Gunnar: A Norse Romance: Part Ii

V.

EARLY EXPERIENCES.

GUNNAR did not like spelling half as well as his grandmother’s stories, and Gunhild had to use all her powers of persuasion, before she could convince him of the necessity of learning the alphabet. He soon, however, learned to know the letters and to draw them on the floor, with beards, tails, and other fanciful additions. He had an original way of attributing certain good or bad traits of character to each letter of the alphabet, and of showing a decided favor for some in preference to others. He could well understand why “ Hulder ” should commence with “ H,” ¹ he said, for the ℌ was always, like the Hulder, trying to curl up its tail to keep it out of sight. But in spite of all difficulties, and in spite of all the ill-treatment of the Catechism, which had to serve both as spelling-book and for religious instruction, Gunhild did not give up ; and after two years of persevering toil, she at last had the satisfaction of knowing that her pupil had read the book five times through, and could say the Lord’s Prayer and Apostles’ Creed both forwards and backwards.

Thor did not think it well for the boy to stay at home any longer with his grandmother; he knew already too much about Hulders, trolds,and fairies, and he could hardly open his mouth about anything else. He was old enough now to be of some use, and as soon as he could find any one who wanted him he would send him away. Gunhild protested, but it was in vain : his mother might have known that; for Thor never changed his mind.

One night he came home and told her that he had made arrangements with the widow of Rimul, who wanted Gunnar to watch her cattle in the mountains through the summer; the boy would have to be ready to start for the saeter at daybreak the next morning. Gunnar’s heartbeat loud for joy when he heard this ; he had nearly laughed right out, and would have done so, if he had not been afraid of offending his grandmother.

Next morning all rose with the sun. They ate their breakfast in silence. When the heart is full, it is hard to speak. When they were about to start, the grandmother gave Gunnar a small bundle, with a hymn-book, a coat, and a shirt for change.

“ The coat you must only wear on Sundays,” said she, the tears nearly choking her voice. “ When you hear the church-bells chime from the valley, then you must read a hymn and the gospel for the day in the back part of the book ; then nothing evil can befall thee. On week-days you must always go in your shirt-sleeves, except when it is very cold.” The last advice Gunnar hardly heard, he was so anxious to be off.

Father and son walked rapidly down towards the boat-house. It was early in June. The sun shone brightly, and the morning fog was slowly rising from the fields and from the river. Gunnar could not help turning his head often to look from a distance at the old cottage which he had now quitted for the first time in his life ; and as long as the turf-covered roof was in sight, he could see his grandmother standing in the door, wiping the tears from her eyes with her apron. Gunnar for a moment was quite touched ; he felt the tears starting, and it suddenly occurred to him that he surely loved his grandmother very much.

When they reached Atle Henjum’s boat-house, Thor untied a boat, and they crossed the river. Rimul lay on the hillside, smiling in the morning sun. The fjord looked as if it wanted to speak, but was too happy to find expression ; therefore it remained silent, but gazed at the wanderers with those strange speaking though speechless eyes, which no one ever forgets who has ever penetrated to the heart of Norway.

There was a great noise and bustle at Rimul. Everybody, from the mistress to the house-cat, seemed to be too busy to take any notice of Thor and Gunnar, as they passed through the gate into the yard. The boys were loading the backs of the horses with buckets, kettles, blankets, and all kinds of household utensils; while the girls were marking the ears of the sheep and goats, and tying bells round the necks of the most distinguished members of the flock. On a sloping bridge, leading from the yard into the upper floor of the barn, stood a tall, fair woman, with a large white cloth tied in a peculiar fashion around her head. It was bound tightly round the forehead, but widened behind into the shape of a semicircle. The fair woman seemed so absorbed in the orders she was giving in a loud voice to the different parties working in the yard, that she did not observe Thor, before he was right at her side.

“ Thanks for the last meeting,” said Thor, taking off his cap and extending his hand.

“ Thanks to yourself, Thor,” said Ingeborg of Rimul ; for it was she to whom Thor had addressed his words.

“It will be a warm day,” observed Thor.

“ Therefore we want to get the cattle off at once ; if we tarry, they will scatter before noon, and we shall not know where to look for them. Glad you came so early, Thor. Is this your boy ? ”

Gunnar had sought refuge behind his father.

“This is my boy. Go and shake hands, Gunnar.”

The boy obeyed, though rather reluctantly.

“ Gunnar ; a good old name. How old are you, Gunnar? ”

“ Don’t know,” said Gunnar.

“ Eleven years last Christmas,” replied his father.

“That little girl you see down there among the sheep,” continued Ingeborg, still addressing the boy, “ is Gudrun Henjum, my brother’s daughter. Go and speak to her, I have something to say to your father.”

There was something severe in the woman’s way of talking, and he felt rather inclined to rebel. How could he go and speak to a little girl, — he who had hardly ever seen a little girl before ? What should he speak to her about? Thus pondering, he had nearly reached the foot of the bridge, when a sudden powerful thrust from behind sent him headlong down into the yard. He was so surprised that he hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry. As he was trying to get on his feet again, he discovered a large ram standing a few yards from him, evidently preparing for another attack. A merry ringing laugh caught his ear, and as he looked up he saw two little girls coming to his rescue. That was more than he could bear. In a moment, springing to his feet, he seized the ram by the horns, and shook him with all his might.

“Why, you naughty boy ! ” cried one of the girls, “ you must not treat Hans so badly. Don’t you understand, he only wants to play with you.”

