Chapter IV: The Release (2)

"What can that strange noise be that we hear behind us?" asked Sampo after a while, when he had got a little used to the violent ride.

"That is the thousand bears who are coming after us to eat us," answered the reindeer. "But don't be afraid; I am the mountain king's own magic reindeer, and no bear has ever gnawed my heels."

When they had ridden a while longer, Sampo asked: "What can that be that breathes and moans so strangely behind us?"

The reindeer answered: "That is the hundred thousand wolves who are coming after us at full gallop to tear you and me to pieces. But don't be afraid; no wolf has ever beaten me in a race here in the wilderness."

They rode on a while longer; then Sampo asked: "Is it thundering in the mountains there behind us?"

"No," said the reindeer, and began to shake in all his limbs. "That is Hiisi, the mountain king himself, who is coming with giant steps after us; and now it is all over with both of us, for him it is impossible to escape."

"Is there no help?" asked Sampo.

"No," said the reindeer, "there is nothing to do now but to try to get to the parsonage off there near Enare Lake. If we get there we are saved, for the mountain king has no power over Christians."

"Oh," said Sampo, "run now, my brave reindeer, over mountain and valley, and I will give you golden oats in a silver manger!"

The reindeer ran and ran; it was a life-and-death race! And they had but just reached the priest's house when the mountain king came up outside and knocked so hard on the door that every one thought the whole house would fall down. "Who is that?" asked the priest.

"It is I!" answered a voice of thunder outside.

"Open the door for Hiisi, the mountain king. There is an unchristened child within, and all heathen belong to me!"

"Wait a minute, until I put on my surplice and collar, so that I can receive so distinguished a guest with proper dignity," answered the priest.

"Hurry, then!" growled the mountain king; "hurry, or I will kick the walls down."

"Immediately, immediately, sir," answered the priest.

But at the same time he took a bowl of water and christened Sampo Lappelil with all proper ceremony.

"Well, are you not ready yet?" growled the mountain king, and he lifted his terrible foot to kick the house down.

But the priest opened the door and said: "Begone, you king of night and winter, for with this child you have nothing to do! The sun of God's grace shines over Sampo Lappelil, and he belongs not to you but to God's kingdom!"

Then the mountain king grew so furious that he burst on the spot and turned into a terrible snow-cloud, and it snowed so hard that the snow reached up over the roof of the parsonage and they all expected to be buried alive. But when the morning came the sun shone on the snow, the snow melted away, and the parsonage and all in it were saved; and there was no sign of the mountain king. Every one thinks, however, that he still lives and reigns on Rastekais.

Sampo Lappelil thanked the priest and borrowed a pulk from him. Then he harnessed to it the reindeer with the golden horns and went home to his father in Aimio. There was great joy when Sampo Lappelil came back so unexpectedly. But how he became a great man and fed his reindeer with golden oats from a silver manger, that is another story, which it would take too long to tell now. It is said that since that time when Sampo had such a narrow escape, the Lapps have never, as before, put off from year to year having their little children christened--for who would like to see his child eaten up by the terrible mountain king? Sampo Lappelil knows what it means to run that risk! And having heard Hiisi's mighty footsteps, he knows, too, precisely what it is when thunder resounds in the mountains.

--_Z. Topelius_.

_Translated by Margaret Böcher_.

A LEGEND OF MERCY

On one side of the lake there was a large town; on the opposite shore stood a little lone cottage. The snow whirled over the frozen lake in great clouds and the wind was very keen; for it was winter and Christmastide in the world.

At the cottage there was poverty inside, but riches on the roof. Up there stood the great golden sheaf of grain about which the birds of heaven gathered joyfully for their Christmas feast, while inside the cottage food was scanty, as usual. The peasants' little children, however, listened happily to the birds' joyous twitter from the housetop, and took great delight in seeing the fine prints of the sparrow's tiny feet in the smooth snow roundabout.

"If we had threshed that grain, instead of giving it to the sparrows, we might have had fresh wheaten rolls for the children for Christmas," sighed the peasant's wife.

"Don't you know that the merciful are blessed?" asked the gentle old peasant with a kind glance at his dissatisfied wife.

"But to let the birds of the air eat our bread," she sighed again.

"Yes, the birds. Furthermore, what matter, even if it were the wild beasts of the forest? Should we not show mercy? Besides, I have saved enough to be able to buy four fresh rolls and a can of milk for Christmas. Let us send the children across the lake to the town with their sled. They will easily get back with the things before evening."

"But suppose they meet a wolf on the ice," suggested the mother.

"I will give Arvid a big club," said the father. "He will get along all right, having that."

So it happened that Arvid and his sister Hanna went to town to buy the treat of white rolls and milk. By this time the snow was piled in great drifts on the ice, and the children had difficulty in dragging the sled, so that when they turned toward home the early darkness was already beginning to settle down. They trudged through the snow as fast as they could, but the drifts were much higher than before, and darkness came on in earnest while they still had quite a long distance to go.

