Transcriber’s Note
Italic text displayed as: _italic_
INGER JOHANNE’S
LIVELY DOINGS
BOOKS BY EMILIE POULSSON
FINGER PLAYS
THROUGH THE FARMYARD GATE
CHILD STORIES AND RHYMES
THE RUNAWAY DONKEY AND OTHER RHYMES
FATHER AND BABY PLAYS
TOP-OF-THE-WORLD STORIES
WHAT HAPPENED TO INGER JOHANNE } _Translated from the_
FOUR COUSINS } _Norwegian of_
INGER JOHANNE’S LIVELY DOINGS } _Dikken Zwilgmeyer_
BY EMILIE POULSSON AND MAUD LINDSAY
THE JOYOUS TRAVELERS
THE JOYOUS GUESTS
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON
[Illustration: AT LAST I GOT HER INTO THE SMITHY.—_Page 24._]
INGER JOHANNE’S
LIVELY DOINGS
Translated from the Norwegian of
DIKKEN ZWILGMEYER
by EMILIE POULSSON
[Illustration: Girl writing]
Illustrated by
FLORENCE LILEY YOUNG
BOSTON
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
Copyright, 1926,
BY LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
_All rights reserved_
INGER JOHANNE’S LIVELY DOINGS
Printed in U. S. A.
Norwood Press
BERWICK & SMITH CO.
NORWOOD, MASS.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. CONFIDENTIAL 9
II. AT THE PARSONAGE 16
III. THE LOST KEY 34
IV. TOBIESEN’S GRAND PARLOR 44
V. THE DANCING-SCHOOL 57
VI. OUR BONFIRE ON ST. JOHN’S NIGHT 67
VII. IN PECKELL’S HAYLOFT 81
VIII. MADAM IGLAND’S GARDEN 96
IX. ON BOARD THE _SEVEN STARS_ 115
X. A MOLASSES CAKE STORY 133
XI. MADAM KNOLL’S TORTOISE 147
XII. PLAY ACTING 160
XIII. A DAY AT SCHOOL 172
XIV. THE TIME I NEARLY DROWNED 189
XV. SURPRISING THE CLOCKMAKER 199
XVI. GHOSTS 211
XVII. A SNOW FIGHT 224
XVIII. A CHRISTMAS VISIT 238
ILLUSTRATIONS
At last I got her into the smithy (page 24) _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
Just imagine! I really did get five heads
of cabbage as a present 42
We danced and skipped and shouted,
“Hurrah!” 76
“If it only doesn’t break!” cried Mina 108
“Kalle, you rascal!” I said, grabbing
him by the hair 156
I felt the staff pulled from above 196
“Here is your earthquake, Inger Johanne,”
said Father 222
Oh-h! All the potatoes tumbled off and
rolled among the sheep 256
INGER JOHANNE’S
LIVELY DOINGS
I
CONFIDENTIAL
DEAR READERS:
It is certainly comical that I, Inger Johanne, wrote a book[1] a
while ago and that it was printed, so I (I!) am an author. Really, it
is too funny. I have to laugh whenever I think of it.
But what I wrote was only scribblings, not like a real author’s book;
for persons who know how to write can picture everything so vividly
that the readers see it clearly in their own minds; and I am very
sure that you can’t see our delightful town at all, though my whole
book is about how things are there.
You can’t see the little red and yellow houses among the gray rocks;
the shining blue water and the big ships ready to start on long
voyages, with the sailors hauling up the anchors, while on the hill
the wives and children stand waving big handkerchiefs and crying.
They even climb Big Rock and stand there until the ship is just a
little speck far, far out on the water.
Oh, you can’t know, either, how the fresh wind feels on your cheeks,
or how the heather brushes against the bottom of your dress, or how
our old house on the hillside looks—or Peter or Karsten——No, I wrote
about it all so poorly that you can’t have much idea of any of it.
Before the stories were printed I let Nils and Peter and Karsten and
Massa and Mina read them, but I shouldn’t have done that, for I got
paid for it well and quickly, I can tell you.
Karsten thwacked me on the head hard, four times, because I had
written that he was troublesome. Nils thought I had said too little
about him, so he squirted a lot of water right in my face.
Peter, the dean’s son, was mightily offended (and has been ever
since) because I told about his father leading him home by the ear.
As for Massa and Mina, they thought it was so tedious to read about
the children here at home that they would not even finish the stories.
So, you see, you get something besides pleasure when you write a book.
But what do you think? My book was praised in the newspapers! It
really was! and I must say that that was exceedingly pleasant.
I had decided that I would never write another book, but I have
changed my mind; for when people say I write “so very”—why, of course
I want to write.
At one time I thought that to be head milkmaid with a large herd of
cows in my care would be the most delightful thing in the world, but
now I know I should rather be an author. Hurrah!
Yes—I shout, “Hurrah!” because it has been in the newspaper that
“Inger Johanne is full of talent, has humor and is hearty and sound.”
Hearty and sound am I, that is sure, for I have never had anything
the matter with me except that time I broke my arm when I thought I
should be a circus rider. (I told about that in the other book.)
Every time there was anything in the paper about me when my book
first came out, I would take the paper and read the notices aloud to
Massa, Mina, and the rest.
“Style, color, and tone are well maintained throughout Inger
Johanne’s book,” I read in a loud voice. “And the whole is pervaded
by humor that is irresistible.”
While reading, I usually stood on a fence or a rock, and when I
finished, I swung the paper out in the air and shouted, “Hurrah!”
Naturally the others made fun of me, but I never bothered myself the
least bit about that. I don’t believe you could find in our whole
town one single other person who has written a real book. True
enough, Candidate Juul has made a French dictionary for schools, but
that doesn’t mean that he has talent, as the papers say I have.
