Arne; Early Tales and Sketches

CHAPTER VIII

From the day that Arne tried with his whole heart to live closer to his mother his relations with other people were entirely changed. He looked on them more with the mother's mild eyes. But he often found it hard to keep true to his resolve; for what he thought most deeply about his mother did not always understand. Here is a song from those days: —

 
"It was such a pleasant, sunny day,
In-doors I could not think of staying:
I strolled to the wood, on my back I lay,
And rocked what my mind was saying;
But there crawled emmets, and gnats stung there,
The wasps and the clegs brought dire despair.
 

"'My dear, will you not go out in this pleasant weather?' said mother. She sat singing on the porch.

 
"It was such a pleasant, sunny day,
In-doors I could not think of staying:
I strayed to a field, on my back I lay,
And sang what my mind was saying;
But snakes came out to enjoy the sun,
Three ells were they long, and away I run.
 

"'In such pleasant weather we can go barefoot,' said mother, and she pulled off her stockings.

 
"It was such a pleasant, sunny day,
In-doors I could no longer tarry:
I stepped in a boat, on my back I lay,
The tide did me onward carry;
The sun, though, scorched till my nose was burned;
There's limit to all, so to shore I turned.
 

"'What fine days these are for drying the hay!' said mother, as she shook it with a rake.

 
"It was such a pleasant, sunny day,
In-doors I could not think of staying:
I climbed up a tree, and thought there I'd stay,
For there were cool breezes playing.
A grub to fall on my neck then there chanced;
I sprang down and screamed, and how madly I danced.
 

"'Well, if the cow does not thrive such a day as this, she never will,' said mother, as she gazed up the slope.

 
"It was such a pleasant, sunny day,
In-doors I could no peace discover:
I made for the force that did loudly play,
For there it must surely hover;
But there I drowned while the sun still shone.
If you made this song, it is surely not my own.¹⁷
 

"'It would take only about three such sunny days to get everything under cover,' said mother; and off she started to make my bed."

Nevertheless, this companionship with his mother brought every day more and more comfort to Arne. What she did not understand formed quite as much of a tie between them as what she did understand. For the fact of her not comprehending a thing made him think it over oftener, and she grew only the dearer to him because he found her limits on every side. Yes, she became infinitely dear to him.

As a child, Arne had not cared much for nursery stories. Now, as a grown person, he longed for them, and they led to traditions and ancient ballads. His mind was filled with a wonderful yearning; he walked much alone, and many of the places round about, which formerly he had not noticed, seemed strangely beautiful. In the days when he had gone with those of his own age to the priest's to prepare for confirmation, he had often played with them by a large lake below the parsonage, called Black Water, because it was deep and black. He began to think of this lake now, and one evening he wended his way thither.

He sat down behind a copse, just at the foot of the parsonage. This lay on the side of a very steep hill, which towered up beyond until it became a high mountain; the opposite bank was similar, and therefore huge shadows were cast over the lake from both sides, but in its centre was a stripe of beautiful silvery water. All was at rest; the sun was just setting; a faint sound of tinkling bells floated over from the opposite shore; otherwise profound silence reigned. Arne did not look right across the lake, but first turned his eyes toward its lower end, for there the sun was shedding a sprinkling of burning red, ere it departed. Down there the mountains had parted to make room between them for a long, low valley, and against this the waves dashed; and it seemed as though the mountains had gradually sloped together to form a swing in which to rock this valley, which was dotted with its many gards. The curling smoke rose upward, and passed from sight; the fields were green and reeking; boats laden with hay were approaching the landings. Arne saw many people passing to and fro, but could hear no noise. Thence the eye wandered beyond the shore, where God's dark forest alone loomed up. Through the forest and along the lake men had drawn a road, as it were, with a finger, for a winding streak of dust plainly marked its course. This Arne's eye followed until it came directly opposite to where he was sitting; there the forest ended; the mountains made a little more room, and straightways gard after gard lay spread about. The houses were still larger than those at the lower end, were painted red, and had higher windows, which now were in a blaze of light. The hills sparkled in dazzling sunshine; the smallest child playing about could be plainly seen; glittering white sand lay dry on the shore, and upon this little children bounded with their dogs. But suddenly the whole scene became desolate and gloomy; the houses dark red, the meadows dingy green, the sand grayish-white, and the children small clumps: a mass of mist had risen above the mountains, and had shut out the sun. Arne kept his eye fixed on the lake; there he found everything again. The fields were rocking there, and the forest silently joined them; the houses stood looking down, doors open, and children going out and in. Nursery tales and childish things came thronging into his mind, as little fish come after a bait, swim away, come back again, but do not nibble.

