THE RELEASE
While all this was taking place, Prince Abderraman was riding the wide
world over, with his sword at his side and his staff in his hand. There
was not a mountain in Asia, not a desert in Africa, nor a field, town or
city in Southern or Middle Europe which he had not traversed in vain.
But what had he to hope for in Europe? No tigers are found there except
the tame ones exhibited in the city menageries; and among _them_ there
was no _Ahriman_! Sorrow drew the prince back on the way to Persia, and
his trusty dog, Valledivau, accompanied him.
One day the dog hunted a wild duck among the reeds of a lake, captured
it and carried it alive to his master. Just as the prince was about to
kill it, the duck quacked out:
"Spare my life, and I will tell you something!"
"I _will_ spare your life, wonderful bird," the prince exclaimed,
astonished. "What have you to tell me?"
"Ride to Lapland!" quacked the duck, at the same time escaping into the
water.
Lapland! The prince had never even heard of such a kingdom. When he
inquired about it and how he should find it, people answered:
"Ride northward, steadily northward; and stop not until the road ends,
the forest ends, and you no more find a human dwelling with builded
hearth."
"Wonderful!" thought the prince, and he followed the advice. He rode
northward, steadily northward; stopping not until the road came to an
end, the forest came to an end, and no human dwelling was to be seen but
one lone movable tent.
It was on the last day of August, after he had ridden many long and
weary miles without seeing a single trace of man, that the prince
suddenly discovered, at the foot of a high mountain, this lone tent of
reindeer skin. The last day of August! The sun still shone and the
heather still blossomed, but the sky had changed and a cool north wind
blew. When the wind ceased, then would come the frost!
The prince drew nearer to the tent that he might once more repeat his
fruitless query for the lost princess, when to his indescribable
astonishment he perceived in the distance an inscription on a rock on
the mountainside. The characters were very legible. He read the name of
LINDAGULL!
The wizard had carved the name there, over the door of the mountain
grotto, so that he could find the place again when he moved his tent
away.
The prince had dismounted, and was just about to draw his sword and
enter the tent when Hirmu came out on his way to the heath.
"Give me back the Princess Lindagull or I will send you to the Kingdom
of the Prince of Darkness!" shouted Abderraman.
The wizard was a crafty fellow who knew many a trick by which to save
himself when in a dilemma. But he lost his presence of mind at this
unexpected encounter and could think of no better way out of the
difficulty than to change himself instantly into a mountain fox. With a
hasty spring he fled swiftly away into the mountain. He thought thus to
be safe from the prince's sword, but he forgot the dog by whom the
prince was followed!
No sooner had Valledivau seen the fox spring away than he was off on the
hunt after it. The fox hid in every cleft and jumped over the mountain
ravines; but Valledivau, even more agile, chased him to the highest
mountain top, tore him in pieces, and ate up his heart.
This proved the death of Hirmu the wizard; for his heart had entered the
fox just as it had before gone into the tiger; and when the heart was
eaten up, that was the end of the wizard.
When the dog returned with his nose covered with blood, his master
understood that now their common enemy had met his destruction. But
where was Lindagull to be found?
* * * * *
The prince went to the door of the tent. The Lapp woman, Pimpedora, was
cooking reindeer meat; and her boy, Pimpepanturi, stretched lazily on
the soft moss, was sleeping instead of doing something useful while he
was waiting for dinner.
"Woman," said the prince, "your husband is dead. Give me back the
Princess Lindagull, and no harm shall come to you."
"O mercy! And is he dead?" exclaimed the Lapp woman, coming out of the
tent, but not appearing very much distressed. "Ah, well! It's time there
should come an end to his evil arts. As for Lindagull, we must seek her
out there among the heather blossoms. My husband has changed her into a
heather blossom, exactly like many thousands of others; and to-night the
frost will come and then all will be over with her!"
"Ah! dearest little Lindagull! Must you die to-night and I not be able
to discover the stalk on which you wither?" cried the prince, throwing
himself down among the heather on the boundless moor, where a thousand
times a thousand pale, purple-pink blossoms, exactly like each other,
awaited death.
"Hold!" said the Lapp woman. "Despair not! Now occurs to me the saying
with which Lindagull was enchanted! I thought he planned a wrong against
the child, and crept back of a big stone to see what my husband was
going to do. Then I heard him say:
"_Adáma donai Marrabataësan!_"
"Ah!" sighed the prince, "how can that help us when we do not know the
words which loosen the enchantment?"
Pimpepanturi, waking and thinking that the dinner had been long enough
deferred, walked out of the tent to look for his mother. When he heard
the prince's words, he scratched his forehead thoughtfully a few times
and said, "Father used to change the saying around when he wanted to
disenchant any one."
"Yes, so he did!" said the Lapp woman.
Prince Abderraman, with terrified eagerness, gave a great leap, landed
on a rock, and shouted as loudly as he could over the limitless heath:
"_Marrabataësan donai Adáma!_"
The words rang out through the air without effect. No blossom arose. The
sun was sinking rapidly toward the horizon and the wind was growing
still.
The prince, fearing he should not give the right turn to the magic
command, repeated it time after time saying the words in different order
and with different expression. But in vain.
At last, at a certain way of saying the words, it seemed to him that a
bit of heather on a distant mound had lifted itself up to listen, but
sunk immediately back, undistinguishable among the multitudinous
blossoms.
"The sun is going down," said the Lapp woman. "If we do not quickly find
the right manner of saying the words, the frost will come, and then it
will be too late."
By this time the sun's red beams had sunk quite down to the horizon. All
nature was silent. A cool and damp evening mist, the forerunner of the
frost, spread itself like a veil over moor and mound. All living things
which had ventured to bloom for a short time in Lapland were now doomed
to death.
Prince Abderraman was pallid with terror. His voice choked, and he could
scarcely articulate the one untried arrangement of the magical words:
"_Marraba donai Adáma taësan._"
Behold! On the distant hillock, a heather blossom raised itself on its
stalk. It grew as rapidly as does the lily which the Afghanistan fairies
cause to spring forth in the red dawn, when they tap on the blue
mountains with their magic wands.
The mist lay all around the mound. Out of the mist arose a slender
figure, and as the prince approached the mound, running breathlessly,
Lindagull came toward him pale with the escape of death. Prince
Abderraman had found the right order for the words just in time to save
her life.
The Princess Lindagull was borne to the tent in the arms of Abderraman,
and her strength soon returned under the Lappish woman's kind care.
Pimpedora was happy; and Pimpepanturi in his gladness forgot his
longed-for dinner, which was sadly burnt in the pot.
[Illustration: OUT OF THE MIST AROSE A SLENDER FIGURE.--_Page 80_.]
