shore to Ingolf’s Head, saw the high, inaccessible summits of the
Skaptar Jökull fade behind them, and then Iceland dropped below the sea.
A misty gale began to blow from the southwest, forcing them to pass the
Faroe Islands on the east, and afterward the Shetland Isles; but, after
nearly coming in sight of Norway, the wind changed to the opposite
quarter, and the yacht spread her sails directly for Leith. One night,
when Jon awoke in his berth, he missed the usual sound of waves against
the vessel’s side and the cries of the sailors on deck—everything seemed
strangely quiet; but he was too good a sleeper to puzzle his head about
it, so merely turned over on his pillow. When he arose the quiet was
still there. He dressed in haste and went on deck. The yacht lay at
anchor in front of buildings larger than a hundred Rejkiaviks put
together.
“This is Leith,” said Mr. Lorne, coming up to him.
“Leith?” Jon exclaimed; “it seems like Rome or Jerusalem! Those must be
the King’s palaces.”
“No, my boy,” Mr. Lorne answered, “they are only warehouses.”
“But what are those queer green hills behind the houses? They are so
steep and round that I don’t see how anybody could climb up.”
“Hills?” exclaimed Mr. Lorne. “Oh, I see now! Why, Jon, those are
trees.”
Jon was silent. He dared not doubt his friend’s word, but he could not
yet wholly believe it. When they had landed, and he saw the great
trunks, the spreading boughs, and the millions of green leaves, such a
feeling of awe and admiration came over him that he began to tremble. A
wind was blowing, and the long, flexible boughs of the elms swayed up
and down.
“Oh, Mr. Lorne!” he cried. “See! they are praying! Let us wait a while;
they are saying something—I hear their voices. Is it English?—can you
understand it?”
[Illustration:
“The halt on the journey”
]
Mr. Lorne took him by the hand and said: “It is praise, not prayer. They
speak the same language all over the world, but no one can understand
all they say.”
There is one rough little cart in Rejkiavik, and this is the only
vehicle in Iceland. What then, must have been Jon’s feelings when he saw
hundreds of elegant carriages dashing to and fro, and great wagons drawn
by giant horses? When they got into a cab, it seemed to him like sitting
on a moving throne. He had read and heard of all these things, and
thought he had a clear idea of what they were; but he was not prepared
for the reality. He was so excited, as they drove up the street to
Edinburgh, that Mr. Lorne, sitting beside him, could feel the beating of
his heart. The new wonders never ceased: there was an apple tree with
fruit; rose bushes in bloom; whole beds of geraniums in the little
gardens; windows filled with fruit or brilliant silks or silver-ware;
towers that seemed to touch the clouds, and endless multitudes of
people! As they reached the hotel, all he could say, in a faltering
voice, was, “Poor old Iceland!”
The next day they took the train for Lanark, in the neighborhood of
which Mr. Lorne had an estate. When Jon saw the bare, heather-covered
mountains, and the swift brooks that came leaping down their glens, he
laughed and said:
“Oh, you have a little of Iceland even here! If there were trees along
the Thiörvǎ, it would look like yonder valley.”
“I have some moorland of my own,” Mr. Lorne remarked; “and if you ever
get to be homesick, I’ll send you out upon it to recover.”
But when Jon reached the house, and was so cordially welcomed by Mrs.
Lorne, and saw the park and gardens where he hoped to become familiar
with trees and flowers, he thought there would be as much likelihood of
being homesick in heaven as in such a place.
Everything he saw tempted him to visit and examine it. During the first
few days he could scarcely sit still in the library and take part in Mr.
Lorne’s studies. But his strong sense of duty, his long habits of
patience and self-denial soon made the task easy, and even enabled him
to take a few more hours daily for his own improvement. His delight in
all strange and beautiful natural objects was greatly prolonged by this
course. He enjoyed everything far more than if he had rapidly exhausted
its novelty. Mr. Lorne saw this quality of Jon’s nature with great
satisfaction, and was very ready to give advice and information which he
knew would be earnestly heeded.