"Let us sit down here until your mother comes; the priest's lady will surely get through some time."

Arne was startled; some one had sat down just behind him.

"But I might be allowed to stay just this one night," said a beseeching voice, choked with tears; it seemed to be that of a young girl, not quite grown up.

"Do not cry any more; it is shocking to cry because you must go home to your mother." This last came in a mild voice that spoke slowly and belonged to a man.

"That is not the reason I am crying."

"Why are you crying, then?"

"Because I shall no longer be with Mathilde."

This was the name of the priest's only daughter, and reminded Arne that a peasant girl had been brought up with her.

"That could not last forever, any way."

"Yes, but just one day longer, dear!" and she sobbed violently.

"It is best you should go home at once; perhaps it is already too late."

"Too late? Why so? Who ever heard of such a thing?"

"You are peasant-born, and a peasant you shall remain: we cannot afford to keep a fine lady."

"I should still be a peasant, even if I remained here."

"You are no judge of that."

"I have always worn peasant's clothes."

"It is not that which makes the difference."

"I have been spinning and weaving and cooking."

"It is not that, either."

"I can talk just as you and mother do."

"Not that, either."

"Then I do not know what it can be," said the girl, and laughed.

"Time will show. Besides, I am afraid you already have too many ideas."

"Ideas, ideas! You are always saying that. I have no ideas." She wept again.

"Oh, you are a weathercock, – that you are!"

"The priest never said so."

"No, but now I say so."

"A weathercock? Who ever heard of such a thing? I will not be a weathercock."

"Come, then, what will you be?"

"What will I be? Did you ever hear the like? I will be nothing."

"Very good, then; be nothing."

Now the girl laughed. Presently she said, gravely, "It is unkind of you to say I am nothing."

"Dear me, when that was what you wanted to be yourself!"

"No, I do not want to be nothing."

"Very good, then; be everything."

The girl laughed. Presently, with a sorrowful voice, "The priest never fooled with me in this way."

"No, he only made a fool of you."

"The priest? You have never been so kind to me as the priest has."

"No, for that would have spoiled you."

"Sour milk can never become sweet."

"Oh, yes, when it is boiled to whey."

Here the girl burst out laughing.

"There comes your mother."

Then she grew sober again.

"Such a long-winded woman as the priest's lady I have never met in all the days of my life," here interposed a shrill, rattling voice. "Make haste, now, Baard. Get up and push the boat out. We will not get home to-night. The lady wished me to see that Eli kept her feet dry. Dear me, you will have to see to that yourself. Every morning she must take a walk, for the sake of her health. It is health, health, from morning till night. Get up, now, Baard, and push out the boat. Just think, I have to set sponge this evening!"

"The chest has not come yet," said he, and lay still.

"But the chest is not to come, either; it is to remain until the first Sunday there is service. Do you hear, Eli? Pick yourself up; take your bundle, and come. Get up, now, Baard!"

She led the way, and the girl followed.

"Come, now, I say, – come now!" resounded from below.

"Have you looked after the plug in the boat?" asked Baard, still without rising.

"Yes, it is there;" and Arne heard her just then hammering it in with the scoop. "But get up, I say, Baard! Surely we are not to stay here all night?"

"I am waiting for the chest."

"But, my dear, bless you, I have told you it is to wait until the first Sunday there is service."

"There it comes," said Baard, and they heard the rattling of a cart.

"Why, I said it was to wait until the first Sunday there is service."

"I said we were to take it along."

Without anything further, the wife hastened up to the cart, and carried the bundle, the lunch-box, and other small things down to the boat. Then Baard arose, went up, and took the chest himself.

But behind the cart there came rushing along a girl in a straw hat, with floating hair; it was the priest's daughter.

"Eli! Eli!" she called, as she ran.

"Mathilde! Mathilde!" Eli answered, and ran toward her.

They met on the hill, put their arms about each other, and wept. Then Mathilde took up something she had set down on the grass: it was a bird-cage.

