GERDA'S NEW FRIEND
"Look, Gerda," said Lieutenant Ekman, as their launch steamed the next
morning toward a barren island off the east coast of Sweden, "do you see
a child on those rocks below the lighthouse?"
Gerda looked eagerly where her father pointed. "Yes, I think I see her
now," she said, after a moment.
Birger ran to the bow of the boat. "Come up here," he called. "I can see
her quite plainly. She has on a rainbow skirt."
"Oh, Birger!" cried Gerda, "can it be the little girl who received our
box? If it is, her name is Karen. Don't you remember the letter of thanks
she wrote us?"
As she spoke, the child began clambering carefully over the rocks and
made her way to the landing-place. The twins saw now that she wore the
rainbow skirt and the dark bodice over a white waist, which forms the
costume of the Rättvik girls and women; but they saw, also, that she
walked with a crutch.
"Oh, Father, she is lame!" Gerda exclaimed. Then she stood quietly on the
deck, waving her hand and smiling in friendly greeting until the launch
was made fast to the wharf.
"Are you Gerda?" asked the little lame girl eagerly, as Lieutenant Ekman
swung his daughter ashore; and Gerda asked just as eagerly, "Are you
Karen?" Then both children laughed and answered "Yes," together.
"Come up to the house, Gerda, I want to show you my birds," said Karen at
once; and she climbed up over the rocks toward the tiny cottage.
Gerda followed more slowly, looking pityingly at the crutch and the poor,
crooked back; but Karen turned and called to her to hurry.
"I have ever so many things to show you, Gerda," she said. "There are no
children for me to play with, so I have to make friends with the birds. I
have four now, and I am trying to teach them to eat from my hand."
As Karen spoke, she led the way around the corner of the house, and
there, sheltered from the wind, was a collection of cages, mounted on a
rough wooden bench. In each one was a bird which had been injured in some
way.
The largest cage held a snowy owl, and when Karen spoke to him he ruffled
up his feathers and rolled his head from side to side, his great golden
eyes staring at her without blinking.
"He can't see when the sun shines," Karen explained; "but he seems to
know my voice."
"What a good time he must have in the long winter nights, when he can see
all the time," said Gerda. "Where did you get him?"
"Father found him in the woods with a broken wing; but he is nearly well
now, and I shall soon set him free," Karen told her.
"And here is a woodpecker, and a cuckoo, and a magpie," said Gerda,
looking into the cages.
"Yes," said Karen, "and last year I had an eider-duck, and I often have
sea-gulls. Sometimes, when there is a big storm, the gulls are blown
against the windows of the lighthouse and are hurt. I find them on the
rocks in the morning with a broken leg or wing, and then I put them in a
cage and take care of them until they can fly away. Father and I call
this the Sea-gull Light."
"What do you do with the birds in the winter?" asked Gerda.
"The lighthouse is closed as soon as the Gulf freezes over, and then we
go to live on the mainland," Karen replied. "One of my brothers built
a bird-house near our barn, and if my birds are not strong enough to fly
away, Father lets me take them with me in the cages, and I feed them
all winter with crumbs and grain."
"How many brothers have you?"
"There are five, but they are all much older than I am. They work in the
woods in the winter, cutting out logs or making tar; and in the summer
they go off on fishing trips. I don't see them very often."
"We met a great many vessels loaded with lumber on our way up the coast,"
said Gerda, "and, wherever we stopped, the wharves were covered with
great piles of lumber, and barrels and barrels of tar."
"The lumber vessels sail past this island all summer," said Karen. "I
often wonder where they go, and what becomes of all the lumber they
carry. There is a sawmill near our house on the shore and it whirrs and
saws all day long."
"There were sawmills all along the coast," said Gerda. "Birger and I
began to count them, and then there were so many other things to see that
we forgot to count."
Karen stooped down to open the door of the magpie's cage, and he hopped
out and began picking up the grain which she held in her hand for him. "I
think this magpie is going to stay with me," she said. "He is very tame
and I often let him out of the cage. Mother says he will bring me good
luck," she added rather wistfully.
"It must be lonely for you here, with only the birds to play with," said
Gerda. "You must be glad when the time comes to live on shore and go
to school again."
For answer, Karen looked at her crutch. "I can't go to school," she said
soberly; "but my brothers taught me to read and write, and Mother has a
piano which I can play a little."
Then her face lighted up with a cheery smile. "When your box came this
spring, it was the most exciting thing that ever happened to me.
Everything in it gave me something new to think about. I often think how
pretty the streets of Stockholm must look, with all the little girls
going about in rainbow skirts, and none of them having to walk with a
crutch."
"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Gerda quickly; "it is not often that you see a
rainbow skirt in Stockholm. I never wear one there."
Karen looked surprised. "Where do you wear it?" she asked.
Then Gerda told about her summer home in Rättvik. "It is on Lake Siljan,
in the central part of Sweden, in a province that is called Dalarne,"
she explained. "It is a very old-fashioned place, and the people still
wear the costumes which were worn hundreds of years ago."
A wistful look had stolen into Karen's face as she listened. "I suppose
there are ever so many children in Rättvik," she said.
"Oh, yes," answered Gerda. "We play together every day, and go to church
on Sundays; and sometimes I help to row the Sunday boat."
"What is the Sunday boat?" was Karen's next question.
"There are several parishes in Rättvik, and many of the people live so
far away from the church that they row across the lake together in a long
boat which is called the Sunday boat," Gerda told her.
"And do you have girl friends in Stockholm?" asked Karen, envying this
Gerda who came and went from city to country so easily.
"Yes, indeed," answered Gerda. Then she smiled and said shyly, "I wish
you would be my friend, too. When I go home I can write to you."
Karen's face flushed with pleasure. "Oh, will you?" she cried. "But there
will be so little for me to write to you," she added soberly. "After the
snow comes, and my brothers have all gone into the woods for the winter,
there are weeks at a time when I never see any one but my father and
mother."
"You can tell me all about your birds," Gerda suggested; "and the way the
moon shines on the long stretches of snow; and about the animals that
creep out from the woods sometimes and sniff around your door. And I will
tell you about my school, and the parties I have with my friends. And I
will send you some new music to play on the piano."
But before they could say anything more, Lieutenant Ekman had returned
from inspecting the lighthouse with Karen's father, and was calling to
Gerda that it was time for them to start for Luleå.
"Good-bye," the two little girls said to each other, and Karen went down
to the landing-place to watch the launch steam away.
Gerda stood quietly beside the rail, looking back at the island, long
after Karen's rainbow skirt and the lighthouse had faded from sight.
"I will give you two öre for your thoughts, if they are worth it," her
father said at last.
"I was thinking that it will make Karen sad to hear of my good times this
winter," Gerda told him.
"She will like to have your letters to think about," replied Lieutenant
Ekman cheerfully. Then he pointed to a little town on the shore ahead.
"There is Luleå," he said. "You will soon be travelling on the railroad
toward Mount Dundret and the midnight sun."
But although Gerda was soon speeding into the mysterious Arctic regions,
she could not forget her new friend in the lonely lighthouse.