The hero-prince, picturing to himself the perils of the princess and the
wonder of her recovery, swooned with rapture. His first words as he
recovered were a prayer to Allah; and then he asked Lindagull:
"How did it feel to be changed into a heather blossom?"
"Just as if one sank back into the cradle of childhood and knew no more
of the world than to eat, drink, and be happy in God's love," answered
Lindagull.
"And how did it feel when you came back to life again?"
"Just as when one awakes on a clear morning after a deep and pleasant
slumber."
"To-morrow shall we go back to Persia?"
"Yes," answered Lindagull. "But the good woman and her son have had a
share in saving the poor captive Lindagull. We will take them with us
and they shall have a palace in Ispahan."
"No; many, many thanks," answered Pimpedora; "I like my reindeer tent in
Lapland better."
"Are there snow and reindeer in Persia?" asked Pimpepanturi.
"Snow is found only on the highest mountains," said the princess; "and
instead of reindeer we have horses, antelopes, and gazelles."
"No, thank you heartily, then," said Pimpepanturi. "You can go with
pleasure, and marry whom you wish. Nowhere in the world is there to be
found so good a land as Lapland!"
It was of no use trying to dispute that question with the Laplanders, so
the prince and princess set out the following day without them. Before
departing they presented the Lapp woman and her son with their
gold-embroidered clothes and with many jewels; receiving in return gifts
of Lappish garments made from reindeer skin.
The Lapp woman put the costly Persian robes carefully away in birch
bark, and rejoiced because with them she could buy a whole field of
grain.
* * * * *
Shah Nadir sat alone in Ispahan's golden palace and groaned with grief.
He could not forget his lost daughter. His wicked and ungrateful sons
had raised a rebellion against him, and were marching with a large army
toward the capital to cast their father from the throne.
While affairs were at this juncture the Grand Vizier announced that a
young foreign couple, dressed in reindeer skin and followed by a dog,
wished to prostrate themselves at the king's feet.
Shah Nadir never refused audience to a stranger,--(perhaps such a
traveler would know something of his dear lost child!)--and so the two
foreigners were led into his presence.
The young man cast himself down before the feet of the Shah; but the
young woman, without ado, threw her arms around his neck; at which
proceeding the Grand Vizier's beard became green with consternation!
But Shah Nadir, under her Lappish hood of reindeer skin, recognized his
child so long sought and so hopelessly bewailed. "Allah! Allah!" cried
he in joy; "now I am willing to die!"
"No, my lord king," broke out Prince Abderraman. "Now shall you live to
rejoice with us, and to win back your kingdom again."
When Shah Nadir learned about his daughter's captivity and of the loyal
service which the prince had shown her, he immediately proclaimed Prince
Abderraman successor to his throne, promised him the Princess Lindagull
in marriage, and sent him in command of the fifty thousand knights with
gold saddles to fight the rebellious army.
It was not long before the prince won a glorious battle, took the rebel
sons prisoners, and came back victorious to the rejoicing people of
Ispahan.
Then was the wedding of Prince Abderraman and Princess Lindagull
celebrated with great state (but without a wild beast fight!) and they
lived long and happily after. But one day every year,--and that was the
thirty-first of August, the date of Princess Lindagull's
deliverance,--the royal pair showed themselves (to the great wonderment
of magnificent Persia) in the Lapps' outlandish clothes of reindeer
skin, so that in their prosperity they should not forget the great
escape and blessing of the past.
In his old age, Shah Nadir had happy little grandchildren to sit upon
his knee. The wicked sons ended their careers as swineherds for old King
Bom Bali in Turan. The dog, Valledivau, lived to be thirty years old and
died of the toothache (!); his skin was stuffed and kept in great honor.
But about Pimpedora, and Pimpepanturi who bore for a season the proud
name of Morus Pandorus von Pikkulukulikuck´ulu, nothing has since been
heard in Persia. Probably they have never found a better land on the
earth's broad expanse than Lapland.
--_Z. Topelius_.
[Illustration]
SIKKU AND THE TROLLS
In the time of Charles the Twelfth there lived, in North Finland, a poor
herd-boy called Sikku. His name should have been Sixtus, but the tongue
of the Finn is so unmanageable that some names baffle it, and in that
case he simply makes them over to suit himself,--to the form that he can
best pronounce; so for that reason, Sixtus became Sikku.
Sikku was so poor that he had neither cap nor shirt nor shoes; but not
in the least did this trouble him. He was always gay and happy, and
while tending his cows at the foot of Sipuri Mountain, sang songs from
morning till evening or blew on his wooden horn, taking great delight in
hearing the mountain echoes mimic him.
Sikku had an old jack-knife, which counted for riches to him; and
besides that he rejoiced in a comrade named Kettu, a long-nosed,
long-tailed yellow dog, faithful to Sikku, but with a testy temper
toward other folk.
The two stood by each other in plenty and in need, through weal and
through woe. Kettu drove the cows together when they strayed, Kettu
watched them while Sikku took his midday nap, and Sikku shared with
Kettu the hard bread that was, for both, the usual breakfast and dinner.
With the bread, they always had a fine soup of clear spring water, and
almost every day a delicious dessert,--strawberries, raspberries, Arctic
blackberries, blueberries, red whortleberries, wild cherries, or berries
from the mountain-ash.
Kettu scorned such things, but Sikku enjoyed them all in the course of
the summer, and thought he fared like a prince. When the weather was
very rainy and cold, however, he would begin, toward evening, to long
for the porridge pot. Oh, that nice warm porridge pot, that he could
scrape and scrape, eating all the porridge there was left anywhere in
it! Kettu got the porridge ladle to lick, and stole Miss Pussy's milk
from the broken earthen dish which stood on the floor near the
water-tub, though he seldom got the milk without a battle!
The master of Anttilla Farm was stingy and grasping and his wife was
like him, but what mattered that to Sikku? He had his freedom, and the
only thing he was responsible for was that all the fifteen cows returned
to the farm every evening to be milked. Not another care in the world
had Sikku, and for a time all went well and happily.
One day he climbed up the highest peak of the mountain while Kettu
watched the cows in the valley. There was a wide beautiful view over
forests, marshes, and small lonely lakes, but no houses were in sight.
Sikku had never in his life thought that the world could be so big! His
heart warmed within him as he saw the sun sparkle on the lakes between
the dark branches of the pines. When a cloud sailed over the sky, one
gleam after another flashed, vanished in shadow and shone out anew in
another spot. Sikku sang and sang, blowing his wooden horn between
times. The sounds rang out merrily up there on the mountain and turned
into a little song:
"Oh, Sipuri Mountain! Tu-tu´! Falidu´!
Tu-tu´! Falidu´!
In all the whole world not a boy can be found
Who is tending his cows, with such grandeur around.
Tu-tu´! Falidu´!"