"You shall have Narrifas; yes, you shall. Mother wishes it, too. You shall, after all, have Narrifas, – indeed, you shall; and then you will think of me. And very often row – row – row over to me," and the tears of both flowed freely.

"Eli! Come, now, Eli! Do not stand there!" was heard from below.

"But I want to go along," said Mathilde. "I want to go and sleep with you to-night!"

"Yes, yes, yes!" and with arms twined about each other's necks they moved down toward the landing.

Presently Arne saw the boat out on the water. Eli stood high on the stern, with the bird-cage, and waved her hand; Mathilde was left behind, and sat on the stone landing weeping.

She remained sitting there as long as the boat was on the water; it was but a short distance across to the red house, as said before; and Arne kept his seat, too. He watched the boat, as she did. It soon passed into the darkness, and he waited until it drew up to the shore: then he saw Eli and her parents in the water; in it he followed them up toward the houses, until they came to the prettiest one of them all. He saw the mother go in first, then the father with the chest, and last of all the daughter, so far as he could judge from their size. Soon after the daughter came out again, and sat down in front of the store-house door, probably that she might gaze over at the other side, where at that moment the sun was shedding its parting rays. But the young lady from the parsonage had already gone, and Arne alone sat watching Eli in the water.

"I wonder if she sees me!"

He got up and moved away. The sun had set, but the sky was bright and clear blue, as it often is of a summer night. Mist from land and water rose and floated over the mountains on both sides; but the peaks held themselves above it, and stood peering at one another. He went higher up. The lake grew blacker and deeper, and seemed, as it were, to contract. The upper valley shortened, and drew closer to the lake. The mountains were nearer to the eye, but looked more like a shapeless mass, for the light of the sun defines. The sky itself appeared nearer, and all surrounding objects became friendly and familiar.

CHAPTER IX

Love and woman were beginning to play a prominent part in his thoughts; in the ancient ballads and stories of the olden times such themes were reflected as in a magic mirror, just as the girl had been in the lake. He constantly brooded over them, and after that evening he found pleasure in singing about them; for they seemed, as it were, to have come nearer home to him. But the thought glided away, and floated back again with a song that was unknown to him; he felt as though another had made it for him, —

 
"Fair Venevill bounded on lithesome feet
Her lover to meet.
He sang till it sounded afar away,
'Good-day, good-day,'
While blithesome birds were singing on every blooming spray
'On Midsummer Day
There is dancing and play;
But now I know not whether she weaves her wreath or nay.'
 
 
"She wove him a wreath of corn-flowers blue:
'Mine eyes so true.'
He took it, but soon away it was flung:
'Farewell!' he sung;
And still with merry singing across the fields he sprung
'On Midsummer Day,' etc.
 
 
"She wove him a chain. 'Oh, keep it with care!
'T is made of my hair.'
She yielded him then, in an hour of bliss,
Her pure first kiss;
But he blushed as deeply as she the while her lips met his.
'On Midsummer Day,' etc.
 
 
"She wove him a wreath with a lily-band:
'My true right hand.'
She wove him another with roses aglow:
'My left hand, now.'
He took them gently from her, but blushes dyed his brow
'On Midsummer Day,' etc.
 
 
"She wove him a wreath of all flowers round:
'All I have found.'
She wept, but she gathered and wove on still:
'Take all you will.'
Without a word he took it, and fled across the hill.
'On Midsummer Day,' etc.
 
 
"She wove on, bewildered and out of breath:
'My bridal wreath.'
She wove till her fingers aweary had grown:
'Now put it on.'
But when she turned to see him, she found that he had gone.
'On Midsummer Day,' etc.
 
 
"She wove on in haste, as for life and death,
Her bridal wreath;
But the Midsummer sun no longer shone,
And the flowers were gone;
But though she had no flowers, wild fancy still wove on.
'On Midsummer-Day
There is dancing and play;
But now I know not whether she weaves her wreath or nay."¹⁸
 

It was his own intense melancholy that called forth the first image of love that glided so gloomily through his soul. A twofold longing, – to have some one to love and to become something great, – blended together and became one. At this time he was working again at the song, "Over the lofty mountains," altering it, and all the while singing and thinking quietly to himself, "Surely I will get 'over' some day; I will sing until I gain courage." He did not forget his mother in these his thoughts of roving; indeed, he took comfort in the thought that as soon as he got firm foothold in the strange land, he would come back after her, and offer her conditions which he never could be able to provide for her at home. But in the midst of all these mighty yearnings there played something calm, cheering, refined, that darted away and came again, took hold and fled, and, dreamer that he had become, he was more in the power of these spontaneous thoughts than he himself was aware.

