Hoegstad remarked, that if ever Knud undertook to collect money for any

purpose, he must know beforehand that it was to do good thousands of

miles from home.

There was, be it observed, no more strife between them. To be sure, they

no longer associated with each other, but they bowed and spoke when they

met. Knud always felt a little pain at the mere thought of Lars, but

strove to suppress it, and persuade himself that matters could not have

been otherwise. At a large wedding-party, many years afterward, where

both were present and both were in good spirits, Knud mounted a chair

and proposed a toast for the chairman of the parish board, and the

first representative their amt had sent to the storthing! He spoke until

he became deeply moved, and, as usual, expressed himself in an

exceedingly handsome way. Every one thought it was honorably done, and

Lars came up to him, and his gaze was unsteady as he said that for much

of what he knew and was he was indebted to him.

At the next election of the board of supervisors Knud was again made

chairman!

But had Lars Hoegstad foreseen what now followed, he would certainly not

have used his influence for this. "Every event happens in its own time,"

says an old proverb, and just as Knud Aakre again entered the board, the

best men of the parish were threatened with ruin, as the result of a

speculation craze which had long been raging, but which now first began

to demand its victims. It was said that Lars Hoegstad was the cause of

this great disaster, for he had taught the parish to speculate. This

penny fever had originated in the parish board of supervisors, for the

board itself was the greatest speculator of all. Every one down to the

laboring youth of twenty years desired in his transactions to make ten

dollars out of one; a beginning of extreme avarice in the efforts to

hoard, was followed by an excessive extravagance, and as all minds were

bent only on money, there had at the same time developed a spirit of

suspicion, of intolerance, of caviling, which resulted in lawsuits and

hatred. This also was due to the example of the board, it was said, for

among the first things Lars had done as chairman was to sue the

venerable old priest for holding doubtful titles. The priest had lost,

but had also immediately resigned. At that time some had praised, some

censured this suit; but it had proved a bad example. Now came the

consequences of Lars's management, in the form of loss to every single

man of property in the parish, consequently public opinion underwent a

sharp change! The opposing force, too, soon found a leader, for Knud

Aakre had come into the board, introduced there by Lars himself!

The struggle began forthwith. All those youths to whom Knud in his time

had given instructions, were now grown up and were the most enlightened

men in the parish, thoroughly at home in all its transactions and public

affairs. It was against these men that Lars now had to contend, and they

had borne him a grudge from their childhood up. When of an evening after

one of these stormy proceedings he stood on the steps in front of his

house, gazing over the parish, he could hear a sound as of distant

rumbling thunder rising toward him from the large gards, now lying in

the storm. He knew that the day they met their ruin, the savings-bank

and himself would be overthrown, and all his long efforts would

culminate in imprecations heaped on his head.

In these days of conflict and despair, a party of railroad

commissioners, who were to survey the route for a new road, made their

appearance one evening at Hoegstad, the first gard at the entrance to the

parish. In the course of conversation during the evening, Lars learned

that there was a question whether the road should run through this

valley or another parallel to it.

Like a flash of lightning it darted through his mind that if he could

succeed in having it laid here, all property would rise in value, and

not only would he himself be saved but his fame would be transmitted to

the latest posterity! He could not sleep that night, for his eyes were

dazzled by a glowing light, and sometimes he could even hear the sound

of the cars. The next day he went himself with the commissioners while

they examined the locality; his horse took them, and to his gard they

returned. The next day they drove through the other valley; he was still

with them, and he drove them back again to his house. They found a

brilliant illumination at Hoegstad; the first men of the parish had been

invited to be present at a magnificent party given in honor of the

commissioners; it lasted until morning. But to no avail, for the nearer

they came to a final issue, the more plainly it appeared that the road

could not pass through this locality without undue expense. The entrance

to the valley lay through a narrow gorge, and just as it swung into the

parish, the swollen river swung in also, so that the railroad would

either have to take the same curve along the mountain that the highway

now made, thus running at a needlessly high altitude and crossing the

river twice, or it would have to run straight forward, and thus through

the old, now unused churchyard. Now the church had but recently been

removed, and it was not long since the last burial had taken place

there.

If it only depended on a bit of old churchyard, thought Lars, whether or

not this great blessing came into the parish, then he must use his name

and his energy for the removal of this obstacle! He at once set forth on

a visit to the priest and the dean, and furthermore to the diocese

council; he talked and he negotiated, for he was armed with all possible

facts concerning the immense advantage of the railroad on one hand, and

the sentiments of the parish on the other, and actually succeeded in

winning all parties. It was promised him that by a removal of part of

the bodies to the new churchyard the objections might be considered set

aside, and the royal permission obtained for the churchyard to be taken

for the line of railroad. It was told him that nothing was now needed

but for him to set the question afloat in the board of supervisors.

The parish had grown as excited as himself: the spirit of speculation

which for many years had been the only one prevailing in the parish, now

became madly jubilant. There was nothing spoken or thought of but Lars's

journey and its possible results. When he returned with the most

magnificent promises, they made much of him; songs were sung in his

praise; indeed, if at that time the largest gards had gone to

destruction, one after another, no one would have paid the slightest

attention to it: the speculation craze had given way to the railroad

craze.

The board of supervisors assembled: there was presented for approval a

respectful petition, that the old churchyard might be appropriated as

the route of the railroad. This was unanimously adopted; there was even

mention of giving Lars a vote of thanks and a coffee-pot in the form of

a locomotive. But it was finally thought best to wait until the whole

plan was carried into execution. The petition came back from the diocese

council, with a demand for a list of all bodies that would have to be

removed. The priest made out such a list, but instead of sending it

direct, he had his own reasons for sending it through the parish board.

One of the members carried it to the next meeting. Here it fell to the

lot of Lars, as chairman, to open the envelope and read the list.

Now it chanced that the first body to be disinterred was that of Lars's

own grandfather! A little shudder ran through the assembly! Lars himself

was startled, but nevertheless continued to read. Then it furthermore

chanced that the second body was that of Knud Aakre's grandfather, for

these two men had died within a short time of each other. Knud Aakre

sprang from his seat; Lars paused; every one looked up in consternation,

for old Knud Aakre had been the benefactor of the parish and its best

beloved man, time out of mind. There was a dead silence, which lasted

for some minutes. At last Lars cleared his throat and went on reading.

But the further he proceeded the worse the matter grew; for the nearer

they came to their own time, the dearer were the dead. When he had

finished, Knud Aakre asked quietly whether the others did not agree

with him in thinking that the air about them was filled with spirits.

It was just beginning to grow dark in the room, and although they were

mature men and were sitting in numbers together, they could not refrain

from feeling alarmed. Lars produced a bundle of matches from his pocket

and struck a light, dryly remarking, that this was no more than they

knew beforehand.

"Yes, it is," said Knud pacing the floor, "it is more than I knew

before. Now I begin to think that even railroads can be purchased too

dearly."

These words sent a quiver through the audience, and observing that they

had better further consider the matter, Knud made a motion to that

effect.

"In the excitement which had prevailed," he said, "the benefit likely to

be derived from the road had been overestimated. Even if the railroad

did not pass through this parish, there would have to be stations at

both ends of the valley; true, it would always be a little more

troublesome to drive to them than to a station right in our midst; yet

the difficulty would not be so very great that it would be necessary

because of it to violate the repose of the dead."

Knud was one of those who when his thoughts were once in rapid motion

could present the most convincing arguments; a moment before what he now

said had not occurred to his mind, nevertheless it struck home to all.

Lars felt the danger of his position, and concluding that it was best to

be cautious, apparently acquiesced in Knud's proposition to reconsider.

Such emotions are always worse in the beginning, he thought; it is

wisest to temporize with them.

But he had miscalculated. In ever increasing waves the dread of touching

the dead of their own families swept over the inhabitants of the parish;

what none of them had thought of as long as the matter existed merely in

the abstract, now became a serious question when it was brought home to

themselves. The women especially were excited, and the road near the

court-house was black with people the day of the next meeting. It was a

warm summer day, the windows were removed, and there were as many

without the house as within. All felt that a great battle was about to

be fought.

Lars came driving up with his handsome horse, and was greeted by all; he

looked calmly and confidently around, not seeming to be surprised at

anything. He took a seat near the window, found his straw, and a

suspicion of a smile played over his keen face as he saw Knud Aakre rise

to his feet to act as spokesman for all the dead in the old Hoegstad

churchyard.

