Thursday, April fourteenth
THREE tired wanderers were out in the late evening in search of a night harbour. They travelled over a poor and desolate portion of northern Småland. But the sort of resting place they wanted, they should have been able to find; for they were no weaklings who asked for soft beds or comfortable rooms. "If one of these long mountain-ridges had a peak so high and steep that a fox couldn't in any way climb up to it, then we should have a good sleeping-place," said one. "If a single one of the big swamps was thawed out, and so marshy and wet that a fox wouldn't dare venture out on it, that, too, would be a right good night harbour," said the second. "If the ice on one of the large lakes over which we travel were only loose, so that a fox could not come out upon it, then we should have found just what we are seeking," said the third.
The worst of it was that when the sun went down two of the travellers became so sleepy that every second they were ready to fall to the ground. The third one, who could keep awake, grew more and more uneasy as night approached. "Then it was a misfortune that we came to a land where lakes and swamps are frozen, so that a fox can get around everywhere. In other places the ice has melted away; but now we're well up in the very coldest Småland, where spring has not as yet arrived. I don't know how I shall ever manage to find a good sleeping-place! Unless I find some spot that is well protected, Smirre Fox will be upon us before morning."
He gazed in all directions, but saw no shelter where he could lodge. It was a dark and chilly night, with wind and drizzle. It grew more terrible and disagreeable around him every second.
This may sound strange, perhaps, but the travellers did not seem to have the least desire to ask for house-room on any farm. They had already passed many parishes without knocking at a single door. Little hillside cabins on the outskirts of the forests, which all poor wanderers are glad to run across, they took no notice of either. One might almost be tempted to say they deserved to have a hard time of it, since they did not seek help where it was to be had for the asking.
But finally, when it was so dark that there was scarcely a glimmer of light left under the skies and the two who needed rest journeyed on in a kind of half-sleep, they happened upon a farmyard which was far removed from all neighbouring farms. Not only did it lie there desolate, but it appeared to be uninhabited as well. No smoke rose from the chimney; no light shone through the windows; no human being moved on the place. When the one who could keep awake saw the place, he thought: "Now come what may, we must try to get in here. Anything better we are not likely to find."
Soon after that, all three stood in the houseyard. Two of them fell asleep the instant they stood still, but the third looked about him eagerly, to find out where they could get under cover. It was not a small farm. Beside the dwelling house and stable and smokehouse, there were long ranges with granaries and storehouses and cattlesheds. But it all looked awfully poor and dilapidated. The houses had gray, moss-grown, leaning walls, which seemed ready to topple over. In the roofs were yawning holes, and the doors hung aslant on broken hinges. It was apparent that here no one had taken the trouble to drive a nail into a wall in a long time.
Meanwhile, he who was awake had discovered which of the houses was the cowshed. He roused his travelling companions from their sleep, and conducted them to the cowshed door. Luckily, this was not fastened with anything but a hasp which he could easily push up with a rod. He heaved a sigh of relief at the thought that they should soon be in safety. But as the cowshed door swung open with a sharp creaking, he heard a cow begin to bellow. "Are you coming at last, mistress?" said she. "I thought you were not going to give me any supper to-night."
The one who was awake paused in the doorway, terror-stricken, when he discovered that the cowshed was not empty. But he soon saw that there was only one cow in the shed, and three or four chickens; and then he took courage again. "We are three poor travellers who want to come in somewhere, where no fox can assail us, and no human being capture us," said he. "We wonder if this can be a good place for us." "I cannot believe but that it is," answered the cow. "To be sure the walls are wretched, but the fox does not walk through them as yet; and no one lives here but an old peasant woman, who isn't at all likely to make a captive of any one. But who are you?" she continued, as she twisted in her stall to get a sight of the newcomers. "I am Nils Holgersson from Vemmenhög, who has been transformed into an elf," replied the first of the incomers, "and I have with me a tame goose, whom I usually ride, and a gray goose." "Such distinguished guests have never before been within my four walls," said the cow, "and I bid you welcome, although I would have preferred that it had been my mistress, come to give me my supper."
The boy led the geese into the cowshed, which was rather large, and placed them in an empty manger, where they fell asleep instantly. For himself, he made a little bed of straw thinking that he, too, would drop to sleep at once.
