Part 6

Each servant fell to work greedily with his knife and fork, and just as he had got a delicious morsel half-way to his mouth, the gnome on the back of his chair stretched himself forward and deftly snatched the meat from the end of the fork. Thus, all the way around the table, each man unconsciously put his piece of beef into the wide-open mouth of his particular gnome. And the unbidden guests grinned shrewdly at one another, and seemed to think it all capital fun. Sometimes, when the wooden trays (which were used instead of plates) were sent to be replenished, they made horrrible grimaces, often mimicking their poor victims, who chewed and swallowed and went through all the motions of eating, without obtaining the slightest nourishment. They all would have liked to fling knives and forks and trays out through the windows, but they had the morning’s chastisement freshly in mind, and they did not dare open their mouths, except for the futile purpose of eating.

“Well, my lads and lasses,” said the baron, when he had watched the meal for some minutes; “if you can complain of food like this, you indeed deserve to be flogged and put on prison fare.”

“Very likely, your lordship,” said one of the milkmaids; “but if your lordship would demean yourself to take a morsel with us, we would bless your lordship for your kindness and complain no more.”

The baron, looking around at all the hopeless eyes and haggard faces, felt that there was something besides vanity that prompted the request; and he accordingly ordered the cook to bring his own plate and drew his chair up to the table. Hardly had he seized his knife when Nils saw a gnome, who had hitherto been seated on the floor awaiting his turn, crawl up on the arm of his big chair and, standing on tiptoe, seize between his teeth the first bit the baron was putting to his mouth. The old gentleman looked astounded, mystified, bewildered; but, fearing to make an exhibition of himself, selected another mouthful, and again conducted it the accustomed way. The gnome came near laughing right out, as he despatched this second morsel in the same manner as the first, and all around the table the little monsters held their hands over their mouths and seemed on the point of exploding. The baron put down knife and fork with a bang; his eyes seemed to be starting out of his head, and his whole face assumed an expression of unspeakable horror.

“It is Satan himself who is mocking us!” he cried. “Send for the priest! Send for the priest!”

Just then Nils crept around behind the baron, who soon felt something soft, like a fine skull-cap, pressed on his head, and before he had time to resent the liberty, he started in terror at the sight of the little creature that he saw sitting on the arm of his chair. He sprang up with an exclamation of fright, and pushed the chair back so violently that it was almost upset upon the floor. The gnome dexterously leaped down and stood staring back at the baron for an instant; then, with a spring, he snatched a potato and half a loaf of bread, and disappeared. In his haste, the baron ran against Nils, the under-groom, who (now without a cap) was standing with a smiling countenance calmly surveying all the confusion about him.

“Now, was I right, your lordship?” he asked, with a respectful bow. “Did _you_ find the victuals very filling?”

The baron, who was yet too frightened to answer, stood gazing toward a window-pane, which suddenly and noiselessly broke, and through which the whole procession of gnomes, huddled together in flight, tumbled headlong into the snow-bank without.

“And what shall we do, Nils,” said the baron, the next day, when he had recovered from his shock, “to prevent the return of the unbidden guests?”

“Stop ringing the great bell,” answered Nils. “It is that which invites the gnomes.”

And since that day the dinner-bell has never been rung at Halthorp.

But one day, late in the winter, Nils the groom, as he was splitting wood on the mountain-side, heard a plaintively tinkling voice within, singing:

“Hunger and sorrow each new day is bringing, Since Halthorp bell has ceased its ringing.”

HOW BERNT WENT WHALING.

Bernt Holter and his sister Hilda were sitting on the beach, playing with large spiral cockles which they imagined were cows and horses. They built stables out of chips, and fenced in their pastures, and led their cattle in long rows through the deep grooves they had made in the sand.

“When I grow up to be a man,” said Bernt, who was twelve years old, “I am going to sea and catch whales, as father did when he was young. I don’t want to stand behind a counter and sell calico and tape and coffee and sugar,” he continued, thrusting his chest forward, putting his hands into his pockets, and marching with a manly swagger across the beach. “I don’t want to play with cockles, like a baby, any more,” he added, giving a forcible kick to one of Hilda’s finest shells and sending it flying across the sand.

