Chapter II: Part 2

Towards the last, however, he wasn’t so bad. Whether it was I or Baklind who had improved him, I don’t know, but he even grew rather agreeable. He found out one day that I was awfully fond of chocolate, and always after that he brought me a thick cake of chocolate, and sometimes two cakes. Angemal’s father was a storekeeper. I am afraid that many pounds of chocolate disappeared from the shop during those weeks of dancing-school.

Every evening between six and eight o’clock, Madam Pirk’s garden fence was full of street urchins who had climbed up there to look in at us who were dancing. They made a tremendous rumpus out there, threw each other down off the fence, laughed and shouted.

In the hall, the floor rocked under our sixty feet, the cows in the cellar lowed, the old stove shook and rattled. Baklind played the violin, struck one and another sinner with his bow, counted out the time: one-two-three-hop! one-two-three-hop! I shoved and dragged Angemal, and the whole hall was in a cloud of dust that sifted down from the ceiling and out of the corners and from Madam Pirk’s old straight-backed chairs.

In the breathing-time between dances, we sat and rested, like hens gone to roost, on Madam Pirk’s steep, white-scoured attic stairs; or else Baklind taught us how we should enter a room or look out of a window or do something else in a proper manner. The most beautiful, but also the most complicated way to look out of a window was the following: feet crossed, body in a curve, and arms leaning lightly on the window-sill. He added also that, having taken this position, the person ought to turn his gaze upward. I wonder if Angemal Terkelsen, or any other of us ever stands and looks out of the window in that fashion?

Once in a while Baklind would get frantic over the street boys perching on the garden fence and peeping in at us. Never in my life have I seen a person leap as our dancing-master did, when he dashed out after those boys. I am not exaggerating when I say that he took steps five or six feet long. With uplifted cane and curls flying every-which-way, he literally stretched himself out flat against Madam Pirk’s fence. But if Baklind thought he could get hold of Stian, the watchman’s boy, or George, the street-sweeper’s, he made a great mistake. They were up on the hill like a streak of lightning, pointing their fingers at him and roaring with laughter. “Such wolf-cubs—I’d like to break the noses off of those imps,” said Baklind when he came in all out of breath.

When dancing-school had lasted for about a month, the big old stove began to shake and clatter in a very disquieting manner.

“Poor old thing!” said Baklind. “He doesn’t care much for all this dancing. I think we must brace him up a little. We’ll tie a rope around him!”

Then things were lively for a few minutes. Angemal ran home for a rope. Baklind put one chair on another, balanced himself on the top one and tied the stout rope around the stove and then to some big nails in the wall.

“There! now I think the old fellow is happy!” said Baklind as he hopped down from the chairs and drew back in the hall to see how the arrangement looked.

But Baklind had that time reckoned without his hostess. The next evening Madam Pirk presented herself in the hall, her face wearing an extraordinarily displeased expression.

“What is that arrangement for?” asked Madam Pirk pointing to the rope-bound stove.

“I was afraid the old fellow would fall in a swoon,” said Baklind. “I thought it would be wise to support him a little.”

“No, thank your majesty! My stove can stand alone perfectly well.”

“As Madam will,” said Baklind. So he got up on the chairs again and took down the rope.

Two evenings later, we were dancing the polka mazurka with great gusto. Baklind played the violin, the floor rocked, the stove and even the pipe shook and rattled violently.

At home, I had heard Gunhild, one of the maids, say that to dance the polka mazurka “with bumps”—that is, bumping into the other couples, was the greatest fun in the world. I suggested to Angemal that we should dance that way, and he immediately agreed. We bumped against all the others, pushed and shoved, and enjoyed ourselves tremendously.

But all at once we heard a crash from the stove—a crash so loud that it drowned all the uproar we were making. Every one of us stopped instantly, and stared in terror at the big, old stove. And at that very moment—well, any one who has never seen a stove break all to pieces can have but a faint idea of it—at that very moment, it was as if the legs were struck from under the stove, it sprang apart in different places, and the big heavy iron pieces toppled, clanked against each other and fell with a frightful bang on the floor. The long stovepipe came last. It pitched far out in the room amongst us, and an avalanche of soot spread like thick smoke through the drawing-room. We all sprang for the door, Baklind with us. Madam Pirk and her maid came rushing into the entry. A heavy cloud of soot was pouring out of the door of the dancing-room.

“What is it?” shrieked Madam Pirk. “What is going on? Are you tearing the house down?”

“Oh, the old chap fell over. He wouldn’t stand there any longer,” said Baklind.

Madam Pirk shrieked and wept and scolded, scolded Baklind, shrieked to us that we should pack ourselves off out of her house. She didn’t wish to see even a shadow of any of us inside her doors ever again. But she wept over all the green-robed shepherds around the walls. It was indeed to be feared that they would never again play their horns in such rosy red light as heretofore.

“Well, it isn’t my fault,” said Baklind. “You wouldn’t let me tie it together.”

At this, all Madam Pirk’s wrath poured out on Baklind’s curly head.

“Is it work for a grown man to traipse around, and do nothing but dance? Well, if you don’t this minute dance out of my house, I shall call both the mayor and the police.”

Nothing would pacify her. We had danced for the last time in Madam Pirk’s big room.

During the two weeks that remained of the course, we had to crowd ourselves together in Baklind’s room at the hotel; and Angemal and I were not allowed to dance the polka mazurka “with bumps” any more.