But this was impossible, for the poor cow, who hadn't had her supper, wasn't still an instant. She shook her flanks, moved around in the stall, complaining all the while of how hungry she was. The boy couldn't get a wink of sleep, but lay there thinking over all that had happened to him during these last days.
He thought of Osa, the goose-girl, and little Mats, whom he had so unexpectedly encountered; and it occurred to him that the little cabin which he had set on fire must have been their old home in Småland. Now he remembered that he had heard them speak of just such a cabin, and of the big heather-heath which lay below it. They had wandered back there to see their old home again, and when they arrived, it was in flames.
It was indeed a great sorrow that he had brought upon them, and it hurt him very much. If he ever again became a human being, he would try to make up for all this damage and miscalculation.
Then his thoughts wandered to the crows. And when he thought of Fumle-Drumle who had saved his life, and who had met his own death so soon after having been elected chieftain, he was so distressed that tears filled his eyes.
He had had a pretty rough time of it these last few days. But anyhow it was a rare stroke of luck that the goosey-gander and Dunfin had found him.
The goosey-gander had said that as soon as the wild geese discovered that Thumbietot had disappeared, they had asked all the small animals in the forest about him. They soon learned that a flock of Småland crows had carried him off. But the crows were already out of sight, and whither they had directed their course no one had been able to say. That they might find the boy as soon as possible, Akka had commanded the wild geese to start out – two and two – in different directions, to search for him. But after a two days' hunt, whether or not they had found him, they were to meet in northwestern Småland on a high mountain-top, which resembled an abrupt, chopped-off tower, and was called Taberg. After Akka had given them the best directions, as to how they should reach Taberg, they had separated.
The white goosey-gander had chosen Dunfin as travelling companion, and they had flown about hither and thither with the greatest anxiety for Thumbietot. During this ramble they had heard a thrush, who sat in a tree-top, cry and wail that some one who called himself Kidnapped-by-Crows, had made fun of him. They had talked with the thrush, and he had shown them in which direction that Kidnapped-by-Crows had travelled. Afterward, they had met a dove-cock, a starling and a drake who had all wailed about a little culprit that had disturbed their song, and who was named Caught-by-Crows, Captured-by-Crows, and Stolen-by-Crows. In this way, they were enabled to trace Thumbietot all the way to the heather-heath in Sonnerbo Parish.
As soon as the goosey-gander and Dunfin had found Thumbietot, they had flown northward, in order to reach Taberg. But it had been a long road to travel, and the darkness was upon them before they had sighted the mountain top. "If we only get there by to-morrow, surely all our troubles will be over," thought the boy, as he dug down into the straw to have it warmer. All the while the cow fussed and fumed in the stall. Then, all of a sudden, she began to talk to the boy. "Everything is wrong with me," said the cow. "I am neither milked nor tended. I have no night fodder in my manger, and no bed has been made under me. My mistress came here at dusk, to put things in order for me, but she felt so ill that she had to go back to the cabin; and she has not returned."
"It's distressing that I should be little and powerless," said the boy. "I don't believe that I am able to help you." "You can't make me believe that you are powerless because you are little," said the cow. "All the elves that I've ever heard of, were so strong that they could pull a whole load of hay and strike a cow dead with one fist." The boy couldn't help laughing at the cow. "They were a very different kind of elf from me," said he. "But I'll loosen your halter and open the door for you, so that you can go out and drink in one of the pools on the place, and then I'll try to climb up to the hayloft and throw down some hay down to you." "Yes, that would be some help," said the cow.
The boy did as he had said; and when the cow stood with a full manger in front of her, he thought that at last he should get some sleep. But he had hardly crept down into the bed before she began anew to talk to him.
"'YES, THAT WOULD BE SOME HELP,' SAID THE COW"
"You'll be clean put out with me if I ask you for one thing more," said the cow. "Oh, no I won't, if it's only something that I'm able to do," assured the boy. "Then I shall ask you to go into the cabin, directly opposite, and find out how my mistress is getting along. I fear some misfortune has come to her." "No! I can't do that," said the boy. "I dare not show myself before human beings." "Surely you're not afraid of an old and sick woman," said the cow. "But you do not have to go into the cabin. Just stand outside the door and peep through the crack!" "Oh! if that is all you ask of me, I'll do it, of course," said the boy.