However, when the boys and girls laugh at me too much because I talk
about my book, I go away from them; but I soon come back, for there
is no fun in staying alone, even if you are “full of talent.”
Most people think that nothing very important happens in our town,
but we girls and boys always have plenty of fun and excitement, and
that is what I’m going to tell you about in a minute. But first I
want to tell you about Karsten. He is exactly the same as ever,
thinking of awfully queer things to do almost every day. One of his
plans was quite a stroke of genius, I must say!
As I walked down-town one morning, I was surprised to see some
peasants and town boys in the middle of the market-place where there
is almost never anybody. And what do you think I found when I went
to see what was going on?
There stood Karsten in the middle of the bunch. He had our smallest
bread-basket with Mother’s carving-knife in it, a half-stick of
sealing-wax, a tooth-brush I had bought the day before, and a number
of other little things from home.
“Why, Karsten! Are you crazy? What are you doing?” I called.
“I’m in business, as you can easily see,” said Karsten grandly. “Go
away.”
Imagine it! That foolish child stood there in the market-place
actually trying to sell a half-stick of sealing-wax and my new
tooth-brush! Some of the other boys had sold postage stamps and
buttons, and so of course Karsten wanted to sell something.
You may well believe that I took him home with me in a hurry; and
there he got the good scolding from Father that he deserved.
I could write a much longer letter than this, but perhaps I had
better not, for I have lately read that the art of writing is to
limit yourself, and so I will close at once.
Thank you for liking my book.
INGER JOHANNE.
P. S. My dears, you must be sure to praise this book a little, also,
or else I shall be horribly embarrassed and mortified before Massa,
Mina, and Peter, and the others.
I. J.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] “What Happened to Inger Johanne.”
II
AT THE PARSONAGE
The boat bumped and scraped against the wharf. We had arrived. Hurrah!
The instant Karsten set foot on the wharf, he was off and away at
full speed up the hill, and swinging into the avenue that led to the
Parsonage.
On my way up, I happened to think of some strawberry patches I had
known the summer before, and I simply had to go a little aside on
the hill to look at them. Yes, there they were, with specks of red
shining out between the leaves and stones. Good!
But now I could see Aunt Magda’s garden hat at the end of the avenue
and I must hurry, for she would be wondering what had become of me. I
began to run, and soon sprang into her open arms. I put both my arms
around her and squeezed her frightfully hard till she shrieked. I
always do that with any one I like awfully well, you see.
On the Parsonage steps sat Uncle’s friend, the queer old lawyer, Mr.
Witt, with his mass of bristling white hair and his sharp eyes.
And now Great-Aunt came. She is aunt to Mother and Aunt Magda and is
awfully old. Great-Aunt thinks she knows everything, I do believe.
No matter what incredible thing happens in the town or in the world,
she insists that she foresaw long ago that it would happen. “There!
Didn’t I know it? No need to tell me,” says Great-Aunt.
Between you and me, I will own that I cannot like her; but she is
frightfully clever, and Aunt Magda daren’t do a thing except just
what Great-Aunt wishes.
“Well,” said Great-Aunt, looking me over, “seems to me you had better
stop growing now. You will soon be so tall that you can look into
people’s second-story windows.”
Great-Aunt is a good half a head taller than I, so she had better
think of her own height; but I didn’t say that. I only curtsied
nicely and gave her all the proper greetings from Mother and Father.
Karsten had done nothing but run around through the rooms without
greeting any one, shouting, “Where is Hedvig? Where is Dan?” Ugh!
that rude Karsten! What would Mother think of his not greeting
anybody, but just running around asking for the milkmaid and the dog?
I must say it was decidedly necessary that I should come and behave
properly. When I choose, I can behave myself charmingly, almost like
a grown-up young lady. I say, “What, please?” or “I beg your pardon?”
to people sometimes even when I hear perfectly what they say; and
when I drink from a cup or glass I curl my little finger out in the
air, for that is what I have seen fine ladies do.
Well, there I sat and drank chocolate and talked grown-up talk; and
presently Karsten, warm and out of breath, came in from the kitchen.
“My! Hedvig and Dan have grown awfully little since last summer,”
said he.
“Is that so? Has Hedvig, too, grown little?” asked Great-Aunt.
Yes, Karsten thought she had shrunken remarkably.
* * * * *
Oh, that pleasant old living-room at the Parsonage! It has a low
ceiling, and all the walls are crowded with pictures. There are
Luther and Melancthon, and the King in Leire and Gustavus Adolphus
and Wellington and Bishop Gislesen and his wife, and Skipper
Marenssen from down on the shore, and William of Orange with his
crown and sceptre. Uncle goes around and talks to them sometimes as
if they were alive and could answer him.
There are green woven pieces over the sofas and chairs, and the
windows are full of fuchsias, always in bloom. Great-Aunt and Aunt
Magda sit, each on her own side of a table between the windows.
Great-Aunt has many interesting things in her work-box, a basket
carved from a cherrystone, a corkscrew as little as a fly, and other
queer things. I look at them when Great-Aunt is out. I should not
dare to at any other time.
The door stood open, and summer fragrance was wafted in. Between the
white rails of the garden fence, I could see bunches of currants,
clear and red, and I knew that in the garden there were raspberries
as big as the cook’s thimble, and garden strawberries so big they had
the distinction of being laid out on pieces of roof tiles to ripen.
Hurrah! What a good time we should have! Suddenly I sprang up and for
pure joy leaped down the steps four or five at a time to the grass
below.