Gunnar felt rebuked. He released the ram, and for a while stood gazing at the little girl, and the girl stood gazing at him, each of them expecting the other to speak first. The little girl had a scarlet bodice and golden hair.

“Are you the Hulder?” said he at last, in order to say something.

“ Mother, mother,” cried she, running up to where Thor and Ingeborg were standing, “ what do you think he is saying ? He wants to know if I am the Hulder.”

“ Re quiet, child,” said Ingeborg, sternly, “ I have no time to speak to you.”

Abashed at the rebuke, the little girl turned slowly, twisted the corner of her apron between her fingers with an expression of embarrassment, and after some hesitation again returned to Gunnar.

“ Have you got a name ? ” asked she.

“ Yes,” answered he.

“ My name is Ragnhild, and this is Gudrun, my cousin,”

Here she pointed to another little girl, who seemed to be of about the same age as herself; in other respects there was but little resemblance. Gudrun was not so fair, and had a certain look of shyness about her.

“ My name is Gunnar ; and grandmother knows a great many stories about Necken and the Hulder, and the boy who killed the trold and married the beautiful princess.”

The girls were astounded at such wisdom.

“ Who is Necken ? ” asked Ragnhild.

“ Why, don’t you know about Necken ? he who plays every midsummernight in the water under the great waterfall yonder ? ”

“ Plays in the water ? Who told you ? ” And a shade of doubt passed over Ragnhild’s expressive features.

“ Well, if you don’t believe it, you may ask grandmother ; she knows.”

“Who is grandmother ? ”

“Why, my grandmother of course.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by the coming of Thor and Ingeborg.

The long, clear tones of the loor streamed through the valley and resounded between the mountains. It was the signal that the caravan was starting. Suddenly all was life and motion throughout the wide yard. The call of the loor seemed to impart joy and animation to everything it reached. The cattle bellowed, the calves and the goats danced, the milkmaids sung, and the forest far and near echoed with joyous song and clamor. From her elevated station on the bridge of the barn, Ingeborg still continued issuing her final orders with regard to the order of the march, until the back gate of the yard was opened and the lads led the loaded packhorses up along a steep and stony road, which climbed over the woodclothed mountain-side and gradually lost itself in the thicket ; after the horses followed Thor and Gunnar with the goats and sheep ; and last came the girls, driving before them the herd of larger cattle. All the girls and most of the men had long loors in their hands ; and high above the noise of the lowing cattle and the merry chat and laughter of the girls flowed the loortones from mountain to mountain, like an eagle soaring over all the littleness of the world below. The cattle knew the loor, and followed it instinctively: it is the surest messenger of spring, and as such is as welcome as the lark and swallow.

The loor is the song of the dark Norwegian pine forest; it is the voice of Norway’s cloud-hooded mountain ; it has a traditional history as old and as romantic as that of the troubadour’s guitar in the Middle Ages ; and surely no Spanish donna or Italian signora ever listened more expectantly to the music of a nightly serenade than the simple saeter-maid when the echo of the loor tells her that her lover is on his way from the valley. This has always been his greeting ; and she takes her own loor, puts it to her mouth, and the mountains far and near resound with her welcome.

Soon the last calf has left the yard. Ingeborg of Rimul is still standing on the same spot, viewing with apparent pleasure, and not without a certain pride, the long caravan, as it slowly winds along the steep sæter-road. And, in truth, it is a beautiful sight: the men in their light, close-fitting knee-breeches, scarlet vests, and little, red, pointed caps ; the girls with their long blond hair flowing down over their shoulders, their white linen sleeves, and bright bodices ; the varied colors of the cattle all standing in fine relief against the dark hue of the forest, which on both sides enclosed the road When the caravan was out of sight, Ingeborg rose, with a contented smile.

“ I should like to see the man,” said she to herself, “ who has finer flocks on this side the mountains.”

Thor and his son walked in silence up the steep mountain path, driving the goats before them. Gunnar was looking eagerly for the Hulder, whose scarlet bodice he expected to discover at every bend of the path. All his looking was vain ; but although greatly disappointed, he felt by no means inclined to give up. At noon they had walked about eight miles without resting. Then the view, which had hitherto been shut in on all sides by the thick-growing pine-trunks, suddenly opened upon a wide, glittering lake, whose water was so clear that they could hardly decide where it touched the air; for the bottom was visible as far as the eye could reach. Gunnar gave a cry of delight at the sight of the lake : he had never seen a lake before. Here men and cattle halted to take their noon rest. He in the mean time climbed up on a rock projecting far into the water, and sat there watching the fishes chasing each other round, and playing hide-and-seek between the stones and rushes down on the bottom.

In about an hour the loor again sounded, and the party again broke up. The farther they went, the steeper became the road ; and gradually, as they ascended, the forest grew thinner, and the whole landscape assumed a wilder and sterner character. Instead of the slender, stately pine, the crippled dwarf birch was seen creeping along the stony ground ; everything was so barren, so lifeless; and the barrenness of the monotonous scenery seemed to impress both men and cattle. The song and the laughter ceased, and the bells of the cows were the only sound to break the silence.

It was already late in the afternoon. The landscape still wore the same unseemly garb of dust-brown heather, interwoven with the twisted and knotted stems of the dwarf birch, running lengthwise and crosswise in every possible direction, and with their coarse, mazy network binding the incoherent elements of the landscape together. Suddenly came a loud shout from the foremost man.