With that he opened the cowshed door and went out into the yard. It was a fearful night! Neither moon nor stars shone; the wind blew a gale, and the rain came down in torrents. And the worst of all was that seven great owls sat in a row under the eaves of the cabin. It was awful just to hear them, where they sat and grumbled at the weather; but it was even worse to think what would happen to him if one of them should set eyes on him. That would be the last of him.
"Pity him who is little!" said the boy as he ventured out in the yard. And he had a right to say this, for he was blown down twice before he got to the house: once the wind swept him into a pool which was so deep that he came near drowning. But he got there nevertheless.
He clambered up the steps, scrambled over the threshold, and came into the hallway. The cabin door was closed, but down in one corner a large piece had been cut away, to let the cat in and out. It was no difficulty whatever for the boy to see how things were in the cabin.
He had barely glanced in when he staggered back and turned his head away. An old gray-haired woman lay stretched on the floor within. She neither moved nor moaned; and her face shone strangely white. It was as if an invisible moon had cast a feeble light over it.
The boy remembered that when his grandfather had died, his face had also become so strangely white-like. And he understood that the old woman who lay on the cabin floor must be dead. Death had probably come to her so suddenly that she didn't even have time to lie down on her bed.
As he thought of being alone with the dead in the middle of the dark night, he was terribly afraid. He threw himself headlong down the steps, and rushed back to the cowshed.
When he told the cow of what he had seen in the cabin, she stopped eating. "So my mistress is dead," sighed she. "Then it will soon be over for me as well." "There will always be some one to look out for you," said the boy comfortingly. "Ah! you don't know," said the cow, "that I am already twice as old as a cow usually is before she is laid upon the slaughter-bench. But then, I do not wish to live any longer, since she, in there, can come no more to care for me."
She said nothing more for a time, but the boy observed that she neither slept nor ate. It was not long before she began to speak again. "Is she lying on the bare floor?" she asked. "She is," said the boy. "She had a habit of coming out to the cowshed," she continued, "and talking about everything that troubled her. I understood what she said, although I could not answer her. The last days she talked of how afraid she was that there would be no one with her when she died. She was anxious lest none be near to close her eyes and fold her hands across her breast, after she was dead. Perhaps you'll go in and do this?" The boy hesitated. He remembered that when his grandfather had died, mother had been very careful about putting everything to rights. He knew this was something which had to be done. But, on the other hand, he felt that he did not dare go to the dead, in the ghastly night. He didn't say no; nor did he take a step toward the cowshed door. For a couple of seconds the old cow was silent, as if waiting for an answer. But when the boy said nothing, she did not repeat her request. Instead, she began to talk to him of her mistress.
There was much to tell, first and foremost, about all the children she had brought up. They had been in the cowshed every day, and in the summer they had taken the cattle to pasture on the swamp and in the groves so the old cow knew all about them. They had been splendid, all of them, and happy and industrious. A cow knew well enough what her caretakers were good for.
There was also much to be said about the farm. It had not always been as poor as it was now, although the greater part of it consisted of swamps and stony groves. There was not much room left for fields, but there was plenty of good fodder everywhere. At one time there had been a cow for every stall in the cowshed; and the oxshed, which was now empty, had at one time been filled with oxen. And then there was life and gayety, both in cabin and cowhouse. When the mistress opened the cowshed door she always hummed or sang, and all the cows mooed their gladness when they heard her coming.
But the good man had died when the children were so small that they could be of no assistance, and the mistress had to take charge of the farm, and all the work and responsibility. She had been as strong as a man; and had both ploughed and reaped. Evenings, when she came into the cowshed to milk, sometimes she was so tired that she wept. But when she thought of her children she dashed away her tears, and was cheerful again. "It doesn't matter. Good times are coming again for me, too, if only my children grow up. Yes, if they only grow up."
But as soon as the children were grown, a strange longing came over them. They didn't want to stay at home, so they went away to a strange country. Their mother never got any help from them. A couple of her children were married before they went away, and they left their children behind, in the old home. And now these children followed the mistress to the cowshed, just as her own had done. They tended the cows, and were fine, good folk. And evenings, when the mistress was so tired out that she could have fallen asleep in the middle of the milking, she would arouse herself again to renewed courage by thinking of them. "Good times are coming for me, too," said she – and shook off sleep – "when once they are grown."