“See that now!” said the old lawyer still sitting on the steps. “And
I had thought you a grown-up young lady!” This embarrassed me a
little, but I pretended not to notice it.
The whole of the first day, I went about visiting the places and the
people I had known the year before. First, I went to the men’s room
to see Jon. He was poorly, he said, and had a stitch in his side a
foot long. It was a great deal worse because he had had to row out
to the steamer for us,—which he needn’t have done if children only
stayed in their own homes as was proper, he thought. He was not so
very polite,—he usually isn’t—but I never trouble myself in the least
about that.
“Oh, you’ll be all right soon, Jon,” I said.
“Humph! It would be pretty bad for other folk if I weren’t,” said
Jon, looking much offended.
Later I was in the henhouse and saw a hen sitting on her nest, and
in the pig-pen where I scratched a pig’s back with a stick. “Piggy,
piggy, piggy!” “Uf, uf, uf,” said the pig. Then I went to the
cow-house and the barn, and last of all to the churchyard,—the church
is right near the Parsonage, you see,—where I went around and read
all the verses on the gravestones, although I knew most of them by
heart.
It is an awfully pleasant churchyard, with big, plump maple-trees,
through which the sunlight falls in flecks and patches on the tall
grass and sunken graves, where the old sailors and their wives lie
buried. Some have beautiful gravestones with verses on them which
Uncle wrote. Round the churchyard is a very broad stone wall. Karsten
and I get up on it and play tag there.
At the very farthest end of the Parsonage garden I play, all by
myself, a most delightful kind of play. I am awfully fond of cows
and sheep and everything about a farm. That is why I used to think
I would be a milkmaid, you see, but, as I told you, I have given up
that idea. I prefer to be an author.
Well, far down in the garden where nobody ever comes, under some old
gooseberry-bushes, I have lots of cattle,—cows and calves and sheep
and lambs! The cows are big round smooth stones; they stand in their
stalls with fresh green grass before them; the calves—smaller round
stones,—stand in calf-pens. Everything is nicely arranged, I assure
you. The sheep and lambs are pretty white stones that I find on the
shore.
Near my barns I have built a little bit of a hut of moss and stone
with a tiny piece of glass in it for a window. Inside the hut there
are two dolls,—the milkmaids who take care of the cows. Oh, I love
all such planning and arranging and pretending!
But when I happened to speak of it one day, that horrid old lawyer
began to make fun of me because I at my age could find pleasure in
such make-believe things. And somehow after that, I began to be
tired of my cattle farm under the gooseberry-bushes. It would be a
different matter if one could have a real cow to take care of.
In the south meadow that summer there was a big brown-and-white cow
named Brownie. She was so quarrelsome that she could not be with the
other cows. Great-Aunt told Karsten and me to look out for ourselves
when near her, because she was very cross. But I used to go often to
look at her, and soon I had a tremendous desire that Brownie should
be _my_ cow, as it were, and that I should take the entire care of
her myself.
One day I decided that I would put Brownie in the old smithy that no
one used any more; and there I would feed her and milk her every day.
But first I must have a collar for her; so I went to the cow-house,
where I found an old one. It was firmly fastened in a stall, but I
jiggled and twisted and jerked and tugged at it until I finally got
it out. Then I hammered it into the wall of the smithy. The next
thing was to get Brownie into her new quarters.
The first time I went near her she gave me such a forcible push in my
chest that I fell right over. However, I don’t give up very easily,
and I coaxed and pushed and pulled at Brownie so long that at last I
got her into the smithy and the collar on her neck. Hurrah! Now I had
a cow-house and a cow with a collar on, just for myself alone. What
fun!
I tore up a lot of grass and laid it before her so that she should
not be hungry, and I fastened the door with a stick. Of course I must
milk her. The milk I could set up on the shelf there in the smithy;
perhaps I could churn butter! As for cream porridge, there would be
no difficulty at all about having that now as often as I wished.
I stole into the kitchen to get something I could milk into, but
Great-Aunt came upon me so suddenly that I couldn’t get hold of
anything but a pint measure. That was pretty small for the use I had
for it, but I must try to make it do.
I don’t know whether any of you ever tried to milk a cow, but I can
tell you that it isn’t easy to milk one that kicks and thrashes its
tail about—especially if you have to milk into a pint measure. At
last I got the measure full, however, and set it up on the shelf.
Of course it was rather sooty and dirty there, but I would wash the
shelf in the morning. I gave Brownie a new supply of grass and then
left her for the night. I had not said a word about all my plans for
the cow to a single person.
Well! In the evening Hedvig, the milkmaid, came to the house
frightened almost out of her wits. She couldn’t find Brownie
anywhere, and I could see that she was ready to believe that the
goblins had been at work. Excitement ran high, especially with
Great-Aunt.
“Didn’t I know it? You shall soon both hear and see that something
dreadful has happened to Brownie,” Great-Aunt said solemnly.
Then I had to tell where Brownie was, and that it was I who had taken
her and put her in the smithy.
“There now! Did any one ever see such a girl?” said Great-Aunt. “You
ought to be whipped, big as you are, to put a cow in such a place and
give it neither food nor water.”
O dear! O dear! I had never thought to give the cow water the whole
day!
Well, Hedvig went to the smithy and let Brownie out; so there was an
end to that amusement. And when I went to get my pint measure of
milk the next day, it had such a thick layer of soot and dust on it
that I gave it to Dan, the dog, and I had hard work to get even him
to drink it.
When we had been at the Parsonage about a fortnight, Peter, the
dean’s son, came to make a visit, too. He had grown shyer and more
freckled than ever since I saw him last, I thought. He spoke never a
word when he was in the living-room, but it was rather jolly to have
him with us, even though I now had two boys to look after instead of
one. There is always something to see to with such boys,—that they
cut the cheese nicely at the table, change their shirts often enough,
comb their hair properly, and all such matters.
