_Thursday, October sixth_.
The wild geese followed Klarälven as far as the big iron foundries at
Monk Fors. Then they proceeded westward to Fryksdalen. Before they got
to Lake Fryken it began to grow dusky, and they lit in a little wet
morass on a wooded hill. The morass was certainly a good night quarter
for the wild geese, but the boy thought it dismal and rough, and wished
for a better sleeping place. While he was still high in the air, he had
noticed that below the ridge lay a number of farms, and with great haste
he proceeded to seek them out.
They were farther away than he had fancied and several times he was
tempted to turn back. Presently the woods became less dense, and he came
to a road skirting the edge of the forest. From it branched a pretty
birch-bordered lane, which led down to a farm, and immediately he
hastened toward it.
First the boy entered a farm yard as large as a city marketplace and
enclosed by a long row of red houses. As he crossed the yard, he saw
another farm where the dwelling-house faced a gravel path and a wide
lawn. Back of the house there was a garden thick with foliage. The
dwelling itself was small and humble, but the garden was edged by a row
of exceedingly tall mountain-ash trees, so close together that they
formed a real wall around it. It appeared to the boy as if he were
coming into a great, high-vaulted chamber, with the lovely blue sky for
a ceiling. The mountain-ash were thick with clusters of red berries, the
grass plots were still green, of course, but that night there was a full
moon, and as the bright moonlight fell upon the grass it looked as white
as silver.
No human being was in sight and the boy could wander freely wherever he
wished. When he was in the garden he saw something which almost put him
in good humour. He had climbed a mountain-ash to eat berries, but before
he could reach a cluster he caught sight of a barberry bush, which was
also full of berries. He slid along the ash branch and clambered up into
the barberry bush, but he was no sooner there than he discovered a
currant bush, on which still hung long red clusters. Next he saw that
the garden was full of gooseberries and raspberries and dog-rose bushes;
that there were cabbages and turnips in the vegetable beds and berries
on every bush, seeds on the herbs and grain-filled ears on every blade.
And there on the path--no, of course he could not mistake it--was a big
red apple which shone in the moonlight.
The boy sat down at the side of the path, with the big red apple in
front of him, and began cutting little pieces from it with his sheath
knife.
"It wouldn't be such a serious matter to be an elf all one's life if it
were always as easy to get good food as it is here," he thought.
He sat and mused as he ate, wondering finally if it would not be as well
for him to remain here and let the wild geese travel south without him.
"I don't know for the life of me how I can ever explain to Morten
Goosey-Gander that I cannot go home," thought he. "It would be better
were I to leave him altogether. I could gather provisions enough for the
winter, as well as the squirrels do, and if I were to live in a dark
corner of the stable or the cow shed, I shouldn't freeze to death."
Just as he was thinking this, he heard a light rustle over his head,
and a second later something which resembled a birch stump stood on the
ground beside him.
The stump twisted and turned, and two bright dots on top of it glowed
like coals of fire. It looked like some enchantment. However, the boy
soon remarked that the stump had a hooked beak and big feather wreaths
around its glowing eyes. Then he knew that this was no enchantment.
"It is a real pleasure to meet a living creature," remarked the boy.
"Perhaps you will be good enough to tell me the name of this place, Mrs.
Brown Owl, and what sort of folk live here."
That evening, as on all other evenings, the owl had perched on a rung of
the big ladder propped against the roof, from which she had looked down
toward the gravel walks and grass plots, watching for rats. Very much to
her surprise, not a single grayskin had appeared. She saw instead
something that looked like a human being, but much, much smaller, moving
about in the garden.
"That's the one who is scaring away the rats!" thought the owl. "What in
the world can it be? It's not a squirrel, nor a kitten, nor a weasel,"
she observed. "I suppose that a bird who has lived on an old place like
this as long as I have ought to know about everything in the world; but
this is beyond my comprehension," she concluded.
She had been staring at the object that moved on the gravel path until
her eyes burned. Finally curiosity got the better of her and she flew
down to the ground to have a closer view of the stranger.