“The highland, the highland ! ” ran from mouth to mouth ; and, joining in the joyful cry, girls and men, hurrying the cattle onward, bounded from stone to stone as fast as their feet could carry them. At the border of the wide highland plain they all halted : one powerful tone from thirty united loors rolled over the crowns of the mountains ; it was their greeting to the highland. Numerous flocks of screaming birds flew up from the plain in answer to the greeting.

Gunnar was among the last comers. To him, who had no idea of what a highland meant, and who never had been used to see more than a few rods around him, the change was so sudden and so unexpected that for a moment he had a sensation as if he was losing his breath, or as if the earth had fallen from under his feet, and he had been left floating in the air. The next sensation was one of blindness ; for the immense distance dazzled his unwonted eye almost as if he had been gazing at the sun. Speechless he stared before him. Gradually the objects which had at first appeared near together separated, and the vast tableland spread before him in all its unlimited grandeur. He drew a long, full breath : surely he had never known the delight of breathing before. A throng of childish plans crowded into his mind ; half-hidden dreams, halfborn hopes revived, and came forth into light : they had not had room while they were crowded together down in the dark, narrow valley.

Gunnar felt strong and free. He sat down on the soft verdure, and drank new delight from the glorious sight. The whole plain was overgrown with rich, fresh, green grass. A few miles away lay a large mountain lake ; and a clear, broad river wound quietly through the imposing plateau. On a slight elevation near the lake-shore lay three turf-thatched châlets, hedged in by a fence of low palisades ; that was the saeter of Rimul. In the blue distance a Yokul lifted its airy head into the clouds. Suddenly his grandmother’s old, forbidden story of the poor boy, the three-headed Trold, and the beautiful princess, stood vividly before Gunnar’s mind. When the poor boy had walked a long way and had reached the top of the first mountain, he had met an old woman, of whom he had asked the way. “ Can you see that high mountain, far away in the blue distance ?” the old woman asked.

Yes, the boy could see that mountain.

“ Well,” continued the old woman, “ten thousand miles beyond it is another far higher mountain. There is the palace of the Trold ; there sleeps the beautiful princess.”

“ This must surely be the right mountain,” thought Gunnar. “ O, could I but see beyond it ! ”

Before long the caravan was again moving, and he was no longer left to his own meditations. Indeed, the goats gave him enough to do for the remainder of the day, and he soon had a foretaste of the unpleasant part of the duties of a “cattle-boy.” The goats did not seem at all disposed to keep company ; and when that animal has formed a determination, it is not easily prevailed against either by force or by cunning. But in spite of the resolute resistance on the part of the goats, Gunnar at last had the triumph of seeing his rebellious subjects gathered with the rest of the party on the saeter-green. The saeter cottages were opened, and the horses unloaded. Before the door of the middle cottage, out in the open air, there was a large fireplace built of rough stones ; here a fire was made, and the wooden cups and milk-pails were boiled with juniper branches, before they were taken into use ; for unless thus prepared they would give a wooden taste to the milk.

It was indeed a welcome sight to Gunnar when at length a repast, consisting of oatmeal and dried beef, was spread on the grass ; and he was certainly not the only one who looked forward with eagerness to the approaching feast. All preparations being finished, the merry company sat down round the fire, and attacked the solid food with an enviable appetite.

When the meal was at an end, it was already late in the afternoon. The cattle would find pasture within the corral that night, and the hour for milking was near. The maids then went to their work, and the men to theirs.

“ Poor lads we have nowadays,” said Brita, a tall, slender girl, with a mass of rich blond hair flowing down over her back, and deep dimples in her cheeks, “ poor lads we have nowadays ! Among so many, not one who knows how to tread the springing-dance decently.” And she put down the filled milk-pails she was carrying, set her arms akimbo, and, with an air of roguish defiance, fixed her eyes upon a group of young men who lay lazily smoking around the fire.

“ Did you ever hear of the chicken who wanted to teach the hen to lay eggs ? ” answered a young lad in the smoking group, to whom the challenge seemed to be especially addressed,

“ The best buck is not always the one that has the biggest horns, Endre,”laughed the girl. “ Your strength has always been in the mouth, you know ; your legs are certainly more than long enough, if you only knew how to use them.”

“ Knut, halloo ! Out with the fiddle,” cried Endre to an older man, who was sitting on the threshold of the cottage leisurely smoking his evening pipe, “out with the fiddle, I say ! and Brita shall soon see whether I understand how to use my legs or not.”

Knut soon got his eight-stringed Hardanger violin in order, struck a few strangely sounding chords by way of prelude, and began. Brita was only too glad to accept Endre’s invitation. The other young men follow Endre’s example ; and before long the whole crowd is moving in a ring around the fire in time with the alluring music. Only Thor does not dance ; he takes a seat at the fiddler’s side, and soon seems entirely absorbed in the contemplation of the smoke from his pipe, as it curls up, spreads, and slowly vanishes in the clear night air. Probably he is musing over the days when he ranked the foremost among the dancers of the valley. Gunnar looks in wonder at this unwonted sight; and the longer he listens to the exciting notes the stronger a desire he feels to join. Now the music comes softly rippling from the strings, now it rolls and rumbles, and now again flows smooth and clear, until it hushes itself into a gentle, whispering murmur. And the dancers understand, and they feel the power of that music. First forming a long line, they move slowly forward, leading the girls by the hands after them, and softly touching the ground alternately with their heels and toes, and adapting the gestures of their whole bodies to the rippling tones ; but gradually as the strokes of the fiddler grow wilder, the tread of their heels becomes stronger, and the motions of their limbs more wildly expressive.