While he was singing, there suddenly appeared before him a hideous
little old woman who said to him, "All the land that you see shall be
yours if you will be my boy and obey me."
"Oh, ho!" exclaimed Sikku, observing the woman closely and recognizing
her as the troll woman from Allis Farm.
"Give me the white cow, Kimmo," continued she, "and say when you go home
that the wolf caught her."
Sikku's eyes grew big and he answered: "Indeed I will not. I am no such
rascal as that!"
"Then blame yourself for what happens," said the troll woman; and with
that she hopped, crow fashion, down the mountain.
Kettu began to howl from the valley. Sikku sprang down and found that
Kimmo had sunk in the wet marsh so that only her horn stood up above the
soft, yielding ground. He tried to drag her out, but he was not strong
enough, and when he had worked over her until he was worn out, he had to
give up and go home driving only fourteen cows, while the bell cow lowed
and Kettu howled.
Poor Sikku told of the disaster and got a hard thrashing; and the next
morning was sent to his work without anything to eat, not even the dry
bread usually given to him for the noon meal.
He sang no songs that day but sat hungry and sorrowful at the foot of
the mountain. By and by, the long-bearded old troll man from Allis came
to him and said:
"Give me the black cow, Mustikka, and say that the wolf tore her to
pieces, and I will give you all the land you can see from Sipuri Peak."
[Illustration: "OH, HO!"
EXCLAIMED SIKKU, RECOGNIZING HER AS THE TROLL WOMAN.--_Page 89_.]
"Indeed I will not. I am no such rascal as that!" answered Sikku,
offended.
"Blame yourself then for what happens," said the troll; and with that
off he went, turning somersaults all the way.
Kettu began to bark. Sikku ran at once to the herd and found Mustikka
lying dead among the trees on a hillside. She had eaten some poisonous
plant and could not be restored to life. Sikku, distressed and crying,
made a birch-bark cone, in which he brought water from the spring and
dashed over her head; but it was of no use. He must go home with only
thirteen cows and report the misfortune. This time he was shut up in the
cellar without food for three days. The fourth day he was sent out with
the thirteen cows and the usual lunch-bag. Being very hungry he no
sooner reached the gate than he opened the bag, but found in it only a
gray stone!
Sikku drove the cows toward the mountain, ate berries in the forest,
and sat down, full of grief, on a stump right in the midst of the herd,
so that no further ill might befall. Then there came to him the pretty
little troll maiden from Allis, who held out toward him a fresh wheaten
roll, patted his thin cheek, and said:
"Give me the red cow, Mansikka, and tell them when you go home that a
bear tore her to pieces, and you shall have this nice fresh roll and all
the land you can see from the top of Sipuri besides."
Sikku was so hungry that he could have swallowed a roll of moss! He
looked at the wheaten roll, he looked at the pretty little troll maiden
and had to bite his tongue to keep from instantly answering yes. But the
troll maiden laughed and that offended Sikku, and he answered:
"Indeed I will not. I am no such rascal as that!"
"Blame yourself then for what happens!" said the troll maiden; and with
that, fluttering like a magpie, away she went into the forest.
Sikku, fearing a new misfortune, turned at once to Mansikka who had been
grazing right near him. She now lay stretched at full length upon the
grass with a snake hanging fast to her nose; and in a short time she was
dead from the poisonous bite. What did it matter that Sikku killed the
snake? Its bite had killed the cow, and home must he go with only twelve
cows, and tell of this new disaster.
"Decide yourself what punishment you deserve!" said the angry farmer.
"Shall I roast you in the bath-house furnace or would you rather be
thrown into the deep well?"
"I couldn't help it,--it wasn't my fault!" said Sikku, weeping bitterly.
"Three times they offered me all the land I could see from Sipuri Peak
if I would steal a cow for them and then lie to you; but that of course
I would not do."
"They did, did they?" said the farmer. "Very well. That is my land that
you see from Sipuri Peak and I will promise it to you, if you, before
the next full moon, lead to my farm nine beautiful cows in the place of
Kimmo, Mustikka, and Mansikka, lying dead over there by the mountain.
But what shall I do with you now? You must have some kind of
punishment."
"Bind him hand and foot, lay him on the highest peak of Sipuri Mountain,
and let him eat his fill of the view of the land you promise him," said
the farm mistress, who could not forgive Sikku for the loss of the three
cows.
This suggestion pleased the farmer. Sikku was bound hand and foot, and
placed on the tip top of the mountain; and everybody was forbidden to
give him anything to eat or drink. The remaining twelve cows were driven
by another boy to graze in fields the other side of the farm, far away
from the mountain.
There lay Sikku, bound hand and foot, and half dead from hunger. The
forest wafted fragrance, the lakes glittered in the sunshine, twilight
came, night came, the dew fell, the thrushes sang, the stars twinkled,
and the moon looked down upon the poor boy; and it seemed as if no one
in the whole world thought or cared about him.
But high over mountain and forest, over the lakes, the dew, the thrushes
and even the stars and the moon, there is nevertheless One who sees all
the oppressed and miserable upon earth; and He saw even poor forsaken
Sikku and sent to him a faithful friend. Who was the faithful friend?
Who should it be but Kettu?
Kettu could have porridge to eat at the farm; he could steal milk, as
was his custom, from the cat's broken dish by the water-tub; but though
he was hungry, Kettu chose rather to dash up the mountain in search of
Sikku, to lie at Sikku's bound feet, and lick his bound hands. Sikku was
so glad to have his dog with him that he once more felt happy and
content; and soon both fell asleep in the moonlight.
* * * * *
Now there was at this time,--in the reign of Charles the Twelfth,--a
great war going on in the southern part of the land. The people in
North Finland did not know much about this war, but lived in peace
behind their thick forests. Suddenly an enemy's fleet appeared on their
seacoast and bands of warriors were put ashore. They spread over the
land, fighting and plundering everywhere.
On this very night, one of these fierce warrior bands had come to the
region near Sipuri. They attacked, burned and plundered Anttilla Farm,
took the master himself prisoner, and drove forth all his cattle as part
of their booty.
Afterward the warriors separated into smaller groups, to continue their
plundering in other places. And certain Cossacks were left behind to
guard the prisoners and the stolen cattle, until it was convenient to
put them on board the ship.
Early in the morning, Sikku awoke to find that Kettu was biting a man in
the leg. Two wild-looking, heavily-bearded men had climbed to the
mountain top to get a good view of the land and see whither they should
now betake themselves. Finding a young boy, tied and helpless, they
pitied him,--hostile though they were,--freed him, gave him bread from
their knapsacks and took him along with them.
Reaching their horses, which had been left tied to trees at the foot of
the mountain, one of the men lifted Sikku to his horse's back, the other
drove Kettu away so that he should not follow them, and off they
galloped, not stopping until the riders neared the shore of a large
lake.