Great-Aunt was cross about many things, but one thing made her very
angry, and that was if we ate any of her yellow raspberries. The red
ones we might take a few of, but the yellow ones we mustn’t even
think of touching.
One morning when I lay out on the grass under the avenue trees
reading “Waldemar the Conqueror,” I heard all at once a mysterious
rustling behind the raspberry-bushes in the garden. I peeped between
the bushes and—wasn’t it just as I had thought?—there sat Karsten and
Peter picking yellow raspberries and putting them into their straw
hats.
When they heard me, they took to their heels, over the garden fence
and off towards the churchyard. As I caught up with them, Peter said:
“If you’ll promise not to tell on us, Inger Johanne, you shall have
some of the berries.” Both the boys had their hats half full.
Well, really, it is awfully mean to tattle, and the raspberries were
so tempting, not one worm-eaten—and why should Peter and Karsten eat
them all, I ask you? So we divided them equally and sat on one of the
gravestones to eat them.
I had forgotten “Waldemar the Conqueror” that I had thrown down and
left lying in the grass, and just think! When I went to get it, Dan
was playing with it, and torn-out leaves were scattered all over the
avenue.
“You bad, bad dog, let go, I say!”
At last I got it away from him, but he had torn out eight leaves, and
crumpled and bitten several others. You may be sure I was disgusted
with myself and my carelessness, but I said nothing about the book
to any one. I always looked at it guiltily though, where it stood in
the bookcase, knowing that Aunt Magda did not dream that anything was
wrong with it. But she was always so very kind to us, that before
I went away I was awfully sorry about “Waldemar the Conqueror” and
those raspberries. Peter and Karsten weren’t the least bit sorry,
they said, because the berries they picked were so near the ground
that Great-Aunt, who is old and stout, couldn’t possibly have picked
them or even have seen them; but I thought it was horrid of us,
anyway.
At last I wrote a little bit of a note,—the paper wasn’t much more
than an inch square,—which I gave to Aunt Magda asking her not to
read it until after I had gone. In the note I told about the book and
the raspberries and begged her not to be angry, as I was so sorry.
* * * * *
It was now towards the end of vacation. Soon there would be no
more jumping in the haycocks or riding home on the big loads of
hay, no more raspberries and cream for dessert at dinner, no more
bonny-clabber at supper; and Saturday would be the last time that I
could be Uncle’s driver this year.
When Uncle goes to the other parish church or to visit the sick, I
am always allowed to drive him down to the shore. You see they have
to go everywhere by boat from the Parsonage. Uncle has to ride in a
funny way. He is so awfully stout that he has great difficulty in
getting into a carriage, so he rides in a single sleigh, scraping
over the road on wooden runners. I sit on the tiny high seat behind
and crack the whip. We don’t go very fast on the road to the shore
because Uncle is so heavy, but when I go back I sit in the sleigh
and drive so fast that the sand spatters on my ears. It is great fun.
The day before we were to go home, one of the Cochin China hens was
sick. It may have eaten some salt that had been spilled outside of
the storehouse. At any rate, it was sick and ran round and round
continually; it was horrid to see. The trouble must be in its head. I
thought of putting a wet bandage on it, such as people use when they
have headache, but to put a wet bandage on a hen that is spinning
round and round would be a little difficult.
I ran in to Great-Aunt. “Oh, Great-Aunt, there is a hen that is sick
and that keeps spinning round and round and round! What shall we do
with it?”
“Oh, it will have to spin till it stops,” said Great-Aunt.
There was no use. Nobody here at the Parsonage understood about hens.
When I went away no one would care about that poor sick thing, or do
anything for it, I was sure.
I went out to the barn to speak to the milkmaid.
“Dear Hedvig, if you can’t cure that Cochin China hen, you must chop
its head off, the minute I have gone.”
“Oh, no! I’d never dare do that unless Mistress herself said so.”
“Please, please do, Hedvig. No one will take any care of it when I’m
not here.”
“But you know I don’t dare because of the old lady.” That was
Great-Aunt.
“Oh, yes, Hedvig. You are so kind. Please do it and quickly, too.” I
felt as if I ought to say this even if I didn’t believe she would do
what I told her to do. The poor sick hen!
* * * * *
Well, our visit at the Parsonage was over and we were starting for
home. Aunt Magda, Great-Aunt and Uncle and Mr. Witt, the old lawyer,
went to the wharf with us, and they all stood there and waved
and waved. Uncle waved his cane and Mr. Witt, who wore a linen
dust-coat, waved his long coattails. Then what shouts from shore and
boat!
“Good-bye!” “Good-bye!” “G-o-o-o-d-by-e!”
Jon was in the best of humors as he rowed us from the shore to the
steamer. I didn’t know whether it was because he would now be rid of
us for this year or the present of money I had given him, that made
him so pleasant.
“Good luck to all three on your journey,” called Jon as he shoved his
boat from the steamer.
For a while we could see the church tower and the roof of the
Parsonage between the trees; then the steamer rounded an island and
we saw them no more.
III
THE LOST KEY
Mrs. Polby is the sort of person who stands on her front steps, with
arms akimbo, every minute when she isn’t working, and talks with
every one who passes by. That is why she knows all that is going on;
and she knows, too, every single hen in the town and every single dog
and every single person.
One time she blamed me for something which I hadn’t done at all; and
from that very time we became good friends!
Now you shall hear about it from beginning to end.
Mrs. Polby has a son named Karl Johan,—a pale, namby-pamby boy who
is offended if you only look at him. In this, he is like his mother,
who is easily offended, too, but otherwise they are very different.