As they struggled on, something black moved in the darkness. When it came nearer, the children saw that it was a wolf.

"Don't be afraid, Hanna," said Arvid. "I have a good club." And with these words, he raised it threateningly.

The wolf was now close beside the children but made no attempt to harm them. He only howled, but the howling was extraordinary for it sounded as if he uttered words in it,--words that the children could understand. "It is so cold, so cold," howled the wolf. "And my little ones have nothing to eat. Give me some bread for them in the name of mercy."

"Poor little things!" said Hanna. "We will give you _our_ two rolls for them, and we ourselves will eat hard bread to-night, but father and mother must have their Christmas treat."

"Many thanks," said the wolf as he took the two fresh rolls and glided away.

The children strove on through deeper and deeper snow, but in a little while they heard some creature treading heavily behind them. It proved to be a bear.

The bear growled out something in his own language, and at first the children could not find out what he meant although they tried hard; but the bear kept on growling and finally, strangely enough, the children understood. The bear, too, desired a Christmas gift.

"It is so cold, so cold," growled the big creature. "All the water everywhere is frozen and my poor little ones have nothing to drink. Be merciful and give me a little milk for them."

"How is this?" asked Arvid. "Why are you not asleep in your den for the winter, as other bears are? But that is your affair. We will give you our half of the milk for your little ones. Hanna and I can very well drink water to-night, if only father and mother have something good for Christmas."

"Many thanks," said the bear, as he took the milk in a birch-bark cone which he carried in his fore-paws. Then with slow, pompous steps, he lumbered away into the darkness.

The children waded along through the drifts still more eagerly now, for they could see the Christmas lights shining through the windows of their home; but they had not gone far before an ugly owl came flapping along beside them.

"I will have bread and milk! I will have bread and milk!" screamed the owl, stretching out her long claws to scratch the children.

"Oh, ho!" said Arvid. "If that is the kind you are, I shall have to teach you to be polite." So saying, he gave the owl such a clever blow on the wings with his club that she flew screaming away.

Soon after this the children were at home, gaily beating the snow from their clothes in the little entry.

"We have met a wolf!" shouted Hanna.

"And given a bear some milk!" added Arvid.

"But the owl got a taste of the club!" laughed Hanna. Then they told all their adventures.

The parents looked thoughtfully at each other. How wonderful! To think that their children had shown mercy even to the wild beasts of the forest! What would happen next? What did it all mean?

It was now supper-time. The peasant family gathered at the table upon which, besides the usual poor fare, was the half portion of the expected treat--all that the children had brought home.

Arvid and Hanna wished to eat only dry bread and drink only water, so that their parents might have the Christmas goodies; but the parents would not allow that. They joyfully shared with the children the two rolls and the half-tankard of milk which were such luxuries.

But as they ate, they noticed something very marvelous. However often they broke and broke pieces from either of the rolls, the fresh delicious wheaten rolls never grew smaller; and however often they poured milk from the tankard into one bowl after another the milk never grew less!

While they were wondering greatly over this, they heard a scratching at the little window, and behold! there stood the wolf and the bear with their fore-paws against the window pane. Both animals grinned and nodded in a knowing, friendly way. An owl could be heard flapping behind them in the darkness, and calling out in a hoarse voice to Arvid:

"Sometimes hits
Sharpen wits.
Hoo, hoo! Hoo, hoo!
Not from need
But from greed
I begged of you.
Hoo, hoo! Hoo, hoo!"

Then her hoarse cries died away in the distance, and the two beasts, after a little more grinning and nodding, disappeared from the window.

The peasant and his wife and the children understood now that a blessing rested upon their Christmas food because it had been shared in mercy with those that needed it; and they finished their meal in wonder and thankfulness.

On Christmas morning when they went to get their breakfast of dry bread and water, not expecting to have anything else, they found to their amazement that both rolls and milk were as fresh as when the children bought them,--and with no sign that the rolls had ever been broken or any milk used! And all that day it was the same! There were not only riches on the roof, but joy and plenty inside the peasants' cottage, where the children feasted and sang as gaily as did the sparrows, fluttering about their Christmas sheaf of golden grain.

--_Z. Topelius_.

ANTON'S ERRAND
_OR
THE BOY WHO MADE FRIENDS BY THE WAY_

Far to the South lies a beautiful land. High forest-clad mountains lift themselves toward the sky, and between them spreads a wide fruitful valley. A mighty river rushes southward singing of courage and joy, and from the mountains the merry brooks come hurrying along, the one faster than the other, as if racing to see which would get down first.

In the fields, the grass is tall and full of flowers, the grain waves like a billowy sea, and the fruit trees bend beneath the weight of rich fruits. But more than all else, grapevines grow here. The vines twine themselves in an endless wreath through the valley; and in the long arcades hang millions of clusters of grapes cooking themselves ripe in the sun's heat.