But Knud Aakre did not begin with the churchyard. He began with an

accurate exposition of how greatly the profits likely to accrue from

having the railroad run through the parish had been overestimated in all

this turmoil. He had positive proofs for every statement he made, for he

had calculated the distance of each gard from the nearest station, and

finally he asked,--

"Why has there been so much ado about this railroad, if not in behalf of

the parish?"

This he could easily explain to them. There were those who had

occasioned so great a disturbance that a still greater one was required

to conceal it. Moreover, there were those who in the first outburst of

excitement could sell their gards and belongings to strangers who were

foolish enough to purchase. It was a shameful speculation which not only

the living but the dead must serve to promote!

The effect of his address was very considerable. But Lars had once for

all resolved to preserve his composure let come what would. He replied,

therefore, with a smile, that he had been under the impression that Knud

himself was eager for the railroad, and certainly no one would accuse

him of having any knowledge of speculation. (Here followed a little

laugh.) Knud had not evinced the slightest objection to the removal of

the bodies of common people for the sake of the railroad; but when his

own grandfather's body was in question then it suddenly affected the

welfare of the whole community! He said no more, but looked with a faint

smile at Knud, as did also several others. Meanwhile, Knud Aakre

surprised both him and them by replying:--

"I confess it; I did not comprehend the matter until it touched my own

family feelings; it is possible that this may be a shame, but it would

have been a far greater one not to have realized it at last--as is the

case with Lars! Never," he concluded, "could this raillery have been

more out of place; for to people with common decency the whole affair is

absolutely revolting."

"This feeling is something that has come up quite recently," replied

Lars, "we may therefore hope that it will soon pass over again. May it

not perhaps help the matter a little to think what the priest, dean,

diocese council, engineers, and government will all say if we first

unanimously set the ball in motion, then come and beg to have it

stopped? If we first are jubilant and sing songs, then weep and deliver

funeral orations? If they do not say that we have gone mad in this

parish, they must at all events say that we have acted rather strangely

of late."

"Yes, God knows, they may well think so!" replied Knud. "We have,

indeed, acted very strangely of late, and it is high time for us to mend

our ways. Things have come to a serious pass when we can each disinter

his own grandfather to make way for a railroad; when we can disturb the

resting-place of the dead in order that our own burdens may the more

easily be carried. For is not this rooting in our churchyard in order to

make it yield us food the same thing? What is buried there in the name

of Jesus, we take up in Moloch's name--this is but little better than

eating the bones of our ancestors."

"Such is the course of nature," said Lars, dryly.

"Yes, of plants and of animals."

"And are not we animals?"

"We are, but also the children of the living God, who have buried our

dead in faith in Him: it is He who shall rouse them and not we."

"Oh, you are talking idly! Are we not obliged to have the graves dug up

at any rate, when their turn comes? What harm is there in having it

happen a few years earlier?"

"I will tell you. What was born of them still draws the breath of life;

what they built up yet remains; what they loved, taught, and suffered

for, lives about us and within us; and should we not allow them to rest

in peace?"

"Your warmth shows me that you are thinking of your own grandfather

again," replied Lars, "and I must say it seems to me high time the

parish should be rid of _him_. He monopolized too much space while he

lived; and so it is scarcely worth while to have him lie in the way now

that he is dead. Should his corpse prevent a blessing to this parish

that would extend through a hundred generations, we may truly say that

of all who have been born here, _he_ has done us the greatest harm."

Knud Aakre tossed back his disorderly hair, his eyes flashed, his whole

person looked like a bent steel spring.

"How much of a blessing what you are speaking about may be, I have

already shown. It has the same character as all the other blessings with

which you have supplied the parish, namely, a doubtful one. It is true,

you have provided us with a new church, but you have also filled it with

a new spirit,--and it is not that of love. True, you have furnished us

with new roads, but also with new roads to destruction, as is now

plainly manifest in the misfortunes of many. True, you have diminished

our public taxes, but you have increased our private ones; lawsuits,

promissory notes, and bankruptcies are no fruitful gifts to a community.

And _you_ dare dishonor in his grave the man whom the whole parish

blesses? You dare assert that he lies in our way; aye, no doubt he does

lie in your way, this is plain enough now, for his grave will be the

cause of your downfall! The spirit which has reigned over you, and until

to-day over us all, was not born to rule but to enter into servitude.

The churchyard will surely be allowed to remain in peace; but to-day it

shall have one grave added to it, namely, that of your popularity which

is now to be buried there."

Lars Hoegstad rose, white as a sheet; his lips parted, but he was unable

to utter a word, and the straw fell. After three or four vain efforts

to find it again and recover his powers of speech, he burst forth like a

volcano with,--

"And so these are the thanks I get for all my toil and drudgery! If such

a woman-preacher is to be allowed to rule--why, then, may the devil be

your chairman if ever I set my foot here again! I have kept things

together until this day, and after me your trash will fall into a

thousand pieces, but let it tumble down now--here is the register!" And

he flung it on the table. "Shame on such an assembly of old women and

brats!" Here he struck the table with great violence. "Shame on the

whole parish that it can see a man rewarded as I am now."

He brought down his fist once more with such force that the great

court-house table shook, and the inkstand with its entire contents

tumbled to the floor, marking for all future generations the spot where

Lars Hoegstad fell in spite of all his prudence, his long rule, and his

patience.

He rushed to the door and in a few moments had left the place. The

entire assembly remained motionless; for the might of his voice and of

his wrath had frightened them, until Knud Aakre, remembering the taunt

he had received at the time of _his_ fall, with beaming countenance and

imitating Lars's voice, exclaimed:--

"Is _this_ to be the decisive blow in the matter?"

The whole assembly burst into peals of merriment at these words! The

solemn meeting ended in laughter, talk, and high glee; only a few left

the place, those remaining behind called for drink to add to their food,

and a night of thunder succeeded a day of lightning. Every one felt as

happy and independent as of yore, ere the commanding spirit of Lars had

cowed their souls into dumb obedience. They drank toasts to their

freedom; they sang, indeed, finally they danced, Knud Aakre and the

vice-chairman taking the lead and all the rest following, while boys and

girls joined in, and the young folks outside shouted "Hurrah!" for such

a jollification they had never before seen!

CHAPTER III.

Lars moved about in the large rooms at Hoegstad, without speaking a

word. His wife, who loved him, but always in fear and trembling, dared

not come into his presence. The management of the gard and of the house

might be carried on as best it could, while on the other hand there kept

growing a multitude of letters, which passed back and forth between

Hoegstad and the parish, and Hoegstad and the post-office; for Lars had

claims against the parish board, and these not being satisfied he

prosecuted; against the savings-bank, which were also unsatisfied, and

so resulted in another suit. He took offense at expressions in the

letters he received and went to law again, now against the chairman of

the parish board, now against the president of the savings-bank. At the

same time there were dreadful articles in the newspapers, which report

attributed to him, and which were the cause of great dissension in the

parish, inciting neighbor against neighbor. Sometimes he was absent

whole weeks, no one knew where, and when he returned he lived as

secluded as before. At church he had not been seen after the great scene

at the representatives' meeting.

Then one Saturday evening the priest brought tidings that the railroad

was to run through the parish after all, and across the old churchyard!

It struck like lightning into every home. The unanimous opposition of

the parish board had been in vain, Lars Hoegstad's influence had been

stronger. This was the meaning of his journeys, this was his work!

Involuntary admiration of the man and his stubborn persistence tended to

suppress the dissatisfaction of the people at their own defeat, and the

more they discussed the matter the more reconciled they became; for a

fact accomplished always contains within itself reasons why it is so,

which gradually force themselves upon us after there is no longer

possibility of change. The people assembled about the church the next

day, and they could not help laughing as they met one another. And just

as the whole congregation, young and old, men and women, aye, even

children, were all talking about Lars Hoegstad, his ability, his rigorous

will, his immense influence, he himself with his whole household came

driving up in four conveyances, one after the other. It was two years

since his last visit there! He alighted and passed through the crowd,

while all, as by one impulse, unhesitatingly greeted him, but he did not

deign to bestow a glance on either side, nor to return a single

salutation. His little wife, pale as death, followed him. Inside of the

church, the astonishment grew to such a pitch that as one after another

caught sight of him they stopped singing and only stared at him. Knud

Aakre, who sat in his pew in front of Lars, noticed that there was

something the matter, and as he perceived nothing remarkable in front of

him, he turned round. He saw Lars bowed over his hymn-book, searching

for the place.