She is a regular roly-poly, with round eyes and round, rosy cheeks,
works hard in her vegetable garden, and talks a great deal, as I have
told you.
It is rather unfortunate that Karl Johan is so namby-pamby when he
has such a kingly name. That’s why we tease him, calling him Karl
Johan Gustavus Adolphus Kristian Fredrik Julius Cæsar Polby or other
grand names; and he gets so furious that he runs home and tattles to
his mother. Then Mrs. Polby stands on her steps and holds a Judgment
Day for us, blaming me especially; so you can understand that she and
I have never been very good friends.
Back of her house, Mrs. Polby has a big garden where she grows a
quantity of cabbages which she sells in the autumn.
In the farthest end of the garden there is an old tumble-down
building where she stores the cabbages until they are sold.
Although Mrs. Polby doesn’t know it, we often play hide-and-seek in
that building, for there are so many closets and bins and little
rooms in it where we can hide. The house is so old and rickety that
there are big cracks everywhere in the floor and the walls.
One day Mother said to me, “Run down and buy two heads of cabbage
from Mrs. Polby.” Off I ran like the wind, as I always do. Mrs.
Polby, for a wonder, was not on her steps, but Karl Johan sat in the
kitchen drinking coffee out of a big bowl.
“Well, Karl Johan Victor Emmanuel Clodevig,” said I, “have you any
cabbages to sell?”
He began to scold at a great rate, his face in the bowl the whole
time, but he didn’t answer my question about cabbages; so I thought
it was best to find Mrs. Polby herself, and I ran out to the
vegetable field.
The door of the shanty stood open, and one cabbage-head after another
came dancing out. She is in there, I thought, and probably not
in good humor, for the cabbages were being thrown with a certain
wrathful haste. I couldn’t see Mrs. Polby herself, for she was
farther inside the house.
True enough, there she was, hard at work in the midst of her
cabbages, and very red in the face; she was throwing out the rotten
ones, and, as I had thought, was not in a very gentle mood.
“I should like two heads of cabbage, Mrs. Polby,” I said. “But I must
tell you that your son has been talking horridly to me.”
“Is that so? Well, who is it he learns such talk from, sauce-box?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said I. “But I should like the cabbages
right away.”
No, she hadn’t any cabbages, she said; they all rotted and she was
sick and tired of the whole business, and, anyway, she sold no
cabbages to persons who called her Karl Johan nicknames.
“Do you call Julius Cæsar, and Gustavus Adolphus and Clodevig
nicknames, Mrs. Polby?” I asked.
“Heathen names and dog names we have no use for in this country,” she
said, “and you can go your way for you’ll get no cabbages from me.
Tell your mother so, with my compliments.”
With that she went into a little closet at the back of the shanty,
and slammed the door after her. Probably she slammed it a little
harder than she really meant to, (for she was in a temper, you know,)
and the lock caught. At the same moment the key tumbled out of the
keyhole, and fell down through a crack in the floor, vanishing in the
depth below.
“The key fell through a crack, Mrs. Polby,” I called.
Mrs. Polby fumbled at the door, took hold of it and pulled and pushed
till the whole house shook.
“Will you unlock this door and do it at once?” she shouted.
“I can’t unlock it. The key fell through a crack and under the
floor,” I shouted back.
Just think! she didn’t believe me!
“Don’t tell me such a thing as that. You unlock this door this
minute!” she screamed.
Nothing I could say would make her believe that I had not the key.
She kept on beating and pounding at the door and berating me for not
letting her out.
“Oh, I shall suffocate in here. I certainly shall,—with my
asthma!—Oh! Oh!”
It was a very small closet she was in, scarcely bigger than a
wardrobe.
“Put your mouth up to that little hole in the door and I’ll run after
the locksmith,” I said.
“Oh, no! Don’t go!” shrieked Mrs. Polby. “I don’t dare to stay here
alone.”
What in the world should I do? There stood Mrs. Polby with her mouth
close to the hole which was about as big as the bunghole in a barrel.
Sometimes her mouth disappeared while she cried, “Oh, my asthma! my
asthma!”
“Karl Johan,” I shouted from the door. “Hurry! Come as fast as you
can! Your mother is locked in the closet.”
He came dragging himself slowly along as if there were no need of
haste.
“Hurry! Hurry!” I shouted anxiously. “She can’t breathe, she says,
locked in that little place.”
“Well, let her out then,” said Karl Johan, crossly.
O dear! Like his mother, he thought it was all my doing.
“But I can’t let her out. I can’t! The key is under the floor,” I
cried, stamping my foot at him. “But you can get it. You are so thin
and small you can creep under the building easily. The key is right
below the closet. Do go, Karl Johan.”
“Oh, do, my jewel!” cried his mother from the hole in the door. “Oh,
oh, do go!”
But just imagine! He would not go, even when his mother begged him to.
“It’s full of rats under the floor,” said Karl Johan. “I don’t want
to go there.”
“Then run for the locksmith,” I said. “Only do hurry.”
Well, Karl Johan went, though he took his own time about it; but I
felt so sorry for poor Mrs. Polby, who was wailing piteously, that I
couldn’t bear to wait for the locksmith.
“I’ll creep under the house, Mrs. Polby,” I said. “Just keep calm.”
“Oh, will you? God bless you! This is the worst thing that ever
happened to me,” she moaned.
So I crept under the house. It was all I could do to get along,
for the ground was wet and slimy and disgustingly filthy, with old
straw, broken bottles, and every kind of trash. And Karl Johan was
right—_rats_. Ugh! But I crept and crept. Mrs. Polby stamped on the
floor and called all the time so that I should know about where the
key would lie.