Much booty and many prisoners had been brought here, but the Cossacks
were so eager to continue their raids that they left only six men to
guard what they had already taken, the others riding forth again
immediately.
When night came on, the six Cossacks began to be afraid lest some of the
land's own people should attack them in the dark. Therefore, they got
into a small boat, taking Sikku with them, and rowed out to an island in
the lake, so that they might pass the night in safety. They left the
cattle to graze on the shore, while the prisoners and even the six
horses were still securely bound to the trees.
Sikku lay among the Cossacks on the barren island. The night was dark,
the great waves dashed against the island's pebbly beach, and a strong
wind blew toward the mainland. Sikku was wakeful, and heard the
long-drawn, regular breathing of the weary Cossacks as they slept beside
him. Five of them lay there, but the sixth had stayed on guard in the
boat.
Sikku raised himself slowly and listened. One of the Cossacks began
talking in his sleep and tossed his arms about, so Sikku lay down again;
but still he could not sleep.
After a while he sat up once more, and since everything was quiet, he
stole out from among the sleeping Cossacks and went silently down to the
boat at the shore. Here the trusted guard was also asleep, and slept so
heavily that he knew nothing of Sikku's doings, although Sikku shoved
the boat gently out into the water, sat down in the stern and let the
wind drive the boat toward the mainland.
Still the Cossack watchman slept as the boat sped quietly on. He had
ridden hard, many, many miles. Little wonder that he slept like a log!
When Sikku felt the boat grate against the land, he climbed softly out,
took his old knife from his pocket, and cut the ropes that bound the
prisoners. The Cossack still slept. The released prisoners could
scarcely believe that they were free. They followed Sikku to the boat,
and bound their enemy with the same ropes by which a moment ago they
themselves had been bound.
Now at last the Cossack was awake, but too late. He had been made his
captives' captive.
"Kill him at once! And then let us row to the island and kill the others
while they sleep!" shouted one of the newly freed men.
"No," said Sikku, who recognized his master's voice. "Let us rather take
their booty and hurry it and ourselves to safety."
"They have burnt my house and barns, and stolen everything I had," said
the farmer savagely.
"They freed me and gave me food," said Sikku, who seemed suddenly like a
grown man.
Most of the men agreed with Sikku. The Cossacks were not killed, some of
the land's folk rode away on the enemy's horses, others drove herds of
cattle off to safe hiding-places in the forest, and each person carried
away as much as he could of the enemy's plunder. Sikku had chosen his
share and was well pleased with it.
Several days after, the warrior bands returned from their raids and took
to their ships again.
Then the folk came out from the depths of the forest and from the
mountain caves where they had sought refuge in the hour of danger, and
many came from their burnt farms. They gathered at the church to consult
together as to what was best to be done now. For one thing, they must
decide the fate of the six captive Cossacks,--the five on the island
having also been captured.
"Kill them! Kill them!" shouted several.
"No, give them to Sikku," said others. "He captured them."
So the six Cossacks were given to Sikku who exacted the promise from
them that they would not fight against Finland any more. Then he let
them go, free and unharmed.
The farmer of Anttilla and his wife had settled themselves in a tiny hut
on their estate which the enemy, in their headlong haste, had not
burned.
"Alas!" said the wife, the first evening they sat in their new poor
home. "If we only had our beautiful cows now!"
"If we only had!" said the farmer.
At that moment they saw a little bareheaded, barefooted boy come from
the hillside grove toward the hut, driving before him, with the help of
a long-nosed, yellow dog, a herd of nine beautiful cows.
"Isn't that Sikku? And Kettu?" exclaimed the farmer.
"And are not those our cows?" cried the farm mistress.
Yes, it was Sikku; and Kettu; and those were the Anttilla Farm cows that
the robbers had taken away with them. Three had been slain, but the nine
that were left, Sikku had asked for as his share of the booty.
"Here I come, bringing you nine beautiful cows!" shouted Sikku. He would
fain have swung his cap for joy, only he had no cap.
"Darling boy!" "Is it really you?" exclaimed the farmer and his wife at
the same time. Then they embraced Sikku, and patted the cows again and
again in their delight.
Kettu had already disappeared in the hut to see whether Miss Pussy's
broken dish still stood by the water-tub. Miss Pussy hissed and spat at
him and so there was again war in the land.
"Are you hungry, Sikku?" asked the mistress. Her conscience was very
uneasy.
"No, I thank you," answered Sikku. "I was thinking of something else. It
is not yet full moon."
At these words, the farmer fumbled with his big ears in embarrassment
and distress, remembering his rash promise. Here was Sikku with nine
cows, and true enough, the moon was not yet full. Well, Sikku had proved
himself a fine fellow;--a promise was a promise;--they needed the cows
sadly. One might as well make the best of the situation.
"Listen now, Sikku," said he. "Let us be good friends. What could you do
with so much land while you are so little? Serve me faithfully for seven
years, and I will then keep my promise and give you all the land you can
see from Sipuri Mountain."
"Done!" said Sikku.
So Sikku served faithfully for seven years at Anttilla Farm, grew tall
and strong, got shirts and caps and shoes, married the farmer's
daughter, the kind Greta, and received with her not only all the land to
be seen from Sipuri Mountain, but a fine new farmhouse besides.
Kettu and Miss Pussy lived many years and, when they died, were both
buried at the foot of Sipuri Mountain.
And the three trolls? Oh, yes. Well, there is a big crows' nest at Allis
Farm, in which live three crows. They can give you news of the trolls,
if any one can; but people say, you know, that crows are not to be
relied upon in the least.
--_Z. Topelius_.
[Illustration]
SAMPO LAPPELIL
There was once a Lapp and a Lapp woman. The Lapps are a people who live
north of the Swedes, the Norwegians, and the Finns, far, far up in the
north. They have neither fields, nor real forests, nor regular houses,
but only great barren bogs and high mountains, and small huts, which
they crawl into through a hole. The country of the Lapps is strange.
Half the year it is light most of the time, for the sun never sets in
the middle of summer, and the other half of the year it is dark most of
the time, and the stars shine all day in winter.
Ten months of the year it is winter, and then the little Lapp men and
the little Lapp women drive over the snow in small boats, which are
called pulks. There is no horse harnessed before the pulk, but a
reindeer. Have you ever seen a reindeer? It is as large as a little
horse, is gray in color, has high branching horns, a stooping neck, and
a pretty little head with great clear eyes. When it runs at full speed,
it goes flying over mountains and hills like a rushing wild wind, and
its hoofs snap as it dashes along.