From olden times, an industrious folk lived in this valley cultivating their fields and pruning their vines. They gathered themselves together into small towns which were dotted here and there in the valley's green expanse like birds' nests in a spreading tree. On the surrounding heights rose the proud castles where the nobles lived. They tyrannized over the farmers in the valley, and if the poor peasants made the least complaint, down from the cliffs came the barons, like eagles from their eyries, and dug their claws into their defenseless prey.

* * * * *

Many, many years ago, a powerful baron named Rudolf Reinhold Rynkebryn lived in one of the largest of the mountain castles. He had, by force and violence, made himself Lord over one of the cities in the valley, and all who lived there must toil and moil for the hard master on Falkensten.

When the grain was ripe and the meal ground, many hundred bags of it must be carried on horses' backs up to the mountain castle; and when the grapes were ripe and the wine pressed out, many hundred barrels must go the same way.

So had it been for many years, but at last the peasants grew tired of this state of things, and gathered together for consultation.

"There is no sense in it," said an old man. "Here we plow and sow and reap and grind so that Rynkebryn can swallow the bread that belongs to us and our children."

"Yes. Isn't that the truth?" said another. "Isn't it a sin and a shame, also? We plant vines and prune them in the sweat of our brows and when the grapes are ripe, the wine we make must go to Falkensten so that Rynkebryn and his men may drink themselves crazy and descend like birds of prey upon us poor peasants. We should not endure it any longer."

"No, we _will_ not endure it any longer!" shouted all in chorus. Then it was determined that they should send Rynkebryn a letter, in which they renounced their allegiance to him.

For the future he might get his bread and his wine wherever he chose. Neither bag nor barrel should go from the valley to Falkensten.

Oh, yes! To come to this decision was easy. Nor was there any great difficulty about getting the letter written. The Mayor himself wrote it; and upon the letter he set the city's great seal which bore a sheaf pierced by a sword.

The difficulty was to find a messenger to deliver the letter, for every one well knew that he who carried such a message to the Baron of Falkensten would not return alive to the valley.

All to whom the mission was proposed immediately raised objections. One had no clothes, another had pains in his legs, another could by no means be spared from home, and another was sure he could never find the way up there. Oh, there were many difficulties about taking that particular letter to the Baron!

Finally someone said, "Why not send little Anton?" And immediately all shouted, "Yes, that is an excellent plan. Anton can go with the letter."

Anton was a poor boy, usually called "little Anton." He had neither father nor mother nor sister nor brother, but had been brought up among other poor children of the town in the Cloister School. Now that he was twelve or thirteen years old, he must take care of himself, and since he could do small jobs of all sorts, people made use of him, here, there and everywhere.

He helped to dig in the vineyards, to lay stone and mortar when a house was to be built; he ran with messages and letters out to the country roundabout; and as he could manage the most spirited horse, he drove, too, if there were no other driver to be had. He often took care of the babies while their mothers were out at work; he carded wool and picked hops; he sang at funerals and played at weddings.

Indeed, there was scarcely anything for which they did not use little Anton. He was quick of foot and light of hand, true as gold and silent as a locked box, so every one liked him and gave him plenty to do.

The Mayor himself went to little Anton and told him that the whole city had decided to entrust to him a very important errand. He was to go to Falkensten with a letter to Baron Rynkebryn. Of what was in the letter the Mayor said nothing, for if he had, little Anton would have realized that he was risking his life.

The others realized it very decidedly, but they reasoned thus: "Little Anton is a poor lone child, with no parents to mourn him, and if anything happens to him,--well!--we must hope that all is for the best. It is surely better that he should perish than that we who have wives and children should. Besides, the town is full of these little poor boys whom we can get to help us when we need them."

Anton took the big letter, turned it over and over in his hands, and asked if there would be any answer.

The Mayor became a little embarrassed and took a pinch of snuff. He could not look Anton straight in the face as he replied, "Answer? No, I do not think there will be any answer."

"So I can come right back?" queried little Anton.

"Yes, indeed. Deliver the letter and take to your heels as soon as you can."

The next day, early in the morning, Anton put on his thickest shoes, stuffed a couple of rolls and a small bottle of wine into his pocket, slung an old gun over his shoulder and started on his long tramp from the valley to Falkensten. He could see the castle high, high up like an eagle's nest, on the top of a cliff from which it looked out over three different valleys, many, many miles away.

It was a hot August day. The sky was without a cloud and the sun stood and smiled its broadest on the vineyards where the grapes steamed and cooked in the heat. Vines were planted on the lowest slopes of the mountain, so here Anton could walk up the stone steps between the walls. He turned and saw the city which looked shining and gay in the sunlight. The church was white as snow, and the hands on the clock glittered like gold.

By and by the vineyards ended and Anton came to some fields. The grass had already been cut for the second time and the fields were deserted. Not a person was to be seen.

Next he came to the forest of chestnut-trees. From here everything in the valley looked very small; houses and farms, and even the church, looked like toys spread out on a green carpet. The sun glowed hotter and hotter, and Anton took off his jacket, and walked on, in his shirt-sleeves. The road grew steeper and steeper. He was hot and thirsty so he sat down in the shade of a rock and took out his bottle of wine.