“I wish you wouldn’t be so naughty, Bernt,” cried his sister, with tears in her eyes. “If you don’t want to play with me, I can play alone. Bernt, oh--look there!”

Just at that moment a dozen or more columns of water flew high into the air, and the same number of large, black tail-fins emerged from the surface of the fiord, and again slowly vanished.

“Hurrah!” cried Bernt, in great glee, “it is a school of dolphins. Good-by, Hilda dear, I think I’ll run down to the boat-house.”

“I think I’ll go with you, Bernt,” said his sister, obligingly, rising and shaking the sand from her skirts.

“I think you’ll not,” remarked her brother, angrily; “I can run faster than you.”

So saying, he rushed away over the crisp sand as fast as his feet would carry him, while his sister Hilda, who was rather a soft-hearted girl, and ready with her tears, ran after him, all out of breath and calling to him at the top of her voice. Finally, when she was more than half way to the boat-house, she stumbled against a stone and fell full length upon the beach. Bernt, fearing that she might be hurt, paused in his flight and returned to pick her up, but could not refrain from giving her a vindictive little shake, as soon as he discovered that she had sustained no injury.

“I do think girls are the greatest bother that ever was invented,” he said, in high dudgeon. “I don’t see what they are good for, anyway.”

“I want to go with you, Bernt,” cried Hilda.

Seeing there was no escape, he thought he might just as well be kind to her.

“You may go,” he said, “if you will promise never to tell anybody what I am going to do?”

“No, Bernt, I shall never tell,” said the child, eagerly, and drying her tears.

“I am going a-whaling,” whispered Bernt, mysteriously. “Come along!”

“Whaling!” echoed the girl, in delicious excitement. “Dear Bernt, how good you are! Oh, how lovely! No, I shall never tell it to anybody as long as I live.”

It was late in the afternoon, and the sun, which at that time of the year never sets in the northern part of Norway, threw its red, misty rays like a veil of dull flame over the lofty mountains which, with their snow-hooded peaks, pierced the fiery clouds; their huge reflections shone in soft tints of red, green, and blue in the depth of the fiord, whose glittering surface was calm and smooth as a mirror. Only in the bay which the school of dolphins had entered was the water ruffled; but there, high spouts rose every moment into the air and descended again in showers of fine spray.

“It is well that father has gone away with the fishermen,” said Bernt, as he exerted himself with all his might to push his small boat down over the slippery beams of the boat-house. “Here, Hilda, hold my harpoon for me.”

Hilda, greatly impressed with her own dignity in being allowed to hold so dangerous a weapon as a harpoon, grasped it eagerly and held it up in both her arms. Bernt once more put his shoulder to the prow of his light skiff (which, in honor of his father’s whaling voyages, he had named The North Pole) and with a tremendous effort set it afloat. Then he carefully assisted Hilda into the boat, in the stern of which she seated herself. Next he seized the oars and rowed gently out beyond the rocky headland toward which he had seen the dolphins steer their course. He was an excellent sailor for his years, and could manage a boat noiselessly and well.

“Hilda, take the helm,” he whispered, “or, if you were only good for anything, you might paddle and we should be upon them in a minute. Now, remember, and push the tiller to the side opposite where I want to go.”

“I’ll remember,” she replied, breathlessly.

The gentle splashing of the oars and the clicking of the rowlocks were the only sounds which broke the silence of the evening. Now and then a solitary gull gave a long, shrill scream as she dived beneath the surface of the fiord, and once a fish-hawk’s loud, discordant yell was flung by the echoes from mountain to mountain.

“Starboard,” commanded Bernt, sternly; but Hilda in her agitation pushed the tiller to the wrong side and sent the boat flying to port.

“Starboard, I said!” cried the boy, indignantly; “if I had known you would be so stupid, I should never have taken you along.”

“Please, brother dear, do be patient with me,” pleaded the girl, remorsefully. “I shall not do it again.”

