When Ovind awoke the next morning it was from a long refreshing sleep,
and happy dreams. Marit had been on the mountain and tossed grass down
upon him; he had gathered it up and thrown it back again; it went up
and down in a thousand shapes and colours, the sun stood high in the
heavens, and the whole mountain looked dazzling in its brightness. On
awaking, he looked round to see it all again; but then he remembered
the events of the day before, and the same acute stinging pain at his
heart returned. This will never leave me, he thought, and a feeling of
helplessness came over him, as though the whole future were lost to
him.
"You have slept long," said his mother, as she sat by his side and
spun,--"Come now, and get your breakfast, your father is already in the
forest, hewing wood."
It was as if the voice helped him; he got up with a little more
courage. It may be the mother remembered her own dancing time, for she
sat and hummed at her wheel whilst he took breakfast. This he could not
bear; he rose from the table and went to the window; the same heaviness
and indifference possessed him, but he sought to overcome it by
thinking of his work. The weather had changed, it was colder, and that
which yesterday threatened for rain fell to-day in wet sleet. He put on
his sailor's jacket and mittens, his gaiters, and a skin cap, then said
"Good morning," and took his axe on his shoulder.
The snow fell slowly in great white flakes; he trudged laboriously over
the sledge hill to enter the forest from the left. Never before, either
Winter or Summer, had he passed over the sledge hills without some
joyful remembrance or happy thought. Now it was a lifeless, weary way;
he dragged through the wet snow, his knees were stiff, either from
dancing the day before or from lack of energy. He felt that the sledge
play was at an end for this year, and, therefore, for ever. Something
else he longed for, as he threaded his way among the trees where the
snow fell noiselessly; a frightened ptarmigan screamed and fluttered a
few yards off, and everything seemed to stand as though waiting for a
word that never was said. But what it was that he longed for he could
not exactly tell, only it was not to be at home, nor was it to be
anywhere else; it was not pleasure, nor work, it was something high
above or far away. Shortly after, it shaped itself into a definite
wish; it was to be confirmed in the Spring, and there to be number one.
His heart beat as he thought of it, and before he could hear the sound
of his father's axe among the branches, this desire had stronger hold
of him than any he had ever known since he was born.
As usual his father did not speak many words to him; they both hewed,
and threw the wood together in heaps. Now and then they came into close
contact, and once Ovind let slip the unhappy words,--"A poor peasant
has much to endure!"
"As much as others," said the father, spat on his hands, and took the
axe again.
When the tree was felled, and the father dragged it to the heap, Ovind
remarked,--"If you were a rich farmer you wouldn't have to slave so."
"Oh, well there'd be other things to trouble me then," he replied, and
worked away.
The mother came up with their dinner, and they seated themselves. The
mother seemed in good spirits, she sat and hummed, and beat her feet
together to the time.
"What will you be when you grow up, Ovind?" she said suddenly.
"Oh! for a peasant lad there isn't much to choose," said he.
"The schoolmaster says you must go to the training school."
"Can one go there free?" asked Ovind.
"The school fund pays," answered the father whilst he was eating.
"Would you like it?" asked the mother.
"I should like to learn something, but not to be schoolmaster."
They were all three silent awhile, she hummed again, and looked round.
Ovind went away and sat by himself.
"We don't need to take from the school fund," said she, when the lad
was gone.