He had not seen him since that evening at the meeting, and such a

complete change he had not believed possible. For this was no victor!

The thin, soft hair was thinner than ever, the face was haggard and

emaciated, the eyes hollow and bloodshot, the giant neck had dwindled

into wrinkles and cords. Knud comprehended at a glance what this man had

gone through; he was seized with a feeling of strong sympathy, indeed,

he felt something of the old love stirring within his breast. He prayed

for Lars to his God, and made a resolute vow that he would seek him

after service; but Lars had started on ahead. Knud resolved to call on

him that evening. His wife, however, held him back.

"Lars is one of those," said she, "who can scarcely bear a debt of

gratitude: keep away from him until he has an opportunity to do you some

favor, and then perhaps he will come to you!"

But he did not come. He appeared now and then at church, but nowhere

else, and he associated with no one. On the other hand, he now devoted

himself to his gard and other business with the passionate zeal of one

who had determined to make amends in one year for the neglect of many;

and, indeed, there were those who said that this was imperative.

Railroad operations in the valley began very soon. As the line was to go

directly past Lars's gard, he tore down the portion of his house that

faced the road, in order to build a large and handsome balcony, for he

was determined that his gard should attract attention. This work was

just being done when the temporary rails for the conveyance of gravel

and timber to the road were laid and a small locomotive was sent to the

spot. It was a beautiful autumn evening that the first gravel car was to

pass over the road. Lars stood on his front steps, to hear the first

signal and to see the first column of smoke; all the people of the gard

were gathered about him. He gazed over the parish, illumined by the

setting sun, and he felt that he would be remembered as long as a train

should come roaring through this fertile valley. A sense of forgiveness

glided into his soul. He looked toward the churchyard, a part of which

still remained, with crosses bowed down to the ground, but a part of it

was now the railroad. He was just endeavoring to define his own feeling

when the first signal whistled, and presently the train came slowly

working its way along, attended by a cloud of smoke, mingled with

sparks, for the locomotive was fed with pine wood. The wind blew toward

the house so that those standing without were soon enveloped in a dense

smoke, but as this cleared away Lars saw the train working its way down

through the valley like a strong will.

He was content, and entered his house like one who has come from a long

day's work. The image of his grandfather stood before him at this

moment. This grandfather had raised the family from poverty to

prosperity; true, a portion of his honor as a citizen was consumed in

the act, but he had advanced nevertheless! His faults were the

prevailing ones of his time: they were based on the uncertain boundary

lines of the moral conceptions of his day. Every age has its uncertain

moral distinctions and its victims to the endeavor to define them

properly.

Honor be to him in his grave, for he had suffered and toiled! Peace be

with him! It must be good to rest in the end. But he was not allowed to

rest because of his grandson's vast ambition; his ashes were thrown up

with the stones and the gravel. Nonsense! he would only smile that his

grandson's work passed over his head.

Amid thoughts like these Lars had undressed and gone to bed. Once more

his grandfather's image glided before him. It was sterner now than the

first time. Weariness enfeebles us, and Lars began to reproach himself.

But he defended himself also. What did his grandfather want? Surely he

ought to be satisfied now, for the family honor was proclaimed in loud

tones above his grave. Who else had such a monument? And yet what is

this? These two monstrous eyes of fire and this hissing, roaring sound

belong no longer to the locomotive, for they turn away from the railroad

track. And from the churchyard straight toward the house comes an

immense procession. The eyes of fire are his grandfather's, and the long

line of followers are all the dead. The train advances steadily toward

the gard, roaring, crackling, flashing. The windows blaze in the

reflection of the dead men's eyes. Lars made a mighty effort to control

himself, for this was a dream, unquestionably but a dream. Only wait

until I am awake! There, now I am awake. Come on, poor ghosts!

And lo! they really did come from the churchyard, overthrowing road,

rails, locomotive and train, so that these fell with a mighty crash to

the ground, and the green sod appeared in their stead, dotted with

graves and crosses as before. Like mighty champions they advanced, and

the hymn, "Let the dead repose in peace!" preceded them. Lars knew it;

for through all these years it had been sighing within his soul, and now

it had become his requiem; for this was death and death's visions. The

cold sweat started out over his whole body, for nearer and nearer--and

behold, on the window pane! there they are now, and he heard some one

speak his name. Overpowered with dread he struggled to scream; for he

was being strangled, a cold hand was clinching his throat and he

regained his voice in an agonized: "Help me!" and awoke. The window had

been broken in from the outside; the pieces flew all about his head. He

sprang up. A man stood at the window, surrounded by smoke and flames.

"The gard is on fire, Lars! We will help you out!"

It was Knud Aakre.

When Lars regained his consciousness, he was lying outside in a bleak

wind, which chilled his limbs. There was not a soul with him; he saw the

flaming gard to the left; around him his cattle were grazing and making

their voices heard; the sheep were huddled together in a frightened

flock; the household goods were scattered about, and when he looked

again he saw some one sitting on a knoll close by, weeping. It was his

wife. He called her by name. She started.

"The Lord Jesus be praised that you are alive!" cried she, coming

forward and seating herself, or rather throwing herself down in front of

him. "O God! O God! We surely have had enough of this railroad now!"

"The railroad?" asked he, but ere the words had escaped his lips, a

clear comprehension of the case passed like a shudder over him; for, of

course, sparks from the locomotive that had fallen among the shavings of

the new side wall had been the cause of the fire. Lars sat there

brooding in silence; his wife, not daring to utter another word, began

to search for his clothes; for what she had spread over him, as he lay

senseless, had fallen off. He accepted her attentions in silence, but as

she knelt before him to cover his feet, he laid his hand on her head.

Falling forward she buried her face in his lap and wept aloud. There

were many who eyed her curiously. But Lars understood her and said,--

"You are the only friend I have."

Even though it had cost the gard to hear these words, it mattered not to

her; she felt so happy that she gained courage, and rising up and

looking humbly into her husband's face, she said,--

"Because there is no one else who understands you."

Then a hard heart melted, and tears rolled down the man's cheeks as he

clung to his wife's hand.

Now he talked to her as to his own soul. Now too she opened to him her

mind. They also talked about how all this had happened, or rather he

listened while she told about it. Knud Aakre had been the first to see

the fire, had roused his people, sent the girls out over his parish,

while he had hastened himself with men and horses to the scene of the

conflagration, where all were sleeping. He had engineered the

extinguishing of the flames and the rescuing of the household goods, and

had himself dragged Lars from the burning room, and carried him to the

left side of the house from where the wind was blowing and had laid him

out here in the churchyard.

And while they were talking of this, some one came driving rapidly up

the road and turned into the churchyard, where he alighted. It was Knud,

who had been home after his church-cart,--the one in which they had so

many times ridden together to and from the meetings of the parish board.

Now he requested Lars to get in and ride home with him. They grasped

each other by the hand, the one sitting, the other standing.

"Come with me now," said Knud.

Without a word of reply, Lars rose. Side by side they walked to the

cart. Lars was helped in; Knud sat down beside him. What they talked

about as they drove along, or afterwards in the little chamber at Aakre,

where they remained together until late in the morning, has never been

known. But from that day they were inseparable as before.

As soon as misfortune overtakes a man, every one learns what he is

worth. And so the parish undertook to rebuild Lars Hoegstad's houses, and

to make them larger and handsomer than any others in the valley. He was

reelected chairman, but with Knud Aakre at his side; he never again

failed to take counsel of Knud's intelligence and heart--and from that

day forth nothing went to ruin.

THROND.

There was once a man named Alf, who had raised great expectations among

his fellow-parishioners because he excelled most of them both in the

work he accomplished and in the advice he gave. Now when this man was

thirty years old, he went to live up the mountain and cleared a piece of

land for farming, about fourteen miles from any settlement. Many people

wondered how he could endure thus depending on himself for

companionship, but they were still more astonished when, a few years

later, a young girl from the valley, and one, too, who had been the

gayest of the gay at all the social gatherings and dances of the parish,

was willing to share his solitude.

This couple were called "the people in the wood," and the man was known

by the name "Alf in the wood." People viewed him with inquisitive eyes

when they met him at church or at work, because they did not understand

him; but neither did he take the trouble to give them any explanation of

his conduct. His wife was only seen in the parish twice, and on one of

these occasions it was to present a child for baptism.

This child was a son, and he was called Thrond. When he grew larger his

parents often talked about needing help, and as they could not afford to

take a full-grown servant, they hired what they called "a half:" they

brought into their house a girl of fourteen, who took care of the boy

while the father and mother were busy in the field.

