THE SLIDE.
Not the angel of death but the angel of beauty seemed to have made his
rounds in the night. Not a tree nor a shrub had been passed by. The
very dried weeds by the roadside were clothed in fairy garments. It
was as if nature had been suddenly purified, exalted, made ready for
translation. Alma looked out through her window,--not on the dark old
oaks or the bare slender birches of yesterday. In feathery whiteness
the oaks stood up before her, their hoary heads a crown of beauty, as
in a sainted old age. The graceful birches stood in "half concealing,
half revealing" pure drapery, as if shrouded in a bridal veil.
Round Karin's home the solemn evergreens had lost their gloom, and the
white-robed branches drooped, as if to cast a double blessing on the
passer-by.
Four noisy boys stormed out from the cottage door with a glad shout.
They saw nothing of poetry or beauty or mystery in the wonders the
hoar-frost had been working. They but remembered they were in the
midst of the Christmas holidays, and to-day they were to finish, under
the direction of Frans, the packing of the snow slope that led down to
the frozen bay. There they were all to have a splendid time coasting
on the long new sled that all had been busy in perfecting. "She," as
the boys said, was a "grand affair," a "regular buster."
Similar thoughts had been uppermost with Nono, but they had now taken a
different form. He was still inside the cottage, coaxing Karin to let
Decima have her share in the frolic. He would hold fast to her
himself, he said, and see that she came to no harm.
By two o'clock in the afternoon the slide was ready. Many hands had
made light work, and Frans had proved an admirable engineer. He now
took his place on the long sled as steersman and captain of the whole
affair. Decima, rolled in her mother's red shawl, was placed in the
midst of the group of merry boys, Nono's willing arms holding her as
firmly as it was possible to grasp such an uncertain kind of a bundle.
All went on merrily. Far out on to the ice-covered bay the great sled
rushed with wonderful swiftness. Then there was the return trip
uphill, Decima riding with only Nono beside her, as her humble
servitor, to keep her steady.
The sport went on and time flew by. Grown more and more daring, the
strong heels of the boys urged on the descending sled till it moved at
the pace of a swift locomotive. Suddenly there came a clumsy
old-fashioned sleigh along the shore road, which crossed the slide at a
right angle. Frans braked with heel and staff, and the other boys in
vain did their best to help him. The sled struck the sleigh, and was
emptied in a moment. The boys who were unencumbered fell here and
there in the soft snow or on the road. Nono held desperately fast to
his precious bundle, but could not save little Decima. While the rest
of the party were jumping up and rubbing their bruises, or declaring
they were "all right," Nono, half stunned, lay helpless with little
Decima still in his arms. She was screaming terribly, and would hardly
submit to being lifted up by the boys, even when Nono had rallied and
was giving her a helping hand.
The accident was followed by a weary, sorrowful time at the cottage.
Decima's broken leg was set by the doctor, and she was laid on the box
couch, her usual bed, with a brick dangling from her ankle to keep the
injured limb straight while it was healing.
If Decima had been a queen before, she now became a despot of the most
arbitrary sort. She was not patient by nature, and as to her habits of
obedience, they seemed broken as well as her leg. There was no limit
to her exactions. Her brothers she treated like worthless slaves, and
they soon learned to keep out of her reach, and when possible out of
the cottage. Nono spent his spare time faithfully beside her,
contriving all sorts of devices for her amusement. Frans looked in
often to see how she was getting on, and never came empty-handed.
There was always some special sweet bit to please her, or a "picture
book," or an apple, or a dainty plate of food begged from the
housekeeper.
Once, when Frans was going to the village, Alma had thought of
commissioning him to buy a doll, a prettily-dressed doll, for Decima;
but she checked herself, almost as if the idea had been sinful, and
that day a special contribution found its way down the chimney of her
treasure-house. Notwithstanding the kindness of Frans to the little
patient, he did not find her an angelic sufferer, even as far as he was
concerned. She became more and more fastidious as to his presents,
always expecting some gift more novel and beautiful than the last.
Frans made all kinds of jokes about her "decimal fractiousness," which
were noisily appreciated by the young arithmeticians at the cottage.