VI

OUR BONFIRE ON ST. JOHN’S NIGHT

I don’t know anything more delightful than St. John’s Night,—beautiful, bright St. John’s Night.

There are, though, three awfully jolly days in the year: Christmas, my birthday, and St. John’s or Midsummer Day.

Christmas, particularly Christmas Eve, is something very special; it stands entirely by itself, and seems to mean Father and Mother and all the family. No one should be with us then except those we are most fond of—those that belong here at home.

Then my birthday is my very own day. What I like best about that are the presents I get and also that I am a year older. For, really, isn’t it tedious to keep on being twelve years old everlastingly? Of course, when any one asked me last year how old I was, I always said, “In my thirteenth year.” That sounded older,—not so unspeakably childish.

But St. John’s Day! Then there is pleasure and sport for everybody. There is no school; the fields everywhere are bright with spring flowers, and the houses are decorated outside with little birch-trees standing beside the doors. Inside, birch leaves trim the stoves, fresh garlands hang from the ceiling around the walls, buttercups and daisies and long waving grasses are in bouquets in all the rooms.

And perhaps we have cream porridge for dinner.

Last and best of all, though, are the St. John’s bonfires in the evening, blazing and shining wherever you look.

No one stays at home on St. John’s Night except the very old folks. The other people of the town row out to the islands with big lunch-baskets and bottles of fruit-juice.

Many take accordions with them, and the music, coming over the water, sounds sad and joyful at the same time. It wouldn’t seem like St. John’s Night at all if Agent Levorsen did not play “Sons of Norway” out in the summer night on Green Island. The sailor boys at the Point play such tunes as:

“_Naa kommer jenta med kjolen grön.
Aa hei du, aa haa!_”[2]

And everything is oh, so jolly and gay!

On the hills round about in the town the old people sit among the small houses and look at the blazing fires and think of the days when they were young and had jolly times out on the islands on St. John’s Night.

“Yes, yes!” say the old women, sitting with their hands under their aprons and wagging their heads sideways.

One after another the fires are lighted. “See there!” “And see there!” “And there!” The air is warm and soft and still. The islands are swarming with people who eat cake and drink fruit-juice and laugh and dance and sometimes fight.

The bonfires crackle and flash up against the dark sky and the sparks fly around far and near. Suddenly a piece of board or a charred butter-firkin tumbles down from the fire and the boys make wagers as to which of them can come nearest to the fire without burning himself. Their faces are so black with soot that they look like chimney-sweeps.

O bright, jolly St. John’s Night!

But now you shall hear how we celebrated it once. I shall never forget that celebration, for it ended in terror.

We shouldn’t have thought of having a bonfire if it hadn’t been for Andreas, a boy who came from near Stavanger last spring. His father, Oscar Eisland, works at the wharf in Espeviken, and he and his wife and five children live in a tiny red house on our hill. That is why I know the family so well.

In their house there are two beds, one bench, and one table, and nothing more except newspaper pictures on the walls; pictures of murders, weddings in Russia, kings, and so on.

Although Oscar and his family are surely not rich, I have never seen any people as happy as they are. That is why I like so much to be up there.

Well, it was Andreas who suggested that we children who lived on the hill should have a St. John’s Night bonfire of our very own. Children where he came from did that, he said; and my brother Karsten and I thought it would be awfully good fun.

We were not going to say a word to any one about it. It was to be a glorious surprise for the whole town when all at once a big bonfire blazed out on our hill.

But it wasn’t easy to find things to burn, I can tell you. All that we collected we were to hide in a place on the hill that we called “Sahara.” We had many places on the hill that we had given names to, “Nagasaki,” “Paris,” and so on; but “Sahara” was the best for a hiding-place.

Andreas, Karsten, and I each had our particular work to do. Karsten was to get kerosene for us to pour over the fire to make it burn very briskly. And just think! He took an empty bottle and went around to all the cooks on our street and asked them for a few drops of kerosene. That was stupid, I thought, for naturally the maids would tattle—but Karsten said no, cooks never tattled.

I did nothing but spy around in all the woodsheds and lofts I could get into for things to burn. You see, we couldn’t expect to get hold of old boats as the people on the islands did. A few bits of board I found, of course, but nothing of any account.

Andreas was the handiest person you can imagine, swift as a chamois and very strong. Every day he, with dirty bare legs, appeared in our hall and asked if there was something for him to carry up to “Sahara,” for that was his business; but usually there was nothing.

Day after day went by, and still the store of fuel up in “Sahara” was not very big. Then one day my eyes fell on an old bedstead that stood in Mrs. Petersen’s woodshed. It was very dirty and had stood there a long time, surely half a year.

I could not get that bedstead out of my mind. Mrs. Petersen couldn’t care the least bit about it, since it had stood in the woodshed so long. It was very old, and painted red, and would burn gloriously. Probably Mrs. Petersen would only be thankful if we took it, dirty as it was, out of her way.

I consulted with Andreas and Karsten. “Oh, yes, we’ll take it,” said Andreas. I rather think Andreas would have taken the two beds out of his house, if he could, so as to have something to burn.

“If Mrs. Petersen were only not so severe, we might ask her for the bed,” said Karsten. Karsten always says people are “severe” when they are cross or angry.

