VISITORS
"MOTHER, mother, I hear the sound of wheels," cried the little girl, as
she came hurrying into the house, panting for breath. The baby was such
a big load it is a wonder she could hurry at all.
"Could you see what is coming?" asked her mother.
"Yes, there are two carriages, I know, for I saw a cariole, and I could
hear another gig, although it was still out of sight round the bend of
the road. They must be in a hurry, for I could hear the driver of the
cariole clucking to his horse to make him go faster."
[Illustration: "IT WAS A SORT OF GIG WITH VERY LONG SHAFTS."]
"Run right down to the rye-field, Mari, and tell your father to send
Snorri up with the horses. Leave the baby with me."
Mari hurried away, while her mother went out into the yard to greet her
visitors who had now drawn near.
The first carriage was a cariole, as Mari had said. It was a sort of gig
with very long shafts. It had a seat in front just wide enough to hold
one person, with a small place behind, where the post-boy sat. A lady
rode in this cariole and drove the sturdy little horse.
Behind her came a second carriage, which could not be very comfortable,
as there were no springs and the seat was directly over the axle. Two
people were in this, also, a gentleman and the driver.
"We are in great haste to reach the next station by afternoon," the
gentleman tried to explain to the farmer's wife. He spoke brokenly, for
he seemed to know but few Norwegian words.
"He must be an American," Mari's mother said to herself. "Those
people always seem to be in a hurry." She dropped a deep curtsy to the
lady, who seemed to be the gentleman's wife.
"Won't you come into the house while you wait for the carriage?" she
asked. The lady smiled, and followed her into the living-room.
"What a lovely big fireplace you have!" exclaimed the visitor, as she
sat down. "And what good times you probably have here in the long winter
evenings. Indeed they must seem long when the daylight only lasts two or
three hours."
Mari's mother smiled. "Yes, and the summer days seem long now that there
are only two or three hours of darkness in the whole twenty-four," she
answered. "At least, they must seem long to you who are a stranger," she
went on. She spoke in good English, of which she was very proud. She
had learned it when she was a girl in school, and was already teaching
Mari to use it.
"Is that your spinning-wheel?" asked the visitor, as she looked around
the room. "Excuse me for asking, but I do wish I could watch you
spinning. In America everything we wear is made in the mills and
factories, and a spinning-wheel is not a common sight nowadays."
"I make all the clothing for my family," answered Mari's mother. "It is
so strong it lasts nearly a lifetime. Look at my dress; I have worn it
every working-day for many years, and it is still as good as new."
"Dear me! what a smart woman you are. If you don't mind, I should like
to examine the goods. I suppose that is what people call homespun. And I
suppose the wool of which it was made came from your own sheep, did it
not?"
"Yes, indeed, and my husband raised every one of the flock himself,"
was the answer. "I will gladly spin some of the wool for you now. But
see! the carriages are waiting, and your husband looks impatient."
"Then I must not keep him waiting, for we have a long journey before us.
So good-bye. Perhaps we may stop here again on our way back from the
north. Thank you very much for your kindness."
The lady went out, and Snorri helped her into the cariole and himself
jumped up behind, and away they went. The lady's husband followed in
another carriage in the same manner they had driven into the yard. The
ones that had brought them here had gone away as soon as the travellers
stepped out. Their drivers would take them back to the station where
they belonged.
"Mother, why is our house a posting-station?" asked Mari, when the
travellers had gone. "I think it is a great bother. No matter how busy
father and the men are, they must stop their work and harness up the
horses to carry strangers along the road. They don't get money for it,
either, do they?"
"That is the way your father pays his taxes," her mother answered. "You
know what good roads we have in our country, Mari. You know, too, that
many other things are done by the government to make this country a fine
one. Of course every one must share in the cost of these things. As we
live on a farm and have horses, your father is allowed to pay his share
in work. That is, he agrees to carry the travellers who come this way to
the next station. After all, it isn't very much bother," she said,
thoughtfully. "But come, dear, set the table; it is near dinner-time,
and your father will soon be here."
The table did not stand in the middle of the room. It was in the corner
nearest the fireplace. A wide bench was built round the two sides of
the room nearest it, so that most of those who gathered around the table
could sit on these benches.
Mari's mother soon had a steaming junket ready, besides a dish of smoked
salmon, plenty of boiled potatoes, a large, dark-coloured cheese which
looked like soap, and last, but not least, a plate was piled high with
flat-bread.
"May father have the cakes I made?" asked Mari.
"Sure enough, little daughter. He will eat them with pleasure, I know."
In a few minutes the farmer and his helpers appeared. All gathered
around the table together.
"What a fine junket this is to-day," said Mari's father, as his wife
helped him to another plateful.
The junket was made of milk, barley, and potatoes, and was a dish of
which he was very fond.
"Dear me! how good the flat-bread is, too. And only to think that our
little Mari made it all herself," continued the farmer. "She will soon
be a woman at this rate."
Mari's rosy cheeks grew redder still at her father's praise.