Nono alone could not laugh at anything which concerned Decima's
misfortune, for which he considered himself in a manner accountable.
The great undivided room of the interior of the cottage was now a sore
trial for Karin. The door seemed to be always ajar, Decima declaring
she felt a draught wherever she was placed. At last the boys went out
one day and left the door wide open, with poor little Decima alone in
the room, with a rush of keen air blowing upon her. Of course she took
cold, and Karin was quite in despair. The child began to complain that
the boys always were making a noise, and the dishes rattled so they
hurt her. It was in vain that Karin tripped about with the utmost
care; her lightest steps, Decima said, shook the whole floor. As for
Jan and the boys, they were for ever doing something that made the
little patient's head ache or that put her in a bad humour. The doctor
finally said he did not see how Decima was to get well in that room,
with that noisy family about her. It might do for well folks to live
so packed together, but to be sick in such a place was another question.
Karin, with her usually cheerful face all clouded, went one day to old
Pelle's room for comfort, as she had often done before. He did not
say, though he thought it, that his own little den was none of the
warmest, or he would take Decima there. He was thankful for the
shelter, such as it was. He proposed nothing for the child's comfort,
but reminded Karin that little Decima was as precious to the Master as
are the tender lambs to the shepherd, and she went out comforted. She
found Nono waiting for her at the door, with his dark eyes large and
earnest.
"I have thought what I can do, Mother Karin," he said. "I shall go up
to Stockholm and ask the good princess to take Decima into her home for
sick children, and she will be sure to get better there!"
"You go up to Stockholm! you ask the princess!" exclaimed Karin,
astonished at the magnitude and almost presumption of the proposal.
"I feel as if I knew the princess," persevered Nono. "I have thought
so much about her, and looked at her face until she don't seem to me
like a stranger, and then I know that she is so good. I want to start
to-day, Mother Karin. There is only a little time left of the
vacation, and I could not be away when school begins, you know. It is
so beautiful to-day, and not very cold."
Jan came along at the moment, and Nono explained his plan to him, much
as he had done to Karin, but with quite a different result.
"You are the right kind of a boy, Nono," said Jan, with hearty
approval. "You shall do just as you say. Maybe the Father in heaven
put it into your head. I know how a father feels when his children are
in trouble. Our royal family have never held their heads too high to
hear when the people were really in need. I am sure the princess would
be pleased to do what she could for our little Decima.--Karin, you get
Nono ready, right off. He is a good walker. It will only take him two
days to do it. Give him some loaves of bread, and he shall have some
coppers from me to buy milk by the way, and it will go well with him, I
really believe. There is not a cottager in Sweden who would not take
him in for a night when they had heard what he was out for. Something
must be done, any way, and we had better try this. It takes all the
heart out of me to see Decima as she is--our only girl, and such a
dear!"
There was something moist in Jan's eyes, but he brushed it away with
the back of his hand.
The boys had been sent to the woods to bring home their sled loaded
with brandies, to be cut up for fuel, for Jan had been felling a tree
the day before. When they came home to dinner they heard with
astonishment that Nono was off on his wonderful errand. "The little
boys" were at once detailed to wait upon Decima, when she condescended
to receive their attentions--an office on which they entered with
quizzical shrugs and wry faces and many misgivings.
It had struck Jan at once that one of the older boys would have been
much better fitted for such a trip than little Nono; but what would
they dare to say to a princess? They would perhaps never be allowed to
get into the palace at all. Nono, with his pretty ways and bright
black eyes, would be sure to get in anywhere. Karin had made him neat
enough to come into anybody's house. And as to his telling his story,
he could talk like a book when he got started, and make his hands talk
too, if he chose.
Old Pelle's eyes had glistened when he heard of the plan. When he bade
Nono good-bye, he had begun the boy's favourite text, "He who delivered
me from the lion and the bear--" He stopped, and then added, "The
princess is no Philistine, but one of the Lord's anointed, I am sure.
She is the great King's daughter! You know what I mean, Nono."
Nono did understand, and went out strengthened. He knew he had Uncle
Pelle's approval and his blessing on his errand.