No, ask Mrs. Petersen for the bed we dared not, that was sure. But we couldn’t have a bonfire without fuel, so if you’ll believe it, we took the old bedstead one evening without so much as saying “by your leave” to any one.

Andreas took it apart and carried it all up to “Sahara” as if it were a feather!

My, but that would make a grand bonfire!

First the bedstead, then a big butter-firkin filled with heather on top of it, and in the firkin we fixed a tall pole with an enormous bunch of heather soaked in kerosene tied on its top.

Now people needn’t plume themselves on their grand bonfires out on the island, for our bonfire would be seen as far away as Jomfruland, that was certain.

The weather wasn’t very good that St. John’s Night. It had been dingy and gray all day, getting ready to rain; and that was good surely, for we hadn’t had rain for four weeks and the grass was stiff and yellow and the heather as dry as tinder over the whole hill.

But since the rain had waited so long, it might as well wait until St. John’s Night was over. That is what I thought then, at any rate.

The whole afternoon we stayed up there on the hill, arranging and improving our pile of fuel, so that everything should be perfect for the evening. From that height we could see over the whole town, into the streets and courtyards. Men looked about as big as pins, and children looked like pinheads; yet we knew every pin and pinhead we saw down there. We saw the boys rowing out to the islands; and far beyond the islands we could see Skagerak, gray and billowy, with tiny white-capped waves, and with heavy gray air lying above its waters.

O dear, O dear! How the time dragged before it grew dark that evening! At last we could wait no longer but lighted our bonfire before any others were lighted.

The bunch of heather at the top of the pole blazed up like a great bouquet of fire. It looked perfectly magnificent, really.

There! Now Mrs. Petersen’s bedstead had caught. Hurrah! What fun! Greatest fun in the world!

We danced and skipped and shouted, “Hurrah!” looking towards the town all the time to see whether any one noticed our splendid bonfire. Hurrah! Hurrah!

The wind began to blow,—to blow very hard. Sparks flew all over the hill. We could not stand in the lee of the bonfire, for it would have been like standing in a sea of flame.

Well, if the townsfolk didn’t see that fire now, it must be that they had no eyes in their heads. Andreas turned somersaults in the heather. Hurrah! Hurrah!

But all at once I noticed some little flames springing up here and there.

“The heather is on fire!” I shouted.

“Hurrah!” shouted Andreas and Karsten in high glee.

But at that moment something seemed to tighten in my chest. I was afraid with a great sudden fear.

“Now all that will be a St. John’s Night bonfire,” said Karsten gleefully, pointing towards the moor.

“Are you crazy? Put it out! Only put it out!” I shouted.

_Page 75._]

The whole hill was covered with heather as far as one could see, heather as dry as tinder from the long drought. Suppose it should all get on fire! I rushed forward, tramped in the burning heather and beat it with a stick.

“Help me put it out! Help me put it out!” I cried. The boys were frightened, too, now, and we all worked frantically; but the sparks showered down faster and faster and the fire seemed to blaze up everywhere at the same instant.

It was terrible. Down in the streets people stopped and looked up and some began to run. I was ready to throw myself into the burning heather, so terrified was I. And the wind howled and blew and swarms of sparks danced about in all directions.

Suppose the whole moor should take fire,—and perhaps the whole world be burnt up—it would all be our fault. The bonfire crackled and blazed against the dark sky and the flames hissed in the heather.

Those moments I cannot write about. I don’t believe I thought of anything, I was so overwhelmed by fear.

I tramped, I shrieked, I ran right into the midst of the burning heather and shouted I don’t know what.

Over the moor some people came running swiftly, big, smoke-begrimed men, Constable Midsen, Alexander Brygga, Herman Dilt, and many, many others.

“What lawlessness and foolery is this?” shouted Constable Midsen. “There is hard punishment, and fines besides, for such doings. Help here, fellows. Quick!”

The whole of our beautiful bonfire was thrown down before you could count three, tramped on and put out, Constable Midsen giving the orders.

It seems to me I can hear his voice yet, mingled with the noisy blasts of the wind over the dark moor where the fire still crackled and snapped in the heather.

And it was all our fault! Such hard work as we had had, and such grand fun as we had expected to have! It would be best for me to run away at once, I thought; but no, it would be a shame to do that. Midsen held Karsten and Andreas as in a vise so that they should not run away; and it was just as much my fault as theirs.

I sat on a stone and cried hard; Andreas choked and cried and dried his eyes on his jacket-sleeves, first one and then the other; but Karsten fairly bellowed—his way of crying.

The men kept on tearing up the heather so as to stop the fire, and scolding us constantly. I wonder whether you can possibly imagine how perfectly horrid it was. I shall never again have a bonfire of my own, if I live to be a hundred years old.

Suddenly I felt a raindrop—then another and another—and then it began to pour.

“Well, you may thank the Lord for His merciful judgment,” said Midsen. “Now the fire will be put out by the rain.”

And what do you think? I cried harder than ever then for joy; and in my heart I thanked God over and over that He had let the rain come just at that time.

When the fire was entirely out and we trudged down the hill, it was almost pitch-dark; water trickled from my clothes, my eyes smarted from the smoke, my hands were scorched, but the worst was, I was unspeakably afraid of what Father would say.

What he said and what came afterward, I won’t tell of in detail for it was altogether too horrid. I was dreadfully, dreadfully sorry I had not asked Mother about having a bonfire, I can tell you.