When the boy began to speak, the owl bent forward and looked him up and
down.
"He has neither claws nor horns," she remarked to herself, "yet who
knows but he may have a poisonous fang or some even more dangerous
weapon. I must try to find out what he passes for before I venture to
touch him."
"The place is called Mårbacka," said the owl, "and gentlefolk lived here
once upon a time. But you, yourself, who are you?"
"I think of moving in here," volunteered the boy without answering the
owl's question. "Would it be possible, do you think?"
"Oh, yes--but it's not much of a place now compared to what it was
once," said the owl. "You can weather it here I dare say. It all depends
upon what you expect to live on. Do you intend to take up the rat
chase?"
"Oh, by no means!" declared the boy. "There is more fear of the rats
eating me than that I shall do them any harm."
"It can't be that he is as harmless as he says," thought the brown owl.
"All the same I believe I'll make an attempt...." She rose into the air,
and in a second her claws were fastened in Nils Holgersson's shoulder
and she was trying to hack at his eyes.
The boy shielded both eyes with one hand and tried to free himself with
the other, at the same time calling with all his might for help. He
realized that he was in deadly peril and thought that this time, surely,
it was all over with him!
Now I must tell you of a strange coincidence: The very year that Nils
Holgersson travelled with the wild geese there was a woman who thought
of writing a book about Sweden, which would be suitable for children to
read in the schools. She had thought of this from Christmas time until
the following autumn; but not a line of the book had she written. At
last she became so tired of the whole thing that she said to herself:
"You are not fitted for such work. Sit down and compose stories and
legends, as usual, and let another write this book, which has got to be
serious and instructive, and in which there must not be one untruthful
word."
It was as good as settled that she would abandon the idea. But she
thought, very naturally, it would have been agreeable to write something
beautiful about Sweden, and it was hard for her to relinquish her work.
Finally, it occurred to her that maybe it was because she lived in a
city, with only gray streets and house walls around her, that she could
make no headway with the writing. Perhaps if she were to go into the
country, where she could see woods and fields, that it might go better.
She was from Vermland, and it was perfectly clear to her that she
wished to begin the book with that province. First of all she would
write about the place where she had grown up. It was a little homestead,
far removed from the great world, where many old-time habits and customs
were retained. She thought that it would be entertaining for children to
hear of the manifold duties which had succeeded one another the year
around. She wanted to tell them how they celebrated Christmas and New
Year and Easter and Midsummer Day in her home; what kind of house
furnishings they had; what the kitchen and larder were like, and how the
cow shed, stable, lodge, and bath house had looked. But when she was to
write about it the pen would not move. Why this was she could not in the
least understand; nevertheless it was so.
True, she remembered it all just as distinctly as if she were still
living in the midst of it. She argued with herself that since she was
going into the country anyway, perhaps she ought to make a little trip
to the old homestead that she might see it again before writing about
it. She had not been there in many years and did not think it half bad
to have a reason for the journey. In fact she had always longed to be
there, no matter in what part of the world she happened to be. She had
seen many places that were more pretentious and prettier. But nowhere
could she find such comfort and protection as in the home of her
childhood.
It was not such an easy matter for her to go home as one might think,
for the estate had been sold to people she did not know. She felt, to be
sure, that they would receive her well, but she did not care to go to
the old place to sit and talk with strangers, for she wanted to recall
how it had been in times gone by. That was why she planned it so as to
arrive there late in the evening, when the day's work was done and the
people were indoors.
She had never imagined that it would be so wonderful to come home! As
she sat in the cart and drove toward the old homestead she fancied that
she was growing younger and younger every minute, and that soon she
would no longer be an oldish person with hair that was turning gray,
but a little girl in short skirts with a long flaxen braid. As she
recognized each farm along the road, she could not picture anything else
than that everything at home would be as in bygone days. Her father and
mother and brothers and sisters would be standing on the porch to
welcome her; the old housekeeper would run to the kitchen window to see
who was coming, and Nero and Freja and another dog or two would come
bounding and jumping up on her.