It was a very happy year; but I do not believe that it was the happiest
of Jon’s life. Having learned to overcome the restlessness and
impatience which are natural to boyhood, he laid the basis for greater
content in life as a man. When he returned to Rejkiavik, in his
twentieth year, with a hundred pounds in his pocket and a rich store of
knowledge in his head, all other tasks seemed easy. It was a great
triumph for his mother, and especially for Gudrid, now a bright,
blooming maiden of sixteen. Uncle Magnus brought up another dusty bottle
to welcome him, although there were only six more left; and all the
neighbors came around in the evening. Even the Governor stopped and
shook hands, the next day, when Jon met him in the street. His mother,
who was with him, said, after the Governor had passed: “I hope thy
father sees thee now.” The same thought was in Jon’s heart.
And now, as he is no longer a boy, we must say good-bye to him. We have
no fears for his future life; he will always be brave and manly and
truthful. But, if some of my readers are still curious to know more of
him, I may add that he is a very successful teacher in the school at
Rejkiavik; that he hopes to visit Mr. Lorne, in Scotland, very soon; and
I should not be in the least surprised if he were to join good old Dr.
Hjaltalin, and pay a visit to the United States.
IV
The Two Herd-Boys
When I was in Germany, several years ago, I spent a few weeks of the
summer-time in a small town among the Thuringian Mountains. This is a
range on the borders of Saxony, something like our Green Mountains in
height and form, but much darker in color, on account of the thick
forests of fir which cover them. I had visited this region several times
before, and knew not only the roads but most of the footpaths, and had
made some acquaintance with the people; so I felt quite at home among
them, and was fond of taking long walks up to the ruins of castles on
the peaks, or down into the wild, rocky dells between them.
The people are mostly poor, and very laborious; yet all their labor
barely produces enough to keep them from want. There is not much farming
land, as you may suppose. The men cut wood, the women spin flax and
bleach linen, and the children gather berries, tend cattle on the high
mountain pastures, or act as guides to the summer travellers. A great
many find employment in the manufacture of toys, of which there are
several establishments in this region, producing annually many thousands
of crying and speaking dolls, bleating lambs, barking dogs, and roaring
lions.
Behind the town where I lived, there was a spur of the mountains,
crowned by the walls of a castle built by one of the dukes who ruled
over that part of Saxony eight or nine hundred years ago. Beyond this
ruin, the mountain rose more gradually, until it reached the highest
ridge, about three miles distant. In many places the forest had been cut
away, leaving open tracts where the sweet mountain grass grew thick and
strong, and where there were always masses of heather, harebells,
foxgloves, and wild pinks. Every morning all the cattle of the town were
driven up to these pastures, each animal with a bell hanging to its
neck, and the sound of so many hundred bells tinkling all at once made a
chime which could be heard at a long distance.
One of my favorite walks was to mount to the ruined castle, and pass
beyond it to the flowery pasture-slopes, from which I had a wide view of
the level country to the north and the mountain-ridges on both sides.
Here it was very pleasant to sit on a rock, in the sunny afternoon, and
listen to the continual sound of bells which filled the air. Sometimes
one of the herd-boys would sing, or shout to the others across the
intervening glens, while the village girls, with baskets of bark, hunted
for berries along the edges of the forests. Although so high on the
mountain, the landscape was never lonely.
One day, during my ramble, I came upon two smaller herds of cattle, each
tended by a single boy. They were near each other, but not on the same
pasture, for there was a deep hollow, or dell, between. Nevertheless
they could plainly see each other, and even talk whenever they liked, by
shouting a little. As I came out of a thicket upon the clearing, on one
side of the hollow, the herd-boy tending the cattle nearest to me was
sitting among the grass, and singing with all his might the German song
commencing,
“Tra, ri, ro!
The summer’s here I know!”
His back was towards me, but I noticed that his elbows were moving very
rapidly. Curious to learn what he was doing, I slipped quietly around
some bushes to a point where I could see him distinctly, and found that
he was knitting a woollen stocking. Presently he lifted his head, looked
across to the opposite pasture and cried out, “Hans! the cows!”
I looked also, and saw another boy of about the same age start up and
run after his cattle, the last one of which was entering the forests.
Then the boy near me gave a glance at his own cattle, which were quietly
grazing on the slope, a little below him, and went on with his knitting.
As I approached, he heard my steps and turned towards me, a little
startled at first; but he was probably accustomed to seeing strangers,
for I soon prevailed upon him to tell me his name and age. He was called
Otto, and was twelve years old; his father was a wood-cutter, and his
mother spun and bleached linen.