This girl was not the brightest person in the world, and the boy soon

observed that his mother's words were easy to comprehend, but that it

was hard to get at the meaning of what Ragnhild said. He never talked

much with his father, and he was rather afraid of him, for the house had

to be kept very quiet when he was at home.

One Christmas Eve--they were burning two candles on the table, and the

father was drinking from a white flask--the father took the boy up in

his arms and set him on his lap, looked him sternly in the eyes and

exclaimed,--

"Ugh, boy!" Then he added more gently: "Why, you are not so much afraid.

Would you have the courage to listen to a story?"

The boy made no reply, but he looked full in his father's face. His

father then told him about a man from Vaage, whose name was Blessom.

This man was in Copenhagen for the purpose of getting the king's verdict

in a law-suit he was engaged in, and he was detained so long that

Christmas Eve overtook him there. Blessom was greatly annoyed at this,

and as he was sauntering about the streets fancying himself at home, he

saw a very large man, in a white, short coat, walking in front of him.

"How fast you are walking!" said Blessom.

"I have a long distance to go in order to get home this evening,"

replied the man.

"Where are you going?"

"To Vaage," answered the man, and walked on.

"Why, that is very nice," said Blessom, "for that is where I was going,

too."

"Well, then, you may ride with me, if you will stand on the runners of

my sledge," answered the man, and turned into a side street where his

horse was standing.

He mounted his seat and looked over his shoulder at Blessom, who was

just getting on the runners.

"You had better hold fast," said the stranger.

Blessom did as he was told, and it was well he did, for their journey

was evidently not by land.

"It seems to me that you are driving on the water," cried Blessom.

"I am," said the man, and the spray whirled about them.

But after a while it seemed to Blessom their course no longer lay on the

water.

"It seems to me we are moving through the air," said he.

"Yes, so we are," replied the stranger.

But when they had gone still farther, Blessom thought he recognized the

parish they were driving through.

"Is not this Vaage?" cried he.

"Yes, now we are there," replied the stranger, and it seemed to Blessom

that they had gone pretty fast.

"Thank you for the good ride," said he.

"Thanks to yourself," replied the man, and added, as he whipped up his

horse, "Now you had better not look after me."

"No, indeed," thought Blessom, and started over the hills for home.

But just then so loud and terrible a crash was heard behind him that it

seemed as if the whole mountain must be tumbling down, and a bright

light was shed over the surrounding landscape; he looked round and

beheld the stranger in the white coat driving through the crackling

flames into the open mountain, which was yawning wide to receive him,

like some huge gate. Blessom felt somewhat strange in regard to his

traveling companion; and thought he would look in another direction; but

as he had turned his head so it remained, and never more could Blessom

get it straight again.

The boy had never heard anything to equal this in all his life. He dared

not ask his father for more, but early the next morning he asked his

mother if she knew any stories. Yes, of course she did; but hers were

chiefly about princesses who were in captivity for seven years, until

the right prince came along. The boy believed that everything he heard

or read about took place close around him.

He was about eight years old when the first stranger entered their door

one winter evening. He had black hair, and this was something Thrond had

never seen before. The stranger saluted them with a short

"Good-evening!" and came forward. Thrond grew frightened and sat down on

a cricket by the hearth. The mother asked the man to take a seat on the

bench along the wall; he did so, and then the mother could examine his

face more closely.

"Dear me! is not this Knud the fiddler?" cried she.

"Yes, to be sure it is. It has been a long time since I played at your

wedding."

"Oh, yes; it is quite a while now. Have you been on a long journey?"

"I have been playing for Christmas, on the other side of the mountain.

But half way down the slope I began to feel very badly, and I was

obliged to come in here to rest."

The mother brought forward food for him; he sat down to the table, but

did not say "in the name of Jesus," as the boy had been accustomed to

hear. When he had finished eating, he got up from the table, and said,--

"Now I feel very comfortable; let me rest a little while."

And he was allowed to rest on Thrond's bed.

For Thrond a bed was made on the floor. As the boy lay there, he felt

cold on the side that was turned away from the fire, and that was the

left side. He discovered that it was because this side was exposed to

the chill night air; for he was lying out in the wood. How came he in

the wood? He got up and looked about him, and saw that there was fire

burning a long distance off, and that he was actually alone in the wood.

He longed to go home to the fire; but could not stir from the spot. Then

a great fear overcame him; for wild beasts might be roaming about,

trolls and ghosts might appear to him; he must get home to the fire;

but he could not stir from the spot. Then his terror grew, he strove

with all his might to gain self-control, and was at last able to cry,

"Mother," and then he awoke.

"Dear child, you have had bad dreams," said she, and took him up.

A shudder ran through him, and he glanced round. The stranger was gone,

and he dared not inquire after him.

His mother appeared in her black dress, and started for the parish. She

came home with two new strangers, who also had black hair and who wore

flat caps. They did not say "in the name of Jesus," when they ate, and

they talked in low tones with the father. Afterward the latter and they

went into the barn, and came out again with a large box, which the men

carried between them. They placed it on a sled, and said farewell. Then

the mother said:--

"Wait a little, and take with you the smaller box he brought here with

him."

And she went in to get it. But one of the men said,--

"_He_ can have that," and he pointed at Thrond.

"Use it as well as _he_ who is now lying _here_," added the other

stranger, pointing at the large box.

Then they both laughed and went on. Thrond looked at the little box

which thus came into his possession.

"What is there in it?" asked he.

"Carry it in and find out," said the mother.

He did as he was told, but his mother helped him open it. Then a great

joy lighted up his face; for he saw something very light and fine lying

there.

"Take it up," said his mother.

He put just one finger down on it, but quickly drew it back again, in

great alarm.

"It cries," said he.

"Have courage," said his mother, and he grasped it with his whole hand

and drew it forth from the box.

He weighed it and turned it round, he laughed and felt of it.

"Dear me! what is it?" asked he, for it was as light as a toy.

"It is a fiddle."

This was the way that Thrond Alfson got his first violin.

The father could play a little, and he taught the boy how to handle the

instrument; the mother could sing the tunes she remembered from her

dancing days, and these the boy learned, but soon began to make new ones

for himself. He played all the time he was not at his books; he played

until his father once told him he was fading away before his eyes. All

the boy had read and heard until that time was put into the fiddle. The

tender, delicate string was his mother; the one that lay close beside

it, and always accompanied his mother, was Ragnhild. The coarse string,

which he seldom ventured to play on, was his father. But of the last

solemn string he was half afraid, and he gave no name to it. When he

played a wrong note on the E string, it was the cat; but when he took a

wrong note on his father's string, it was the ox. The bow was Blessom,

who drove from Copenhagen to Vaage in one night. And every tune he

played represented something. The one containing the long solemn tones

was his mother in her black dress. The one that jerked and skipped was

like Moses, who stuttered and smote the rock with his staff. The one

that had to be played quietly, with the bow moving lightly over the

strings, was the hulder in yonder fog, calling together her cattle,

where no one but herself could see.

But the music wafted him onward over the mountains, and a great yearning

took possession of his soul. One day when his father told about a little

boy who had been playing at the fair and who had earned a great deal of

money, Thrond waited for his mother in the kitchen and asked her softly

if he could not go to the fair and play for people.

"Who ever heard of such a thing!" said his mother; but she immediately

spoke to his father about it.

"He will get out into the world soon enough," answered the father; and

he spoke in such a way that the mother did not ask again.

Shortly after this, the father and mother were talking at table about

some new settlers who had recently moved up on the mountain and were

about to be married. They had no fiddler for the wedding, the father

said.

"Could not I be the fiddler?" whispered the boy, when he was alone in

the kitchen once more with his mother.

"What, a little boy like you?" said she; but she went out to the barn

where his father was and told him about it.

"He has never been in the parish," she added, "he has never seen a

church."

"I should not think you would ask about such things," said Alf; but

neither did he say anything more, and so the mother thought she had

permission. Consequently she went over to the new settlers and offered

the boy's services.

"The way he plays," said she, "no little boy has ever played before;"

and the boy was to be allowed to come.

What joy there was at home! Thrond played from morning until evening and

practiced new tunes; at night he dreamed about them: they bore him far

over the hills, away to foreign lands, as though he were afloat on

sailing clouds. His mother made a new suit of clothes for him; but his

father would not take part in what was going on.