There was, as I have said, a Lapp and a Lapp woman. They lived far up in
Lapland, in Aimio, which lies near Tenojoki or the Tana River. (You can
see it on the map of Finland, where Lapland can be found like a great
nightcap on Finland's high head.) The place was barren and wild, but the
Lapp and his wife felt sure that nowhere on the whole earth could you
see such white snow, such clear stars, and such beautiful Northern
Lights as at Aimio. There they had built themselves a hut such as Lapps
usually live in. No large trees grew in that region,--only slender
birches, that were more like bushes than trees--so where could they get
wood for a house? Instead, they took long, thin sticks, stuck them into
the snow, in a circle, tied the upper ends together, hung reindeer skins
over the sticks, so that altogether it looked like a gray sugar-loaf,
and then the hut was finished. In the top of the sugar-loaf they left a
hole, through which the smoke could escape if they lighted a fire, and
there was another hole in the southern side through which they could
crawl in and out. The Lapps thought it was pretty and warm and were very
happy in it, though they had no other bed and no other floor than the
white snow.
The man and the woman had a little boy whose name was Sampo, and that
means "luck" in Lapland. But Sampo had two names. Once some strange
gentlemen in great fur coats had come and stayed in the hut. They had
with them little hard, white pieces of snow, such as the Lapp woman had
never seen before, which they called "sugar." They gave Sampo a few
pieces of the sweet snow, and they patted him on the cheek and said:
"Lappelil! Lappelil!" which means "little Lapp." They could not say
anything else, for they could not talk Lapp. And then they traveled away
farther north, to the Arctic Ocean and the northernmost point of Europe
which is called the North Cape. The Lapp woman liked the strange
gentlemen and their sweet snow, and she began from that time to call her
boy "Lappelil."
"I think Sampo a much better name," said the man, rather vexed. "Sampo
means 'riches,' and I tell you, Mother, don't spoil the name! For, some
time, Sampo will become the king of the Lapps, and reign over thousands
of reindeer and fifty Lapp huts."
"Yes, but Lappelil sounds so pretty," said the woman. And she called the
boy "Lappelil," and the man called him "Sampo." He was, however, not
christened yet, for at that time there was no priest within a hundred
miles. "Next year we will go to the priest and let him christen the
boy," the man used to say. But next year something came in the way, and
the journey did not take place, and the boy did not get christened.
Sampo Lappelil was now a fat little fellow seven or eight years old,
with black hair and brown eyes; he had a snub nose and a broad mouth
just like his papa's; in Lapland a face must have such features if it is
to be thought really fine. Sampo was not a stupid boy for his age; he
had his own little snow-shoes and on them he danced over the high hills
near the Tana; and his own little reindeer which he harnessed before his
own pulk. You should have seen how the snow blew about him, as he rushed
off over the ice and the high snow-drifts, so that nothing of the boy
was to be seen but a tuft of his black hair!
"I shall never feel quite safe until the boy is christened," the Lapp
woman often said. "The wolves may get him some fine day here on the
mountains, or he may meet Hiisi's reindeer with the golden horns--and
then may God protect the poor creature who is not christened!"
Sampo, hearing this, began to wonder what kind of a reindeer it could be
that had golden horns. "That must be a beautiful reindeer," said he. "I
should like to drive it once; then I would travel to Rastekais!"
Rastekais is a very wild, high mountain that may be seen from
twenty-five or thirty miles away.
"Don't you dare to talk so, naughty boy!" said the mother, and scolded
him. "It is just on Rastekais that the trolls are, and there lives
Hiisi."
"Hiisi--who is that?" asked Sampo.
The woman became confused. "Now, he must ask about everything, that
boy," she thought to herself. "Why do I stand here and talk about such
things so that he can hear? But at least I will frighten him away from
Rastekais!"
And so she said: "Dear Lappelil, never go to Rastekais, for there lives
Hiisi, the great mountain king who eats a reindeer in a mouthful, and
swallows boys like gnats."
Sampo began to wonder when he heard this; but he said nothing. He
thought to himself: "It must be good fun to see such a horrid creature
as the mountain king,--but only from a long way off!"
It was now already three or four weeks after Christmas, and it was
still dark in Lapland. There was no morning, noon, nor evening. It was
always night; and the moon shone, and the Northern Lights crackled, and
the stars twinkled brightly all the time. Sampo began to feel dull. It
was so long since he had seen the sun that he had almost forgotten what
it looked like; and when any one talked of summer Sampo only remembered
it was the time when the gnats were so bad and tried to eat him up.
Therefore he did not care if the summer stayed away forever, if only it
would grow light enough to go about easily on snow-shoes.
One day about noon the Lapp said: "Come here, and you shall see
something!" Sampo crept out of the hut in the dark, and looked toward
the south, for it was in that direction that his father pointed. There
he saw a little red streak way down on the horizon.
"Do you know what that is?" asked the Lapp.
"That is Southern Lights," said the boy. He had a good idea of the
points of the compass, and knew very well that you could not see
Northern Lights in the south.
"No," said his father, "that is the forerunner of the sun. To-morrow or
the day after we shall see the sun itself. Only look how strangely the
red light shines on the top of Rastekais."
Sampo turned to the west and saw how the snow was colored red far away
on the dark, wild top of Rastekais. Immediately it came into his mind
how very pleasant it would be to see the mountain king--from a long way
off.
Sampo thought about this all day and half the night. He tried to sleep,
but could not. "Yes," he thought, "it would be fun to see the mountain
king once!" He kept thinking about it, until at last he crept quite
softly out from the reindeer-skin under which he lay, and out through
the door. It was so cold that the stars snapped and the snow crackled
under his feet. But Sampo Lappelil was not afraid of cold. Besides he
had a leather jacket, leather trousers, Lapp shoes, and a fur cap and
mittens. Thus fortified, he looked at the stars, and did not know
exactly what he should do next.
Then he heard his little reindeer scratching in the snow not far off.
"What if I took a drive?" thought Sampo.
No sooner said than done. Sampo harnessed the reindeer before the pulk
as he usually did, and started off over the great bare snow-field. "I
will drive a little way toward Rastekais, only a little way," he thought
to himself. So he drove down over the frozen river and up on the other
side of the Tana, and then was in the kingdom of Norway, for the Tana
River is the boundary. But that Sampo did not know.
You, who are reading this story of Sampo Lappelil, did you ever sing:
"Run, my brave reindeer"? Do you know the beautiful songs of the dear,
good Bishop Franzén, whom all Sweden and all Finland love, and have you
ever seen the title-page of the fourth volume of his songs? There you
can see a Lapp boy driving with his reindeer over the snow, and that is
just Sampo Lappelil. So he sat and sang to himself:
"So short is the day,
The road is so long,
Oh! hark to my song:
Let us hurry away!
The wolf pack lives here,
Rest not, little deer!"