When he had refreshed himself, he leaned back, humming a little song and idly striking the ground with a switch he had broken from a bush.

As he sat there, he heard a soft rustling at his side and saw a little lizard come from the wall of rock and creep forth among the ferns. It wriggled its supple little body out into the sunshine and then lay perfectly still in front of Anton, gazing at him with its clear eyes.

"That was a beautiful song you sang," said the lizard. "Would you be so kind as to sing it once more? I am foolishly crazy over music."

"I can certainly do that much for you," answered Anton, and hummed the song again. He kept the switch behind him now, not wishing the lizard to see that he had it.

The lizard lay perfectly still, listening, but when the song was finished the little creature said to Anton, "Come, Anton, what are you really thinking of? I think your dark eyes have a sly look in them. Surely you are not, by any chance, intending to harm me?"

"Oh, I don't know!" said Anton, smacking his whip. "But I do think it might be amusing to give you a hit with this so that you snapped in two like a piece of glass."

"Do you think so?" asked the lizard drawing its tail close. "Well, well! How strange! It seems to me that would not be at all amusing. I think it is much more amusing to live, to lie here and enjoy myself in the sunshine."

Anton began to laugh, but continued to beat the ground with his switch.

"Listen, Anton," said the lizard. "I have really such a very short time to live. Let me go in peace. Don't do me any harm. Perhaps I can be of use to you some day. You may be sure you will never regret it if you let me go."

"What could such a forlorn little creature as you ever do for me?" asked Anton, as he got up. "But since you ask me so prettily, I will let you run. Suppose we see which of us will get to Falkensten first."

"Oh, I shall, I shall!" hissed the lizard; and it hurried away through the grass, calling back, however, "Farewell, Anton; you may be sure I shall not lose sight of you." With that, the lizard disappeared and Anton resumed his toilsome journey.

The sun mounted higher and higher and the whole sky was like a sea of burning light. The houses and churches in the valley looked now like many tiny white stones scattered over the ground. The path, steeper and steeper, led through a grove of larches, and here little Anton must again rest. He took two big swallows from his bottle, and wiped his hot face with his shirt-sleeves.

Hearing a strange cracking sound over his head and looking up, he saw a little squirrel that sat on the branch of a neighboring larch, eating the seeds from a cone. Between the mouthfuls he spat the shells down, chattering softly meanwhile as if to say, "What an excellent breakfast this is! Truly a delicious breakfast!"

Anton took his old gun quietly from his shoulder, got down on his knees, and crept carefully along. He held the gun by its barrel. With the butt end he could easily enough hit the little squirrel. But the alert creature, which was watching him with keen, anxious eyes, saw him before he had raised the butt end, and with a couple of big leaps, reached a higher branch of the tree.

"What are you going to do to me?" asked the frightened squirrel, poking his little head out. "What is it you really want to do to me?"

"Oh, I should just like to have your tail!" said Anton. "It would be a nice fur collar for me when the autumn storms howl from the mountain tops."

"But I would so much rather keep my tail myself," said the squirrel, raising it as high as he could in the air. "You see I was born with this tail, and therefore it is mine; and so, if you kill me and take it away from me, you are a thief,--a thief,--a real little tail-stealer!"

"You must stop saying such rude words," said Anton, lifting the gun. "If I can only catch you, your tail will be mine."

"No, stop, stop!" shrieked the squirrel, springing about in the branches. "It is horrid and ugly and disgusting of you. I don't want to be crushed with the butt end of a gun. It is ugly of you to think of it, ugly, ugly! And to be broken off in the middle of my nice breakfast to be murdered is truly most unpleasant. Would you like that, little Anton?"

The squirrel still leaped and sprang from branch to branch in fright. Anton laid his gun on the ground.

"Oh, little Anton!" piped the squirrel. "Let me alone! Let me hop around, a happy living squirrel. That is so much better and pleasanter!"

"Well, hop then," said Anton, throwing the gun over his shoulder again. "I am afraid I should dream of the frightened look in your eyes. And now we might see which of us can get to Falkensten first."

"Oh, I shall, I shall!" called the squirrel, wild with joy. "If you are going to Falkensten, I shall go, too. No harm shall happen to you while I am able to hop." With that, the squirrel set off with long leaps from tree to tree, and soon disappeared; and Anton walked on up the mountain.

The air became more and more sultry. The sky, which had been bright blue, grew white in some places, and the white ran together like thick milk and heaped itself in close masses. The sun was no longer to be seen. The clouds changed to gray and violet and dark-blue, with glowing edges, and thunder began to roll among the mountains. Anton could not see the valley now at all. The lofty peaks towered one behind another, and there seemed to be nothing else in the world. The path grew steeper and yet steeper.

Little Anton began to be frightfully tired. He had to lie down again and again on the ground, groaning with weariness. Not a drop more of the refreshing sour wine did he have to quench his thirst,--the bottle had been drained long ago.