It was late, but still the sun was lingering; it looked red and tired, for it had waked many hours. One long, loving, parting look, and it sunk in a dreamy halo behind the western glaciers. A nightly chill crept over the highland.

The dance was ended. Knut, the fiddler, carefully wrapped his precious violin in his handkerchief to protect it front the damp night air. Gunnar, who had looked on and listened until he was fast asleep, was aroused by his father. “ I am going home again now,” said Thor, “ but I shall come up here to see you now and then. Here, take this as a keepsake from your father.” And Thor went. Gunnar had hardly time to realize whether he was awake or dreaming. It was a fine knife, with carved haft and silver sheath, he held in his hand. He had long wished for just such a knife. Surely he had never known his father before now. He saw that clearly.

VI.

RHYME-OLA.

GUNNAR sat on the lake-shore musing ; he stared down into the deep, clear water. The sun stood right in the north. Round about lay the cattle in their noon rest. Although it was but three weeks to-day since he had come to the saeter, it was to him an infinitely long time ; he appeared to himself so much older and wiser; and the little boy who a few weeks ago rode on Fox and talked to the dark was as far off as if he had but heard of him in some Neck or Hulder legend. And the poor boy who slew the Trold and married the princess ! curious it would be to know if he had ever been in the highlands and watched cattle.

How strange it looked down there in the water ! How wonderfully cool and clear ! Now a big, shining dragon-fly came dancing away over the invisible mirror, gently touched it, and small, quivering rings spread and spread, and vanished,— vanished somewhere and nowhere. How wonderfully still ! The water rested, the air rested, everythingrested. No sound, no motion. But the silence seemed to make everything look stronger, to color and intensify it. Down there on the bottom of the lake the gray stones lay between the tall, rustling bulrushes ; and they grew and moved, drew nearer and nearer. Gunnar, half frightened, turned his eyes swiftly, flung himself on his back, and gazed up into the air. There was not a cloud to be seen ; the air was a great nothing. And the longer he gazed the weaker he appeared to himself, as if he was losing himself in the clearness of the air ; and the air grew stronger and stronger ; it began to float and move before his eyes, until at last an infinite number of small colorless, disks came slowly swimming past him, and filled the space far and near. Then by degrees they assumed a faint violet or blue color, faded, and again grew brighter. A flash of light from nowhere and everywhere leaped through the air, trembled, glittered, and vanished. And the air itself vanished too. Again it was as nothing. He shut his eyes. How strange !

Then it was as if something spoke, — spoke without a sound, yet distinctly and audibly; without word, yet full of hidden meaning. He listened ; and the longer he listened the dimmer grew the boundary between silence and sound, until they strangely blended. The silence seemed the symphony of an infinite number of infinitely small voices too small to be called sounds ; they gushed forth all round him and from within him ; they whizzed in the air, they buzzed in the grass, the bulrushes rustled with them. Suddenly, as he became conscious that he was listening, the sound stopped, as in wonder at its own existence, and a vast emptiness filled the world far and near. He held his breath ; and as his thought lost its hold on itself, the air, the grass, the rushes were again alive with numberless voices ; but to him it seemed as if they had been forever, as if they had never sutffered an interruption ; for there was that in their nature which has no beginning, neither has it any end. And as he lay there listening in half-conscious unconsciousness, the thought shot through his mind that he must have seen and heard all this before, he knew not when or where. Then came the poor boy with his princess ; certainly, from his grandmother’s tales, it was there; he knew it all. He felt as if he stood at the entrance of that new world which, though unknown and unseen, he had been vaguely conscious of through so many long years of yearning, whose nearness he had felt many a dark winter night when, after the tale was ended, the drowsy embers from the hearth had stared at him with weird, beckoning eyes ; when on Fox, the old saddle, he had ridden out in search of Trold, and wonders ; when, up under the roof of the cottage, he had spent such happy hours gazing at the dark, and with the fantastic shapes of the dark gazing at him. As all these impressions now again stood vividly before him, he saw that they had all been tones in the same chord. This was the full chord ; still there was no rest in it,— it was a chord of transition, a step to something higher. And the Hulder,— he felt her presence ; she could not be far from him now.

A thundering noise struck his ear ; he started to his feet, still dreaming, senseless, bewildered. He had half expected to see the golden hair and the scarlet bodice of the Hulder, and in the first moment he was not sure but it might be she. But before his second thought, he felt himself seized by the arm and flung up the hillside, and he thought he heard these words : “ Whatever you do, boy, don’t you rush right into the water ! ”

Gunnar rubbed his eyes and stared. He saw a queer-looking little man standing on the hillside, holding a long loor in his hand, and with a broad grin on his face.

“ I do not think you are a very good cattle-boy,” continued the man. “ What do you think the widow of Rimul would say if she knew you went to sleep at this time of the day, and that right in the sunshine ? If it had not been for me, you might have looked in the moon for your cows to-night. They were all straggling.”

“I was not asleep,” said Gunnar, now somewhat recovered.

He thought the little man was very queer-looking indeed. He was rather homely, some would, perhaps, say even ugly. His eyes were large and dark, and looked as if he had just been weeping; his mouth was broad, and drawn up to one side in a strange, half-sarcastic smile. There was an inexplicable conflict between the dreaming sadness of his eyes and the broad burlesque expression of the rest of his features. He seemed to be conscious of this himself; for he kept winking with one eye, as if trying to make this discordant feature conform to the leading characteristic of his face.