As he sang he saw in the dark the wolves running like gray dogs around
the pulk, and barking after the reindeer; but he did not mind that; he
knew that no wolf could run as fast as his swift reindeer. Ha, how they
went over stones and hills! The wind whistled in their ears! Sampo
Lappelil only rushed on. The reindeer's hoofs snapped, and the moon in
the sky raced with him, and the high mountains seemed to rebound, but
Sampo Lappelil only rushed on. It was pleasant to drive; he thought of
nothing else. Then it happened that in a sudden turn over a hill, the
pulk upset and Sampo fell out and was left lying in a snow-drift.
But the reindeer did not notice that; it thought that he still sat in
the pulk, and so ran on, and Sampo had got his mouth so full of snow
that he could not call. There he lay, like a lemming that had lost a
foot, in the dark night, in the midst of the desolate wilderness where
no one lived for many miles around.
[Illustration: SAMPO WAS LEFT LYING IN A SNOW-DRIFT.--_Page 114_.]
Sampo was frightened at first--that you cannot wonder at. He worked
himself out of the snow, and found he was not hurt in the least, but
what good would that do? As far as he could see in the pale moonlight,
there were only snow-drifts and snow-fields and high mountains. But one
mountain reached high above all the others, and Sampo guessed that he
was now near Rastekais. Here lived the horrible mountain king, who ate a
reindeer in one mouthful, and swallowed boys like gnats! Now Sampo
Lappelil grew frightened indeed. Ah! how gladly would he have been at
home with his father and mother in the warm hut. But how should he get
there? Would not the mountain king come and swallow him with his
trousers and mittens, as if he were but a poor little gnat?
Well, there sat Sampo Lappelil in the snow and the dark, on Lapland's
barren mountain. It was so strange, so frightful to see the high black
shadow of Rastekais, where the mountain king lived! But it did not help
him to sit there and cry, for his tears froze in a moment, and ran like
peas down on his furry reindeer-skin jacket. So Sampo got up from the
snow-drift to run himself warm.
"If I stand here I shall freeze," said he to himself. "No, rather will I
go to the mountain king. If he eat me, then he will eat me. But I will
tell him that it would be better that he should eat the wolves here on
the mountain; they are fatter than I, and he will have less trouble with
their skin than he would with my furs."
Sampo began to climb up the high mountain. He had not gone far before he
heard something come stealthily over the snow, and immediately afterward
a great furry wolf sprang out close to his side. Sampo started, his
little Lapp heart beat loud, but he determined to behave as if he were
not afraid. "Don't jump in my way," he called to the wolf. "I have an
errand to the mountain king, and if you wish to keep your skin don't do
me any harm!"
"Well, well, take it easy," said the wolf, for on Rastekais all the
animals could talk. "Who are you, little fellow, working yourself
through the snow?"
"My name is Sampo Lappelil," answered the boy. "And who are you?"
"I am the mountain king's highest master-wolf," answered the monster,
"and have been running from mountain to mountain to bring his people to
the great Sun Festival. Since you are coming my way, you can sit up on
my back and ride to the king."
Sampo climbed up on the wolf's furry coat, and they rushed away over
clefts and precipices.
"Sun Festival--what does that mean?" asked Sampo.
"Don't you know?" said the wolf. "After it has been dark in Lapland all
winter, and the sun for the first time rises in the sky, then we
celebrate. All the animals and all the trolls collect here on Rastekais,
and on that day no one is allowed to do any harm. That is lucky for you,
Sampo Lappelil, for otherwise, you see, I should have eaten you up a
long time ago."
"Is there the same law for the king, too?" asked Sampo.
"Of course," said the wolf. "For one hour before the sun rises and for
one hour after it sets, the mountain king dare not touch a hair of your
head; but you must take care, after that time; for if you are still on
the mountain, then a hundred thousand wolves and a thousand bears will
rush upon you, and the mountain king will seize the first one he can get
hold of, and then it will soon be over with Sampo Lappelil."
"Perhaps you will be so kind as to help me back, as soon as there is
danger?" asked Sampo with a beating heart.
The wolf began to laugh, for on Rastekais the wolves can laugh. "Don't
imagine that, dear Sampo," said he; "I will be the first to stick my
claws into you. You are a fine fat boy; I see that you have been
fattened on reindeer's milk and reindeer cheese. You will taste very
good for an early breakfast."
Sampo wondered if it would not be as well to jump down from the wolfs
back immediately, but it was too late; they had come to the top of the
mountain, and he saw a wonderful sight. There sat the great mountain
king on his throne of sky-high rocks, looking far out over mountains and
valleys into the dark night. On his head he wore a cap of white
snow-clouds; his eyes were like the full moon when it rises over the
woods, his nose like a mountain top, his mouth like a mountain cleft,
his beard like long icicles; his arms were as thick as the thickest
fir-tree, his hands were like pine branches, his legs were like
coasting-hills in winter, and his great fur coat like a snow mountain.
If you ask how any one could see the mountain king and his people in the
middle of the night, then you must know that the snow cast a light upon
everything, and that over the sky the most beautiful Northern Lights
played.
Around the mountain king sat millions of gray mountain trolls and
brownies, so small that when they ran on the frozen snow they left no
more trace after them than a squirrel leaves. They had collected here
from the farthest ends of the earth, from Nova Zembla and Spitsbergen
and Greenland and Iceland--yes, from the North Pole itself, to worship
the sun, as savages from fear worship the devil; for the trolls do not
like the sun and would prefer that it should never rise again after it
has once set behind the barren mountains. Farther away stood all the
animals of Lapland in long close rows--a thousand and again a thousand
bears, wolves, and lynxes, the good reindeer, the little lemming, and
the lively reindeer-fleas; but the gnats had not been able to come--they
were frozen to death.
All this Sampo Lappelil saw with wonder. He climbed down quietly from
the master-wolf's back and hid himself behind a great stone to see what
would happen.
The mountain king raised his high head so that the snow flew around him;
and the beautiful Northern Lights stood like a halo about his forehead,
and shot in long star-shaped, pale-red rays out over the blue night sky;
there was a crackling and a roaring like that a forest fire makes when
its flames leap up against the crowns of the pine-trees; now the Lights
spread themselves out, now they drew together again; now the brightness
was very dazzling, now it grew pale, then one gleam of light after
another shot like a sudden shower out over the snow-covered mountain.
This pleased the mountain king. He clapped his icy hands, and the echo
from the mountains sounded like thunder, and the trolls whistled with
joy, and the animals round about screamed with fear. This pleased the
mountain king still more, so that he called out, loud, over the
wilderness:
"So shall it be! So shall it be! Forever winter and forever night! That
is what I like."