The nearer she approached the place the happier she felt. It was autumn,
which meant a busy time with a round of duties. It must have been all
these varying duties which prevented home from ever being monotonous.
All along the way the farmers were digging potatoes, and probably they
would be doing likewise at her home. That meant that they must begin
immediately to grate potatoes and make potato flour. The autumn had been
a mild one; she wondered if everything in the garden had already been
stored. The cabbages were still out, but perhaps the hops had been
picked, and all the apples.
It would be well if they were not having house cleaning at home. Autumn
fair time was drawing nigh, everywhere the cleaning and scouring had to
be done before the fair opened. That was regarded as a great event--more
especially by the servants. It was a pleasure to go into the kitchen on
Market Eve and see the newly scoured floor strewn with juniper twigs,
the whitewashed walls and the shining copper utensils which were
suspended from the ceiling.
Even after the fair festivities were over there would not be much of a
breathing spell, for then came the work on the flax. During dog days the
flax had been spread out on a meadow to mould. Now it was laid in the
old bath house, where the stove was lighted to dry it out. When it was
dry enough to handle all the women in the neighbourhood were called
together. They sat outside the bath house and picked the flax to pieces.
Then they beat it with swingles, to separate the fine white fibres from
the dry stems. As they worked, the women grew gray with dust; their hair
and clothing were covered with flax seed, but they did not seem to mind
it. All day the swingles pounded, and the chatter went on, so that when
one went near the old bath house it sounded as if a blustering storm had
broken loose there.
After the work with the flax, came the big hard-tack baking, the sheep
shearing, and the servants' moving time. In November there were busy
slaughter days, with salting of meats, sausage making, baking of blood
pudding, and candle steeping. The seamstress who used to make up their
homespun dresses had to come at this time, of course, and those were
always two pleasant weeks--when the women folk sat together and busied
themselves with sewing. The cobbler, who made shoes for the entire
household, sat working at the same time in the men-servants' quarters,
and one never tired of watching him as he cut the leather and soled and
heeled the shoes and put eyelets in the shoestring holes.
But the greatest rush came around Christmas time. Lucia Day--when the
housemaid went about dressed in white, with candles in her hair, and
served coffee to everybody at five in the morning--came as a sort of
reminder that for the next two weeks they could not count on much sleep.
For now they must brew the Christmas ale, steep the Christmas fish in
lye, and do their Christmas baking and Christmas scouring.
She was in the middle of the baking, with pans of Christmas buns and
cooky platters all around her, when the driver drew in the reins at the
end of the lane as she had requested. She started like one suddenly
awakened from a sound sleep. It was dismal for her who had just dreamed
herself surrounded by all her people to be sitting alone in the late
evening. As she stepped from the wagon and started to walk up the long
lane that she might come unobserved to her old home, she felt so keenly
the contrast between then and now that she would have preferred to turn
back.
"Of what use is it to come here?" she sighed. "It can't be the same as
in the old days!"
On the other hand she felt that since she had travelled such a long
distance, she would see the place at all events, so continued to walk
on, although she was more depressed with every step that she took.
She had heard that it was very much changed; and it certainly was! But
she did not observe this now in the evening. She thought, rather, that
everything was quite the same. There was the pond, which in her youth
had been full of carp and where no one dared fish, because it was
father's wish that the carp should be left in peace. Over there were the
men-servants' quarters, the larder and barn, with the farm yard bell
over one gable and the weather-vane over the other. The house yard was
like a circular room, with no outlook in any direction, as it had been
in her father's time--for he had not the heart to cut down as much as a
bush.
She lingered in the shadow under the big mountain-ash at the entrance to
the farm, and stood looking about her. As she stood there a strange
thing happened; a flock of doves came and lit beside her.
She could hardly believe that they were real birds, for doves are not in
the habit of moving about after sundown. It must have been the beautiful
moonlight that had awakened these. They must have thought it was dawn
and flown from their dove-cotes, only to become confused, hardly knowing
where they were. When they saw a human being they flew over to her, as
if she would set them right.
