Ola Serka himself, who was the most distinguished man among the Lapps,
had said that he would find Osa's father, but he appeared to be in no
haste and sat huddled outside the tent, thinking of Jon Esserson and
wondering how best to tell him of his daughter's arrival. It would
require diplomacy in order that Jon Esserson might not become alarmed
and flee. He was an odd sort of man who was afraid of children. He used
to say that the sight of them made him so melancholy that he could not
endure it.
While Ola Serka deliberated, Osa, the goose girl, and Aslak, the young
Lapp boy who had stared so hard at her the night before, sat on the
ground in front of the tent and chatted.
Aslak had been to school and could speak Swedish. He was telling Osa
about the life of the "Saméfolk," assuring her that they fared better
than other people.
Osa thought that they lived wretchedly, and told him so.
"You don't know what you are talking about!" said Aslak curtly. "Only
stop with us a week and you shall see that we are the happiest people on
earth."
"If I were to stop here a whole week, I should be choked by all the
smoke in the tent," Osa retorted.
"Don't say that!" protested the boy. "You know nothing of us. Let me
tell you something which will make you understand that the longer you
stay with us the more contented you will become."
Thereupon Aslak began to tell Osa how a sickness called "The Black
Plague" once raged throughout the land. He was not certain as to whether
it had swept through the real "Saméland," where they now were, but in
Jämtland it had raged so brutally that among the Saméfolk, who lived in
the forests and mountains there, all had died except a boy of fifteen.
Among the Swedes, who lived in the valleys, none was left but a girl,
who was also fifteen years old.
The boy and girl separately tramped the desolate country all winter in
search of other human beings. Finally, toward spring, the two met.
Aslak continued: "The Swedish girl begged the Lapp boy to accompany her
southward, where she could meet people of her own race. She did not wish
to tarry longer in Jämtland, where there were only vacant homesteads.
I'll take you wherever you wish to go,' said the boy, 'but not before
winter. It's spring now, and my reindeer go westward toward the
mountains. You know that we who are of the Saméfolk must go where our
reindeer take us.' The Swedish girl was the daughter of wealthy parents.
She was used to living under a roof, sleeping in a bed, and eating at a
table. She had always despised the poor mountaineers and thought that
those who lived under the open sky were most unfortunate; but she was
afraid to return to her home, where there were none but the dead. 'At
least let me go with you to the mountains,' she said to the boy, 'so
that I sha'n't have to tramp about here all alone and never hear the
sound of a human voice.'
"The boy willingly assented, so the girl went with the reindeer to the
mountains.
"The herd yearned for the good pastures there, and every day tramped
long distances to feed on the moss. There was not time to pitch tents.
The children had to lie on the snowy ground and sleep when the reindeer
stopped to graze. The girl often sighed and complained of being so tired
that she must turn back to the valley. Nevertheless she went along to
avoid being left without human companionship.
"When they reached the highlands the boy pitched a tent for the girl on
a pretty hill that sloped toward a mountain brook.
"In the evening he lassoed and milked the reindeer, and gave the girl
milk to drink. He brought forth dried reindeer meat and reindeer cheese,
which his people had stowed away on the heights when they were there the
summer before.
"Still the girl grumbled all the while, and was never satisfied. She
would eat neither reindeer meat nor reindeer cheese, nor would she drink
reindeer milk. She could not accustom herself to squatting in the tent
or to lying on the ground with only a reindeer skin and some spruce
twigs for a bed.
"The son of the mountains laughed at her woes and continued to treat her
kindly.
"After a few days, the girl went up to the boy when he was milking and
asked if she might help him. She next undertook to make the fire under
the kettle, in which the reindeer meat was to be cooked, then to carry
water and to make cheese. So the time passed pleasantly. The weather was
mild and food was easily procured. Together they set snares for game,
fished for salmon-trout in the rapids and picked cloud-berries in the
swamp.
"When the summer was gone, they moved farther down the mountains, where
pine and leaf forests meet. There they pitched their tent. They had to
work hard every day, but fared better, for food was even more plentiful
than in the summer because of the game.
"When the snow came and the lakes began to freeze, they drew farther
east toward the dense pine forests.
"As soon as the tent was up, the winter's work began. The boy taught the
girl to make twine from reindeer sinews, to treat skins, to make shoes
and clothing of hides, to make combs and tools of reindeer horn, to
travel on skis, and to drive a sledge drawn by reindeer.
"When they had lived through the dark winter and the sun began to shine
all day and most of the night, the boy said to the girl that now he
would accompany her southward, so that she might meet some of her own
race.
"Then the girl looked at him astonished.
"'Why do you want to send me away?' she asked. 'Do you long to be alone
with your reindeer?'
"'I thought that you were the one that longed to get away?' said the
boy.
"'I have lived the life of the Saméfolk almost a year now,' replied the
girl. I can't return to my people and live the shut-in life after having
wandered freely on mountains and in forests. Don't drive me away, but
let me stay here. Your way of living is better than ours.'
"The girl stayed with the boy for the rest of her life, and never again
did she long for the valleys. And you, Osa, if you were to stay with us
only a month, you could never again part from us."
With these words, Aslak, the Lapp boy, finished his story. Just then his
father, Ola Serka, took the pipe from his mouth and rose.