The little man flung himself down on the greensward and fixed his eyes intently on Gunnar ; and the boy followed his example, and stared at him in return. Thus they sat for a while. At last the stranger opened his mouth as if he were going to speak, then shut it again without saying anything, and so again and again.

“ Have you got anything to eat ? ” cried he suddenly, as if it cost him a great effort to speak the words.

“ No,” said Gunnar.

“Then come here,” continued the other, “and hold this cow by the horns, while I milk her. I am hungry as a wolf.”

Gunnar obeyed. There was something very peculiar in the little man, some strange mixture of strength and weakness, which did not fail to make a strong impression on his mind. While he held the cow, his companion stooped down, milked with one hand, using the other for a cup, and now and then emptying it into his mouth. But after awhile, probably finding this process too troublesome, he knelt down, put his head up under the cow, and milked right into his mouth.

“ Does the cow kick ?” asked he.

“ Yes.”

“ Very well.” And he went on milking, while Gunnar stood gazing at him in mute astonishment. At last the cow began to show signs of impatience.

“ Ah,” said he, rising, and wiping the milk from his mouth with his ragged coat-sleeve, “ what a delicious meal ! I have not seen a thing to eat since yesterday noon ; and since this morning my miserable bowels have been entertaining me with a wofuller Lenten-hymn than ever found its way into old Kingo’s hymn-book. Strange enough, I never was partial to fasting.”

And he laughed aloud ; but finding no response in Gunnar, whose face was as grave as ever, he suddenly stayed his mirth, and with a look of disappointment turned on his heel and seated himself in the grass, with his back to his companion. Gunnar, however, unconscious of offence, walked up to him, and flung himself down at his side on the green. The man then, after having examined all his pockets, finally from the one on the inside of his vest drew out some ragged and greasy papers, which he carefully spread out on his knees, and for some time contemplated, with an expression of the keenest interest. Soon his mouth was again drawn up into its customary grin or smile, and his face grew brighter and happier the longer he looked. Gunnar was quite curious to know what these old papers could contain ; for, judging from the expression of the man’s face, they surely afforded him great delight. Now he shook his head and laughed heartily. The boy could no longer restrain his curiosity.

“What is your name?” asked he, rather abruptly.

The man was so absorbed in his papers that he heard nothing.

“ What is your name ? ” repeated Gunnar, this time close to his ear.

The little man quickly raised his head, and looked round bewildered, as if he had been suddenly awaked from some delightful revery.

“My name ? ” said he ; “ my name ? Sure enough ; that is more easily asked than told. I have such agreat number of names, that I hardly think I can remember them all.”

“ Then tell me only one of them.”

“ Well, if you are so very anxious to know, I will tell you as many as you can bear to hear. Some call me FoolOla, others Rag-Ola ; but with the pastor and all the gentlefolk of the valley I generally go by the name of RhymeOla.”

“ Why, indeed! Are you RhymeOla ? ”

“ They say so.”

“ I have heard grandmother speak of you. She knows a great many of your songs too.” Rhyme-Ola’s sad eyes brightened, but he said nothing. Gunnar was very anxious to know something about the papers, but he hardly knew how to approach the subject. At last he made an attempt. “ Is there anything written in those papers of yours? ” asked he.

“Written!” cried Rhyme-Ola, in sudden excitement; “written, did you say ? No, sir ; there is nothing written on my papers, — nothing written,” with an indignant emphasis on the last word.

“ I beg your pardon. I did not know there was any harm in asking,” said Gunnar, quite frightened by the irritation of his friend.

“ No, sir ; there is nothing written repeated Rhyme-Ola, indignantly; “the pastor himself said that it was printed, — printed in the great city beyond the mountains, and read by all the judges and pastors all over the country. Then it cannot be written. ”

Upon Gunnar’s further inquiry, Rhyme-Ola related with great minuteness a long story, of how he had once, a long time ago, sung one of his ditties to the old pastor, who was now dead and buried ; how the old pastor had praised his song, and asked his permission to write it down, and send it to one of the city papers.

“ That is a good song, Rhyme-Ola,” the old pastor had said, “ and worthy to live a long time after both you and I are dead and gone.” So he had it sent to be printed in print, and these were the leaves on which the song had been printed. Never author found more happiness in his far-famed volume than this poor country songster in the long-forgotten newspaper in which his only song was printed. “ It is to live after I am dead,” muttered he, gazing at the half-worn-out leaves with eyes as tender as those of a mother looking on her first-born child.

Gunnar fully showed his delight, and looked upon the remnants of the song with reverence, as if they contained a world of wisdom.

“ Could you not read the song for me ?” asked he, eagerly.

“ Read ? I cannot read.”

“ Sing then ! ”

“Yes, gladly will I sing.” And Rhyme-Ola once more took his papers, turned, and examined them closely, running down the page with his finger, as if reading ; at about the middle of the page he pointed at a line and called Gunnar. “Read there,” said he: “ what does it say ? ”

The paper was so soiled that Gunnar had great difficulty in making out what it was.

“ Now, what does it say ? ” repeated the author impatiently.