"I shall be glad to see Gretel back again," said the little girl's
mother, after a while. "I miss her very much, though Mari is a good
little helper. But Gretel is having a good time with Henrik, I'm sure."
Gretel and Henrik had gone up on the mountain to the summer-house, where
the cows were pastured during the two warmest months of the year. Henrik
was now fourteen years old, and his father felt that he could be trusted
to care for the cows as well as he could do it himself; while Gretel
could make good cheese and butter, although she was only thirteen. This
boy and girl were now living together all alone up on the mountain-side,
but they were not the least bit lonely.
Every Saturday afternoon Henrik brought down the butter and cheese his
sister had made during the week. He had so many stories to tell of their
good times, that Mari would say:
"Oh, dear! Henrik, I wish I could go back with you."
"I wish you could, little sister, but mother must not be left alone, you
know." And Henrik would put his arms around her and kiss her lovingly.
"Where is Ole?" asked the farmer, as the family finished eating their
dinner. "He should not be late to meals and give you trouble, good
wife."
"He went up to the river on a fishing trip. I told him I should not
scold if he was late this time," said his mother. "I was glad of the
thought of having some fresh salmon."
"Very well, then. But come, my men, we must get back to the field now.
The noon hour has passed." And the farmer led the way out of the house.
But before he rose from the table little Mari said:
"Thanks for the food, dear father and mother," while she went first to
one, then the other, and gave each of them a loving kiss.
Then the workmen rose and went in turn to the farmer and his wife and
shook hands, to show they, too, were thankful.
It was very pleasant and cheerful in this farmer's house, you can
plainly see; and it was all quite natural for these simple country
people to show how kindly they felt for each other.
"There comes Ole, now," said the farmer's wife. "I can hear his call.
Run, Mari, and see if he has met with good fortune."
"O, mother, mother, see what I have here," cried Mari, a few moments
afterward. "Ole has a fine string of fish, and that will please you, I
know. But do look at this young magpie. It was snared in his trap while
he was fishing. He says I may have it for my very own. May I keep it,
please?"
"It seems as though you had enough pets now, Mari. You have your own
pony and your dog Kyle. But I hate to refuse you, my dear. Yes, you may
have it, but you and Ole must keep it out of mischief. Magpies are
sometimes very troublesome birds, for they notice shining objects and
carry them off if they get a chance."
Mari's mother now turned to the string of trout which she hastened to
put away in the storeroom. Ole had cleaned them nicely before he brought
them home. He now ate his dinner as quickly as possible, after which he
and his sister went out into the yard to make a cage for their new pet.
"In a little while he will get tame so he will follow us around," said
Ole, as he cut the wooden bars for the cage. "Then we shall need to shut
him up only when we wish."
"Isn't he a beauty," exclaimed Mari, as she stroked the magpie. "Look,
Ole, at the green and purple feathers in his wings and tail. They are
very handsome and glossy."
"Be careful, Mari, or he may bite you. That hooked bill of his is pretty
sharp, if he is a young bird. See him look at you with his bright eyes.
They say that magpies will grow fond of one in a very short time."
"Did you ever see a magpie's nest, Ole?"
"Yes, I passed one this morning as I went through the woods. It was way
back in a thick bush. I crept up and looked in. The mother bird was
away, and I saw five pretty green eggs dotted with little purple spots."
"What did you do, Ole? I hope you did not touch them."
"At first, I thought I would, Mari, because, you know, those pretty eggs
will sometime hatch out, and the five magpies will fly away to harm
smaller and more helpless birds. Besides, they go into the grain-fields
and pick the grain. Father isn't very fond of magpies, I can tell you.
"But after thinking for a moment I said to myself, 'No, mother magpie
sha'n't be made unhappy to-day by coming home to find her nest empty.'
Then I went away, and ended my morning's sport by trapping this young
fellow."
Ole kept on working while he talked. He did his work so cleverly that
one could see he was quite a carpenter. He was a tall boy for twelve
years, and looked healthy and happy.
You might possibly have laughed at his clothes, for he wore a pair of
his father's old trousers, and they were gathered in at the waist to
keep them in place. They must have been cut off at the knees so that
they should not be too long for the boy. That was the only change made.
His mother said:
"There, those trousers are too much worn for my husband to use any
longer. They will do very well for Ole as he runs about on the farm. I
will not take time to cut them any smaller. On holidays the boy shall
wear his fine clothes, of course."
It is no wonder the good woman had to be careful of her time, for she
not only spun, wove, and made their clothing, but she also spun the yarn
and knit their stockings. Ole's stockings are often patched with leather
to make them last longer. But his feet are not tender, and he does not
mind it in the least.
"What kind of a nest did the magpie have?" asked Mari, as Ole finished
the cage and they placed the bird inside.
"It was lined with wool and hair and had a sort of roof over it. The
opening was very narrow; I really don't see how the mother-bird could
get in and out."
"I suppose the roof is to protect the young birds from enemies, don't
you, Ole?"
"Yes, Mari; but come, let us go and find some worms for our bird. He
must be hungry."