There lived in the parish a jovial man whose name was Ejnar Aasen. When he was twenty years old he had broken his leg; since then he had walked with a cane; but wherever he came hobbling along, there was always mirth afoot. The man was rich. On his property there was a large nut-wood, and there was sure to be assembled, on one of the brightest, pleasantest days in autumn, a group of merry girls gathering nuts. At these nutting-parties he had plenty of feasting for his guests all day, and dancing in the evening. For most of these girls he had been godfather; indeed, he was the godfather of half the parish; all the children called him godfather, and from them every one else, both old and young, learned to do so.

Godfather and Arne were well acquainted, and he liked the young man because of the verses he made. Now godfather asked Arne to come to the nutting-party. Arne blushed and declined; he was not used to being with girls, he said.

"Then you must get used to it," replied godfather.

Arne could not sleep at night because of this; fear and yearning were at war within him; but whatever the result might be, he went along, and was about the only youth among all these girls. He could not deny that he felt disappointed; they were neither those he had sung about, nor those he had feared to meet. There was an excitement and merriment, the like of which he had never known before, and the first thing that struck him was that they could laugh over nothing in the world; and if three laughed, why, then, five laughed, simply because those three laughed. They all acted as though they were members of the same household; and yet many of them had not met before that day. If they caught the bough they were jumping after, they laughed at that, and if they did not catch it, they laughed at that, too. They fought for the hook to draw it down with; those who got it laughed, and those who did not get it, laughed also. Godfather hobbled after them with his cane, and offered all the hindrance in his power. Those whom he caught laughed because he caught them, and those whom he did not catch laughed because he did not catch them. But they all laughed at Arne for being sober, and when he tried to laugh, they laughed, because he was laughing at last.

They seated themselves finally on a large hill, godfather in the centre, and all the girls around him. The hill commanded a fine outlook; the sun scorched; but the girls heeded it not, they sat, casting nut-husks and shells at one another, giving the kernels to godfather. He tried to quiet them at last, striking at them with his cane, as far as he could reach; for now he wanted them to tell stories, above all, something amusing. But to get them started seemed more difficult than to stop a carriage on a hill-side. Godfather began himself. There were many who did not want to listen; for they knew already everything he had to tell; but they all ended by listening attentively. Before they knew what they were about, they sat in the centre, and each took her turn in following his example as best she could. Now Arne was much astonished to find that just in proportion to the noise the girls had made before was the gravity of the stories they now told. Love was the chief theme of these.

"But you, Aasa, have a good one; I remember that from last year," said godfather, turning to a plump girl with a round, pleasant face, who sat braiding the hair of a younger sister, whose head was in her lap.

"Several that are here may know that," said she.

"Well, give it to us anyway," they begged.

"I will not have to be urged long," said she, and, still braiding, she told and sang, as follows: —

"There was a grown-up youth who tended cattle, and he was in the habit of driving his herds upward, along the banks of a broad stream. High up on his way, there was a crag which hung out so far over the stream, that when he stood on it he could call out to any one on the other side. For on the other side of the stream there was a herd-girl whom he could see all day long, but he could not come over to her.

 
'Now, tell me thy name, thou girl that art sitting,
Up there with thy sheep, so busily knitting?'
 

he asked, over and over again, for many days, until at last one day there came the answer, —

 
'My name floats about like a duck in wet weather; —
Come over, thou boy in the cap of brown leather.'
 

"But this made the youth no wiser than before, and he thought he would pay no further heed to the girl. This was not so easy, though, for, let him drive the cattle where he would, he was always drawn back to the crag. Then the youth grew alarmed, and called over: —

 
'Well, who is your father, and where are you biding?
On the road to the church I have ne'er seen you riding.'
 

"The youth more than half believed her, in fact, to be a hulder.¹⁹

 
'My house is burned down, and my father is drowned,
And the road to the church-hill I never have found.'
 