Father had to pay Mrs. Petersen for her old bedstead. What do you think of that! Probably he had to pay extra for the dirt on it.

And yet, she was so “severe,” as Karsten would say, that she all but chased me out of her house with a broom when I went to beg her pardon.

I had to do that. Father said I must.

Ugh! But of course it _was_ wrong to take her bedstead.

FOOTNOTES:

[2]

Now comes the maiden with dress of green.
Oh, heigh, dear! Oh, ho!

VII

IN PECKELL’S HAYLOFT

Every once in a while, a traveling photographer comes to our town. They take rather spotty pictures in one or another courtyard under the open sky, seldom pay for the room where they have lodged, and are suddenly gone. Such traveling photographers look almost alike, usually having black curly hair with pomade in it, and pale faces; they parade around in the street, walking quickly as if they were awfully busy.

But one summer a photographer came who was altogether different. In the first place, his name was Cavallius, and he was a little bit of a man; that is, his legs were very short. The upper part of his body was big enough, and his face was large, with a long golden, curly beard that reached down over his chest; and the whole time he was in town, he had big patches of court-plaster behind his ears. He never looked as if he were busy. He spoke slowly and never walked fast; and there was a kind of dignity about him, from the court-plaster patches to his long golden beard and even to his short legs, that was quite amazing.

That dignified appearance was a real achievement for little Cavallius; for truly it can’t be very easy to appear dignified with almost no legs and with plasters behind the ears.

The first time I saw Cavallius on the street I naturally had no idea who he was, so of course I followed him till I saw that he went into Stiansen’s bakery. Fortunately I had two _öre_[3] in my pocket, so I could make an errand in the shop. I had an overwhelming desire, you see, to find out something about this queer person. Baker Stiansen was in the shop himself. “Two _öre_ worth of brown barley sugar, please.”

Stiansen’s barley sugar is never very good,—it is too soft,—but of course I had to buy something, since I had gone in.

“Who was that who came in here just now, Stiansen, a little man with a yellow beard?” I asked.

“Oh, he is one who takes pictures of people,” Stiansen answered carelessly.

“What is his name?”

“His name is nothing less than Cavallius.”

That is the way I found out who Cavallius was. I didn’t like to ask any more questions, although there was still much I wanted to know. After this, however, I had a tremendous desire to peep into Stiansen’s courtyard to see how the little photographer arranged things there; but I didn’t dare venture through the gate, because Stiansen is so cross and disagreeable if you even stick your nose in his courtyard.

But one day it suddenly occurred to me that any one in the loft up in Peckells’ barn would have the most perfect view over Cavallius in the courtyard. I went immediately to Massa Peckell.

“Oh, Massa!” I said, “let’s go up into your hayloft. Through that round window there we can look right down on the little photographer taking pictures in Stiansen’s courtyard.”

Yes, indeed, Massa would go.

Stiansen’s courtyard is a narrow oblong, and the sun beats down upon it bright and hot. We had come at a fortunate moment, it seemed, for Cavallius was just about to photograph fat Barbara who works for Madam Pirk.

Barbara sat stiffly upright on a chair. Her dress was so tight that it looked ready to burst open any minute. Her big, red hands were crossed as if they were tied together at the wrists. Cavallius was arranging the screw she should have at the back of her neck to hold her head still.

“Sh, sh!” I whispered. “Keep perfectly quiet so that he will not notice us.” Massa and I scarcely stirred, up there at the loft window.

“Will you sit for a full face or for a profile?” Cavallius asked. He talked in a slow formal way that corresponded well with his dignified bearing.

“What’s that?” asked Barbara turning herself hastily towards him.

“There, there,” said Cavallius, soothingly. “Will you sit sideways or straight?”

“Straight,” said Barbara. “Talk decent, you, when you talk to decent folk!”

Cavallius was humming a little to himself and took hold of her face to place it in the right position.

He had scarcely put one of his small stumpy fingers against Barbara’s fat cheek before she pushed her big working-woman’s fist with such force against Cavallius’ chest that he tumbled backward. It was an awfully comical sight. Both Massa and I forgot ourselves and shrieked with laughter. Cavallius threw an astonished glance up at the loft window where we stood, but he said nothing. Moreover, he did not lose his air of dignity.

“Are you out of your mind, woman?” asked Cavallius.

“Just you try that again,” said Barbara, looking furious.

Cavallius stooped under the black velvet cloth such as all photographers have over their cameras.

“Look a little pleasant, now,” he said in a coaxing voice as if to a child.

“Look pleasant? At you? Humph! I’d like to catch myself!” Her face was like a thunder-cloud.

“Oh! Oh! I shall split my sides laughing,” said Massa. “Oh! Oh!”

“May I ask the ladies up there to indulge us with their absence?” said Cavallius.

Oh! how we laughed! No, it was altogether too amusing for us to be willing to leave. “No, Cavallius, we’re not going; do not imagine that we are.” Of course we did not dare to say that aloud.

Repeated exhortations to Barbara from Cavallius to look pleasant. Barbara looked, if possible, still more angry, and assured him most positively that if there was anything in the world she would not do, it was to look pleasant “at such a one as you.”

Massa and I laughed till we were worn out with it.

“That’s right, Barbara,” shouted Massa, “look more fierce. Don’t give in, Barbara.”

