Part 5

Chapter 54,553 wordsPublic domain

Rain and sunshine came turn and turn about, in just the way that was best for the corn. No sooner did the farmer think that it was getting rather dry, than he could be quite sure that it would rain the next day. And, if he was of opinion that he had had rain enough, then the clouds parted at once, just as though it were the farmer that was in command.

The farmer, therefore, was in a good humour and did not complain, as otherwise he always did. Glad and rejoicing, he walked over the land with his two boys.

“It will be a splendid harvest this year,” he said. “I shall get my barns full and make lots of money. Then Jens and Ole shall have a new pair of trousers apiece and I will take them with me to market.”

“If you don’t cut me soon, farmer, I shall be lying down flat,” said the rye and bowed her heavy ears right down to the ground.

Now the farmer could not hear this, but was quite able to see what the rye was thinking of; and so he went home to fetch his sickle.

“It’s a good thing to be in the service of men,” said the rye. “I can be sure now that all my grains will be well taken care of. Most of them will go to the mill and that, certainly, is not very pleasant. But afterwards they will turn into beautiful fresh bread; and one must suffer something for honour’s sake. What remains the farmer will keep and sow next year on his land.”

Along the hedge and beside the ditch stood the weeds. Thistle and burdock, poppy and bell-flower and dandelion grew in thick clusters and all had their heads full of seed. For them too it had been a fruitful year, for the sun shines and the rain falls on the poor weeds just as much as on the rich corn.

“There’s no one to cut us and cart us to the barn,” said the dandelion and shook her head, but very carefully, lest the seed should fall out too soon. “What is to become of our children?”

“It gives me a headache to think of it,” said the poppy. “Here I stand, with many hundreds of seeds in my head, and I have no idea where to dispose of them.”

“Let’s ask the rye’s advice,” said the burdock.

And then they asked the rye what they ought to do.

“It doesn’t do to mix in other people’s affairs when one’s well off,” said the rye. “There is only one piece of advice that I will give you: mind you don’t fling your silly seed over my field, or you’ll have me to deal with!”

Now this advice was of no use to the wild flowers and they stood all day pondering as to what they should do. When the sun went down, they closed their petals to go to sleep, but they dreamt all night of their seed and the next morning they had found a remedy.

The poppy was the first to wake.

She carefully opened some little shutters in the top of her head, so that the sun could shine right in upon the seeds. Next, she called to the morning-wind, who was running and playing along the hedge.

“Dear wind,” she said, pleasantly. “Will you do me a service?”

“Why not?” said the wind. “I don’t mind having something to do.”

“It’s a mere trifle,” said the poppy. “I will only ask you to give a good shake to my stalk, so that my seeds can fly far away out of the shutters.”

“Right you are,” said the wind.

And away flew the seeds to every side. The stalk certainly snapped; but that the poppy did not bother about. For, when one has provided well for one’s children, there’s really nothing left to do in this world.

“Good-bye,” said the wind and wanted to go on.

“Wait a bit,” said the poppy. “Promise me first that you won’t tell the others. Else they might have the same idea and then there would be less room for my seed.”

“I shall be silent as the grave,” said the wind and ran away.

“Pst! Pst!” said the bell-flower. “Have you a moment to do me a tiny little service?”

“All right,” said the wind. “What is it?”

“Oh, I only wanted to ask you to shake me a little,” said the bell-flower. “I have opened some of the shutters in my head and I should like to have my seed sent a good distance out into the world. But you must be sure not to tell the others, or they might think of doing the same thing.”

“Lord preserve us!” said the wind and laughed. “I shall be mute as a fish.”

And then he gave the flower a thorough good shaking and went on.

“Dear wind, dear wind!” cried the dandelion. “Where are you off to so fast?”

“Is there anything the matter with you too?” asked the wind.

“Not a bit,” said the dandelion. “I only wanted a word with you.”

“Then be quick about it,” said the wind, “for I am thinking seriously of going down.”

“You see,” said the dandelion, “it’s very difficult for us this year to get all our seed settled; and yet one would like to do the best one can for one’s children. How the bell-flower and the poppy and the poor burdock will manage I do not know, upon my word. But the thistle and I have combined and have hit upon an expedient. You shall help us.”