“ The Bruised Wing: by RhymeOla”

“ By Rhyme-Ola ; yes, that is right, by Rhyme-Ola.” And he rose to his feet and sang : —

There was something almost ethereal in Rbyme-Ola’s voice; in the beginning of the song it was clear and firm, but as he approached the end it grew more and more tremulous, and at last the tears broke through ; he buried his face in his hands and wept. Gunnar’s sympathy was heartfelt and genuine ; before he knew it, he felt the tears starting too. He hardly understood the whole depth of pathos in RhymeOla’s song; but for all that he felt it none the less. It inspired him, as it were, with a vague but irresistible longing to do something great, he knew not what; and as he sat there musing over the sad words, “tarry with bruiséd wing,” the outer world again receded, he forgot Rhyme-Ola’s presence, and his fancy again began its strange and capricious play. The words of the song, which were still ringing in his ears, began to assume shape and color, and to pass in a confused panorama before his eyes. Unconsciously, his thought returned to what he had seen and heard in the air and in the silence, and it was to him as if he had never awakened, as if he was still wrapped in the visions of his summer dream. He was startled by Rhyme-Ola’s dark eyes staring at him. With an effort he fixed the scene in his mind ; and, as again the lake, the rocks, and the distant Yokul lay before him, glittering in the noonday, the song appeared far, far away, like a dim recollection from some half-forgotten fireside tale. The fireside led his thought to his grandmother; and as one thought followed another, he at last wondered if Rhyme-Ola had any grandmother.

“ Have you any grandmother, RhymeOla ? ” said he.

“ Grandmother ? Never had any.”

Gunnar could hardly credit such an assertion ; and wishing for more satisfactory information, he continued to ask the songster about his father and mother and other family relations ; but he received only evasive answers, and it was evident that the subject was not agreeable. Now and then he made a remark about the cattle or the weather, and finally succeeded in bringing up another theme of conversation. So they talked on for an hour or more. Then Rhyme-Ola started to go.

“ It is St. John’s Eve to-morrow night,” said he, as he arose ; “ you will of course be at St. John’s Hill.”

“ I did not know it was St. John’s Eve, but I think I shall come.”

And Rhyme-Ola walked off.

“ Many thanks for your song,” cried Gunnar after him.

“ Thanks to yourself.”

“ You will come again very soon, won’t you ? ”

“ Very soon.”

Here Rhyme-Ola was out of sight.

Gunnar again sat down on the rock, reviewing all the wonderful events of the day.

VII.

ST. JOHN’S EVE.

ST. JOHN’S Eve lies midway between spring and fall ; it is summer in its strength and glory.

The day was far advanced, evening was drawing near. Gunnar had again taken his station on the rock projecting into the lake, on the very same spot where Rhyme-Ola had found him the day before. On his knees rested a wooden board made of two rough fir-planks, whereon was spread out a large, square piece of thin, white birch-bark. In his hand he had a pencil, with which he drew on the bark. The cattle showed evident signs of impatience, for it was already milking-hour ; but Gunnar was too much absorbed in his work even to be conscious of their presence. Many new, strange thoughts had been playing in his mind since Rhyme-Ola’s visit. Still the sad and yet bold and rousing strain of the song kept ringing in his ear, now wakening him to life and action, now turning his mind to blissful revery. When he had first left the cottage in the valley and first had drunk the freshness of the mountain air, there had been a new life born in him. Fresh hopes and longings had thronged his mind ; Necken, the Hulder, and all that was fair to his childish fancy had suddenly become living realities, and he could often feel their enchanting presence, when the day fell warm and wondering over the highlands, and the air held its breath in anxious silence. Often had he spent hour after hour searching through the dark and halfhidden copse in the hope of catching a glimpse of some airy sprite. Never a loor-tone came floating over the plain, but he started to see if the Hulder might not be near; for he was sure the loor-must be hers. True, shadows of doubt had been coming and passing, — shadows such as summer-clouds throw on the forest when the sun is bright. Like these they had again vanished, leaving the light the clearer for their presence. Then Rhyroe-Ola came with his wondrous song. Although he did not sing of the Hulder, still either his song or himself in some strange manner again brought her to view. He had brought what had been lacking to make the chord full, the harmony complete ; he had given form to the shapeless longings, had given rest to the restless chord. Gunnar no longer had need of looking without for the Hulder : into his own mind her image descended, clear and beautiful as the day. When he came to the saeter that night, he felt an irresistible desire to give expression to the powerful thoughts that moved within him. In the cottage at home he had always taken great delight in drawing the strange beings which lived in his fancy. For canvas he had used the cottage floor ; paper he had never known. Since he had left home, he had often busied himself with projects for new drawings, but had never found an opportunity to execute his designs. To-night, however, he could allow nothing to defeat his purpose. Having searched the saeter cottages from one end to another, he finally discovered in the crevice of a beam a large pencil, which probably had been left there by the carpenters. Under one of the beds lay a pile of birch-bark, which the maids used for kindling-wood. From this he selected the largest and smoothest pieces, cut them square, and found them even more suitable for his purpose than anything he had hitherto tried.