“And how much”, I asked him, “do you get for taking care of the cattle?”
“I am to have five thalers” (about four dollars), he answered, “for the
whole summer; but it doesn’t go to me—it’s for father. But then I make a
good many groschen by knitting, and _that’s_ for my winter clothes. Last
year I could buy a coat, and this year I want to get enough for trousers
and new shoes. Since the cattle know me so well, I have only to talk and
they mind me; and that, you see, gives me plenty of time to knit.”
“I see,” I said; “it’s a very good arrangement. I suppose the cattle
over on the other pasture don’t know their boy? He has not got them all
out of the woods yet.”
“Yes, they know him,” said Otto, “and that’s the reason they slip away.
But the cattle mind some persons better than others; I’ve seen that
much.”
Here he stopped talking, and commenced knitting again. I watched him
awhile, as he rapidly and evenly rattled off the stitches. He evidently
wanted to make the most of his time. Then I again looked across the
hollow, where Hans—the other boy—had at last collected his cows. He
stood on the top of a rock, flinging stones down the steep slope. When
he had no more, he stuck his hands in his pockets and whistled loudly,
to draw Otto’s attention; but the latter pretended not to hear. Then I
left them; for the shadow of the mountain behind me was beginning to
creep up the other side of the valley.
A few days afterwards I went up to the pasture again, and came, by
chance, to the head of the little dell dividing the two herds. I had
been wandering in the fir-forest, and reached the place unexpectedly.
There was a pleasant view from the spot, and I seated myself in the
shade, to rest and enjoy it. The first object which attracted my
attention was Otto, knitting as usual, beside his herd of cows. Then I
turned to the other side to discover what Hans was doing. His cattle,
this time, were not straying; but neither did he appear to be minding
them in the least. He was walking backwards and forwards on the
mountainside, with his eyes fixed upon the ground. Sometimes, where the
top of a rock projected from the soil, he would lean over it, and look
along it from one end to the other, as if he were trying to measure its
size; then he would walk on, pull a blue flower, and then a yellow one,
look at them sharply, and throw them away. “What is he after?” I said to
myself. “Has he lost something, and is he trying to find it? or are his
thoughts so busy with something else that he doesn’t really know what he
is about?”
I watched him for nearly half an hour, at the end of which time he
seemed to get tired, for he gave up looking about and sat down in the
grass. The cattle were no doubt acquainted with his ways—(It is
astonishing how much intelligence they have!)—and they immediately began
to move towards the forest, and would soon have wandered away, if I had
not headed them off and driven them back. Then I followed them, much to
the surprise of Hans, who had been aroused by the noise of their bells
as they ran from me.
“You don’t keep a very good watch, my boy!” I said.
As he made no answer, I asked, “Have you lost anything?”
“No,” he then said.
“What have you been hunting so long?”
He looked confused, turned away his head, and muttered, “Nothing.”
This made me sure he had been hunting something, and I felt a little
curiosity to know what it was. But although I asked him again, and
offered to help him hunt it, he would tell me nothing. He had a restless
and rather unhappy look, quite different from the bright, cheerful eyes
and pleasant countenance of Otto.
His father, he said, worked in a mill below the town, and got good
wages; so he was allowed half the pay for tending the cattle during the
summer.
“What will you do with the money?” I asked.
“Oh, I’ll soon spend it,” he said. “I could spend a hundred times that
much, if I had it.”
“Indeed!” I exclaimed. “No doubt it’s all the better that you haven’t
it.”
He did not seem to like this remark, and was afterwards disinclined to
talk; so I left him and went over to Otto, who was as busy and cheerful
as ever.
“Otto,” said I, “do you know what Hans is hunting all over the pasture?
Has he lost anything?”
“No,” Otto answered; “he has not lost anything, and I don’t believe he
will find anything, either. Because, even if it is all true, they say
you never come across it when you look for it, but it just shows itself
all at once, when you’re not expecting.”
“What is it, then?” I asked.
Otto looked at me a moment, and seemed to hesitate. He appeared also to
be a little surprised; but probably he reflected that I was a stranger,
and could not be expected to know everything, for he finally asked,
“Don’t you know, sir, what the shepherd found, somewhere about here, a
great many hundred years ago?”
“No,” I answered.
“Not the key-flower?”