“Go away,” said Cavallius, shaking his little stumpy hand threateningly towards us. “Go away, ladies; I will not endure this, on my honor I will not. Go!”

Just think, he called us “ladies”! We ducked down behind the window in silent laughter, then we peeped out again. Cavallius kept on threatening us.

“Go, I say!” We ducked down but popped up again the next instant. Cavallius grew more and more angry. We kept popping down and up and laughing continually, but go away we would not, you may be sure.

At last Barbara’s picture was ready.

“Well, my girl,” said Cavallius, “it isn’t my fault that you look like a lion-tamer in your picture.”

“What is it I look like?” asked Barbara. “It’s your fault if it’s a horrid picture.”

“That’s right, Barbara,” called Massa. “Scowl at him. Of course it is his fault.”

“Go away!” roared Cavallius up at us.

Barbara drew backward towards the door and bumped into old Mrs. Huus who was just coming in to be photographed. Mrs. Huus wore a brown silk dress, gold brooch, gold chain, gold bracelets, and some quivering golden ornaments in her hair. People in the town said that Mrs. Huus stuffed cotton into her cheeks to fill them out so as to look younger. I don’t know whether this is true or not, but Mrs. Huus certainly does speak as if her mouth were full.

Cavallius conducted her most respectfully to a chair, but as he went, he shook his fist threateningly again up towards us in the barn window. Mrs. Huus did not see us, but I noticed that she cast a frightened glance at Cavallius as he shook his fist in the air.

He got down on one knee and arranged the brown silk dress in careful folds. While he knelt there, he turned and again made the threatening gesture towards us. Mrs. Huus sent an anxious look heavenward; evidently she thought he was crazy.

Massa and I tumbled over each other below the window in fits of laughter, although we choked back the noise. Then we heard Cavallius talking, and I put my head up cautiously. Cavallius saw me and threatened again with both fists, but still Mrs. Huus had not seen a sign of us, so to her his angry gestures were unaccountable.

“No, no, no,” she said hastily, getting up. “I don’t think I am very well. I don’t think I care to be photographed to-day.” With that she darted, swift as an arrow, out of the gate without even saying good-bye.

I heard later that she had been mortally afraid the few minutes she was in Cavallius’ studio, because of his shaking his fists towards heaven, and she thought herself fortunate to have come away unharmed.

When Mrs. Huus was gone, Cavallius, with hands at his side, looked up at us.

“There now, ladies, whose fault was that? Whose fault was it, I ask, that that fine lady would not let herself be photographed to-day? It was your fault. I saw that she looked up at you again and again. As true as my name is Isaiah Cavallius, I won’t stand this any longer. If you ladies don’t make yourselves scarce this instant,”—again he shook his fist at us,—“I have something that will make you go, I warn you.”

Massa and I disappeared from the window quick as lightning.

“We mustn’t tease him any more,” said Massa. “He’s too angry.”

“Oh, but it is such fun; so awfully comical.”

“Well, I’m scared; suppose he should shoot up here at us.”

“Nonsense, Massa. Let’s peep out once more.”

There were voices in the courtyard again. I put one eye to the window and saw, if you’ll believe it, Herman Nibb, the storekeeper, who had come to be photographed. Oh, what fun! That queer Nibb! No, we couldn’t go now; it was impossible, with such a prospect of amusement ahead. Cavallius couldn’t get hold of us up here, and if he tried, we could run like the wind.

Nibb came into the courtyard, bowing and bowing. He always walks with a dancing step in the street, as if he were on springs. He is surely very vain, for in one day I have seen him wear as many as seven different hats. That is absolutely true. Nibb always has something to do with bankruptcy; either he has just gone bankrupt or is just about to do so. There is never anything in his shop-window but a bunch of shoe-lasts, and he sells only kerosene. Often I should like to go into his shop because he is so queer, but since one can scarcely ask for a sample of shoe-lasts or kerosene, I can’t make any errand in there.

“Be so kind as to take a seat,” said Cavallius. “Vignette or the whole figure?”

“Is it any dearer with legs than without legs?” asked Nibb.

“The price is the same for the whole figure,” was the satisfactory answer.

Nibb placed himself in position. He looked as blank as if he didn’t know enough to count four, as he stood there.

“That is a fine expression you have now,” said Cavallius. “Don’t lose that expression and you will have a beautiful picture; don’t lose it. Pshaw! You let it go, after all.”

Nibb strove in vain to re-capture the beautiful expression.

“How was it I looked?” he asked.

I can’t tell you how Massa and I laughed. “We must go, Massa, or I shall die of laughing.” Nevertheless, we did not go.

“Are you there again?” shouted Cavallius. “On my honor, I will not stand this any longer.” With that he went into the house, leaving Nibb alone.

Nibb made an elegant bow to us, whom he saw in the loft window.

“Beautiful weather, little girls,” he observed politely.

“Oh, yes.” We felt as if we were in an oven, it was so hot, and Nibb wiped his forehead every minute.

“Perhaps it is rather temperate,” he continued, bowing to us again.

“It wouldn’t matter if it were a little more temperate,” I said.

Nibb made no reply to this, but remarked, “A queer man, that one,” pointing over his shoulder after Cavallius.

Yes, Massa and Nibb and I could all agree as to that.

But what in the world had become of Cavallius? Could he be looking for us?