"Yes, so shall it be, so shall it be!" cried the trolls as loud as they
could, for they all liked winter and night better than summer and
sunshine.
But among the animals there arose a murmur of talking, for all the
beasts of prey and the lemmings thought as the trolls did, while the
reindeer and the other animals would have found no fault with the
summer, if they had not suddenly happened to think of the gnats in
Lapland. It was only the little reindeer-flea who really wanted the
summer; he cried as loud as he could: "Your Majesty, we came here to
wait for the sun!"
"Will you be quiet, you wretched insect!" growled the white bear, close
beside it. "It is only an old custom that makes us collect together
here. But it will be pleasant; the sun will stay away forever. The sun
is put out! The sun is dead!"
"The sun is put out! The sun is dead!" murmured all the animals, and a
shiver went through all nature.
The trolls from the North Pole laughed so that their caps flew off, and
the great mountain king raised his voice of thunder and called out over
the wilderness: "So shall it be! So shall it be! The sun is dead. The
whole earth shall fall down and worship me, Hiisi, the king of
everlasting winter and of everlasting night."
That provoked Sampo Lappelil, as he sat behind the stone, and he came
out and shouted with his little saucy voice: "You are lying, mountain
king! you are lying, as tall as you are! Yesterday I saw the forerunner
of the sun in the sky, and the sun is not dead! Your beard will still
melt when it comes midsummer."
At these words the mountain king's brow grew as dark as a black cloud,
and he forgot the law and stretched out his terrible long arm to crush
Sampo Lappelil. But at that moment the Northern Lights grew pale, and a
red ray sprang up in the sky and shone straight into the mountain king's
ice-cold face, so that he was suddenly dazzled and let his arm fall.
And now the sun's golden rim could be seen lifting itself slowly and
majestically up over the horizon, and it lighted up the mountains and
wildernesses, the snow-drifts and clefts, the trolls and beasts and the
brave little Sampo Lappelil. Then all at once a glow spread over the
snow, as if many million of roses had rained down upon it, and the sun
shone into all their eyes, yes, and into all their hearts, too. Even
those who had rejoiced because the sun was dead were now really glad to
see it again. It was funny to witness the trolls' surprise. They stared
at the sun with their little gray eyes, from under their red caps, and
while it stayed they became against their will so beside themselves with
joy that they stood on their heads in the snow. The terrible mountain
king's beard began to melt and to drip down like a running brook over
his great white coat.
While they all stood looking at the sun with feelings so different, the
first hour had almost slipped away, and Sampo Lappelil heard one of the
reindeer say to its little one: "Come, come, dear child! We must go now
or we shall be eaten up by the wolves!"
Then Sampo, too, remembered what he had to expect if he waited there any
longer. And as he saw by his side a reindeer with beautiful golden
horns, he jumped up on its back, and they rushed off at a gallop over
the steep mountain.
"What can that strange noise be that we hear behind us?" asked Sampo
after a while, when he had got a little used to the violent ride.
"That is the thousand bears who are coming after us to eat us," answered
the reindeer. "But don't be afraid; I am the mountain king's own magic
reindeer, and no bear has ever gnawed my heels."
When they had ridden a while longer, Sampo asked: "What can that be that
breathes and moans so strangely behind us?"
The reindeer answered: "That is the hundred thousand wolves who are
coming after us at full gallop to tear you and me to pieces. But don't
be afraid; no wolf has ever beaten me in a race here in the wilderness."
They rode on a while longer; then Sampo asked: "Is it thundering in the
mountains there behind us?"
"No," said the reindeer, and began to shake in all his limbs. "That is
Hiisi, the mountain king himself, who is coming with giant steps after
us; and now it is all over with both of us, for him it is impossible to
escape."
"Is there no help?" asked Sampo.
"No," said the reindeer, "there is nothing to do now but to try to get
to the parsonage off there near Enare Lake. If we get there we are
saved, for the mountain king has no power over Christians."
"Oh," said Sampo, "run now, my brave reindeer, over mountain and valley,
and I will give you golden oats in a silver manger!"
The reindeer ran and ran; it was a life-and-death race! And they had but
just reached the priest's house when the mountain king came up outside
and knocked so hard on the door that every one thought the whole house
would fall down. "Who is that?" asked the priest.
"It is I!" answered a voice of thunder outside.
[Illustration: ON THE BACK OF THE REINDEER WITH GOLDEN HORNS.--_Page
126_.]
"Open the door for Hiisi, the mountain king. There
is an unchristened child within, and all heathen belong to me!"
"Wait a minute, until I put on my surplice and collar, so that I can
receive so distinguished a guest with proper dignity," answered the
priest.
"Hurry, then!" growled the mountain king; "hurry, or I will kick the
walls down."
"Immediately, immediately, sir," answered the priest.
But at the same time he took a bowl of water and christened Sampo
Lappelil with all proper ceremony.
"Well, are you not ready yet?" growled the mountain king, and he lifted
his terrible foot to kick the house down.
But the priest opened the door and said: "Begone, you king of night and
winter, for with this child you have nothing to do! The sun of God's
grace shines over Sampo Lappelil, and he belongs not to you but to God's
kingdom!"
Then the mountain king grew so furious that he burst on the spot and
turned into a terrible snow-cloud, and it snowed so hard that the snow
reached up over the roof of the parsonage and they all expected to be
buried alive. But when the morning came the sun shone on the snow, the
snow melted away, and the parsonage and all in it were saved; and there
was no sign of the mountain king. Every one thinks, however, that he
still lives and reigns on Rastekais.
Sampo Lappelil thanked the priest and borrowed a pulk from him. Then he
harnessed to it the reindeer with the golden horns and went home to his
father in Aimio. There was great joy when Sampo Lappelil came back so
unexpectedly. But how he became a great man and fed his reindeer with
golden oats from a silver manger, that is another story, which it would
take too long to tell now. It is said that since that time when Sampo
had such a narrow escape, the Lapps have never, as before, put off from
year to year having their little children christened--for who would like
to see his child eaten up by the terrible mountain king? Sampo Lappelil
knows what it means to run that risk! And having heard Hiisi's mighty
footsteps, he knows, too, precisely what it is when thunder resounds in
the mountains.
--_Z. Topelius_.
_Translated by Margaret Böcher_.
[Illustration]
A LEGEND OF MERCY
On one side of the lake there was a large town; on the opposite shore
stood a little lone cottage. The snow whirled over the frozen lake in
great clouds and the wind was very keen; for it was winter and
Christmastide in the world.
At the cottage there was poverty inside, but riches on the roof. Up
there stood the great golden sheaf of grain about which the birds of
heaven gathered joyfully for their Christmas feast, while inside the
cottage food was scanty, as usual. The peasants' little children,
however, listened happily to the birds' joyous twitter from the
housetop, and took great delight in seeing the fine prints of the
sparrow's tiny feet in the smooth snow roundabout.