The last night he did not sleep, but thought out a new tune about the

church which he had never seen. He was up early in the morning, and so

was his mother, in order to get him his breakfast, but he could not eat.

He put on his new clothes and took his fiddle in his hand, and it seemed

to him as though a bright light were glowing before his eyes. His mother

accompanied him out on the flag-stone, and stood watching him as he

ascended the slopes;--it was the first time he had left home.

His father got quietly out of bed and walked to the window; he stood

there following the boy with his eyes until he heard the mother out on

the flag-stone, then he went back to bed and was lying down when she

came in.

She kept stirring about him, as if she wanted to relieve her mind of

something. And finally it came out:--

"I really think I must walk down to the church and see how things are

going."

He made no reply, and therefore she considered the matter settled,

dressed herself and started.

* * * * *

It was a glorious, sunny day, the boy walked rapidly onward; he listened

to the song of the birds and saw the sun glittering among the foliage,

while he proceeded on his way, with his fiddle under his arm. And when

he reached the bride's house, he was still so occupied with his own

thoughts, that he observed neither the bridal splendor nor the

procession; he merely asked if they were about to start, and learned

that they were. He walked on in advance with his fiddle, and he played

the whole morning into it, and the tones he produced resounded through

the trees.

"Will we soon see the church?" he asked over his shoulder.

For a long time he received only "No" for an answer, but at last some

one said:

"As soon as you reach that crag yonder, you will see it."

He threw his newest tune into the fiddle, the bow danced on the strings,

and he kept his eyes fixed intently before him. There lay the parish

right in front of him!

The first thing he saw was a little light mist, curling like smoke on

the opposite mountain side. His eyes wandered over the green meadow and

the large houses, with windows which glistened beneath the scorching

rays of the sun, like the glacier on a winter's day. The houses kept

increasing in size, the windows in number, and here on one side of him

lay the enormous red house, in front of which horses were tied; little

children were playing on a hill, dogs were sitting watching them. But

everywhere there penetrated a long, heavy tone, that shook him from head

to foot, and everything he saw seemed to vibrate with that tone. Then

suddenly he saw a large, straight house, with a tall, glittering staff

reaching up to the skies. And below, a hundred windows blazed, so that

the house seemed to be enveloped in flames. This must be the church, the

boy thought, and the music must come from it! Round about stood a vast

multitude of people, and they all looked alike! He put them forthwith

into relations with the church, and thus acquired a respect mingled with

awe for the smallest child he saw.

"Now I must play," thought Thrond, and tried to do so.

But what was this? The fiddle had no longer any sound in it. There must

be some defect in the strings; he examined, but could find none.

"Then it must be because I do not press on hard enough," and he drew his

bow with a firmer hand; but the fiddle seemed as if it were cracked.

He changed the tune that was meant to represent the church into another,

but with equally bad results; no music was produced, only squeaking and

wailing. He felt the cold sweat start out over his face, he thought of

all these wise people who were standing here and perhaps laughing him to

scorn, this boy who at home could play so beautifully but who here

failed to bring out a single tone!

"Thank God that mother is not here to see my shame!" said he softly to

himself, as he played among the people; but lo! there she stood, in her

black dress, and she shrank farther and farther away.

At that moment he beheld far up on the spire, the black-haired man who

had given him the fiddle. "Give it back to me," he now shouted, laughing

and stretching out his arms, and the spire went up and down with him, up

and down. But the boy took the fiddle under one arm, screaming, "You

shall not have it!" and turning, ran away from the people, beyond the

houses, onward through meadow and field, until his strength forsook him,

and then sank to the ground.

There he lay for a long time, with his face toward the earth, and when

finally he looked round he saw and heard only God's infinite blue sky

that floated above him, with its everlasting sough. This was so terrible

to him that he had to turn his face to the ground again. When he raised

his head once more his eyes fell on his fiddle, which lay at his side.

"This is all your fault!" shouted the boy, and seized the instrument

with the intention of dashing it to pieces, but hesitated as he looked

at it.

"We have had many a happy hour together," said he, then paused.

Presently he said: "The strings must be severed, for they are

worthless." And he took out a knife and cut. "Oh!" cried the E string,

in a short, pained tone. The boy cut. "Oh!" wailed the next; but the boy

cut. "Oh!" said the third, mournfully; and he paused at the fourth. A

sharp pain seized him; that fourth string, to which he never dared give

a name, he did not cut. Now a feeling came over him that it was not the

fault of the strings that he was unable to play, and just then he saw

his mother walking slowly up the slope toward where he was lying, that

she might take him home with her. A greater fright than ever overcame

him; he held the fiddle by the severed strings, sprang to his feet, and

shouted down to her,--

"No, mother! I will not go home again until I can play what I have seen

to-day."

A DANGEROUS WOOING.

When Aslaug had become a grown-up girl, there was not much peace to be

had at Huseby; for there the finest boys in the parish quarreled and

fought night after night. It was worst of all on Saturday nights; but

then old Knud Huseby never went to bed without keeping his leather

breeches on, nor without having a birch stick by his bedside.

"If I have a daughter, I shall look after her, too," said old Huseby.

Thore Naeset was only a houseman's son; nevertheless there were those who

said that he was the one who came oftenest to see the gardman's daughter

at Huseby. Old Knud did not like this, and declared also that it was not

true, "for he had never seen him there." But people smiled slyly among

themselves, and thought that had he searched in the corners of the room

instead of fighting with all those who were making a noise and uproar in

the middle of the floor, he would have found Thore.

Spring came and Aslaug went to the saeter with the cattle. Then, when

the day was warm down in the valley, and the mountain rose cool above

the haze, and when the bells tinkled, the shepherd dog barked, and

Aslaug sang and blew the loor on the mountain side, then the hearts of

the young fellows who were at work down on the meadow would ache, and

the first Saturday night they all started up to the mountain saeter, one

faster than the other. But still more rapidly did they come down again,

for behind the door at the saeter there stood one who received each of

them as he came, and gave him so sound a whipping that he forever

afterward remembered the threat that followed it,--

"Come again another time and you shall have some more."

According to what these young fellows knew, there was only one in the

parish who could use his fists in this way, and that was Thore Naeset.

And these rich gardmen's sons thought it was a shame that this

houseman's son should cut them all out at the Huseby saeter.

So thought, also, old Knud, when the matter reached his ears, and said,

moreover, that if there was nobody else who could tackle Thore, then he

and his sons would try it. Knud, it is true, was growing old, but

although he was nearly sixty, he would at times have a wrestle or two

with his eldest son, when it was too dull for him at some party or

other.

Up to the Huseby saeter there was but one road, and that led straight

through the gard. The next Saturday evening, as Thore was going to the

saeter, and was stealing on his tiptoes across the yard, a man rushed

right at his breast as he came near the barn.

"What do you want of me?" said Thore, and knocked his assailant flat on

the ground.

"That you shall soon find out," said another fellow from behind, giving

Thore a blow on the back of the head. This was the brother of the former

assailant.

"Here comes the third," said old Knud, rushing forward to join the fray.

The danger made Thore stronger. He was as limber as a willow and his

blows left their marks. He dodged from one side to the other. Where the

blows fell he was not, and where his opponents least expected blows from

him, they got them. He was, however, at last completely beaten; but old

Knud frequently said afterwards that a stouter fellow he had scarcely

ever tackled. The fight was continued until blood flowed, but then

Huseby cried,--

"Stop!" and added, "If you can manage to get by the Huseby wolf and his

cubs next Saturday night, the girl shall be yours."

Thore dragged himself homeward as best he could; and as soon as he got

home he went to bed.

At Huseby there was much talk about the fight; but everybody said,--

"What did he want there?"

There was one, however, who did not say so, and that was Aslaug. She had

expected Thore that Saturday night, and when she heard what had taken

place between him and her father, she sat down and had a good cry,

saying to herself,--

"If I cannot have Thore, there will never be another happy day for me in

this world."

Thore had to keep his bed all day Sunday; and Monday, too, he felt that

he must do the same. Tuesday came, and it was such a beautiful day. It

had rained during the night. The mountain was wet and green. The

fragrance of the leaves was wafted in through the open window; down the

mountain sides came the sound of the cow-bells, and some one was heard

singing up in the glen. Had it not been for his mother, who was sitting

in the room, Thore would have wept from impatient vexation.

Wednesday came and still Thore was in bed; but on Thursday he began to

wonder whether he could not get well by Saturday; and on Friday he rose.