“O dear! Suppose he is standing inside behind a curtain and shoots us with a gun!” said Massa. “He said he had something that would make us go away, you know.”

The situation began to be rather uncomfortable; perhaps we had better go away, notwithstanding the fun. At that instant, we heard a strange, short, labored breathing from the loft stairway. We both turned,—the stairs were just outside the door,—a yellow beard showed in the dim light. True as gospel, it was Cavallius! If I live to be as old as Methusaleh, I shall never forget how terribly Massa shrieked. She shrieked as if beside herself, or as if some one had stuck a knife into her.

I did not scream, but I must own that I wasn’t at all comfortable. However, this was no time for any long meditation.

Cavallius’ little legs straddled over the high doorsill, and now his whole body was in the loft. There was only one door, the door by which he had entered; our “peep-hole” was the only window.

Not a word was exchanged between Massa and me, but with a common impulse, we sprang over to the trap-door in the corner through which the hay was thrown down into the stable below.

Plump! Massa was down. Plump! I was down. Both of us landed on a big heap of hay that lay just under the trap-door.

I glanced up to see whether Cavallius were coming down the way we did, but I saw nothing of him. We rushed to the stable door, out to the Peckells’ courtyard, out to the street, but not even here dared we stop. The safest place at that moment seemed to us to be the dean’s garden, so in there we dashed, fastening the high garden gate after us. There! Out of danger! Massa was chalk-white with terror.

Looking through the picket fence a moment after, we saw Cavallius with more than usual dignity come out of Peckells’ yard and disappear through Stiansen’s gate.

But how in the world Cavallius, a perfect stranger in the town, found the way all by himself up to Peckells’ hayloft that day, will always remain a mystery to me.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] An _öre_ is less than three-tenths of a cent.

VIII

MADAM IGLAND’S GARDEN

Madam Igland has an enormous garden with a high board fence around it. To call it a beautiful garden would be a sin and a shame. The whole place is filled with beds of carrots, parsley, cabbages, onions and such things; while at one end there is a row of currant-bushes and an old tumble-down summer-house that stands with one side on the street. Madam Igland is a market-gardener, you see, and sells vegetables to the townsfolk. However, I say wrong when I say she is a gardener, for she can’t even walk, but sits all day long in a wheel-chair by the window. She has a “spy-mirror” there which reflects a part of the street she could not see otherwise.

No, it is not Madam Igland, it is Oline, who is really the gardener and the ruler over the garden. Oline is an old servant, awfully old and with only one tooth in her mouth; but that one is frightfully long and white.

I used to think that if I were in Oline’s place, I should have that tooth pulled out, for I thought that, being so very long, it must be in the way. Once I asked Oline why she didn’t do that.

“No, indeed, I sha’n’t do that,” said Oline. “For if I hadn’t that tooth, I couldn’t nourish myself.” Since that time I have looked at it with more respect, considering it is all that keeps Oline alive.

Oline is frightfully deaf, yet it is she who sells the garden stuff to people. All the money she gets for parsley, onions, or anything, she puts in an enormous pocket which she wears under the front of her apron.

Ola Silnes helps her in the garden. He always wears filthy white canvas trousers and jacket, has a very red face, and when he talks, grunts out something you can hardly understand from deep down in his throat.

All through the long summer day, Oline with her bare, brown weather-beaten legs is in the carrot-bed weeding. If you want five cents’ worth of onion tops, or anything, you have to go right up to her and take hold of her, for she doesn’t hear a thing. But I can tell you it isn’t advisable to steal into the garden when you don’t want to buy anything, for that makes her fly into a rage.

The board fence isn’t altogether tight at the back of the garden. There are little cracks between the boards, just big enough to stick your nose through and look in with one eye at a time; but through the cracks you can see lots of big, delicious-looking currants. O dear! There’s no pleasure in standing and looking through a crack at big, juicy, red currants when you can’t get any of them.

Our currants were gone long ago. Karsten eats them when they are a little red on one side, and the few that are left shrivel up in the roasting hot sun; for our garden is awfully sunny, you see. But Madam Igland’s garden, being on lower ground, is always cool and fresh, with a sweetish, spicy smell of cabbage and herbs and onion and newly-turned soil, and stiff, tall grasses in the outer corners of the garden.

I had long known that there was a loose board in the fence,—well, not entirely loose, but very shaky, you know. If you should just pull a little hard on it, it would come loose, that was certain.

One afternoon Mina and I hadn’t a thing to do. We couldn’t play up on the hilltop, it was so unbearably hot there. To play ball in such heat was utterly impossible; besides, Karsten had lost our best ball. The flat church steps which are so exactly suitable for playing jackstones on, and where Mina and I play almost every afternoon, were packed full of street boys who were playing with buttons.

Pshaw! There wasn’t a thing for us to do.

All at once, something flashed into my mind.

“Let’s go down to Madam Igland’s garden and see whether there are many currants there,” said I.

Mina agreed instantly.

Soon we stood with our noses through the cracks. My! so big as those currants were to-day, currants had surely never been before! And oh, how ripe! The branches were so full that they drooped right down to the ground. Ola Silnes was nowhere to be seen. Oline was in the carrot-bed weeding. On her head she had a towel, pulled far forward to keep the sun off of her face.

“Oh, Mina! Do you know there is a board loose over there?”