I fumbled and fumbled in the dark. No, I could not find it. A rat
ran right over my hand and I only just managed to keep myself from
screaming.
“Can’t you find it?” called Mrs. Polby.
There! my hand touched it! I was so glad that I shouted loudly, “I’ve
got it! I’m coming, I’m coming!” as I started to creep out. But you
may well believe that it was difficult to turn one’s self around
under that floor; it was about the hardest of all.
Ah-h! Now I was out in the air again! My, but it was good! Into the
house I bounded, put the key in the lock and flung the door wide open.
Mrs. Polby was sitting on the floor, chalk-white in the face and
without power to speak at first. In a moment, though, she threw her
arms about my neck with such force that I nearly fell over backward,
for she is pretty heavy, I can tell you; then she began to cry.
“I really didn’t throw the key away,” I said.
“Oh, no! The keyhole has been bad this long time—and you have saved
my life——Oh! Oh!”
She kept on coughing and crying and at last said I should have five
cabbages as a present; and then she cried again.
“Why do you cry now?” I asked. “Here comes Karl Johan with the
locksmith.” True enough—they were coming at full speed with a very
long pair of tongs.
[Illustration: JUST IMAGINE! I REALLY DID GET FIVE HEADS OF CABBAGE
AS A PRESENT.—_Page 43._]
“So you’ve been sitting under lock and key, have you?” said the
locksmith.
“Don’t talk to me, for I haven’t any breath,” said Mrs. Polby; but at
the same minute she gave a scolding lecture to Karl Johan because he
would not creep under the floor after the key.
Just imagine! I really did get five heads of cabbage as a present—and
had my money besides!
So nowadays whenever I see Mrs. Polby standing on her front steps, I
stop and we have a little chat; for we are the very best of friends.
IV
TOBIESEN’S GRAND PARLOR
So many strange things are always happening to me. Can you understand
why? Some persons (like my aunt who went to Paris) never have
anything the least bit interesting happen to them. Why, when she came
home, she said (I heard her with my own ears):
“I suppose I ought to have a great deal to tell about my trip, but
really nothing especial happened and I haven’t seen or done anything
worth telling of.”
“If that’s so,” said Father, “your trip wasn’t worth the money it
cost,” and I agreed with him entirely. If I had gone to Paris, I
should have had enough to talk about continually for a month or more.
At home they say that if I just go out on the front doorstep, look
up and down the street, and come right in again, I have immediately
a great deal to tell. It may well be, however, that I talk a little
bit too much—but when so many exciting things are happening all the
time, am I to keep still and not talk about them? No, indeed, I’m not
that kind of person. Talk I must.
Now you shall hear how I came to be in Tobiesen’s grand parlor where
none of the town folk have ever been; for it was in a curious way, as
you will agree.
Tobiesen is an assistant at the Custom House—but he doesn’t look like
the other officers. They are all short and stout and red-faced—at
least they are in our town. But it is not so long ago that Tobiesen
came here, so probably that is why he is so unlike the other
officers. He is very tall and cross-looking; won’t talk to people
and doesn’t associate with any one. Would you like to know what he
does when he sits alone at home in the evenings? He embroiders,—works
on canvas! Ingeborg, our maid, says that all men who do needlework
are cross; so it isn’t strange that Tobiesen looks so glum and
disagreeable, since he sits and sews on canvas every evening. He
is not married, and he lives alone, a little way out of town over
the new road, in a house that he has bought and made all pretty and
bright with new paint. Tobiesen, as I have said, never goes anywhere
and nobody ever goes to his house; yet both Mina and I have sat for
a whole hour in his best parlor! and that without having any idea of
doing it! I was afraid enough that time, I can tell you.
I don’t know whether it is so where you live,—that a great many
wandering Gypsy tribes come to the town,—but they certainly come to
ours. There are Flintian’s tribe and Griffenfeldt’s tribe and Long
Sarah’s tribe, and many others.
Most of them come by land with packs on their backs full of tinware
and woven baskets that they wish to sell; and they always have a
crowd of dirty dark-skinned children and cross women and cross dogs
with them. Some Gypsies, though, come by boat—but I don’t know any of
those except Lars and Guro, who belong to Flintian’s tribe. They own
a big boat exactly like a pilot-boat and travel from town to town and
deal in pottery and rags. They always bring their boat to the wharf
near the market-place.
My, but you should see Lars and Guro! Both are dark, lively little
persons. There is only this difference between them: Guro wears as
little as she can, while Lars has as much as possible on him—he is
all stuffed out with clothes and rags.
Guro says that Lars is weak in the head, and that anything weak must
be kept warm, so Lars wears a heavy fur cap all summer, no matter how
hot the sun is there on the wharf.
Guro attends to the rag business and Lars to the pottery. He has some
savings-banks of red clay in the form of a bird with a slit in the
back which all the children in town are crazy to buy. Guro with bare
brown legs fairly wades in the heaps of rags on the deck, and scolds
at the children who stand on the wharf and watch her.
Perhaps you are wondering what Lars and Guro have to do with
Tobiesen’s grand parlor. Well, just wait.
The longer Lars and Guro are in town, the crosser they get at all of
us children. At first they are quite pleasant and let us go down on
the deck where they are and peep into their cabin—my! but it looks
disgusting—but later no such favors are to be thought of. Whether
this is because Lars and Guro, when their business has brought them
in some money, are always drunk, or because all the children are so
horrid about teasing them, I don’t know; but the fact is that when
the rag-boat has been at the wharf about a week, Lars and Guro are so
angry and behave so abominably that a policeman has to stand on the
wharf all day to stop Guro when she gets too outrageous. Their visit
usually ends with their being told by the police to get away from our
town with their boat the quickest they can.