It then pleased his majesty, Bernt Holter, to relent, although his sister had by her awkwardness alarmed the dolphins, sending the boat right in their wake, when it had been his purpose to head them off. He knew well enough that it takes several minutes for a whole school of so large a fish as the dolphin to change its course, and the hunter would thus have a good chance of “pricking” a laggard before he could catch up with his companions. Bernt strained every muscle, while coolly keeping his eye on the water to note the course of his game. His only chance was in cutting across the bay and lying in wait for them at the next headland. For he knew very well that if they were seriously frightened and suspected that they were being pursued, they could easily beat him by the speed and dexterity of their movements. But he saw to his delight that his calculations were correct. Instead of taking the straight course seaward, the dolphins, being probably in pursuit of fresh herring, young cod, and other marine delicacies which they needed for their late dinner, steered close to land where the young fish are found in greater abundance, and their following the coastline of the bay gave Bernt a chance of cutting them off and making their acquaintance at closer quarters. Having crossed the little bay, he commanded his sister to lie down flat in the bottom of the boat--a command which she willingly, though with a quaking heart, obeyed. He backed cautiously into a little nook among the rocks from which he had a clear passage out, and having one hand on his harpoon, which was secured by a rope to the prow of the boat, and the other on the boat-hook (with which he meant to push himself rapidly out into the midst of the school), he peered joyously over the gunwale and heard the loud snorts, followed by the hissing descent of the spray, approaching nearer and nearer. Now, steady my boy! Don’t lose your presence of mind! One, two, three--there goes! Jumping up, fixing the boat-hook against the rock, and with a tremendous push shooting out into the midst of the school was but a moment’s work. Whew! The water spouts and whirls about his ears as in a shower-bath. Off goes his cap. Let it go! But stop! What was that? A terrific slap against the side of the boat as from the tail of a huge fish. Hilda jumps up with a piercing shriek and the boat careens heavily to the port side, the gunwale dipping for a moment under the water. A loud snort, followed again by a shower of spray, is heard right ahead, and, at the same moment, the harpoon flies through the air with a fierce whiz and lodges firmly in a broad, black back. The huge fish in its first spasm of pain gives a fling with its tail and for an instant the little boat is lifted out of the water on the back of the wounded dolphin.

“Keep steady, don’t let go the rope!” shouts Bernt at the top of his voice, “he won’t hurt--”

But before he had finished, the light skiff, with a tremendous splash, struck the water again, and the little coil of rope to which the harpoon was attached flew humming over the gunwale and disappeared with astonishing speed into the deep.

Bernt seized the cord, and when there was little left to spare, tied it firmly to the prow of the boat, which then, of course, leaped forward with every effort of the dolphin to rid itself of the harpoon. The rest of the school, having taken alarm, had sought deep water, and were seen, after a few minutes, far out beyond the headland.

“I want to go home, Bernt,” Hilda exclaimed, vehemently. “I want to go home; I don’t want to get killed, Bernt.”

“You silly thing! You can’t go home now. You must just do as I tell you; but, of course--if you only are sensible--you won’t get killed, or hurt at all.”

While he was yet speaking, the boat began all of a sudden to move rapidly over the water.

The dolphin had bethought him of flight, not knowing that, however swiftly he swam, he pulled his enemy after him. As he rose to the surface, about fifty or sixty yards ahead, a small column of water shot feebly upward, and spread in a fan-like, irregular shape before it fell. The poor beast floundered along for a few seconds, its long, black body in full view, and then again dived down, dragging the boat onward with a series of quick convulsive pulls.

Bernt held on tightly to the cord, while the water foamed and bubbled about the prow and surged in swirling eddies in the wake of the skiff.

“If I can only manage to get that dolphin,” said Bernt, “I know father will give me at least a dollar for him. There’s lots of blubber on him, and that is used for oil to burn in lamps.”

The little girl did not answer, but grasped the gunwale hard on each side, and gazed anxiously at the foaming and bubbling water. Bernt, too, sat silent in the prow, but with a fisherman’s excitement in his face. The sun hung, huge and fiery, over the western mountains, and sent up a great, dusky glare among the clouds, which burned in intense but lurid hues of red and gold. Gradually, and before they were fully aware of it, the boat began to rise and descend again, and Bernt discovered by the heavy, even roll of the water that they must be near the ocean.