Old Ola understood more Swedish than he was willing to have any one
know, and he had overheard his son's remarks. While he was listening, it
had suddenly flashed on him how he should handle this delicate matter of
telling Jon Esserson that his daughter had come in search of him.
Ola Serka went down to Lake Luossajaure and had walked a short distance
along the strand, when he happened upon a man who sat on a rock fishing.
The fisherman was gray-haired and bent. His eyes blinked wearily and
there was something slack and helpless about him. He looked like a man
who had tried to carry a burden too heavy for him, or to solve a problem
too difficult for him, who had become broken and despondent over his
failure.
"You must have had luck with your fishing, Jon, since you've been at it
all night?" said the mountaineer in Lappish, as he approached.
The fisherman gave a start, then glanced up. The bait on his hook was
gone and not a fish lay on the strand beside him. He hastened to rebait
the hook and throw out the line. In the meantime the mountaineer
squatted on the grass beside him.
"There's a matter that I wanted to talk over with you," said Ola. "You
know that I had a little daughter who died last winter, and we have
always missed her in the tent."
"Yes, I know," said the fisherman abruptly, a cloud passing over his
face--as though he disliked being reminded of a dead child.
"It's not worth while to spend one's life grieving," said the Laplander.
"I suppose it isn't."
"Now I'm thinking of adopting another child. Don't you think it would be
a good idea?"
"That depends on the child, Ola."
"I will tell you what I know of the girl," said Ola. Then he told the
fisherman that around midsummer-time, two strange children--a boy and a
girl--had come to the mines to look for their father, but as their
father was away, they had stayed to await his return. While there, the
boy had been killed by a blast of rock.
Thereupon Ola gave a beautiful description of how brave the little girl
had been, and of how she had won the admiration and sympathy of
everyone.
"Is that the girl you want to take into your tent?" asked the
fisherman.
"Yes," returned the Lapp. "When we heard her story we were all deeply
touched and said among ourselves that so good a sister would also make a
good daughter, and we hoped that she would come to us."
The fisherman sat quietly thinking a moment. It was plain that he
continued the conversation only to please his friend, the Lapp.
"I presume the girl is one of your race?"
"No," said Ola, "she doesn't belong to the Saméfolk."
"Perhaps she's the daughter of some new settler and is accustomed to the
life here?"
"No, she's from the far south," replied Ola, as if this was of small
importance.
The fisherman grew more interested.
"Then I don't believe that you can take her," he said. "It's doubtful if
she could stand living in a tent in winter, since she was not brought up
that way."
"She will find kind parents and kind brothers and sisters in the tent,"
insisted Ola Serka. "It's worse to be alone than to freeze."
The fisherman became more and more zealous to prevent the adoption. It
seemed as if he could not bear the thought of a child of Swedish parents
being taken in by Laplanders.
"You said just now that she had a father in the mine."
"He's dead," said the Lapp abruptly.
"I suppose you have thoroughly investigated this matter, Ola?"
"What's the use of going to all that trouble?" disdained the Lapp. "I
ought to know! Would the girl and her brother have been obliged to roam
about the country if they had a father living? Would two children have
been forced to care for themselves if they had a father? The girl
herself thinks he's alive, but I say that he must be dead."
The man with the tired eyes turned to Ola.
"What is the girl's name, Ola?" he asked.
The mountaineer thought awhile, then said:
"I can't remember it. I must ask her."
"Ask her! Is she already here?"
"She's down at the camp."
"What, Ola! Have you taken her in before knowing her father's wishes?"
"What do I care for her father! If he isn't dead, he's probably the kind
of man who cares nothing for his child. He may be glad to have another
take her in hand."
The fisherman threw down his rod and rose with an alertness in his
movements that bespoke new life.
"I don't think her father can be like other folk," continued the
mountaineer. "I dare say he is a man who is haunted by gloomy
forebodings and therefore can not work steadily. What kind of a father
would that be for the girl?"
While Ola was talking the fisherman started up the strand.
"Where are you going?" queried the Lapp.
"I'm going to have a look at your foster-daughter, Ola."
"Good!" said the Lapp. "Come along and meet her. I think you'll say
that she will be a good daughter to me."
The Swede rushed on so rapidly that the Laplander could hardly keep pace
with him.
After a moment Ola said to his companion:
"Now I recall that her name is Osa--this girl I'm adopting."
The other man only kept hurrying along and old Ola Serka was so well
pleased that he wanted to laugh aloud.
When they came in sight of the tents, Ola said a few words more.
"She came here to us Saméfolk to find her father and not to become my
foster-child. But if she doesn't find him, I shall be glad to keep her
in my tent."
The fisherman hastened all the faster.
"I might have known that he would be alarmed when I threatened to take
his daughter into the Lapps' quarters," laughed Ola to himself.
When the man from Kiruna, who had brought Osa to the tent, turned back
later in the day, he had two people with him in the boat, who sat close
together, holding hands--as if they never again wanted to part.
They were Jon Esserson and his daughter. Both were unlike what they had
been a few hours earlier.
The father looked less bent and weary and his eyes were clear and good,
as if at last he had found the answer to that which had troubled him so
long.
Osa, the goose girl, did not glance longingly about, for she had found
some one to care for her, and now she could be a child again.