The rag-boat had been at the wharf about four days and Lars and Guro
were, even for them, in an unusually bad humor. Guro had promised me
and the other children a mighty warm welcome if she once got hold of
us. And on top of that she promised that she would surely get us in
her clutches before she left the town, for worse children, she said,
were not to be found along the whole coast. That long-legged one, the
Judge’s girl, (that was I) was the worst of the whole lot. For that
matter, said Guro, she didn’t care whether we were the children of
priest or prophet or magistrate, she would catch us just the same.
One afternoon Mina and I went for a walk up on the new road. Not a
person was in sight. Oh, yes, there was; Lars and Guro were coming
down the road towards us. They walked hand in hand, staggering a
little, and quarreling loudly as they came. Mina and I did not dare
to pass them on that lonely road with no one else near, so we ran up
the hill and hid while they passed us.
But when they were just below us, Mina called out, “Raggedy
Guro—raggedy Lars!” From that came all the trouble. I was awfully
provoked with Mina. Really, she might rather have let them go in
peace that time.
But you should have seen and heard the commotion, then!
Guro and Lars dashed back to where they could scramble up the bank.
They showed that they could both make good use of their legs, I can
tell you. There was no time to be lost, for they had almost caught up
with us.
Mina and I ran as we had never run in our lives before, hopped over
stones, and ran and ran. Oh, how afraid I was!
Guro was after us swift as the wind; Lars had so many clothes on
that he was clumsy and slow in his movements, and was very soon left
behind.
For an instant, I thought it might be safest to run farther up the
hill, but no, my next thought was that it was best to get to the road
again, so I sprang down five or six feet at one leap—Mina after me.
Guro dared not take such a leap as that. Luckily for us she had to
run a roundabout way, so we had a little the start of her.
Not a sound came from Mina or me, but Guro scolded incessantly. We
ran for dear life. Lars and Guro had both reached the road now, and
the noise they made as they ran could be heard a long way. Oh! There
stood Tobiesen’s house!
“Come, let us run into Tobiesen’s,” I exclaimed, panting. In a
twinkling we were through the court and in the hall; we rushed to a
door and found ourselves in a fine, well-furnished room with white
shades pulled down over the windows. The key was on the inside of
the parlor door and I turned it hastily. There we stood. But at that
instant Lars and Guro came tramping into the hall; Guro shrieked
and scolded and vowed that she would find us, sure as fate. I was
horribly afraid, more so than I can describe; Mina sat herself flat
on the floor with her eyes bulging with terror.
There were hasty steps in the room above us, and then from the top
of the stairs came the thin, high voice that was surely Tobiesen’s,
calling, “Now, in heaven’s name, what is all this rumpus?”
“We want to get hold of the girls who came home just now,” shrieked
Guro with the voice she uses when she is in her most furious rages on
the rag-boat.
“Came home? No one comes home here.” Tobiesen trudged down the stairs
in his slippers.
“I don’t know what kind of man you are,” said Guro, “for I’ve never
seen your face before; but it’s that young one of yours I want to get
hold of—the one who came home here just now with that long-legged
girl of the Judge’s.”
“Are you crazy, folk? I have no young one—I am not married.”
“When we find them, we’ll break every bone in their bodies,” Lars’
thick voice growled from under his fur cap and out of his muffled
throat.
Mina and I looked at each other. What a frightful position we were
in—only a little thin door between us and that furious Guro and Lars
and with no one to protect us but Tobiesen, who might be angry with
us, too!
Guro screamed louder and louder.
“If you think I am afraid of you, you make a big mistake,” she
shouted. “I’m going to find them, be sure of that.” She rushed
farther into the hall, and shook one of the doors. Tobiesen spoke
again, his voice sounding perfectly desperate.
“See here, you two,—here—take this, but go—only go away.”
Guro’s manner and tone changed at once.
“Thanks and honor—thanks and honor—My, such a wonderful nice man!
Now, truly, you can’t tell by the outside of folk how they are
inside—such a wonderful nice man!”
Evidently he had given them money to make them go away.
“Now go,” Tobiesen repeated. “Go away at once.”
There! They were out of the door and he turned the key in its lock
after them.
“Whew!” Tobiesen gave a long whistle of relief, but if he had known
that we were in his grand parlor he’d have whistled louder yet! I had
a little hope that he might go up-stairs again; but no, he went into
a room just across the hall.
“Oh, Mina! How splendid that they have gone!”
“But I’m almost as afraid of Tobiesen as I am of Lars and Guro,”
whispered Mina, looking up at me.
“Sh—just keep still. We must wait a little while.” We listened and
listened; not a sound was to be heard in the whole house.
Perhaps we could steal away now; but, scared as we were, I simply had
to see Tobiesen’s fancy work.
Everywhere in the room, on the chairs and on the sofa were placed
small white covers that must surely have embroidered pieces under
them. I went on tiptoe over the floor.
“Why, Mina! Really, his work isn’t so bad! Come and see.” There was
an angel’s head worked on canvas in white beads on a sofa-pillow, and
a harp among roses on the back of a chair.
But Mina dared not stir from the door.
“Sh-sh! Don’t talk. Come back again, Inger Johanne; he will hear you.
Ugh! if he should come——”
I turned the key of the parlor door slowly, slowly round. It was
great good luck for us that everything in Tobiesen’s house was so
well taken care of, for the lock had just been oiled, and the key
didn’t make a sound. We tiptoed out into the hall, in dead silence,
only making motions to each other.