He remembered well the words Aslaug's father had spoken: "If you can

manage to get by the Huseby wolf and his cubs next Saturday, the girl

shall be yours." He looked over toward the Huseby saeter again and again.

"I cannot get more than another thrashing," thought Thore.

Up to the Huseby saeter there was but one road, as before stated; but a

clever fellow might manage to get there, even if he did not take the

beaten track. If he rowed out on the fjord below, and past the little

tongue of land yonder, and thus reached the other side of the mountain,

he might contrive to climb it, though it was so steep that a goat could

scarcely venture there--and a goat is not very apt to be timid in

climbing the mountains, you know.

Saturday came, and Thore stayed without doors all day long. The sunlight

played upon the foliage, and every now and then an alluring song was

heard from the mountains. As evening drew near, and the mist was

stealing up the slope, he was still sitting outside of the door. He

looked up the mountain, and all was still. He looked over toward the

Huseby gard. Then he pushed out his boat and rowed round the point of

land.

Up at the saeter sat Aslaug, through with her day's work. She was

thinking that Thore would not come this evening, but that there would

come all the more in his stead. Presently she let loose the dog, but

told no one whither she was going. She seated herself where she could

look down into the valley; but a dense fog was rising, and, moreover,

she felt little disposed to look down that way, for everything reminded

her of what had occurred. So she moved, and without thinking what she

was doing, she happened to go over to the other side of the mountain,

and there she sat down and gazed out over the sea. There was so much

peace in this far-reaching sea-view!

Then she felt like singing. She chose a song with long notes, and the

music sounded far into the still night. She felt gladdened by it, and so

she sang another verse. But then it seemed to her as if some one

answered her from the glen far below. "Dear me, what can that be?"

thought Aslaug. She went forward to the brink of the precipice, and

threw her arms around a slender birch, which hung trembling over the

steep. She looked down but saw nothing. The fjord lay silent and calm.

Not even a bird ruffled its smooth surface. Aslaug sat down and began

singing again. Then she was sure that some one responded with the same

tune and nearer than the first time. "It must be somebody, after all."

Aslaug sprang up and bent out over the brink of the steep; and there,

down at the foot of a rocky wall, she saw a boat moored, and it was so

far down that it appeared like a tiny shell. She looked a little farther

up, and her eyes fell on a red cap, and under the cap she saw a young

man, who was working his way up the almost perpendicular side of the

mountain. "Dear me, who can that be?" asked Aslaug, as she let go of the

birch and sprang far back.

She dared not answer her own question, for she knew very well who it

was. She threw herself down on the greensward and took hold of the grass

with both hands, as though it were _she_ who must not let go her hold.

But the grass came up by the roots.

She cried aloud and prayed God to help Thore. But then it struck her

that this conduct of Thore's was really tempting God, and therefore no

help could be expected.

"Just this once!" she implored.

And she threw her arms around the dog, as if it were Thore she were

keeping from loosing his hold. She rolled over the grass with him, and

the moments seemed years. But then the dog tore himself away. "Bow-bow,"

he barked over the brink of the steep and wagged his tail. "Bow-wow," he

barked at Aslaug, and threw his forepaws up on her. "Bow-wow," over the

precipice again; and a red cap appeared over the brow of the mountain

and Thore lay in her arms.

Now when old Knud Huseby heard of this, he made a very sensible remark,

for he said,--

"That boy is worth having; the girl shall be his."

THE BEAR HUNTER.

A worse boy to tell lies than the priest's oldest son could scarcely be

found in the whole parish; he was also a very good reader; there was no

lack on that score, and what he read the peasants were glad to hear, but

when it was something they were well pleased with, he would make up more

of the same kind, as much as he thought they wanted. His own stories

were mostly about strong men and about love.

Soon the priest noticed that the threshing up in the barn was being done

in a more and more lazy manner; he went to see what the matter was, and

behold it was Thorvald, who stood there telling stories. Soon the

quantity of wood brought home from the forest became wonderfully small;

he went to see what the trouble was, and there stood Thorvald again,

telling stories. There must be an end to this, thought the priest; and

he sent the boy to the nearest school.

Only peasant children attended this school, but the priest thought it

would be too expensive to keep a private tutor for this one boy. But

Thorvald had not been a week among the scholars, before one of his

schoolmates came in pale as a corpse, and said he had met some of the

underground folk coming along the road. Another boy, still paler,

followed, and said that he had actually seen a man without a head

walking about and moving the boats down by the landing-place. And what

was worst of all, little Knud Pladsen and his young sister, one evening,

as they were returning home from school, came running back, almost out

of their senses, crying, and declaring that they had heard the bear up

near the parsonage; nay, little Marit had even seen his gray eyes

sparkle. But now the school-master got terribly angry, struck the table

with his ferule, and asked what the deuce--God pardon me my wicked

sin--had gotten into the school-children.

"One is growing more crazy than the other," said he. "There lurks a

hulder in every bush; there sits a merman under every boat; the bear is

out in midwinter! Have you no more faith in your God or in your

catechism," quoth he, "or do you believe in all kinds of deviltry, and

in all the terrible powers of darkness, and in bears roaming about in

the middle of winter?"

But then he calmed down somewhat after a while, and asked little Marit

whether she really did not dare to go home. The child sobbed and cried,

and declared that it was utterly impossible. The school-master then said

that Thorvald, who was the eldest of those remaining, should go with her

through the wood.

"No, he has seen the bear himself," cried Marit; "it was he who told us

about it."

Thorvald shrank within himself, where he was sitting, especially when

the school-master looked at him and drew the ferule affectionately

through his left hand.

"Have you seen the bear?" he asked, quietly.

"Well, at any rate, I know," said Thorvald, "that our overseer found a

bear's den up in the priest's wood, the day he was out ptarmigan

shooting."

"But have you seen the bear yourself?"

"It was not one, it was two large ones, and perhaps there were two

smaller ones besides, as the old ones generally have their last year's

cubs and this year's, too, with them."

"But have _you_ seen them?" reiterated the school-master, still more

mildly, as he kept drawing the ferule between his fingers.

Thorvald was silent for a moment.

"I saw the bear that Lars, the hunter, felled last year, at any rate."

Then the school-master came a step nearer, and asked, so pleasantly that

the boy became frightened,--

"Have you seen the bears up in the parsonage wood, I ask?"

Thorvald did not say another word.

"Perhaps your memory did not serve you quite right this time?" said the

school-master, taking the boy by the jacket collar and striking his own

side with the ferule.

Thorvald did not say a word; the other children dared not look that way.

Then the school-master said earnestly,--

"It is wicked for a priest's son to tell lies, and still more wicked to

teach the poor peasant children to do such things."

And so the boy escaped for that time.

But the next day at school (the teacher had been called up to the

priest's and the children were left to themselves) Marit was the first

one to ask Thorvald to tell her something about the bear again.

"But you get so frightened," said he.

"Oh, I think I will have to stand it," said she, and moved closer to her

brother.

"Ah, now you had better believe it will be shot!" said Thorvald, and

nodded his head. "There has come a fellow to the parish who is able to

shoot it. No sooner had Lars, the hunter, heard about the bear's den up

in the parsonage wood, than he came running through seven whole parishes

with a rifle as heavy as the upper mill-stone, and as long as from here

to Hans Volden, who sits yonder."

"Mercy!" cried all the children.

"As long?" repeated Thorvald; "yes, it is certainly as long as from here

to yonder bench."

"Have you seen it?" asked Ole Boeen.

"Have I seen it, do you say? Why, I have been helping to clean it, and

that is what Lars will not allow everybody to do, let me tell you. Of

course _I_ could not lift it, but that made no difference; I only

cleaned the lock, and that is not the easiest work, I can tell you."

"People say that gun of Lars's has taken to missing its mark of late,"

said Hans Volden, leaning back, with both his feet on the desk. "Ever

since that time when Lars shot, up at Osmark, at a bear that was asleep,

it misses fire twice and misses the mark the third time."

"Yes, ever since he shot at a bear that was asleep," chimed in the

girls.

"The fool!" added the boys.

"There is only one way in which this difficulty with the rifle can be

remedied," said Ole Boeen, "and that is to thrust a living snake down its

barrel."

"Yes, we all know that," said the girls. They wanted to hear something

new.

"It is now winter, and snakes are not to be found, and so Lars cannot

depend very much upon his rifle," said Hans Volden, thoughtfully.

"He wants Niels Boeen along with him, does he not?" asked Thorvald.