"Now this also made the youth no wiser than before. By day he lingered on the crag, and by night he dreamed that she was dancing around him, and gave him a lash with a great cow's-tail each time he tried to take hold of her. Soon he could not sleep at all, neither could he work, and the poor youth was in a wretched state. Again he called aloud, —

 
'If thou art a hulder, then pray do not spell me, —
If thou art a maiden, then hasten to tell me?'
 

"But there came no answer, and then he was sure that this was a hulder. He gave up tending cattle, but it was just as bad, for wherever he went, or whatever he did, he thought of the fair hulder who blew on the horn.

"Then one day, as he stood chopping wood, there came a girl through the yard who actually looked like the hulder. But when she came nearer, it was not she. He thought much about this; then the girl came back, and in the distance it was the hulder, and he ran directly toward her. But the moment he came near her it was not she.

"After this, let the youth be at church, at a dance, at other social gatherings, or where he would, the girl was there too; when he was far from her, she seemed to be the hulder; near to her, she seemed to be another; he asked her then whether it were she or not; but she laughed at him. It is just as well to spring into it as to creep into it, thought the youth, and so he married the girl.

"No sooner was this done than the youth ceased to like the girl. Away from her, he longed for her; but when with her, he longed for one he did not see; therefore he was harsh toward his wife; she bore this and was silent.

"But one day, when he was searching for the horses, he found his way to the crag, and sitting down, he called out, —

 
'Like fairy moonlight to me thou seemest,
Like midsummer fires from afar thou gleamest.'
 

"He thought it did him good to sit there, and he fell into the way of going thither whenever anything went amiss at home. The wife wept when she was left alone.

"But one day, while the youth was sitting on the crag, the hulder, her living self, appeared on the opposite side, and blew her horn. He eagerly cried, —

 
'Ah, dear, art thou come! all around thee is shining!
Ah, blow now again! I am sitting here pining.'
 

"Then she answered, —

 
'Away from thy mind the dreams I am blowing, —
The rye is all rotting for want of mowing.'
 

"But the youth was frightened, and went home again. Before long, though, he was so tired of his wife that he felt compelled to wander off to the wood and take his seat on the crag. Then a voice sang, —

 
'I dreamed thou wast here; ho, hasten to bind me!
No, not over there, but behind you will find me.'²⁰
 

"The youth started up, looked about him, and espied a green skirt disappearing through the woods. He pursued. Now there was a chase through the woods. As fleet of foot as the hulder was, no mortal could be; he cast steel²¹ over her again and again; she ran on the same as before. By and by she began to grow tired. The youth knew this from her foot-fall, though her form convinced him that it was the hulder herself, and none other. 'You shall surely be mine now,' thought the youth, and suddenly flung his arms about her with such force that both he and she rolled far down the hill before they could stop. Then the hulder laughed until the youth thought the mountains fairly rang; he took her on his knee, and she looked so fair, just as he had once thought his wife would look.

"'Oh, dear, who are you that are so fair?' asked the youth, and as he caressed her, he felt that her cheeks were warm and glowing.

"'Why, good gracious, I am your wife,' said she."

The girls laughed, and thought the youth was very foolish. But godfather asked Arne if he had been listening.

"Well, now, I will tell you something," said a little girl, with a little round face, and such a very little nose.

"There was a little youth who wanted very much to woo a little maiden; they were both grown up, yet were both very small indeed. But the youth could not muster up courage enough to begin his wooing. He always joined her after church, but they did not then get beyond the weather in their talk; he sought her at the dances, and he danced her almost to death, but talk with her he could not. 'You must learn to write, and then you will not have to,' said he to himself, and so the youth took to writing; but he never thought he could do well enough, and so he wrote a whole year before he dared think of a letter. Then the trouble was how to deliver it so that no one should see, and he waited until once they chanced to meet alone behind the church.

"'I have a letter for you,' said the youth.

"'But I cannot read writing,' answered the maiden.

"And the youth got no further.

"Then he took service at her father's house, and hung round her the whole day long. Once he came very near speaking to her; he had already opened his mouth, when there flew into it a large fly. 'If only no one comes and takes her from me,' thought the youth. But there came no one to take her from him, because she was so small.

"Some one did come along, though, at last, for he was small too. The youth well knew what he was after, and when he and the girl went up-stairs together, the youth made his way to the key-hole. Now he who was within offered himself. 'Alas, dunce that I am, not to have made more haste!' thought the youth. He who was inside kissed the girl right on the lips. 'That must have tasted good,' thought the youth. But he who was inside had drawn the girl down on his knee. 'What a world we live in!' said the youth, and wept. This the girl heard, and went to the door.

