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 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
upwards and onwards, 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 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 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 towards the birch.
“What do you think?” But the birch peered cautiously up 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 pass 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 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 onwards. In, under, and onwards 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 onwards went the brook;
and now came to the spot where the fir stood puffing on the hillside.
“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 birch, 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 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 shall 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 examined 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 as though it had never fallen.
The birch had become most wretchedly soiled, but now rose up and made
itself tidy. Then they sped onwards, faster and faster upwards, 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’s the matter with the juniper to-day?” said the fir, and took
long strides onwards 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 on 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.
--_From the Norwegian of_ BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON.
_By permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company._