“That makes four in all,” thought the wind and could not help laughing aloud.

“What are you laughing at?” asked the dandelion. “I saw you whispering with the bell-flower and the poppy just now; but, if you tell them a thing, then you will simply get nothing out of me.”

“What do you take me for?” said the wind. “Mum’s the word! What is it you want?”

“We’ve put out a nice little umbrella right up at the top of our seed. It’s the sweetest little toy you can think of. If you only just blow on me, it will fly up in the air and fall down wherever you please. Will you?”

“Certainly,” said the wind.

And, whoosh! he blew over the thistle and the dandelion and took all their seeds with him across the fields.

The burdock still stood pondering. She was thick-headed and that was why she took so long. But, in the evening, a hare jumped over the hedge.

“Hide me! Save me!” he cried. “Farmer’s Trust is after me.”

“Creep round behind the hedge,” said the burdock; “then I’ll hide you.”

“You don’t look to me as if you were cut out for the job,” said the hare; “but beggars can’t be choosers.”

And then he hid behind the hedge.

“Now, in return, you might take some of my seeds to the fields with you,” said the burdock and she broke off some of her many burs and scattered them over the hare.

Soon after, Trust came running along the hedge.

“Here’s the dog!” whispered the burdock and, with a bound, the hare leapt the hedge into the rye.

“Have you seen the hare?” asked Trust. “I can see that I’m getting too old for hunting. One of my eyes is quite blind and my nose can no longer find the scent.”

“I have seen him,” replied the burdock, “and, if you will do me a service, I will show you where he is.”

Trust agreed and the burdock stuck some of her burs on to his back and said:

“Would you just rub yourself against the stile here, inside the field? But that’s not where you’re to look for the hare, for I saw him run into the wood a little while ago.”

Trust carried the burs to the field and ran off to the wood.

“So now I’ve got my seeds settled,” said the burdock and laughed to herself contentedly. “But goodness knows how the thistle is going to manage and the dandelion and the bell-flower and the poppy!”

Next spring, already the rye stood quite high.

“We are well off, considering all things,” said the rye-stalks. “Here we are in a great company that contains none but our own good family. And we don’t hamper one another in the very least. It’s really an excellent thing to be in the service of men.”

But, one fine day, a number of little poppies and thistles and dandelions and burdocks and bell-flowers stuck their heads up above the ground in the midst of the luxuriant rye.

“What’s the meaning of this now?” asked the rye. “How in the world did _you_ get here?”

And the poppy looked at the bell-flower and asked:

“How did _you_ get here?”

And the thistle looked at the burdock and asked:

“How on earth did _you_ get here?”

They were all equally surprised and it was some time before they had done explaining. But the rye was the angriest and, when she had heard all about Trust and the hare and the wind, she was quite furious.

“Thank goodness that the farmer shot the hare in the autumn,” said she. “And Trust, luckily, is dead too, the old scamp! So I have no further quarrel with _them_. But how dare the wind carry the seed of the weeds on to the farmer’s land!”

“Softly, softly, you green rye!” said the wind, who had been lying behind the hedge and had heard all this. “I ask no one’s leave, but do as I please; and now I shall compel you to bow before me.”

Then he blew over the young rye, so that the thin stalks swayed to and fro.

“You see,” he then said, “the farmer looks after his rye, for that’s _his_ business. But the rain and the sun and I: we interest ourselves in all of you alike, without distinction of persons. For us the poor weeds are quite as attractive as the rich corn.”

Now the farmer came out to look at his rye and, when he saw the weeds that stood in the fields, he was vexed and scratched his head and began to scold in his turn.

“That’s that dirty wind,” he said to Jens and Ole, who stood beside him with their hands in the pockets of their new trousers.

But the wind dashed up and blew off the hats of all three of them and trundled them ever so far away. The farmer and his boys ran after them, but the wind was the quicker. At last, he rolled the hats out into the pond and the farmer and his boys had to stand ever so long and fish for them before they got them out.

THE WATER-LILY AND THE DRAGON-FLY

A little stream ran between trees and bushes. Along the banks stood tall, slender reeds and whispered to the wind. In the middle of the water floated the water-lily, with her white flower and her broad, green leaves.