"If we had threshed that grain, instead of giving it to the sparrows, we
might have had fresh wheaten rolls for the children for Christmas,"
sighed the peasant's wife.
"Don't you know that the merciful are blessed?" asked the gentle old
peasant with a kind glance at his dissatisfied wife.
"But to let the birds of the air eat our bread," she sighed again.
"Yes, the birds. Furthermore, what matter, even if it were the wild
beasts of the forest? Should we not show mercy? Besides, I have saved
enough to be able to buy four fresh rolls and a can of milk for
Christmas. Let us send the children across the lake to the town with
their sled. They will easily get back with the things before evening."
"But suppose they meet a wolf on the ice," suggested the mother.
"I will give Arvid a big club," said the father. "He will get along all
right, having that."
So it happened that Arvid and his sister Hanna went to town to buy the
treat of white rolls and milk. By this time the snow was piled in great
drifts on the ice, and the children had difficulty in dragging the sled,
so that when they turned toward home the early darkness was already
beginning to settle down. They trudged through the snow as fast as they
could, but the drifts were much higher than before, and darkness came on
in earnest while they still had quite a long distance to go.
As they struggled on, something black moved in the darkness. When it
came nearer, the children saw that it was a wolf.
"Don't be afraid, Hanna," said Arvid. "I have a good club." And with
these words, he raised it threateningly.
The wolf was now close beside the children but made no attempt to harm
them. He only howled, but the howling was extraordinary for it sounded
as if he uttered words in it,--words that the children could understand.
"It is so cold, so cold," howled the wolf. "And my little ones have
nothing to eat. Give me some bread for them in the name of mercy."
"Poor little things!" said Hanna. "We will give you _our_ two rolls for
them, and we ourselves will eat hard bread to-night, but father and
mother must have their Christmas treat."
"Many thanks," said the wolf as he took the two fresh rolls and glided
away.
The children strove on through deeper and deeper snow, but in a little
while they heard some creature treading heavily behind them. It proved
to be a bear.
The bear growled out something in his own language, and at first the
children could not find out what he meant although they tried hard; but
the bear kept on growling and finally, strangely enough, the children
understood. The bear, too, desired a Christmas gift.
"It is so cold, so cold," growled the big creature. "All the water
everywhere is frozen and my poor little ones have nothing to drink. Be
merciful and give me a little milk for them."
"How is this?" asked Arvid. "Why are you not asleep in your den for the
winter, as other bears are? But that is your affair. We will give you
our half of the milk for your little ones. Hanna and I can very well
drink water to-night, if only father and mother have something good for
Christmas."
"Many thanks," said the bear, as he took the milk in a birch-bark cone
which he carried in his fore-paws. Then with slow, pompous steps, he
lumbered away into the darkness.
The children waded along through the drifts still more eagerly now, for
they could see the Christmas lights shining through the windows of their
home; but they had not gone far before an ugly owl came flapping along
beside them.
"I will have bread and milk! I will have bread and milk!" screamed the
owl, stretching out her long claws to scratch the children.
"Oh, ho!" said Arvid. "If that is the kind you are, I shall have to
teach you to be polite." So saying, he gave the owl such a clever blow
on the wings with his club that she flew screaming away.
Soon after this the children were at home, gaily beating the snow from
their clothes in the little entry.
"We have met a wolf!" shouted Hanna.
"And given a bear some milk!" added Arvid.
"But the owl got a taste of the club!" laughed Hanna. Then they told all
their adventures.
The parents looked thoughtfully at each other. How wonderful! To think
that their children had shown mercy even to the wild beasts of the
forest! What would happen next? What did it all mean?
It was now supper-time. The peasant family gathered at the table upon
which, besides the usual poor fare, was the half portion of the expected
treat--all that the children had brought home.
Arvid and Hanna wished to eat only dry bread and drink only water, so
that their parents might have the Christmas goodies; but the parents
would not allow that. They joyfully shared with the children the two
rolls and the half-tankard of milk which were such luxuries.
But as they ate, they noticed something very marvelous. However often
they broke and broke pieces from either of the rolls, the fresh
delicious wheaten rolls never grew smaller; and however often they
poured milk from the tankard into one bowl after another the milk never
grew less!
While they were wondering greatly over this, they heard a scratching at
the little window, and behold! there stood the wolf and the bear with
their fore-paws against the window pane. Both animals grinned and nodded
in a knowing, friendly way. An owl could be heard flapping behind them
in the darkness, and calling out in a hoarse voice to Arvid:
"Sometimes hits
Sharpen wits.
Hoo, hoo! Hoo, hoo!
Not from need
But from greed
I begged of you.
Hoo, hoo! Hoo, hoo!"
[Illustration: THERE STOOD THE WOLF AND THE BEAR.--_Page 136_.]
Then her hoarse cries died away in the distance, and the two
beasts, after a little more grinning and nodding, disappeared from the
window.
The peasant and his wife and the children understood now that a blessing
rested upon their Christmas food because it had been shared in mercy
with those that needed it; and they finished their meal in wonder and
thankfulness.
On Christmas morning when they went to get their breakfast of dry bread
and water, not expecting to have anything else, they found to their
amazement that both rolls and milk were as fresh as when the children
bought them,--and with no sign that the rolls had ever been broken or
any milk used! And all that day it was the same! There were not only
riches on the roof, but joy and plenty inside the peasants' cottage,
where the children feasted and sang as gaily as did the sparrows,
fluttering about their Christmas sheaf of golden grain.
--_Z. Topelius_.
[Illustration]
ANTON'S ERRAND
_OR
THE BOY WHO MADE FRIENDS BY THE WAY_
Far to the South lies a beautiful land. High forest-clad mountains lift
themselves toward the sky, and between them spreads a wide fruitful
valley. A mighty river rushes southward singing of courage and joy, and
from the mountains the merry brooks come hurrying along, the one faster
than the other, as if racing to see which would get down first.
In the fields, the grass is tall and full of flowers, the grain waves
like a billowy sea, and the fruit trees bend beneath the weight of rich
fruits. But more than all else, grapevines grow here. The vines twine
themselves in an endless wreath through the valley; and in the long
arcades hang millions of clusters of grapes cooking themselves ripe in
the sun's heat.
From olden times, an industrious folk lived in this valley cultivating
their fields and pruning their vines. They gathered themselves together
into small towns which were dotted here and there in the valley's green
expanse like birds' nests in a spreading tree. On the surrounding
heights rose the proud castles where the nobles lived. They tyrannized
over the farmers in the valley, and if the poor peasants made the least
complaint, down from the cliffs came the barons, like eagles from their
eyries, and dug their claws into their defenseless prey.