Suddenly he heard a rushing sound, and lo! from the rock bubbled a white foaming stream of water, so fresh and living that one could not understand how it could gush forth from the dead stones. Anton knelt down and drank eagerly from his hands. Never had he found any draught so wonderfully reviving.

When he had quenched his thirst, he thought he would resume his journey, but at that instant he caught sight of a dove flying toward him. It was a charming wood-dove, with blue-flecked wings and a little round head. The dove must, like him, have been thirsty, for she flew directly to the foaming water and bent over it to drink. "That is a lovely bird," thought Anton; and he took his gun noiselessly from his shoulder. "I can surely hit her."

He had laid the gun to his cheek and was taking aim, when the dove lifted her head from the water and fluttered her wings.

"Why should you shoot me, little Anton?" she asked. "You have quenched your thirst and I have quenched mine. The spring has been good to both of us. Why should you do evil to me?"

"You have such beautiful wings," said Anton. "It would look fine if I stretched you out flat and fastened you on the barn door."

"It looks much finer when I float upward toward the sunlight," said the dove. "The mountain path is difficult for you, little Anton; but you are at least free to pursue your way. Let me fly mine. Here in these solitudes no one should do another harm."

The dove looked so gentle and talked in such friendly tones that Anton felt thoroughly ashamed of himself.

"Yes, fly away, little dove, fly wherever you will," said he, waving his hands. "We might see which of us two will get to Falkensten first."

"Oh, I shall!" responded the dove, lifting her wings. "But if it is to that fierce Baron you are taking a message, I prefer to wait outside on the tower." Then up she flew.

The sky was now one dark mass of thunder-clouds. The thunder rumbled among the mountains; the green fields on the heights shone out like emeralds against the dark blue haze beyond. All creatures had become wonderfully silent; not a bird sang, not an insect hummed. Anton went forward with dragging step, and the dove floated silently above him,--a white speck against the dark sky.

But what was that high up there on the cliff? It was a little chamois that stood with all its four feet close together on a point of rock, and looked about.

"Hurrah! I shall get you!" thought Anton as he cocked his gun; but the chamois with a couple of nimble bounds sprang farther up the mountain.

"Ho, ho! That won't help you any!" said Anton, running nearer to the rocks where the chamois stood. "I am a good shot, let me tell you; and I must have prey of some sort to take with me from the mountain."

"But why should you kill me?" asked the chamois, bounding a little farther away. "What harm have I ever done to you? Does it annoy you that I stand here and look at the view?"

"No, but you have such handsome little horns. I should like to put them up over my door as a sign that I had conquered you."

"For you to conquer me would be easy," said the chamois. "You have a gun, and I have nothing. But I had always believed that the mountain was made for us both."

Anton made no reply but scrambled hastily up the rocks to get nearer the chamois.

"Oh, Anton, little Anton! let me alone!" called the chamois, making the longest leap it could. "I would truly rather have my horns on my head than over your door! Cannot you understand that? If you love your freedom, let me keep mine."

At that moment the thunder pealed with a frightful crash among the mountains. Anton became altogether uncomfortable and put his gun down. "Leap where you will, then," he called to the chamois. "Perhaps we might see which of us can get to Falkensten first."

"Oh, I shall, surely," said the chamois, starting off with a big leap. "But I will wait for you outside the castle wall, and if you need my help you will know where to find me." And with these words the chamois vanished.

"Shall I never, never reach Falkensten?" groaned Anton. He was dead tired and began to think he had gone astray, but suddenly, at a turn in the path, the castle stood before him as if it had sprung up out of the earth.

It was of the same color as the rocks upon which it was built, and how big and high and thick-walled it was! It had but few windows scattered here and there on the side toward the path. From the tower waved Rynkebryn's banner,--a fiery red flag on which was a black falcon. The drawbridge that led over to the castle was drawn up, and over the chasm that was between the rocks on which the castle was built and the other rocks, there was only a rough narrow bridge, made of slender branches placed side by side.

Anton stood still. It would be dangerous to go over such a bridge without any kind of a railing to hold fast to; but he must deliver the letter. Just then he heard something whispering at his feet:

"Since you can't glide like me, and creep,
Be wise; cross not the chasm deep."

It was the little lizard that came hurrying toward him with this warning.

"But how should I then get the message to Baron Rynkebryn?" said Anton. He had already started across the bridge.

And now something came hopping along at his side. It was the squirrel with his red tail high in the air like a flag, and with wide-open eyes; and while he hopped about Anton's feet he chattered:

"Since you can't hop like me, and climb, That castle shun; be warned in time!"

"But how then should I attend to my errand?" Anton was now half-way across the bridge.

As he stood there, the dove came flying and floating on her wings above the abyss.

"Since you can't float and fly like me, Turn back, turn back and homeward flee,"

said the dove, flying near Anton's cheek.

"Yes, that I will do when once I have given the Baron his letter," said Anton, "but I don't turn back when I am half-way over the bridge, nor flee homeward until my errand is done."