“Now you may stop, my dear dolphin,” he said, coolly. “We don’t want you to take us across to America. Who would have thought that you were such a tough customer anyway?”

He let go the rope, and, seating himself again, put the oars into the rowlocks. He tried to arrest the speed of the boat by vigorous backing; but, to his surprise, found that his efforts were of no avail.

“Hilda,” he cried, not betraying, however, the anxiety he was beginning to feel, “take the other pair of oars and let us see what you are good for.”

Hilda, not realizing the danger, obeyed, a little tremblingly, perhaps, and put the other pair of oars into their places.

“Now let us turn the boat around,” sternly commanded the boy. “It’s getting late, and we must be home before bedtime. One--two--three--pull!”

The oars struck the water simultaneously and the boat veered half way around; but the instant the oars were lifted again, it started back into its former course.

“Why don’t you cut the rope and let the dolphin go?” asked Hilda, striving hard to master the tears, which again were pressing to her eyelids.

“Not I,” answered her brother; “why, all the fellows would laugh at me if they heard how I first caught the dolphin and then the dolphin caught me. No, indeed. He hasn’t much strength left by this time, and we shall soon see him float up.”

He had hardly uttered these words, when they shot past a rocky promontory, and the vast ocean spread out before them. Both sister and brother gave an involuntary cry of terror. There they were, in their frail little skiff, far away from home, and with no boat visible for miles around. “Cut the rope, cut the rope! Dear Bernt, cut the rope!” screamed Hilda, wringing her hands in despair.

“I am afraid it is too late,” answered her brother, doggedly. “The tide is going out, and that is what has carried us so swiftly to sea. I was a fool that I didn’t think of it.”

“But what shall we do--what shall we do!” moaned the girl, hiding her face in her apron.

“Stop that crying,” demanded her brother, imperiously. “I’ll tell you what we shall have to do. We couldn’t manage to pull back against the tide, especially here at the mouth of the fiord, where the current is so strong. We had better keep on seaward, and then, if we are in luck, we shall meet the fishing-boats when they return, which will be before morning. Anyway, there is little or no wind, and the night is light enough, so that they cannot miss seeing us.”

“Oh, I shall surely die, I shall surely die!” sobbed Hilda, flinging herself down in the bottom of the boat.

Bernt deigned her no answer, but sat gazing sullenly out over the ocean toward the western horizon, over which the low sun shed its lurid mist of fire. The ocean broke with a mighty roar against the rocks, hushed itself for a few seconds, and then hurled itself against the rocks anew. To be frank, he was not quite so fearless as he looked; but he thought it cowardly to give expression to his fear, and especially in the presence of his sister, in whose estimation he had always been a hero. The sun sank lower until it almost touched the water. The rope hung perfectly slack from the prow, and only now and then grew tense as if something was feebly tugging at the other end. He concluded that the dolphin had bled to death or was exhausted. In the meanwhile, they were drifting rapidly westward, and the hollow noise of the breakers was growing more and more distant. From a merely idle impulse of curiosity Bernt began to haul in his rope, and presently saw a black body, some ten or twelve feet long, floating up only a few rods from the boat. He gave four or five pulls at the rope and was soon alongside of it. Bernt felt very sad as he looked at it, and was sorry he had killed the harmless animal. The thought came into his mind that his present desperate situation was God’s punishment on him for his cruel delight in killing.

“But God would not punish my sister for my wickedness,” he reflected, gazing tenderly at Hilda, who lay in the boat with her hands folded under her cheek, having sobbed herself to sleep. He felt consoled, and, murmuring a prayer he had once heard in church for “sailors in distress at sea,” lay down at his sister’s side and stared up into the vast, red dome of the sky above him. The water plashed gently against the sides of the skiff as it rose and rocked upon the great smooth “ground swell,” and again sank down, as it seemed into infinite depths, only to climb again the next billow. Bernt felt sleepy and hungry, and the more he stared into the sky the more indistinct became his vision. He sprang up, determined to make one last, desperate effort, and strove to row in toward land, but he could make no headway against the strong tide, and with aching limbs and a heavy heart he again stretched himself out in the bottom of the boat. Before he knew it he was fast asleep.