It was late before Gunnar sought rest that night; but the sun is late, too, at midsummer, so there was nothing to remind him that midnight was drawing near. The next morning he brought his half-finished drawing with him as he started with the cattle, and took his seat on his favorite rock, while the flocks were grazing around on the lakeshore. Now the day was already leaning toward night; it had stolen away like a dream, and he knew not how or where it had gone. Soon he should give the last touch to his drawing; he saw that it was not finished, but somehow or other he could not decide where the finishing touch was needed. It was the Hulder he had attempted to picture, fair as she stood before his soul s eye. But the sketch before him was but a fair mortal maiden : that unearthly longing which gave its character to the tone of her loor, and that unfathomable depth of her eyes — that which really made her the Hulder — he had failed to express. As he sat wondering what the fault might be, a strong loor-tone shook the air and came powerful upon him. He looked up, and saw Brita, the fairhaired saeter-maid, standing on a hillock a few hundred yards from him, blowing her loor to call the cattle home. Glancing at the sun, and seeing that it was far past milking-hour, he quickly rose, put the loor to his mouth, and gave such a blast that the highlands echoed far and near. Brita’s loor answered ; the cattle understood the welcome signal, and started for the saeter.

“ Indeed, you are a nice cattle-boy ! ” cried Br all flushed and out of breath, both from her running and from indignation. “ Did n’t I tell you to drive the flocks home early to-night? and instead of that you keep them out more than an hour after time. Now we shall have to stay at home from the St. John’s Hill, all of us, only for your laziness, you hateful boy ! ”

Brita was justly indignant, and her words were huddled forth with all the passionate flurry of womanly wrath ; but before she had finished she found herself nearly crying at the prospect of losing all the sport and merriment of the St. John’s Eve. Gunnar, conscious of his guilt, attempted no apology. As soon as they reached the saeter, all the girls fell to milking as hard as they could, and, much against his will, he was obliged to assist them. When the cattle were disposed of, they all started for the St. John’s Hill, which lay about midway between the saeter and the valley. As they approached the lake-shore, a pair of screaming loons flew up from their nest among the rushes. It was still bright day when they gained the pine region. A confused murmur rose from below; as they came nearer they could distinguish the strain of many violins, the song of women, and the loud shouts of the men.

“No, indeed! I cannot run at this rate,” groaned one of the girls, as she let herself drop down on a large, mossgrown stone. “ If you have a mind to kill yourself for one dance, more or less, you may gladly do so. I shall not move one step farther until I am rested. Will you wait for me, Gunnar ? for Brita hardly will, as long as she knows that Endre is dancing with some other girl, down on the hill.”

Gunnar promised to wait.

“ A poor set of girls we have here in the valley,” said Brita, laughing, “ who can hear the fiddles calling, and the lads shouting, and then can talk of rest. So tired I never was, and hope never to be.” So saying, she ran down the steep road, and soon was out of sight. One of the girls followed, the other remained.

On the long and even slope from the highlands to the fjord, there is not seldom found an abrupt and steep projection, as if the mountain all of a sudden had thrust out its back, and determined to check the luxuriant vegetation below, which threatens to grow straight up over its ears. From such a projection the eye has a wide range, both upward to the mountains and downward to the sea ; for the pine is too clumsy to climb, and the dwarf birch is neither thick nor tall enough to hinder the sight. It was on a ridge like this that Gunnar and the saeter-maid were resting. From above they saw the sun flooding with fire the western horizon, and the purpleburning glaciers gleaming and flashing. Below rose the waving crowns of the pine forest, with its heavy green hue slightly tinged with the flush of the sunset. Here and there a tall, slender fir, forgetful of the winter storms, lifted its airy head high above its humbler fellows, and graciously nodded to some admiring birches at its foot. In a wide opening between the thick-growing pine-trunks lay the St. John’s Hill, which was, however, no hill, but rather a large and sunlit glade. From the centre of this glade a huge bonfire, strangely wrestling with the sunset, threw its glaring light upon a dense mass of human life, whirling away over the plain in wild enchantment. A thin, transparent dusk seemed to rise from below, as the sun sunk deeper behind the glaciers. The forest drew its dark, steady outline on the horizon in effective contrast to the wild, flushing scene it embraced.

“ Now I suppose you are rested,”said Gunnar to the saeter-maid, who, like himself, seemed anxious to take an active part in the merriment below.

“ Yes, thank you,” said she, and they both arose.

After a short walk they arrived at the St John’s Hill, where he immediately lost sight of his companion ; he hardly had time to realize where he was, before he felt himself hurried along into the midst of the crowd, where the stunning noise, the fire, and the strange people worked his senses up to such a pitch of excitement that at last he was not sure whether he was standing on his feet or his head. Another boy of about his own age, seeing how frightened he looked, went up to him, and fired his gun close to his ear. That suddenly brought him back to his senses ; the blood rushed to his face, he clinched his fist, and dealt the boy a blow right under his left eye, so that he tumbled backwards. His opponent, however, jumped to his feet, and returned the blow with good effect. In the next moment they held each other in close embrace, and a hot fight ensued. The people flocked densely around them, encouraging them with shouts of approval ; and they both fought as if their lives were at stake. At first, Gunnar seemed likely to be the loser, as he received more blows than he gave ; but this rather added to his strength. The boy tried repeatedly to trip his foot, but he was on his guard ; then he made a last rush at him, and they both fell, the boy under and Gunnar upon him. He was just rising, proud in the consciousness of his victory, when he saw a tall, grave man elbowing his way through the throng. The man walked rapidly up to the combatants, gave each of them a box on the ear, seized Gunnars adversary by the arm, and carried him off. The people roared with laughter. Then, instead of pride in his victory, a feeling of shame stole over him. He ran away as fast as his feet could carry him, — away from the fire, the din, and the people. Tired and confused, he sank down on the soft moss, buried his face in his hands, and felt unhappy as he had never felt before.