So he proceeded. The thin branches in the loosely-made bridge creaked and bent under his feet. On both sides of him was the dizzy chasm. He had a queer pain in his heart and everything turned black before his eyes; but he pressed his hands against his breast where he had hidden the letter, kept his gaze straight ahead, and walked on with firm step. There! Now he could draw a long breath, a sigh of relief; for he was at last safely across the frail bridge,--on the other side of the chasm, and under the castle wall.

At first he could see no opening in the wall; it stretched up as hard and impenetrable as the rock upon which it stood, but when Anton stole around it, he found a small door,--an iron door with many locks and fastenings. He picked up a stone and knocked hard on the door, but no one answered. Everything around him was still as death.

Suddenly he heard a strange rumbling sound, which he thought at first might be the echo of the thunder among the rocks; but no. The sound came from the hall where Baron Rynkebryn and his men sat and drank, and roared with laughter loud enough to make the castle tremble.

Since no one seemed to hear Anton, he lost patience, took his gun which was still loaded and shot it off. He could hear the echoes answer from mountain to mountain and at last die away; but now there were signs of life in the castle. A man opened a shutter high up in the tower and called, "Who shoots under Falkensten Castle? Is it friend or foe?"

Anton put both hands to his mouth and shouted back, "A friend! A friend! A messenger from the valley!" Then he heard the man slam the shutter to, come with a clatter down the stairs, trudge across the courtyard, and begin to rattle the locks and bolts of the iron door. At last the door opened slowly and a gruff-looking warrior stood before little Anton.

"What do you want?" asked the warrior. His voice sounded like a bear's. "What have you to say to the Lord of Falkensten?"

"That I must tell to Baron Rynkebryn himself," answered Anton. "The message is to him and none other."

"Listen to the young sparrow that dares to come into the falcon's nest!" said the warrior, but he opened the door just wide enough for Anton to slip in.

As the boy turned in the doorway, he caught sight of the chamois which stood on a stone beside the chasm, stretching its head forward.

"Yes, here I am!" called the chamois. "I will keep on the watch by the wall, so you will know where to find me!"

At that instant the heavy iron door clanged shut after Anton, and he was at last inside the walls of Falkensten. His steps echoed with a hollow sound in the small courtyard; and it was dark and damp as a cellar, inside the castle on the great winding stairs that led to the baronial hall. Little Anton felt his heart beating like a hammer and choking him, when the warrior opened the door to the hall and let him pass in.

At the end of a long oaken table sat Baron Rynkebryn and his retainers, drinking. Their eyes were bloodshot like those of an angry bull, and they laughed and shouted so that the high rafters shook. Little Anton squeezed himself into a corner near the door and stood, hat in hand, waiting until Rynkebryn should speak to him.

Long did he wait, for the Baron was wholly absorbed in his carousing. The wine flowed over his beard; he sat with both arms leaning on the table and laughed till his bones rattled. Suddenly his eye fell upon Anton.

"Who is that little whipper-snapper shivering there by the door?" he asked, pointing with his big finger. So Anton had to go forward. He bowed many times as he crossed the room, each bow deeper than the last, and when he reached the Baron, he took the letter from his breast and presented it.

The Baron snatched it from him and began to read it, Anton meanwhile standing still and looking out of the tower window. Never before had he seen so far out into the world. One mountain chain after another gleamed forth, lit by the sun; streams lay like narrow white ribbons in the valley; and the boundless sky arched over all, its big thunder-clouds looking like mountains above the other mountains. Anton forgot entirely where he was while gazing at all this glory; but he was awakened to reality by a roar from Rynkebryn.

"So this is the kind of message you bring me, is it?" he screamed, and he struck his fist on the table so violently that the wine bottles tumbled over, and the rich red wine ran in streams across the white cloth, like blood. "How dare you bring such a letter to the Lord of Falkensten?"

"How should I know what was in the letter?" asked Anton. He trembled like an aspen leaf. "I do not read the letters people trust me with."

"Oh, you don't, don't you?" roared Rynkebryn. He had first grown red as the wine he drank, but now he was as white as the table-cloth. "It might have been well for you if you had peeped into this letter. If you had, I think you would have turned back with it. Herein"--he shook the letter till it rattled--"herein those traitors of the valley renounce their allegiance to me; and he who goes on errands for traitors is a traitor himself and shall die a traitor's death. Do you understand that, you miserable little worm?"

Anton tried to speak, but could not get a word over his lips. He grew icy cold and shook as if he had the ague.

"But I shall revenge myself on that pack," shouted Rynkebryn. "I shall descend upon them like an overwhelming horror, like a thief in the night, and lay their land waste. Sure as death, before three nights have passed there shall be neither stick nor stone left of their city in the valley."

"Shall I tell them that?" asked Anton, in a low, frightened voice.

"No, you can spare yourself the trouble!" shouted Rynkebryn, laughing. "I shall say it to them myself with a drawn sword. No, my little friend,"--his eyes glared horribly, "you shall have a night's lodging at Falkensten. Your guest-chamber is ready. You shall march down to the castle prison, and there you can lie and amuse yourself guessing what death you are to die in the morning. Let me see. I must think of something very fine. I might, for instance, hit you with a club so that you broke in two like a piece of glass. That might be very amusing to see. Ha! ha! ha!"