We reached the street door, turned that key as carefully as we had
the other, opened the door quickly—and we were out!
When we had gone three or four steps from the house I turned and
looked back. At the door stood Tobiesen staring after us. Such
astonishment as his face showed I never saw on any other face. Mina
and I ran down the street as fast as we could.
Well, that’s the way we escaped from Tobiesen as well as from Lars
and Guro, but tell me, don’t you think it was a frightful situation
for us?
Ever since that time, when I see Tobiesen in the distance, I turn and
go into another street, I am so afraid he will recognize me.
In the evening of the same day that Lars and Guro had chased us, they
were sent out of town for quarreling in the streets, and since then
nothing has been seen of them.
V
THE DANCING-SCHOOL
A dancing-master had come to town and almost all the children were to
go to his dancing-school. He was Swedish, his name was Baklind, and
he had engaged a room at Madam Pirk’s.
Madam Pirk kept cows and made her living chiefly by selling milk. She
sold cream, too; but into that she put potato flour so that it should
look thick. She was glad to rent a room, you may be sure.
It was an immense room on the first floor and ran the whole length
of the house; its big windows looked out on both the yard and the
street. Under this room was the cellar where Madam Pirk kept her
cows; that must have been why there was always such a peculiar odor
in the room.
The wall-paper on this drawing-room represented a countless
multitude of green-clad shepherds who played on golden horns in
a crimson sunset glow. Midway down one of the long walls stood a
monster of an old-fashioned stove, an enormous bulgy contrivance with
a pipe that went straight up through the ceiling. To make a fire in
that stove would take half a cord of wood, I do believe!
Fortunately for Madam Pirk and Mr. Baklind, there was no question of
heating the room. The month of May had come, there was a south wind,
and a constant drip-drip outside from the melting snow in the roof
gutters. But probably the room was somewhat cold, for Mr. Baklind
always wore his spring coat, I remember. If we children wished a
little more warmth, the idea was that we should get it by dancing.
Mr. Baklind was a tall, stout man with long hair falling down over
his neck. It never occurred to me then, but now I am pretty sure that
he curled his hair with curling-tongs. I remember scarcely anything
else about him but his legs, which were very thin. He wore striped
stockings and pointed patent-leather shoes, and came every day with
these dancing-shoes in his pocket, changing to them right there in
the dancing-hall while we stood around looking at him.
Baklind himself was the whole orchestra; he played the violin,
tramped out the rhythm, and sang, “Tra-la-la!” or Swedish songs. He
was a happy fellow, that Mr. Baklind! I should like to know where he
waltzes around now.
There were about thirty children who went to Baklind’s
dancing-school. We stood arranged according to height; girls in a
long row on one side of the room, boys on the other side. Massa was
the tallest girl and I came next. Nils Trap was the tallest boy, and
Massa was to have him as her partner.
Angemal Terkelsen fell to my lot, a big, awkward boy who could
neither bow nor dance, and would never swing himself round except
when he came to a corner of the hall, where he had to turn. At first
he danced so poorly, that he had to practise all alone while the
rest of us sat and watched him. He was stiff as a poker and looked
bored all the time he was in the class.
I was mightily offended with Baklind because I had to have Angemal
for my partner, although of course Baklind was not to blame that
Angemal and I were of the same height. Still, I remember that at that
time I thought it was all his fault. Dance with Angemal I must, two
hours every day for six weeks.
Towards the last, however, he wasn’t so bad. Whether it was I or
Baklind who had improved him, I don’t know, but he even grew rather
agreeable. He found out one day that I was awfully fond of chocolate,
and always after that he brought me a thick cake of chocolate, and
sometimes two cakes. Angemal’s father was a storekeeper. I am afraid
that many pounds of chocolate disappeared from the shop during those
weeks of dancing-school.
Every evening between six and eight o’clock, Madam Pirk’s garden
fence was full of street urchins who had climbed up there to look
in at us who were dancing. They made a tremendous rumpus out there,
threw each other down off the fence, laughed and shouted.
In the hall, the floor rocked under our sixty feet, the cows in the
cellar lowed, the old stove shook and rattled. Baklind played the
violin, struck one and another sinner with his bow, counted out the
time: one-two-three-hop! one-two-three-hop! I shoved and dragged
Angemal, and the whole hall was in a cloud of dust that sifted down
from the ceiling and out of the corners and from Madam Pirk’s old
straight-backed chairs.
In the breathing-time between dances, we sat and rested, like hens
gone to roost, on Madam Pirk’s steep, white-scoured attic stairs; or
else Baklind taught us how we should enter a room or look out of a
window or do something else in a proper manner. The most beautiful,
but also the most complicated way to look out of a window was the
following: feet crossed, body in a curve, and arms leaning lightly
on the window-sill. He added also that, having taken this position,
the person ought to turn his gaze upward. I wonder if Angemal
Terkelsen, or any other of us ever stands and looks out of the window
in that fashion?
Once in a while Baklind would get frantic over the street boys
perching on the garden fence and peeping in at us. Never in my
life have I seen a person leap as our dancing-master did, when he
dashed out after those boys. I am not exaggerating when I say that
he took steps five or six feet long. With uplifted cane and curls
flying every-which-way, he literally stretched himself out flat
against Madam Pirk’s fence. But if Baklind thought he could get
hold of Stian, the watchman’s boy, or George, the street-sweeper’s,
he made a great mistake. They were up on the hill like a streak of
lightning, pointing their fingers at him and roaring with laughter.
“Such wolf-cubs—I’d like to break the noses off of those imps,” said
Baklind when he came in all out of breath.
When dancing-school had lasted for about a month, the big old stove
began to shake and clatter in a very disquieting manner.