Then I _did_ know what he meant, and understood the whole matter in a
moment. But I wanted to know what Otto had heard of the story, and
therefore said to him, “I wish you would tell me.”
“Well,” he began, “some say it was true, and some that it wasn’t. At any
rate, it was a long, long while ago, and there’s no telling how much to
believe. My grandmother told _me_; but then she didn’t know the man; she
only heard about him from her grandmother. He was a shepherd, and used
to tend his sheep on the mountain,—or maybe it was cows, I’m not
sure,—in some place where there were a great many kobolds and fairies.
And so it went on from year to year. He was a poor man, but very
cheerful, and always singing and making merry; but sometimes he would
wish to have a little more money, so that he need not be obliged to go
up to the pastures in the cold foggy weather. That wasn’t much wonder,
sir, for it’s cold enough up here, some days.
“It was in summer, and the flowers were all in blossom, and he was
walking along after his sheep, when all at once he saw a wonderful
sky-blue flower of a kind he had never seen before in all his life. Some
people say it was sky-blue, and some that it was golden-yellow; I don’t
know which is right. Well, however it was, there was the wonderful
flower, as large as your hand, growing in the grass. The shepherd
stooped down and broke the stem; but just as he was lifting up the
flower to examine it, he saw that there was a door in the side of the
mountain. Now he had been over the ground a hundred times before, and
had never seen anything of the kind. Yet it was a real door, and it was
open, and there was a passage into the earth. He looked into it for a
long time, and at last plucked up heart and in he went. After forty or
fifty steps, he found himself in a large hall, full of chests of gold
and diamonds. There was an old kobold, with a white beard, sitting in a
chair beside a large table in the middle of the hall. The shepherd was
at first frightened, but the kobold looked at him with a friendly face,
and said, ‘Take what you want, and don’t forget the best!’
“So the shepherd laid the flower on the table, and went to work and
filled his pockets with the gold and diamonds. When he had as much as he
could carry, the kobold said again, ‘Don’t forget the best!’ ‘That I
won’t,’ the shepherd thought to himself, and took more gold and the
biggest diamonds he could find, and filled his hat, so that he could
scarcely stagger under the load. He was leaving the hall, when the
kobold cried out, ‘Don’t forget the best!’ But he couldn’t carry any
more, and went on, never minding. When he reached the door in the
mountainside, he heard the voice again, for the last time, ‘Don’t forget
the best!’
“The next minute he was out on the pasture. When he looked around, the
door had disappeared: his pockets and hat grew light all at once, and
instead of gold and diamonds he found nothing but dry leaves and
pebbles. He was as poor as ever, and all because he had forgotten the
best. Now, sir, do you know what the best was? Why, it was the flower,
which he had left on the table in the kobold’s hall. _That_ was the
key-flower. When you find it and pull it, the door is opened to all the
treasures under ground. If the shepherd had kept it, the gold and
diamonds would have stayed so; and, besides, the door would have been
always opened to him, and he could then help himself whenever he
wanted.”
Otto had told the story very correctly, just as I had heard it told by
some of the people before. “Did you ever look for the key-flower?” I
asked him.
He grew a little red in the face, then laughed, and answered: “Oh, that
was the first summer I tended the cattle, and I soon got tired of it.
But I guess the flower doesn’t grow any more, now.”
“How long has Hans been looking for it?”
“He looks every day,” said Otto, “when he gets tired doing nothing. But
I shouldn’t wonder if he was thinking about it all the time, or he’d
look after his cattle better than he does.”
As I walked down the mountain that afternoon I thought a great deal
about these two herd-boys and the story of the key-flower. Up to this
time the story had only seemed to me to be a curious and beautiful
fairy-tale; but now I began to think it might mean something more. Here
was Hans, neglecting his cows, and making himself restless and unhappy,
in the hope of some day finding the key-flower; while Otto, who
remembered that it can’t be found by hunting for it, was attentive to
his task, always earning a little, and always contented.
Therefore, the next time I walked up to the pastures, I went straight to
Hans. “Have you found the key-flower yet?” I asked.
There was a curious expression upon his face. He appeared to be partly
ashamed of what he must now and then have suspected to be a folly, and
partly anxious to know if I could tell him where the flower grew.