"Yes," said the boy from Boeen's, who was, of course, best posted in

regard to this; "but Niels will get permission neither from his mother

nor from his sister. His father certainly died from the wrestle he had

with the bear up at the saeter last year, and now they have no one but

Niels."

"Is it so dangerous, then?" asked a little boy.

"Dangerous?" cried Thorvald. "The bear has as much sense as ten men, and

as much strength as twelve."

"Yes, we know that," said the girls once more. They were bent on hearing

something new.

"But Niels is like his father; I dare say he will go along," continued

Thorvald.

"Of course he will go along," said Ole Boeen; "this morning early, before

any one was stirring over yonder at our gard, I saw Niels Boeen, Lars the

hunter, and one man more, going up the mountain with their rifles. I

should not be surprised if they were going to the parsonage wood."

"Was it early?" asked the children, in concert.

"Very early! I was up before mother, and started the fire."

"Did Lars have the long rifle?" asked Hans.

"That I do not know, but the one he had was as long as from here to the

chair."

"Oh, what a story!" said Thorvald.

"Why, you said so yourself," answered Ole.

"No, the long rifle which I saw, he will scarcely use any more."

"Well, this one was, at all events, as long--as long--as from here,

nearly over to the chair."

"Ah! perhaps he had it with him then after all."

"Just think," said Marit, "now they are up among the bears."

"And at this very moment they may be in a fight," said Thorvald.

Then followed a deep, nay, almost solemn silence.

"I think I will go," said Thorvald, taking his cap.

"Yes! yes! then you will find out something," shouted all the rest, and

they became full of life again.

"But the school-master?" said he, and stopped.

"Nonsense! you are the priest's son," said Ole Boeen.

"Yes, if the school-master touches me with a finger!" said Thorvald,

with a significant nod, in the midst of the deep silence of the rest.

"Will you hit him back?" asked they, eagerly.

"Who knows?" said Thorvald, nodding, and went away.

They thought it best to study while he was gone, but none of them were

able to do so,--they had to keep talking about the bear. They began

guessing how the affair would turn out. Hans bet with Ole that Lars's

rifle had missed fire, and that the bear had sprung at him. Little Knud

Pladsen thought they had all fared badly, and the girls took his side.

But there came Thorvald.

"Let us go," said he, as he pulled open the door, so excited that he

could scarcely speak.

"But the school-master?" asked some of the children.

"The deuce take the school-master! The bear! The bear!" cried Thorvald,

and could say no more.

"Is it shot?" asked one, very softly, and the others dared not draw

their breath.

Thorvald sat panting for a while, finally he got up, mounted one of the

benches, swung his cap, and shouted,--

"Let us go, I say. I will take all the responsibility."

"But where shall we go?" asked Hans.

"The largest bear has been borne down, the others still remain. Niels

Boeen has been badly hurt, because Lars's rifle missed its mark, and the

bears rushed straight at them. The boy who went with them saved himself

only by throwing himself flat on the ground, and pretending to be dead,

and the bear did not touch him. As soon as Lars and Niels had killed

their bear, they shot his also. Hurrah!"

"Hurrah!" shouted all, both girls and boys, and up from their seats, and

out through the door, they sprang, and off they ran over field and wood

to Boeen, as though there was no such thing as a school-master in the

whole world.

The girls soon complained that they were not able to keep up, but the

boys took them by the hand and away they all rushed.

"Take care not to touch it!" said Thorvald; "it sometimes happens that

the bears become alive again."

"Is that so?" asked Marit.

"Yes, and they appear in a new form, so have a care!"

And they kept running.

"Lars shot the largest one ten times before it fell," he began again.

"Just think! ten times!"

And they kept running.

"And Niels stabbed it eighteen times with his knife before it fell!"

"Mercy! what a bear!"

And the children ran so that the sweat poured down from their faces.

Finally they reached the place. Ole Boeen pushed the door open and got in

first.

"Have a care!" cried Hans after him.

Marit and a little girl that Thorvald and Hans had led between them,

were the next ones, and then came Thorvald, who did not go far forward,

but remained standing where he could observe the whole scene.

"See the blood!" said he to Hans.

The others hardly knew whether they should venture in just yet.

"Do you see it?" asked a girl of a boy, who stood by her side in the

door.

"Yes, it is as large as the captain's large horse," answered he, and

went on talking to her. It was bound with iron chains, he said, and had

even broken the one that had been put about its fore-legs. He could see

distinctly that it was alive, and the blood was flowing from it like a

waterfall.

Of course, this was not true; but they forgot that when they caught

sight of the bear, the rifle, and Niels, who sat there with bandaged

wounds after the fight with the bear, and when they heard old Lars the

hunter tell how all had happened. So eagerly, and with so much interest

did they look and listen, that they did not observe that some one came

behind them who also began to tell his story, and that in the following

manner:--

"I will teach you to leave the school without my permission, that I

will!"

A cry of fright arose from the whole crowd, and out through the door,

through the veranda, and out into the yard they ran. Soon they appeared

like a lot of black balls, rolling one by one, over the snow-white

field, and when the school-master on his old legs followed them to the

school-house, he could hear the children reading from afar off; they

read until the walls fairly rattled.

Aye, that was a glorious day, the day when the bear-hunter came home! It

began in sunshine and ended in rain, but such days are usually the best

growing days.

THE FATHER.

The man whose story is here to be told was the wealthiest and most

influential person in his parish; his name was Thord Oeveraas. He

appeared in the priest's study one day, tall and earnest.

"I have gotten a son," said he, "and I wish to present him for baptism."

"What shall his name be?"

"Finn,--after my father."

"And the sponsors?"

They were mentioned, and proved to be the best men and women of Thord's

relations in the parish.

"Is there anything else?" inquired the priest, and looked up.

The peasant hesitated a little.

"I should like very much to have him baptized by himself," said he,

finally.

"That is to say on a week-day?"

"Next Saturday, at twelve o'clock noon."

"Is there anything else?" inquired the priest.

"There is nothing else;" and the peasant twirled his cap, as though he

were about to go.

Then the priest rose. "There is yet this, however," said he, and walking

toward Thord, he took him by the hand and looked gravely into his eyes:

"God grant that the child may become a blessing to you!"

One day sixteen years later, Thord stood once more in the priest's

study.

"Really, you carry your age astonishingly well, Thord," said the priest;

for he saw no change whatever in the man.

"That is because I have no troubles," replied Thord.

To this the priest said nothing, but after a while he asked: "What is

your pleasure this evening?"

"I have come this evening about that son of mine who is to be confirmed

to-morrow."

"He is a bright boy."

"I did not wish to pay the priest until I heard what number the boy

would have when he takes his place in church to-morrow."

"He will stand number one."

"So I have heard; and here are ten dollars for the priest."

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" inquired the priest, fixing

his eyes on Thord.

"There is nothing else."

Thord went out.

Eight years more rolled by, and then one day a noise was heard outside

of the priest's study, for many men were approaching, and at their head

was Thord, who entered first.

The priest looked up and recognized him.

"You come well attended this evening, Thord," said he.

"I am here to request that the bans may be published for my son: he is

about to marry Karen Storliden, daughter of Gudmund, who stands here

beside me."

"Why, that is the richest girl in the parish."

"So they say," replied the peasant, stroking back his hair with one

hand.

The priest sat a while as if in deep thought, then entered the names in

his book, without making any comments, and the men wrote their

signatures underneath. Thord laid three dollars on the table.

"One is all I am to have," said the priest.

"I know that very well; but he is my only child, I want to do it

handsomely."

The priest took the money.

"This is now the third time, Thord, that you have come here on your

son's account."

"But now I am through with him," said Thord, and folding up his

pocket-book he said farewell and walked away.

The men slowly followed him.

A fortnight later, the father and son were rowing across the lake, one

calm, still day, to Storliden to make arrangements for the wedding.

"This thwart is not secure," said the son, and stood up to straighten

the seat on which he was sitting.

At the same moment the board he was standing on slipped from under him;

he threw out his arms, uttered a shriek, and fell overboard.

"Take hold of the oar!" shouted the father, springing to his feet and

holding out the oar.

But when the son had made a couple of efforts he grew stiff.

"Wait a moment!" cried the father, and began to row toward his son.

Then the son rolled over on his back, gave his father one long look, and

sank.

Thord could scarcely believe it; he held the boat still, and stared at

the spot where his son had gone down, as though he must surely come to

the surface again. There rose some bubbles, then some more, and finally

one large one that burst; and the lake lay there as smooth and bright as

a mirror again.

