There was a deep gorge between two mountains. Through this gorge a
large, full stream flowed heavily over a rough and stony bottom. Both
sides were high and steep, and so one side was bare; but close to its
foot, and so near the stream that the latter sprinkled it with moisture
every spring and autumn, stood a group of fresh-looking trees, gazing
upward and onward, yet unable to advance this way or that.
"What if we should clothe the mountain?" said the juniper one day to the
foreign oak, to which it stood nearer than all the others. The oak
looked down to find out who it was that spoke, and then it looked up
again without deigning a reply. The river rushed along so violently that
it worked itself into a white foam; the north wind had forced its way
through the gorge and shrieked in the clefts of the rocks; the naked
mountain, with its great weight, hung heavily over and felt cold. "What
if we should clothe the mountain?" said the juniper to the fir on the
other side. "If anybody is to do it, I suppose it must be we," said the
fir, taking hold of its beard and glancing toward the birch. "What do
you think?" But the birch peered cautiously up, at the mountain, which
hung over it so threateningly that it seemed as if it could scarcely
breathe. "Let us clothe it, in God's name!" said the birch. And so,
though there were but these three, they undertook to clothe the
mountain. The juniper went first.
When they had gone a little way, they met the heather. The juniper
seemed as though about to go past it. "Nay, take the heather along,"
said the fir. And the heather joined them. Soon it began to glide on
before the juniper. "Catch hold of me," said the heather. The juniper
did so, and where there was only a wee crevice, the heather thrust in a
finger, and where it first had placed a finger, the juniper took hold
with its whole hand. They crawled and crept along, the fir laboring on
behind, the birch also. "This is well worth doing," said the birch.
But the mountain began to ponder on what manner of insignificant objects
these might be that were clambering up over it. And after it had been
considering the matter a few hundred years, it sent a little brook down
to inquire. It was yet in the time of the spring freshets, and the brook
stole on until it reached the heather. "Dear, dear heather, cannot you
let me pass? I am so small." The heather was very busy; only raised
itself a little and pressed onward. In, under, and onward went the
brook. "Dear, dear juniper, cannot you let me pass? I am so small." The
juniper looked sharply at it; but if the heather had let it pass, why,
in all reason, it must do so too. Under it and onward went the brook;
and now came to the spot where the fir stood puffing on the hill-side.
"Dear, dear fir, cannot you let me pass? I am really so small," said the
brook,--and it kissed the fir's feet and made itself so very sweet. The
fir became bashful at this, and let it pass. But the birch raised itself
before the brook asked it. "Hi, hi, hi!" said the brook, and grew. "Ha,
ha, ha!" said the brook, and grew. "Ho, ho, ho!" said the brook, and
flung the heather and the juniper and the fir and the birch flat on
their faces and backs, up and down these great hills. The mountain sat
up for many hundred years musing on whether it had not smiled a
little that day.
It was plain enough: the mountain did not want to be clad. The heather
fretted over this until it grew green again, and then it started
forward. "Fresh courage!" said the heather.
The juniper had half raised itself to look at the heather, and continued
to keep this position, until at length it stood upright. It scratched
its head and set forth again, taking such a vigorous foothold that it
seemed as though the mountain must feel it. "If you will not have me,
then I will have you." The fir crooked its toes a little to find out
whether they were whole, then lifted one foot, found it whole, then the
other, which proved also to be whole, then both of them. It first
investigated the ground it had been over, next where it had been lying,
and finally where it should go. After this it began to wend its way
slowly along, and acted just as though it had never fallen. The birch
had become most wretchedly soiled, but now rose up and made itself tidy.
Then they sped onward, faster and faster, upward and on either side, in
sunshine and in rain. "What in the world can this be?" said the
mountain, all glittering with dew, as the summer sun shone down on it.
The birds sang, the wood-mouse piped, the hare hopped along, and the
ermine hid itself and screamed.
Then the day came when the heather could peep with one eye over the edge
of the mountain. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" said the heather, and away
it went. "Dear me! what is it the heather sees?" said the juniper, and
moved on until it could peer up. "Oh dear, oh dear!" it shrieked, and
was gone. "What is the matter with the juniper to-day?" said the fir,
and took long strides onward in the heat of the sun. Soon it could raise
itself on its toes and peep up. "Oh dear!" Branches and needles stood on
end in wonderment. It worked its way forward, came up, and was gone.
"What is it all the others see, and not I?" said the birch; and lifting
well its skirts, it tripped after. It stretched its whole head up at
once. "Oh,--oh!--is not here a great forest of fir and heather, of
juniper and birch, standing upon the table-land waiting for us?" said
the birch; and its leaves quivered in the sunshine so that the dew
trembled. "Ay, this is what it is to reach the goal!" said the juniper.