“See here, Hans,” said I, seating myself upon a rock. “Don’t you know
that those who hunt for it never find it. Of course you have not found
it, and you never will, in this way. But even if you should, you are so
anxious for the gold and diamonds that you would be sure to forget the
best, just as the shepherd did, and would find nothing but leaves and
pebbles in your pockets.”
“Oh, no!” he exclaimed; “that’s just what I wouldn’t do.”
“Why, don’t you forget your work every day?” I asked. “You are
forgetting the best all the time,—I mean the best that you have at
present. Now, I believe there is a key-flower growing on these very
mountains; and, what is more, Otto has found it!”
He looked at me in astonishment.
“Don’t you see,” I continued, “how happy and contented he is all the day
long? He does not work as hard at his knitting as you do in hunting for
the flower; and although you get half your summer’s wages, and he
nothing, he will be richer than you in the fall. He will have a small
piece of gold, and it won’t change into a leaf. Besides, when a boy is
contented and happy he has gold and diamonds. Would you rather be rich
and miserable, or poor and happy?”
This was a subject upon which Hans had evidently not reflected. He
looked puzzled. He was so accustomed to think that money embraced
everything else that was desirable, that he could not imagine it
possible for a rich man to be miserable. But I told him of some rich men
whom I knew, and of others of whom I had heard, and at last bade him
think of the prosperous brewer in the town below, who had so much
trouble in his family, and who walked the streets with his head hanging
down.
I saw that Hans was not a bad boy; he was simply restless, impatient,
and perhaps a little inclined to envy those in better circumstances.
This lonely life on the mountains was not good for a boy of his nature,
and I knew it would be difficult for him to change his habits of
thinking and wishing. But, after a long talk, he promised me he would
try, and that was as much as I expected.
Now, you may want to know whether he _did_ try; and I am sorry that I
cannot tell you. I left the place soon afterwards, and have never been
there since. Let us all hope, however, that he found the real
key-flower.
V
The Young Serf
I
It was towards the close of a September day. Old Gregor and his grandson
Sasha were returning home through the forest with their bundles of wood,
the old man stooping low under the weight of the heavier sticks he
carried, while the boy dragged his great bunch of twigs and splints by a
rope drawn over his shoulder. Where the trees grew thick, the air was
already quite gloomy, but in the open spaces they could see the sky and
tell how near it was to sunset.
Both were silent, for they were tired, and it is not easy to talk and
carry a heavy load at the same time. But presently something gray
appeared through the trees, at the foot of a low hill; it was the rock
where they always rested on the way home. Old Gregor laid down his
bundle there, and wiped his face on the sleeve of his brown jacket, but
Sasha sprang upon the rock and began to balance himself upon one foot,
as was his habit whenever he tried to think about anything.
“Grandfather,” he said, at last, “why should all the forest belong to
the Baron, and none of it to you?”
Gregor looked at him sharply for a moment before he answered.
“It was his father’s and his grandfather’s; it has been the property of
the family for many a hundred years, and we have never had any.”
“I know that,” said Sasha. “But why did it come so _first_?”
Gregor shook his head. “You might as well ask how the world was made.”
Then, seeing that the boy looked troubled, he added in a kinder tone,
“What put such a thought in your head?”
“Why, the forest itself!” Sasha cried. “The Baron lets us have the top
branches and little twigs, but he always takes the logs and sells them
for money. I know all the trees, and he doesn’t; I can find my way in
the woods anywhere, and there’s many a tree that would say to me, if it
could talk, ‘I’d rather belong to you, Sasha, because I know you.’”
“Aye, and the moon would say the same to you, boy, and the sun and
stars, maybe. You might as well want to own them,—and _you_ don’t even
belong to yourself.”
Gregor’s words seemed harsh and fierce, but his voice was very sad.
Sasha looked at him and knew not what to say, but he felt that his heart
was beating violently. All at once he heard a rustling among the dead
leaves, and a sound like steps approaching. The old man took hold of his
grandson’s arm and made a sign to him to be silent. The sound came
nearer, and nearer, and presently they could distinguish some dusky
object moving towards them through the trees.
“Is it a robber?” whispered Sasha.
“It is not a man unless he uses his knees for hind feet. I see his head;
it is a bear. Keep quiet, boy! make no noise; take this tough stick, but
hold it at your side, as I do with mine. Look him in the face, if he
comes close; and if I tell you to strike, hit him on the end of the
nose!”