For three days and three nights people saw the father rowing round and

round the spot, without taking either food or sleep; he was dragging the

lake for the body of his son. And toward morning of the third day he

found it, and carried it in his arms up over the hills to his gard.

It might have been about a year from that day, when the priest, late one

autumn evening, heard some one in the passage outside of the door,

carefully trying to find the latch. The priest opened the door, and in

walked a tall, thin man, with bowed form and white hair. The priest

looked long at him before he recognized him. It was Thord.

"Are you out walking so late?" said the priest, and stood still in

front of him.

"Ah, yes! it is late," said Thord, and took a seat.

The priest sat down also, as though waiting. A long, long silence

followed. At last Thord said,--

"I have something with me that I should like to give to the poor; I want

it to be in vested as a legacy in my son's name."

He rose, laid some money on the table, and sat down again. The priest

counted it.

"It is a great deal of money," said he.

"It is half the price of my gard. I sold it to-day."

The priest sat long in silence. At last he asked, but gently,--

"What do you propose to do now, Thord?"

"Something better."

They sat there for a while, Thord with downcast eyes, the priest with

his eyes fixed on Thord. Presently the priest said, slowly and

softly,--

"I think your son has at last brought you a true blessing."

"Yes, I think so myself," said Thord, looking up, while two big tears

coursed slowly down his cheeks.

THE EAGLE'S NEST.

The Endregards was the name of a small solitary parish, surrounded by

lofty mountains. It lay in a flat and fertile valley, and was

intersected by a broad river that flowed down from the mountains. This

river emptied into a lake, which was situated close by the parish, and

presented a fine view of the surrounding country.

Up the Endre-Lake the man had come rowing, who had first cleared this

valley; his name was Endre, and it was his descendants who dwelt here.

Some said he had fled hither on account of a murder he had committed,

and that was why his family were so dark; others said this was on

account of the mountains, which shut out the sun at five o'clock of a

midsummer afternoon.

Over this parish there hung an eagle's nest. It was built on a cliff far

up the mountains; all could see the mother eagle alight in her nest, but

no one could reach it. The male eagle went sailing over the parish, now

swooping down after a lamb, now after a kid; once he had also taken a

little child and borne it away; therefore there was no safety in the

parish as long as the eagle had a nest in this mountain. There was a

tradition among the people, that in old times there were two brothers

who had climbed up to the nest and torn it down; but nowadays there was

no one who was able to reach it.

Whenever two met at the Endregards, they talked about the eagle's nest,

and looked up. Every one knew, when the eagles reappeared in the new

year, where they had swooped down and done mischief, and who had last

endeavored to reach the nest. The youth of the place, from early

boyhood, practiced climbing mountains and trees, wrestling and

scuffling, in order that one day they might reach the cliff and demolish

the nest, as those two brothers had done.

At the time of which this story tells, the best boy at the Endregards

was named Leif, and he was not of the Endre family. He had curly hair

and small eyes, was clever in all play, and was fond of the fair sex. He

early said of himself, that one day he would reach the eagle's nest; but

old people remarked that he should not have said so aloud.

This annoyed him, and even before he had reached his prime he made the

ascent. It was one bright Sunday forenoon, early in the summer; the

young eagles must be just about hatched. A vast multitude of people had

gathered together at the foot of the mountain to behold the feat; the

old people advising him against attempting it, the young ones urging him

on.

But he hearkened only to his own desires, and waiting until the mother

eagle left her nest, he gave one spring into the air, and hung in a tree

several yards from the ground. The tree grew in a cleft in the rock, and

from this cleft he began to climb upward. Small stones loosened under

his feet, earth and gravel came rolling down, otherwise all was still,

save for the stream flowing behind, with its suppressed, ceaseless

murmur. Soon he had reached a point where the mountain began to project;

here he hung long by one hand, while his foot groped for a sure

resting-place, for he could not see. Many, especially women, turned

away, saying he would never have done this had he had parents living. He

found footing at last, however sought again, now with the hand, now with

the foot, failed, slipped, then hung fast again. They who stood below

could hear one another breathing.

Suddenly there rose to her feet, a tall, young girl, who had been

sitting on a stone apart from the rest; it was said that she had been

betrothed to Leif from early childhood, although he was not of her

kindred. Stretching out her arms she called aloud: "Leif, Leif, why do

you do this?" Every eye was turned on her. Her father, who was standing

close by, gave her a stern look, but she heeded him not. "Come down

again, Leif," she cried; "I love you, and there is nothing to be gained

up there!"

They could see that he was considering; he hesitated a moment or two,

and then started onward. For a long time all went well, for he was

sure-footed and had a strong grip; but after a while it seemed as if he

were growing weary, for he often paused. Presently a little stone came

rolling down as a harbinger, and every one who stood there had to watch

its course to the bottom. Some could endure it no longer, and went away.

The girl alone still stood on the stone, and wringing her hands

continued to gaze upward.

Once more Leif took hold with one hand but it slipped; she saw this

distinctly; then he tried the other; it slipped also. "Leif!" she

shouted, so loud that her voice rang through the mountains, and all the

others chimed in with her. "He is slipping!" they cried, and stretched

up their hands to him, both men and women. He was indeed slipping,

carrying with him sand, stones, and earth; slipping, continually

slipping, ever faster and faster. The people turned away, and then they

heard a rustling and scraping in the mountain behind them, after which,

something fell with a heavy thud, like a great piece of wet earth.

When they could look round again, he was lying there crushed and

mutilated beyond recognition. The girl had fallen down on the stone, and

her father took her up in his arms and bore her away.

The youths who had taken the most pains to incite Leif to the perilous

ascent now dared not lend a hand to pick him up; some were even unable

to look at him. So the old people had to go forward. The eldest of them,

as he took hold of the body, said: "It is very sad, but," he added,

casting a look upward, "it is, after all, well that something hangs so

high that it cannot be reached by every one."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] To this there will also be found in the Album a melody by Halfdan

Kjerulf.

[2] The top of a hill is called in Norwegian "Kamp," and the houseman's

place took its name from its situation.

[3] A popular dance in two-fourths time, described in this chapter.

[4] Translated by Augusta Plesner and S. Rugeley-Powers.

[5] A popular dance, in three-fourths time.

[6] A Dane, the most noted psalmist of Scandinavia.

[7] Auber Forestier's translation.

[8] Translated by Augusta Plesner and S. Rugeley-Powers.

[9] Auber Forestier's translation.

[10] Adapted to the metre of the original from the translation of

Augusta Plesner and S. Rugeley-Powers.

[11] Adapted to the metre of the original, from the translation of

Augusta Plesner and S. Rugeley-Powers.

[12] Translated by Augusta Plesner and S. Rugeley-Powers.

[13] A kind of road-sulky used by travelers in Norway.

[14] Important announcements are made to the people in front of the

church after service.

[15] The chief magistrate of an amt or county.

[16] Bailiff.

[17] Auber Forestier's translation.

[18] Translated by Augusta Plesner and S. Rugeley-Powers.

[19] The hulder dwells in forests and mountains, appears like a

beautiful woman, and usually wears a blue petticoat and a white hood.

She has a long tail, which she tries to conceal when she is among

people. She is fond of cattle.

[20] Translated by Augusta Plesner and S. Rugeley-Powers.

[21] Shooting or flinging steel over the head of hulders, trolls, etc.,

makes the witchery vanish. Thus also a piece of steel laid in the cradle

prevents hulders from exchanging little children for their own.

[22] A kind of long snow-shoe.

[23] Adapted to the metre of the original from the translation of

Augusta Plesner and S. Rugeley-Powers.

[24] The peasants call the priest father.

[25] Auber Forestier's translation.

[26] Peasants wear an under-garment high in the neck with long sleeves.

[27] Adapted to the original metre from the translation of Augusta

Plesner and S. Rugeley-Powers.

[28] Translated by Augusta Plesner and S. Rugeley-Powers.

[29] The Norse word _datter_ means daughter.

* * * * *

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

38 typos have been silently corrected. The vast majority of these are

caused by the apparent failure of a letter or punctuation mark to print

correctly, leaving a gap in the text.

Both "childlike" and "child-like", "roadside" and "road-side" were used

in this text.

On p. 238, the phrasing "articles in the newspapers, which report

attributed to him," does not make sense, but there is no obvious

amendment. No change has been made.

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

A Table of Contents has been added.