This year, it came later than usual--not until just before Christmas.
And when it did come, it was like a rain of silver.
The children greeted it with joyful shouts and a wild throwing of
snowballs; the women carried shovelfuls of snow into the rooms and
spread it on the floor before sweeping; the men hung tinkling bells to
their horses' harness.
Men hurried briskly along the forest tracks, and the great high road
to the town was packed with an unbroken throng of pilgrims. All coming
and going exchanged greetings, even with strangers--a gay wave of the
hand and a few words about the snow.
* * * * *
Twilight was falling.
Olof had just come in from his work in the forest, and was sitting
in his little room in the peasant's hut where he was quartered. An
elderly man stepped in--a farmer from the same village.
"Evening--and greetings from the town."
"Evening," said Olof heartily. "Come in and sit down."
"I've little time to sit. I'd a message for you, that was all. Stopped
at Valimaki on the way out, and someone gave me this for you."
He took out a small packet and handed it across.
Olof blushed up to the eyes, and stammered a word of thanks.
The messenger pretended not to notice his confusion, and went on,
smiling:
"I asked if maybe there was any message besides, and they said no,
just give it you as it was--but happen you'd like to hear how 'twas
given...?"
"Go on--tell me," said the young man, still with some embarrassment.
"Well, I pulled up there, as I said, and started off again just
towards dusk about. Got down just past the meadow below the house, and
hears someone running after. Thought maybe I'd left something behind,
and so I stopped. 'Twas a neat little maid, with red cheeks, and no
kerchief on her head. 'What's wrong?' says I.
"'Nothing,' says the little maid, and looks down at her shoes. 'Only
you said--didn't you say Olof was staying your way just now?'
"Well, that was right enough, and I said so. 'And what then?'
"'Why,' says she, 'I know him--and I'd a message for him.'
"'Aha,' says I, and laughed a bit.
"''Twas no more than a greeting,' says she, all of a hurry like.
"Why, then, I could carry it, 'twas an easy matter enough.
"'Can I trust you?' says the girl.
"'Why, d'you think I'd lose it on the way?' says I.
"'If you did--or if you went and told about it...'
"'Nay,' says I. 'I'm an old man, my dear, and not given to playing
tricks that away.'
"'Yes, I know,' says she. 'I can trust you.' And then she gives me
this.
"'That's for him?' says I. 'Give it him just as it is?'
"'Yes. You won't open it, I know. Though, to be sure, anyone can tell
what's inside. But be sure no one sees you give it him. There's no
message, only just that.'
"Well, I was just on the way to tell her I'd sense enough to do that
without being asked--but all of a sudden she's off, racing away with
her hair flying behind. Ay, that was the way of it, and now I've told
you, I'll be off."
"Good-night, then," said Olof. "And many thanks."
Olof sank into a chair by the table, holding the packet in his hand.
He knew well enough what was inside, but hesitated to open it. He was
thinking of what had happened there--he could see it himself as in
a vision. A bright-eyed girl, slight of figure, hardly more than
a child, sat at one end of the room, and at the other a traveller,
eating from the red-painted box in which he carried his food. The man
spoke of the weather, how the first snow had come, and it was good
going underfoot; where he came from, too, the woodcutters had already
started work. More work than usual this season, and the gang foreman
had taken on a new hand, a young fellow--Olof was his name.
And the girl all but cries his name aloud, blushes violently, and lays
down her work to listen. But the traveller says no more of what she is
longing to hear, only talks of this and that--all manner of trifling
things. The girl is restless, uncertain what to do--but she must do
something. And she watches the man's face closely as he sits smoking
his pipe on the bench. "He looks honest, and kindly," she thinks to
herself. "I could trust him, I know."
And then quietly she slips off to her own room, as if to fetch
something, and takes something from a drawer--a little thing she
has kept there long. Looks for some paper, or a bag, to put it in,
searches and looks again, and finds it at last, packs it up and ties
it round with string, tying the hardest knot she can manage, and
cutting the ends off close, so it can't be opened without being
seen--and laughs to herself.
Then she goes back to the room, with the thing in her pocket. The
traveller is getting ready to go.
"'Tis time to mix the cattle food," says the girl. And from the
kitchen window she can see the traveller come out to his horse and
make ready to start. He drives out of the yard and down the road at a
trot. "Now!" says she to herself, and races off after him.
Olof can see her as she runs--how her breast heaves as she comes up
with the cart and hails the driver. How she blushes and looks down,
and then, having gained her purpose, runs off again too full of joy
even to thank the messenger, running a race, as it were, with her own
delight. And then, once back at the house, she looks round anxiously
to every side, lest any should have seen her, and goes in to her work
again....
Filled with a quiet joy, Olof opens the packet.
A big, dark red apple carries her greeting.
"The very colour of the rowans!" he cries--as if the girl had chosen
that very one from a great store, though he knows well enough it was
likely the only one she had.
And his heart swells with joy and pride at the thought. "Was there
ever such a greeting--or such a girl!"
Once more his mind goes back to that happy autumn; he turns the apple
in his hand caressingly, and looks out through the window and smiles.
Then he notices that the apple seems harder to the touch in one place,
as if to call his attention to something. He looks at it again, and
sees that the skin on one side is raised, with a cut all round, is if
done with a knife. He lifts the flap of skin, and it comes away like a
lid; underneath is a folded slip of paper.
"More!" he cries, and with trembling hands, with joy at heart,
he unfolds it. Only a tiny fragment, and on one side a few words
awkwardly traced with pencil:
"Now I know what it is to be sad. Have you quite forgotten your Rowan?
I think of you every night when I go to sleep."
The apple falls into his lap, the paper trembles in his hand, and a
moisture dims his eyes.
He looks up. Great soft snowflakes are dropping slowly to the ground.
Minutes pass. The twilight deepens, till at last all is darkness, but
he sits there still looking out, with the paper in his hand.
He can no longer see--but he feels how the great soft snowflakes are
still falling....