I went to it to show her. Yes, it was very, very shaky; almost ready to come out.

“Mina, shall we pull the board away and creep through and eat a few currants? Oline can’t hear even a gun-shot, you know.”

First a slight jerk at the board, then a longer pull; it creaked a little and we peeped in, frightened. Oline’s toweled head had not moved. She was still weeding in the burning hot sun.

“Come on, now.” I was already in the garden. Mina came quickly after. We ran along beside the fence, hopped through some cabbage-beds, and got behind the currant-bushes.

My, but those were currants! There were as many as fourteen on each string. How we did eat and eat! Our mouths really felt sore at last from eating so many. Now and then we peeped out at Oline, who still stayed among the carrots, weeding and weeding.

“Can you understand how she can keep on in such heat?” said Mina.

“No, I can’t; but my, haven’t we had a jolly feast? It doesn’t show a bit that any currants are gone, and think what a quantity we have eaten!”

Neither of us could eat another one.

All at once we heard a shout outside the fence and some one called, “Well, I declare! Is this where you are?”

It was Karsten. We looked anxiously along the fence, for at first we couldn’t judge where the sound came from.

“Sh! Karsten. Sh!” He was tramping along outside the fence. Evidently he, too, knew about the loose board. He pulled it away, and was half inside the garden when—of all things!—Oline saw him.

“Out with you or I’ll make you stir your stumps, you scamp, you good-for-nothing!”

“Well, some girls are behind the currant-bushes, Oline,” shouted Karsten.

Oline didn’t hear a word he said, but she pushed him out through the hole in the fence.

“Somebody is stealing your currants,” shouted Karsten from the outside.

“Yes, you’ll catch it, you scamp.”

“Look behind the currant-bushes and you’ll see——”

“If you don’t go away and that quickly——”

We were on pins and needles, but Oline did not know what he said, of course.

There was Karsten outside the fence near where we were crouching.

“You’ll get paid for this, Inger Johanne, depend upon it. You’ll get paid. Shame on you! I shall tell about it at home.” And off he ran.

Mina and I felt that the prospect was anything but pleasant,—horrid, in fact. Ugh!

Ola Silnes came into the garden, and Oline called to him, telling about Karsten. Ola’s red face looked very thoughtful. They both went to the fence and inspected the loose board very particularly. Then—who’d have thought it?—Ola Silnes, who evidently carried a lot of big nails in his pocket, took some out and with a big stone for a hammer, whack! whack! he nailed the board fast!

Mina and I stared at each other. We were in a pretty fix. We couldn’t possibly get out through the gate without being seen, as long as Ola Silnes stayed in the garden. Our only hope was that he might go out on some errand.

We crouched there behind the currant-bushes and kept peeping out at Ola. Apparently he had no thought of leaving the garden. He wheeled away one wheelbarrowful of weeds after another, and emptied them out not far from us. We sat with our hearts in our mouths each time until we saw the back of his canvas jacket. Ugh! How afraid we were that he would see us!

The time dragged on endlessly.

“Come, let’s go out,” said Mina almost in tears. “It’s your fault. You’re the one who thought of it. I can’t sit here any longer, and I’m so afraid of Ola.”

“Oh, wait, Mina! Sit still, just sit still a little longer.”

At last, Oline seemed to have finished for the day. She put on her wooden shoes and straightened the towel on her head. Ola had nothing to arrange about his clothes, but the two stood a long time at the gate. Oline screeched higher and higher. She was talking of Karsten.

“And that boy,” said Ola, “is a child out of a fine family!” He spat as far as he could just to show his scorn.

Well, they finally went. I had had a little hope that they might forget to fasten the gate. Far from it. No such good luck for us. I heard the lock click as the key turned.

Mina and I crept out from behind the bushes. We were stiff from sitting so long in one position. It was good to stir yourself. Pooh! There wouldn’t be any difficulty about getting out of the garden now, since Oline and Ola were both gone. You can always find one board or another loose in a fence. We ran along and tugged at every single board. No, they were all tight, as if they were nailed fast, as of course they were; not a single board was even a bit shaky.

Ugh! That horrid Ola Silnes, who went about with nails in his pocket! To climb over the fence was impossible for us; it was several feet higher than I was tall. What in the world could we do? If we knocked on the gate, people would come from the street and every one would have to know what we had been doing.

Once again we went around the fence. No, it was absolutely impossible to get out that way. And how hungry we were! We had certainly been in the garden for four hours. What could we eat? Not currants, no, not one more. What about carrots? Pshaw! They were too small, not bigger than my little finger; but we ate some of them, anyway, or perhaps we might have starved.

We went into the summer-house which had eight corners and a pointed roof. Such air as there was in there,—stifling hot and full of dust. The light-green paint on the walls was old and cracked; there was nothing in the room but a pile of bean-poles at one side. The windows were of colored glass.

Mina and I peeped out at the street through the red and blue and yellow panes and disputed as to which was the prettiest. What if a blood-red light such as there is when you look through red glass should come suddenly over the whole world, how awfully frightened people would be!

Really, it was rather cosy in the summer-house.

“Suppose we should have to stay here all night,” said I. “We could lie on that heap of bean-poles and it wouldn’t be so very bad, Mina.”

“Oh, no! I want to get out,” said Mina. The sun was now almost gone from the garden. “If you won’t knock on the gate now, I will. I will not stay here any longer.”