"'What do you want of me, you ugly boy, that you never give me any peace?'

"'I? – I only wanted to ask you if I might be your groomsman.'

"'No; my brothers are to be the groomsmen,' answered the girl, – and slammed the door in his face.

"And the youth got no further."

The girls laughed a great deal at this story, and sent a shower of husks flying round after it.

Godfather now wanted Eli Böen to tell something.

What should it be?

Why, she might tell what she had told over on the hill, when he was with them, the time she gave him the new garters. It was a good while before Eli was ready, for she laughed so hard, but at last she told: —

"A girl and a boy were walking together on the same road. 'Why, see the thrush that is following us,' said the girl. 'It is I whom it is following,' said the boy. 'It is just as likely to be me,' answered the girl. 'That we can soon see,' remarked the boy; 'now you take the lower road, and I will take the upper one, and we will meet at the top of the hill.' They did so. 'Was it not following me?' asked the boy, when they met. 'No, it was following me,' answered the girl. 'Then there must be two.' They walked together again a little way, but then there was only one thrush; the boy thought it flew on his side; but the girl thought it flew on hers. 'The deuce! I'll not bother my head any more about that thrush,' said the boy. 'Nor I either,' replied the girl.

"But no sooner had they said this than the thrush was gone. 'It was on your side,' said the boy. 'No, I thank you; I saw plainly it was on yours. But there! There it comes again!' called out the girl. 'Yes, it is on my side!' cried the boy. But now the girl became angry. 'May all the plagues take me if I walk with you any longer!' and she went her own way. Then the thrush left the boy, and the way became so tedious that he began to call out. She answered. 'Is the thrush with you?' shouted the boy. 'No, it is with you.' 'Oh, dear! You must come here again, then perhaps it will come too.' And the girl came again; they took each other by the hand and walked together. 'Kvit, kvit, kvit, kvit!' was heard on the girl's side. 'Kvit, kvit, kvit, kvit!' was heard on the boy's side. 'Kvit, kvit, kvit, kvit, kvit, kvit, kvit, kvit!' was heard on both sides, and when they came to look, there were a thousand million thrushes round about them. 'Why, how strange!' said the girl, and looked up at the boy. 'Bless you!' said the boy, and caressed the girl."

This story all the girls thought fine.

Then godfather suggested that they should tell what they had dreamed the night before, and he would decide who had had the finest dream.

What! tell their dreams? No, indeed! And there was no end to the laughing and whispering. But then one after another began to remark that she had had such a fine dream last night; others, again, that, fine as the ones they had had, it could not by any means be. And finally, they all were seized with a desire to tell their dreams. But it must not be out loud, it must only be to one, and that must by no means be godfather. Arne was sitting quietly on the hill, and so he was the one to whom they dared tell their dreams.

Arne took a seat beneath a hazel, and then she who had told the first story came to him. She thought a long time, and then told as follows: —

"I dreamed I stood by a great lake. Then I saw some one go on the water, and it was one whom I will not name. He climbed up in a large pond-lily, and sat and sang. But I went out on one of those large leaves that the pond-lily has, and which lie and float; on it I wanted to row over to him. But no sooner had I stepped on the leaf than it began to sink with me, and I grew much alarmed and cried. Then he came rowing over to me in the pond-lily, lifted me up to where he sat, and we rowed all over the lake. Was not that a nice dream?"

The little maiden who had told the little story now came.

"I dreamed I had caught a little bird, and I was so happy that I did not want to let it go until I got home. But there I did not dare let go of it, lest father and mother should tell me I must let it out again. So I went up in the garret with it, but there the cat was lurking, and so I could not let go of it there either. Then I did not know what to do, so I took it up in the hay-loft; but, good gracious! there were so many cracks there that it could easily fly away! Well, then I went out in the yard again, and there I thought stood one whom I will not name. He was playing with a large, black dog. 'I would rather play with that bird of yours,' said he, and came close up to me. But I thought I started to run, and he and the large dog after me, and thus I ran all round the yard; but then mother opened the front door, drew me quickly in, and slammed the door. Outside, the boy stood laughing, with his face against the window-pane. 'See, here is the bird!' said he, – and, just think, he really had the bird! Was not that a funny dream?"