By the cottage side the goat was tethered, but Ovind was looking up
towards the hill. His mother came and sat by him; he wished to hear
stories about things far away, for the goat could no longer satisfy
him. So he was told how once all things could speak,--the mountain
spoke to the brook, and the brook to the river, and the river to the
sea, and the sea to the sky; but then he asked if the sky spoke to
nothing,--yes, the sky spoke to the clouds, and the clouds to the
trees, and the trees to the grass, and the grass to the flies, and the
flies to the animals, and the animals to children, and children to old
people, and so it went again and again, and round and round, and no one
knew who began. Ovind looked on the mountain, the trees, the sea, and
the sky, and had in reality never seen them before. The cat came out
and laid herself on the doorstep in the sun. "What does pussy say?"
said Ovind, and pointed. The mother sang:
"Softly the sun sheds his evening rays,
Idly the cat on the doorstep lays.
'Two little wee mice,
Some cream from a cup,
And a dainty fish slice
Have I eaten up,--
And I feel too lazy to stir,
I can only sit here and purr,'
Says the cat."
The cock with all his hens passed by. "What does the cock say?" asked
Ovind, and clapped his hands. The mother sang:
"Kindly the hen-mother spreads out her wings,
Proudly the cock stands on one leg and sings,--
'Up in the air with plumage grey,
The wild goose swiftly his course may steer,
But, in intellect tell me I pray
Can he ever match with Sir Chanticleer!
Come, come my hens, to rest, to rest--
Soon will the sun sink down in the west,'
Says the cock."
Two little birds sat and sang up on the roof. "What do the little birds
say?" asked Ovind, and laughed.
"'Oh! how pleasant and sweet is life
Free from the turmoil of constant strife,'
Say the little birds."
And so he got to hear what all things said, even down to the ant that
crept through the moss, and the worm that bored in the bark.
The same summer his mother began to teach him to read. He had often
wondered how it would be when the books began to talk, and now all the
letters were animals, birds, or anything else he thought of; but soon
they began to go together two and two; A stood and leaned against a
tree, and called to B, then E came and did the same, but now there were
three or four together, and it seemed as if they disagreed,--the
further he went the more he forgot what they were. He could remember A
the longest, for he liked it the best, it was a little black lamb and
was friends with everybody; but soon he forgot A too. The book had no
stories, but was simply lessons.
One day his mother came in, and said to him "To-morrow the school
begins again, and I shall take you there to the farm." Ovind had heard
that the school was a place where little boys played together, and he
had nothing to say against it. He was delighted, and ran on before his
mother up the hill, full of glee and expectation. They reached the
school-house, and a busy hum greeted their ears, like the sound of the
water mill at home. He asked what it was. "It is the children reading,"
she said: then he was pleased, for he had read that way himself before
he knew his letters. When he came in there were as many children
sitting round the table as he had ever seen at church. Others sat on
their dinner tins round the room, and some stood in small groups before
a black board. The schoolmaster, an old grey-headed man, sat on a stool
by the fire filling his pipe. When Ovind and his mother entered, they
all looked up, and the murmur ceased, as if the mill stream were
suddenly dammed. The mother said "Good morning," and shook hands with
the schoolmaster.
"Here I come with a little boy who will learn to read," said the
mother.
"What's the bairn's name?" said the schoolmaster, as he delved in his
pouch for the tobacco.
"Ovind," said the mother; "he knows his letters and a few short words."
"Oh! indeed!" said the schoolmaster. "Come here you little white head!"
Ovind went to him, the schoolmaster lifted him on to his knee, and took
off his cap. "Here's a nice little lad!" said he, and stroked his hair.
Ovind looked up in his face and smiled.
"Is it me you're laughing at?" and he frowned.
"Yes, that it is," replied Ovind, and laughed aloud. Then the
schoolmaster laughed also, and the mother, so the children saw they
might join, and they all laughed together.
This was the way in which Ovind entered the school.
When he had to take his seat each one wanted to make room for him, but
he stood looking round and round, from side to side, with his cap in
his hand and his book under his arm, while they whispered and pointed.
"What then?" said the schoolmaster, and he took his pipe again.
As the boy turned round to the schoolmaster he caught sight of Marit
with the many names, sitting on a little red painted box in the chimney
corner: she hid her face in both her hands and sat and peeped at him.
"I'll sit here!" said Ovind quickly, hopped across the room, and set
himself down by her side. Now she lifted her arm and looked at him from
under her elbows; then he did the same. This went on till they all
laughed again.
"Be quiet, you naughty, troublesome, giggling gewgaws!--Come be good
little children now!"
It was the voice of the schoolmaster, who, if he stormed, was sure to
be calm before he finished.
The children were soon quiet again, until each began to con his lesson
aloud. Then the treble voices sounded high, while the bass drummed
louder and louder to overpower them, and one and another chimed in
between, till Ovind thought he had never had such fun in all his days.
"Is it always like this?" he whispered to Marit.
"Yes, it's always like this," she said.
By and bye they had to go up to the schoolmaster to read, then a little
boy was set to hear them, and they soon found a chance to slip back to
their corner again.
"I've got a little goat now, too," said Marit.
"Have you?"
"Yes, but it's not so nice as yours."
"Why haven't you come up oftener to the ridge?"
"Grandfather was afraid lest I should fall down."
"But it isn't so high."
"Grandfather won't let me come though."
"My mother knows so many songs," said Ovind.
"Oh! so does grandfather."
"Yes, but not the same as mother sings."
"Grandfather knows a dancing song!--Will you hear it?"
"Oh yes!"
"Then come further away so that the schoolmaster shan't see us."
He came quite close to her, and she said the song over and over again,
till he knew it by heart, and this was the first that he learnt at the
school,--
"Dance! cried the fiddle
In tuning the strings,
Then suddenly upsprings
A youth and cries 'Ho!'
'Hey!' said Erasmus,
Embracing fair Randi,
'Come hasten to give me
The kiss that you owe!'
'Nay,' answered Randi,
But slipped away shyly,
And nodding, said slyly,
'From that you may know!'"
"Up youngsters," cried the schoolmaster, "this is the first day
at school, and you may go early, but now we must have prayers
and singing." Up rushed the children, laughing and talking and
scampering over the floor. "Silence! you little good-for-nothing
chatter-boxes,--be good and walk nicely over the floor my children!"
said the schoolmaster, whereupon they quietly took their places, the
schoolmaster went in front and said a short prayer, and then they sang.
He led in a deep bass voice, and all the children stood with folded
hands. Ovind and Marit stood near the door--they also folded their
hands, but they could not sing. So ended the first day at school.