Anton shuddered. He remembered that he had threatened the little lizard with this very treatment, and had had the same idea that it would be amusing to see.

"Or," continued the Baron, "I could crush you with one whack of my gun, so!--That would be very quickly done."

The icy shivers ran down Anton's back. Just this kind of terror that he was feeling must the squirrel have felt when Anton threatened him with the butt of his gun.

"Or I could fasten you out on the castle wall, as one fastens a bird that has been shot upon a barn door. There you could hang as a warning to traitors, until you fell to pieces," growled Rynkebryn, stroking his beard.

Things turned black before Anton's eyes. "Oh!" he thought with anguish. "This is just the way I threatened the dove, the innocent little creature!"

"Or I could chop your head off!" roared Rynkebryn, rushing toward Anton with clenched fists. "Then I could put your head on top of the tower where there is a glorious view. What a treat that would be for you!" All the men laughed so hard at this that they had to hold their sides.

But little Anton did not laugh. He stood there thinking, with deep remorse, how he had threatened to take the life of the harmless chamois, and put its horns over the door. "Oh, God be praised that I let it run!" he thought; but just then Rynkebryn's men caught hold of him, tied him securely, hand and foot, with strong rope, and took him to the castle prison.

Dark and damp indeed was the prison cell. It had no windows except, high up in the wall, a little opening with strong iron bars across it. The men threw Anton on the floor and then went out, locking the door after them with so many locks that Anton knew he could never open that door, even if he had both his hands free.

There he lay, looking up at the barred window. The sunset glowed through it still, but faded little by little, and darkness came on. High in the sky the stars twinkled out, one after another. And Anton lay and thought that when their light was quenched again, his life was to be put out, as if it were but a spark. What made him most unhappy was the thought that he could not get a message to the city in the valley, so that some one might know that Rynkebryn, the next night, was going to creep upon them like a thief, burn their city and devastate their land.

He laid his head on the damp floor of the cell and began to cry. All at once he heard something rustle,--a queer little sound. He thought it might be a rat that would bite him, and drew his legs up close; but something small came creeping lightly over him right up to his cheek. "Don't be afraid," it whispered. "It is only I, the little lizard you met on your way. I have hurried at your heels the whole time, until you disappeared through the castle door. But how have you brought yourself to this? You should have followed my advice and turned back in time,--you who can neither creep nor glide."

"Perhaps," sighed poor Anton. "But it is too late to think of that, and no one in the world can help me now."

"Oh," answered the lizard, "one should never give up hope. Since I could get into the castle prison, we shall manage to get you out." And with that the tiny creature rustled away in the darkness.

A minute or two after, little Anton saw something black against the barred window. It squeezed itself between the bars and dropped with a thump to the floor.

"Here am I," chattered the squirrel, hopping to Anton. "What foolishness has been going on here?"

"As you see," replied Anton, "I am captured and bound, and in the morning I am to die."

"Oh, in the morning!" said the squirrel. "It is a long time to morning. Much can happen before the sun gets up again."

"But I cannot stir hand or foot," said Anton. "Don't you see how they have tied my hands behind my back?"

"Oh, yes! I see that well enough," replied the squirrel, opening his big eyes wider than ever. "Where are the knots?" And with one jump he was on Anton's back, beginning immediately to gnaw at the knots with his small pointed teeth. He bit and pulled at the rope so that his little body shook with the effort; and it was not long before Anton felt the loosening at his wrists and afterward at his ankles. All at once the ropes fell off and he was free.

"Oh, you blessed little animal!" said Anton, hugging and kissing the squirrel. "Now I am a free person again, and not a tied-up bundle!"

"Yes, but there is still the high, barred window," said the squirrel. "We must have the dove's help now." And he sprang up to the window and vanished through it.

Little Anton stood looking after him, but suddenly he could no longer see the stars and the sky as before, for they were blotted out by something that filled the whole window. He soon saw that it was the dove flapping her out-spread wings against the bars. She could not get in, but she had something in her bill which she let fall through the window. It clanged as it hit the floor, and when Anton stooped to pick it up, he saw that it was a file.

"I found that in Rynkebryn's own window where it lay, ready to be used for his evil purposes; but now it shall help you out of prison," said the dove.

No one would have imagined they could do it, but the squirrel and the dove helped Anton to get the ropes he had been tied with up to the window, and to fasten them there so firmly that he could climb up the ropes. Then he filed and filed at the iron bars till his hands bled, while the lizard ran up and down the wall saying: "Make haste! Make haste! It will soon be morning!"

But the sun had not yet risen when little Anton stood, rescued and free, on the rocks outside the castle wall.

And there was the chamois waiting for him!

"Seat yourself on my back, little Anton!" said the chamois. "And hold tight! for we are going to gallop down the mountain so fast that straps and buckles would not keep you on!"

