"It is going backwards like myself."
"Who will take it when you are gone?"
"It is just this I don't know, and it troubles me."
"Your neighbours are doing well, Ole."
"Yes, they have the Agriculturist to help them."
The schoolmaster turns towards the window, saying somewhat carelessly,
"You should have help too Ole, you can't walk much, and you know very
little of the new method."
"Oh, there's no one who would help me!"
"Have you asked anyone?"
But Ole makes no reply.
The schoolmaster: "It was long thus between myself and God. 'Thou art
not good to me,' I said to Him. 'Hast thou asked me to be so?' He
replied. No, I had not, then I prayed, and all things went on well."
Ole is still silent, and now the schoolmaster is silent too.
At last Ole says, "I have a grandchild she knows what it would please
me to see before I am borne away, but she does not do it."
The schoolmaster smiles: "Perhaps it would not please her? There are
many things that trouble you, but so far as I can see, all the
difficulties centre at last on the farm."
Ole replies feelingly: "Yes, it has passed from one generation to
another, and the soil is good. All that father after father has got
together, has been laid out there, and now things don't grow. Neither
do I know, when I am taken away, who shall come in my stead. He cannot
be of our kindred."
"But there is your granddaughter.--"
"But he who takes her, how will he manage the farm? This I long to know
before I die. There is haste Baard, both for me and the farm."
After a pause, the schoolmaster said, "Shall we go out a little and
look at the farm, this fine day?"
"Yes, let us go, I have labourers up there; they gather the leaves, but
they don't work except they see me."
He hobbled for his great cap and stick, saying as he went, "They don't
like working for me, I don't know how it is."
On coming out and turning the corner, he exclaimed, "Here you see, no
order; the wood scattered all over, the axe not stuck in the log." He
bent over with difficulty, took it up and slashed it in.
"There, do you see that sheep skin fallen down, but has any one hung it
up?" He did it himself.
"And there is the ladder out of place." He put it right, and turning to
the schoolmaster, said, "The same thing day after day!"
As they went further they heard a lively song from the fields.
"Hark! they are singing at work," said the schoolmaster.
"No, it is little Knut Ostistuen who is singing; he is gathering leaves
for his father. It is over there my people are working, they are not
singing."
"It is not one of the country songs, that?"
"No, I hear it is not."
"Ovind Pladsen has been a great deal in Ostistuen; it must be one of
those he has introduced; where he is, there is sure to be song."
No reply.
The field they went over was not in good condition, it wanted
attention. The schoolmaster remarked it, whereupon Ole stopped.
"I cannot do any more," he said, almost in tears; "but it is hard to go
over such a field, you may be sure."
As they began to talk again about the size of the farm, and what most
required attention, they concluded to go up the hill side, where they
could overlook the whole. When they had reached the place, and could
see the farm laid out before them, the old man was quite moved.
"I should not like to leave it as it is. We have worked hard there both
I and my parents before me; but now nothing is to be seen of our
labour."
Just then, right above their heads, there burst out a song, with that
peculiar sharpness that a lad's voice has when it is changing. They
were not far from the tree where little Knut Ostistuen was sitting,
pulling leaves for his father, and they listened to the song:--
All along by copse and glade
Up the rocky mountain,
Thro' the pleasant birch wood's shade,
By the silver fountain.
Chase away each thought of care,
Gaily, gladly singing,
Through the pure and bracing air
Joyful echoes ringing.
The birds salute from every tree,
They form a charming choir,
The air grows pure, and light, and free,
Higher up and higher.
So the thought of childhood's hours
To the memory rushes,
Recollections from the flowers
Peep with rosy blushes.
Stay and listen;--it is good,
To thy heart appealing--
The grand deep song of solitude,
Speaks to every feeling.
But a streamlet gurgling on,
But a small stone rolling,
Calls up forgotten duties gone,
Like a death knell tolling.
Tremble, yes, but pray, poor soul
'Midst thy saddest thinking;--
Forward to the blessed goal,--
Keep thy heart from sinking.
There is Christ as once of old,
Elias too, and Moses;
When their glory ye behold,
Faith in joy reposes.
Ole had seated himself, and hid his head in his hands.
"Let us talk together here," said the schoolmaster, and sat down by his
side.
* * *
Down at the little farm, Ovind had just returned from a long journey,
the chaise was still at the door, while the horses were resting.
Although Ovind had now a good salary as District Agriculturist, he
still kept his little room, down at Pladsen, and assisted them in his
spare time. Pladsen was now under good cultivation from one end to the
other, but it was so small that Ovind called it "Mother's doll's play;"
for it was chiefly she who managed the farm.
He had just dressed after his journey, and so had the father who had
come home white from the mill, and they were speaking of going out a
little before supper, when the mother came in looking quite pale:
"Do look out, pray see the strangers coming to the house!"