But when these children grew up, they went away to their parents in the strange land. No one came back, no one stayed at home. The old mistress was left alone on the farm.
Probably she had never asked them to remain with her. "Think you, Redlinna, that I would ask them to stay here with me, when they can go out in the world and have things comfortable?" she would say as she stood in the stall with the old cow. "Here in Småland they have only poverty to look forward to."
But when the last grandchild was gone, it was all up with the mistress. All at once she became bent and gray, and tottered as she walked; as if she no longer had the strength to move about. She stopped working. She did not care to look after the farm, but let everything go to rack and ruin. She did not repair the houses; and she sold both cows and oxen. The only one she kept was the old cow who now talked with Thumbietot. Her she let live because all the children had tended her.
She could have taken maids and farm-hands into her service, who would have helped her with the work, but she couldn't bear to see strangers around her, since her own had deserted her. Perhaps she was better satisfied to let the farm go to ruin, since none of her children were coming back to take charge of it after she was gone. She did not mind being poor herself for she didn't value that which was only hers. But she was troubled lest the children should find out how hard she had it. "If only the children do not hear of this! If only the children do not hear of this!" she sighed as she tottered through the cowhouse.
The children wrote constantly, and begged her to come out to them; but this she did not wish. She didn't want to see the land that had taken them from her. She was angry at it. "It's foolish of me, perhaps, that I do not like that land which has been so good for them," said she. "But, I don't want to see it."
She thought only of the children, and of this – that they must needs have gone. When summer came, she led the cow out to graze in the big swamp. All day she would sit at the edge of the swamp, her hands in her lap; and on the way home she would say: "You see, Redlinna, if there had been large, rich fields here, in place of these barren swamps, there would have been no need of their leaving."
She could become furious with the swamp which spread out so big, and did no good. She would sit and talk of how it was the swamp's fault that the children had left her.
The last evening she had been more trembly and feeble than ever. She could not even do the milking. She had leaned against the manger and talked about two strangers who had been to see her, and who had asked if they might buy the swamp. They wanted to drain it, they said, to raise grain on it. This had made her both anxious and happy. "Do you hear, Redlinna," she had said. "Do you hear that grain can grow on the swamp? Now I shall write to the children to come home. They won't have to stay away any longer; for now they can get their bread here at home." It was this that she had gone into the cabin to do –
The boy heard no more. He had already opened the door, crossed the yard and gone in to the dead, of whom he had but lately been so afraid.
The cabin was not so bare as he had expected. It was well supplied with the sort of things one generally finds among those who have relatives in America. In a corner there was an American rocking chair; on the table before the window lay a brocaded plush cover; there was a pretty spread on the bed; on the walls, in carved-wood frames, hung the photographs of the children and grandchildren who had gone away; on the bureau stood high vases and a couple of candlesticks, with thick, spiral candles in them.
The boy searched for a matchbox and lighted these candles, not because he needed more light than he already had; but because he thought that this was one way to honour the dead.
Then he went up to the woman, closed her eyes, folded her hands across her breast, and stroked back the thin gray hair from her face.
He thought no more about being afraid of her, but he was deeply grieved because she had been forced to live out her old age in loneliness and longing. He, at least, would watch over her dead body this night.
He hunted up the psalm book, and sat down to read a couple of psalms in an undertone. But in the middle of the reading he paused, for he had begun to think of his mother and father.
Think, that parents can long so for their children! This he had never known. Think, that life can be as though it was over for them when the children are away! Think, if those at home longed for him in the same way that this old peasant woman had longed!
This thought made him happy, but he dared not believe in it. He had not been the sort that anybody could long for.
But what he had not been, perhaps he might become.
Round about him he saw the portraits of those who were away. They were big, strong men and women with earnest faces. There were brides in long veils, and gentlemen in fine clothes; and there were children with waved hair and pretty white dresses. And he thought that they all stared blindly into vacancy – and did not want to see.
"Poor you!" said the boy to the portraits. "Your mother is dead. You cannot make amends now for your leaving of her. But my mother is living!"
Here he paused, and nodded and smiled to himself. "My mother is living," said he. "Both father and mother are living."
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Ingrid Olsson and
Lou Anne Meloche.