“No, no, Mina. Wait a minute.” I looked anxiously about for some way of escape.

Perhaps—perhaps we could climb the pear-tree in the corner, creep carefully along the branch and jump down outside the fence; but the branches began very high up on the tree-trunk.

First we pushed Ola’s wheelbarrow under the tree. O dear! Even on the wheelbarrow I couldn’t reach anywhere near high enough. By the summer-house stood an old barrel; we rolled this over to the tree, and put it on top of the wheelbarrow. Mina held me and steadied me. Hurrah! There I was on the slender branch. I shoved myself along very slowly and carefully.

“If it only doesn’t break,” cried Mina. “Oh, it is breaking, it is breaking!”

No, it didn’t break. I was soon on the fence, hung there by my arms a minute and then dropped down on the outside.

“Now you come, Mina,” I shouted.

I could hear how she tried and tried, but finally when the barrel rolled off of the wheelbarrow, she burst out crying.

“No, I can’t! I can’t climb up to that branch.”

Well there! It would have been better if Mina had climbed up first.

“Mina, don’t cry! Just wait. I’ll run and get a ladder, and be back in a jiffy.”

I dashed up the street hoping to find Karsten or some of the other boys. No, Karsten was probably out sailing and none of the others were to be seen. The ladder I had expected to get was altogether too heavy for me to carry without help. I ran back to Madam Igland’s garden.

“Mina! Mina!”

Not a sound from inside. I peeped through the cracks. No Mina was to be seen.

“Mina dear! Oh, Mina!”

No, she must certainly have got out, but how? Or perhaps she was lying in the summer-house in a faint from all the excitement. I was perfectly disgusted with myself for having left her, and ran around the garden to the gate. Far down the street I saw Mina’s blue dress. I rushed after her.

“How in the world did you get out?”

“Why, when you were gone I got so desperate because I was alone, that I banged and hammered on the gate as hard as I could; and some one went after Oline and she came and unlocked the gate.”

“Was she angry?”

“Yes, frightfully angry.”

* * * * *

When I reached home, Karsten had come back from his sailing and had told of seeing Mina and me behind the currant-bushes in Madam Igland’s garden, eating currants. That wanted to get in there himself, he said not a word about, the rascal!

Mother scolded me. It is distressing when Mother scolds; not because of what she says, exactly,—though that hurts, too,—but she looks so grieved that it makes you unspeakably sad to see her.

“And of course, Inger Johanne, you must go to Madam Igland and beg her pardon.”

When I came home from school the next day, Oline was standing in the hall. “O dear! O dear! What is coming now?” I thought. Her errand was to ask me to call at Madam Igland’s when I was passing by there.

That afternoon Mina and I went to Madam Igland’s house; through the courtyard, over the high threshold into the tiny blue-painted hall that led into her room.

“You must knock,” Mina whispered.

“No, you,” said I. Finally I had to knock at the door.

“Come in,” said a pleasant voice.

“Shall we run away?” whispered Mina.

But I had already lifted the latch, and there we were—in Madam Igland’s room. I had never been in there before and the only thing I saw now was Madam Igland in her wheel-chair by the window. She turned her face towards us.

“Come right in, children. Why! Is it these two nice little girls who would steal from a lame old woman’s garden when that is all she has to live on?”

We began to cry, both of us.

“No, no! Don’t cry. It’s nothing to cry about. Come and sit here.”

“Uh-hu-hu!” sobbed Mina. “Have you nothing to live on but currants and parsley, Madam Igland?”

“Oh, I live on the money I get for them, you know.”

“We’ll never, never do it again, Madam Igland,” I promised.

“No, no. You surely will not. But sit here now and talk a little with me.”

So there we sat, each on her chair and Madam Igland in her immense wheel-chair by the window where the “spy-mirror” was. In her lap she had a black cat and on the window-sill sat another, blinking its green eyes.

“Isn’t it awfully tedious to sit here all day long and only look out of the window?” I asked when we had composed ourselves a little.

“Oh, no! One gets used to anything. It will soon be fifteen years since the Lord took the use of my legs from me. First, I sat in the corner by the bed for twelve years, but I got very tired of that. I knew every nail-head in the floor and every dot in the wall-paper. So I moved over to the window and have sat here for three years; and it is much better.”

Think of it! She had sat in her chair much longer than I had lived! How terribly sad it was!

“But how do you get to bed, Madam Igland?” I asked.

“Oh, Oline helps me. She’s a kind person, I can tell you. The good Lord sent her to me, you see. Yes, and then there are all the kind people who come often to see me, old and lame as I am.”

Only think! The good Lord had sent Oline to Madam Igland! How many queer things there are in the world! It had never occurred to me that God thought about Oline.

“Yes, she is faithful, she is faithful,” said Madam Igland with a happy face, rocking herself back and forth.

Who would have supposed there was any one who rejoiced over queer old Oline?

I really liked being in there with Madam Igland.

“I ought to have something to treat you with,” said Madam Igland at last. “It’s a shame that I haven’t anything. But you must come in again, for there will soon be some kittens here, and perhaps I may then have some good little treat for you.”

I had sat and pondered over something I wanted to say, but I couldn’t get it out until we were at the door.

“Madam Igland, won’t you let me come in and help you sometimes? Help you get to bed or whatever you like?”