He did not know how long he had slept, but the dim, fiery look of the sun had changed into an airy rose color, when he felt someone seizing him by the arm and crying out: “In the name of wonders, boy, how did you come here?”

He rubbed his eyes and saw his father’s shaggy face close to his.

“And my dear little girl too,” cried the father, in a voice of terror. “Heaven be praised for having preserved her!”

And he lifted Hilda in his arms and pressed her close to his breast. Bernt thought he saw tears glistening in his eyes. That made him suddenly very solemn. For he had never seen his father cry before. Around about him was a fleet of some thirty or forty boats laden to the gunwale with herring. He now understood his rescue.

“Now tell me, Bernt, truthfully,” said his father, gravely, still holding the sobbing Hilda tightly in his embrace, “how did this happen?”

“I went a-whaling,” stammered Bernt, feeling not at all so brave as he had felt when he started on his voyage. But he still had courage enough to point feebly to the dead dolphin which lay secured a short distance from the skiff.

“Wait till we get home,” said his father, “then _I’ll_ go a-whaling.”

He stood, for a while, gazing in amazement at the huge fish, then again at his son, as if comparing their bulk. He felt that he ought to scold the youthful sportsman, but he knew it was in the blood, and was therefore more inclined to praise his daring spirit. Accordingly, when he got home, he did not go a-whaling.

“Bernt,” he said, patting the boy’s curly head, “you may be a brave lad; but next time your bravery gets the better of you--leave the little lass at home.”

THE COOPER AND THE WOLVES.

Tollef Kolstad was a cooper, and a very skilful cooper he was said to be. He had a little son named Thor, who was as fond of his father as his father was of him. Whatever Tollef did or said, Thor was sure to imitate; if Tollef was angry and flung a piece of wood at the dog who used to come into the shop and bother him, Thor, thinking it was a manly thing to do, flung another piece at poor Hector, who ran out whimpering through the door.

Thor, of course, was not very old before he had a corner in his father’s shop, where, with a small set of tools which had been especially bought for him, he used to make little pails and buckets and barrels, which he sold for five or ten cents apiece to the boys of the neighborhood. All the money earned in this way he put into a bank of tin, made like a drum, of which his mother kept the key. When he grew up, he thought, he would be a rich man.

The last weeks before Christmas are, in Norway, always the briskest season in all trades; then the farmer wants his horses shod, so that he may take his wife and children to church in his fine, swan-shaped sleigh; he wants bread and cakes made to last through the holidays, so that his servants may be able to amuse themselves, and his guests may be well entertained when they call; and, above all, he wants large tubs and barrels, stoutly made of beech staves, for his beer and mead, with which he pledges every stranger who, during the festival, happens to pass his door. You may imagine, then, that at Christmas time coopers are much in demand, and that it is not to be wondered at if sometimes they are behind-hand with their orders. This was unfortunately the case with Tollef Kolstad at the time when the strange thing happened which I am about to tell you. He had been at work since the early dawn, upon a huge tub or barrel, which had been ordered by Grim Berglund, the richest peasant in the parish. Grim was to give a large party on the following day (which was Christmas-Eve), and he had made Tollef promise to bring the barrel that same night, so that he might pour the beer into it, and have all in readiness for the holidays, when it would be wrong to do any work. It was about ten o’clock at night when Tollef made the last stroke with his hatchet on the large hollow thing, upon which every blow resounded as on a drum. He went to a neighbor and hired from him his horse and flat sleigh, and was about to start on his errand, when he heard a tiny voice calling behind him:

“Father, do take me along, too!”

“I can’t, my boy. There may be wolves on the lake, to-night, and they might like to eat up little boys who stay out of bed so late.”

“But I am not afraid of them, father. I have my whip and my hatchet, and I’ll whip them and cut them.”