He did not know how long he had been lying in this position, when he heard a well-known voice hard by. It was the voice of Ragnhild, the widow of Rimul’s daughter. “Who was the boy who struck Lars ? ” said she.

“It was Gunnar, your cattle-boy,” answered another voice, which he concluded to be that of Gudrun, the timid little girl he had seen at Rimul.

“ Gunnar, our cattle-boy ! ”

“ Why, yes, of course. Lars came and fired his gun right in his ear, so it was no wonder he struck. I only wish he could be at hand when Lars strikes me; I never dare tell it to father, for when father strikes, he always strikes too hard, and then both mother and I cry.”

Ragnhild was about to make some remark, when Gunnar, who lay half concealed in the tall heather, raised himself on his elbows, to make them aware of his presence. Gudrun was a little frightened at his unexpected appearance, but Ragnhild walked up to him, sat down in the heather, and tried to open a conversation.

“ Why do you like so much to fight ? ” said she.

Gunnar did not know what to answer ; he felt as if he had something in his throat which nearly choked him. She fixed her large blue eyes upon him with an earnest, half-reproachful look. Then suddenly the tears rushed to his eyes, he pressed his burning face down in the moss, and wept as only a child can weep. He felt her hand on his head, and her fingers gliding through his hair. And there he lay weeping, until at last, consoled by Ragnhild’s tenderness, he forgot the cause of his grief, and before long was engaged in a lively dispute with the little girls. Ragnhild, who had wondered ever since they first met at his strange story about Necken, now eagerly sought further information ; and knowing little of the world of wonder, which he loved with life and soul, she could not conceal her doubt at the startling things he told her. He, of course, grew the more zealous being opposed ; and the girls, who were naturally no less superstitious than he, were only too willing to be persuaded. He was just deep in the wondrous tale of Saemund of Tagerlien and Margit of Elgerfold when he was interrupted by the same tall man who had interfered in his combat an hour ago. He came to take Ragnhild and Gudrun home. “ It is near midnight, children,” said he, in a deep voice, “and the way homeward is long.” And as they went they cried their good-night to him from the distance. He followed slowly and returned to the glade, where the fire was still blazing high, and the dance wilder than ever. There he met Rhyme-Ola, who told him that the boy he had fought with was Lars Henjum, and that the tall man who struck them was Atle, Lars’s father.

After a time the music ceased, and the merry dancers, both lads and maidens, thronged round the fire, where they sat down in a close ring, and talked, jested, and laughed, little heeding the waning hours and the solemn silence of the forest. It was a gay scene, indeed, and one which would have filled an artist with rapture. How fair did those fresh, healthy faces appear, blushing, perhaps, with a little deeper tinge, as the glow of the fire fell over their features ! Here sat one leaning forward, with his hands knit around his knees, watching the flames in pensive silence ; there, next to him, a merry couple, too much occupied with each other to take notice of what was going on around them. The young man was Endre, the same who had opened the dance at the Rimul saeter on the evening of their arrival at the highlands; and who should the girl be but the bright-eyed Brita, with the deep dimples in her cheeks. Endre must have been very interesting; for whenever he spoke, Brita laughed, blushed, and now and then turned half away, as if to avoid his gaze, while he sat bending over towards her, intently watching her face.

As the night advanced, and the soft night-fog spread over the forest, their minds were imperceptibly attuned to the supernatural. Now was the time for wonder-tales and legends ; and there was none who could tell like Rhyme-Ola : there were few who denied that. So Rhyme-Ola was called upon for a story ; and there was no need of asking him twice, for there was nothing he liked better than storytelling. It was Rhyme-Ola’s arrival which interrupted Brita’s and Endre’s conversation. He came from behind them, and politely asked to be admitted into the ring, for he hardly could tell his story otherwise.

“Jump over, Rhyme-Ola,” proposed Endre; but before the singer could have time to follow the advice, he seized him round the waist, lifted him high above his head, and, amid a roar of laughter from the company, put him down within the ring right before the fire. Rhyme-Ola, being well used to sport of this kind, took it in good part, straightened his little figure, winked with his sad eyes, drew his mouth up to his customary smile, and began his story.

When it was ended the narrator let his eyes slowly glide from face to face along the listening circle, and saw, not without satisfaction, the frightened expressions and half-open mouths which sufficiently assured him that he had succeeded in securing attention. But in all that crowd there was hardly one who listened with so intense an interest as Gunnar. As soon as the tale had commenced he had joined the group and quietly taken his seat behind Brita’s back, where he was still sitting when Rhyme-Ola found him.

“ Gunnar,” said Rhyme - Ola, “ I have something I want to tell you.” And he gently urged the boy on until they were out of hearing. Then, leaning against a large, white - stemmed birch-tree, he fixed his strange eyes on Gunnar and began again.

“I have been at Rimul to-day,” said he, “ and I have seen the widow.” Here he hesitated, smiled his melancholy smile, and winked.

“ I asked the widow of Rimul,” he went on, “ if she had not some cattle for me to watch too. She said she had. So, now I shall always be with you, Gunnar.” And all his face laughed as he cried out the last words. Gunnar stood for a moment staring at his strange companion.

“ What did you say ? ” asked he.

“ From this time I shall always be with you,” repeated Rhyme-Ola, laughing. “ Now it is time to go home,” added he ; “ it is very late, or, rather, very early.”

Soon they were on their way, and reached the saeter at sunrise,

H. H. Boyesen.