So Anton got on the chamois' back and held tight. This was necessary indeed; for slow as it had been trudging up the mountain, he now went down with a speed like that of a stone which, being tossed, bounds from rock to rock as it strikes them on its downward-flying way.

"I shall fall! I shall fall!" shouted Anton, clinging for dear life to the chamois' neck. "I shall pitch off head first!"

"Oh, no! You won't fall," said the chamois; "nor I, either. I am very sure-footed," and on it leaped as fast as ever.

Just as the sun rose, Anton stood at the Mayor's door and knocked. The Mayor himself came to open it, and was overwhelmed with wonder when he saw little Anton standing there as alive as ever, and without so much as a hair of his head hurt!

"I come with bad tidings," said Anton. "If you don't look out, you will have Rynkebryn and his men after you before you know it; and he is not going to spare any of you,--yourselves or your property. Every one had better be armed and ready."

The next night, Baron Rynkebryn with all his warriors came sneaking down the mountain expecting to take the peasants by surprise, and to catch them all as one catches rats in a trap; and he felt himself completely fooled when he found the peasants on the alert and prepared to give him a warm welcome! From all the country round had the town folk summoned help, and the men were armed with lances and javelins, with scythes and pitchforks; and there was nothing for Rynkebryn to do but to hasten up the mountain again as fast as his legs could carry him. But the peasants followed him all the way to Falkensten, gathered brushwood and branches which they heaped about the castle, and then set on fire, determined to destroy that den of thieves. It blazed and flamed like a bonfire and sent ruddy light far and near. The wicked Baron Rynkebryn and his men were forced to flee and to hide like wild eagles high up in desolate clefts of the mountains.

And now there was nothing good that the people did not wish to do for little Anton! They would have him to be Mayor, and a great festival should be held in his honor in the palatial hall of the Council House. But little Anton only thanked them over and over. He had not the least desire in the world to be Mayor, neither did he care to sit and feast and sing with those who had recently sent him out on that dangerous errand without troubling themselves at all as to what would happen to him.

Therefore, he asked only that he might have what he needed in order to give a party to his nearest and dearest friends. Oh, yes! The people would gladly give him anything; he need only say what he wished for.

Then Anton said he would like one vest-pocket full of grain, and the other full of small snails; and one trousers-pocket full of nuts, and the other full of salt. He would like also a loaf of white bread, a bottle of wine and a handful of fresh peaches.

The people thought his wishes were very peculiar indeed; but he received what he had asked for and then started toward the mountain.

A little later, as he sat under a chestnut-tree and looked out over the valley, he heard the drums and trumpets from the festival in the Council House, where the people sat and feasted, and shouted hurrahs for their old Mayor. A spring bubbled near him; the chestnut-tree shaded him; the sun shone on the vineyards below, while high up at the top of the mountain, smoke was still rising from the ruins of Falkensten.

He had spread his table on the fresh green grass. There lay the bread and the peaches and beside them stood the flask of wine; but before he began to eat, he invited his guests to take their food. The lizard had all the little snails; the dove ate grain from Anton's one hand, while the chamois licked salt from the other; but the little squirrel sat above in the chestnut-tree and stuffed himself up to his throat with nuts, throwing all the shells down upon little Anton's head.

--_Helena Nyblom_.

THE FOREST WITCH

It was in the earliest springtime. In the shade the air was still quite cold; but where the clear and strong sunshine streamed down, one could see that spring had come, for there the blossoms were beginning to stretch upward on their tiny stalks.

A couple of children were walking through the forest: a ten-year-old girl, named Nina, and her little brother Johannes.

They were seeking flowers. Nina had to find them because the flowers were too tiny and too much hidden for so small a child as Johannes to discover them for himself, but she always let him have the pleasure of picking them.

It was such a joyous spring walk that Nina did not notice how far they were straying away from their grandmother's hut, back of the hill. This little hut had been their home only for a short time. When their dear father and mother died, their grandmother had kindly taken them to live with her; and this was their first walk in the forest.

At last Nina thought they ought to go back, but just as she turned around with Johannes by the hand, who should stand before them but a hideous old creature, more glaring and frightful than you can imagine!

"What are you doing here, you wretched children?" she shrieked; "are you plucking flowers in my forest? Then shall I pluck you, you may believe!"

"Oh, pardon us," cried Nina; "we did not know that we must not pick flowers here. We are strangers in this forest. Pray, pray pardon us."

"_Snikkesnak!_" (fiddlestick!) answered the terrific old Witch, for such the creature was. "Don't talk to me! I never pay any attention to what children say; nor to old folks' talk either, for that matter. Indeed I don't! Snikkesnak! snikkesnak! But it is not you that I want, silly girl. It is the boy there who has offended me. The little rascal! It is he who picked the flowers. Now I shall take him!"

"Oh! take me, take me instead," cried Nina in terror, flinging her arms around her brother. "It is my fault! I showed him the flowers, and let him pick them. You've no right to take him! Oh! do take me; he is too little."