There had been many flocks of doves at the manor when her parents lived
there, for the doves were among the creatures which her father had taken
under his special care. If one ever mentioned the killing of a dove, it
put him in a bad humour. She was pleased that the pretty birds had come
to meet her in the old home. Who could tell but the doves had flown out
in the night to show her they had not forgotten that once upon a time
they had a good home there.
Perhaps her father had sent his birds with a greeting to her, so that
she would not feel so sad and lonely when she came to her former home.
As she thought of this, there welled up within her such an intense
longing for the old times that her eyes filled with tears. Life had
been beautiful in this place. They had had weeks of work broken by many
holiday festivities. They had toiled hard all day, but at evening they
had gathered around the lamp and read Tegner and Runeberg, "_Fru"_
Lenngren and "_Mamsell"_ Bremer. They had cultivated grain, but also
roses and jasmine. They had spun flax, but had sung folk-songs as they
spun. They had worked hard at their history and grammar, but they had
also played theatre and written verses. They had stood at the kitchen
stove and prepared food, but had learned, also, to play the flute and
guitar, the violin and piano. They had planted cabbages and turnips,
peas and beans in one garden, but they had another full of apples and
pears and all kinds of berries. They had lived by themselves, and this
was why so many stories and legends were stowed away in their memories.
They had worn homespun clothes, but they had also been able to lead
care-free and independent lives.
"Nowhere else in the world do they know how to get so much out of life
as they did at one of these little homesteads in my childhood!" she
thought. "There was just enough work and just enough play, and every day
there was a joy. How I should love to come back here again! Now that I
have seen the place, it is hard to leave it."
Then she turned to the flock of doves and said to them--laughing at
herself all the while:
"Won't you fly to father and tell him that I long to come home? I have
wandered long enough in strange places. Ask him if he can't arrange it
so that I may soon turn back to my childhood's home."
The moment she had said this the flock of doves rose and flew away. She
tried to follow them with her eyes, but they vanished instantly. It was
as if the whole white company had dissolved in the shimmering air.
The doves had only just gone when she heard a couple of piercing cries
from the garden, and as she hastened thither she saw a singular sight.
There stood a tiny midget, no taller than a hand's breadth, struggling
with a brown owl. At first she was so astonished that she could not
move. But when the midget cried more and more pitifully, she stepped up
quickly and parted the fighters. The owl swung herself into a tree, but
the midget stood on the gravel path, without attempting either to hide
or to run away.
"Thanks for your help," he said. "But it was very stupid of you to let
the owl escape. I can't get away from here, because she is sitting up in
the tree watching me."
"It was thoughtless of me to let her go. But to make amends, can't I
accompany you to your home?" asked she who wrote stories, somewhat
surprised to think that in this unexpected fashion she had got into
conversation with one of the tiny folk. Still she was not so much
surprised after all. It was as if all the while she had been awaiting
some extraordinary experience, while she walked in the moonlight outside
her old home.
"The fact is, I had thought of stopping here over night," said the
midget. "If you will only show me a safe sleeping place, I shall not be
obliged to return to the forest before daybreak."
"Must I show you a place to sleep? Are you not at home here?"
"I understand that you take me for one of the tiny folk," said the
midget, "but I'm a human being, like yourself, although I have been
transformed by an elf."
"That is the most remarkable thing I have ever heard! Wouldn't you like
to tell me how you happened to get into such a plight?"
The boy did not mind telling her of his adventures, and, as the
narrative proceeded, she who listened to him grew more and more
astonished and happy.
"What luck to run across one who has travelled all over Sweden on the
back of a goose!" thought she. "Just this which he is relating I shall
write down in my book. Now I need worry no more over that matter. It was
well that I came home. To think that I should find such help as soon as
I came to the old place!"
Instantly another thought flashed into her mind. She had sent word to
her father by the doves that she longed for home, and almost immediately
she had received help in the matter she had pondered so long. Might not
this be the father's answer to her prayer?