Generally the water was very still, but when, as sometimes happened, the wind went for a trip over the surface of the stream, then the reeds rustled and the water-lilies dived right down under the water and the leaves flew up or to either side, so that the thick green stalks, which came all the way from the bottom, found it difficult to hold them tight.

All day long, a dragon-fly grub crept up and down the water-lily’s stem.

“What a terrible bore it must be,” said the grub, looking up at the flowers, “to be a water-lily!”

“You speak of things which you don’t understand,” replied the water-lily. “It is just the pleasantest thing in the world.”

“Well, I can’t understand that,” said the grub. “I should always want to be tearing myself free and flying round like a great, splendid dragon-fly.”

“Nonsense!” said the water-lily. “A fine pleasure that would be! No, to lie peacefully on the water and dream and to drink sunshine and now and again to rock upon the waves: there’s some sense in that.”

The grub reflected for a moment and then said:

“I have higher aspirations. If I could have my way, I should be a dragon-fly. I should skim over the water on great stiff wings, kiss the white flowers, rest for a second on your leaves and then fly on again.”

“You are ambitious,” said the water-lily, “and that is silly. Wise people know when they are well off. May I make so free as to ask you what you would propose to do to turn into a dragon-fly? You don’t look as if you were made for one. In any case, you must see that you grow up prettier; you’re very gray and ugly now.”

“Yes, that’s the pity of it,” said the grub, a little disheartened. “I myself don’t know how it is to happen; but I still hope that it will. That’s why I crawl around here and eat all the little insects I can catch.”

“Ah, so you think you can eat yourself into something big!” said the water-lily, mockingly. “That would be a pleasant way of improving one’s condition.”

“Yes, but I believe it’s the right way for me!” cried the dragon-fly grub. “I shall eat and eat all day, till I grow stout and fat, and then, one fine morning, I hope my fat will change into wings with gold on them and all the rest that a real dragon-fly wants.”

The water-lily shook her wise white head:

“Let those foolish thoughts be,” she said, “and learn to be contented with your lot. You can now live in peace and quiet among my leaves and creep up and down my stalk as much as ever you like. You have plenty of food and no cares nor worries: what more can you want?”

“You have an inferior nature,” answered the grub, “and therefore you have no sense of higher things. I want to become a dragon-fly!”

And then she crept down to the bottom to catch lots of little insects and eat herself fatter than ever.

The water-lily lay quietly on the water and reflected:

“I can’t understand animals!” she said to herself. “They do nothing but dance about from morn till night, hunt and eat one another and know no moment’s peace. We flowers are more sensible. We grow up calmly and placidly, side by side, drink sunshine and rain and take everything as it comes. And I am the luckiest of them all. How often have I not floated contentedly here on the water, while the other flowers were suffering from the drought on land! We flowers are by far the happier; but that is what those stupid animals fail to see.”

When the sun set in the evening, the dragon-fly grub lay very still on the stalk with her legs drawn up under her. She had eaten a heap of insects and was so fat that she felt as though she would burst. And yet she was not glad: she pondered on what the water-lily had said and could not sleep all night for restless thinking. And all that reflecting made her head ache, for it was a labour to which she was not used. And she felt pains in her back too and in her chest. It was as though she were going to be pulled to pieces and die on the spot.

When morning began to break, she could bear it no longer:

“I don’t know what it is,” she cried in despair. “These pains hurt so that I can’t think what is to become of me. Perhaps the water-lily is right and I shall never be more than a poor, wretched grub. But the thought of that is too terrible! I should so love to turn into a dragon-fly and fly about in the sun. Oh, my back, my back! I _must_ be dying!”

Again she felt as if her back was bursting and she screamed for pain. At the same moment, the reeds on the bank began to rustle.

“That is the morning-wind,” thought the grub. “At least, let me see the sun once more before I die.”

And, with a great effort, she crawled to one of the leaves of the water-lily, stretched out her legs and prepared for death.

But, when the sun had risen and stood red and motionless in the east, suddenly there came an opening right in the middle of the grub’s back, accompanied by a frightful itching. Oh, the pain of it, the anguish! It was a terrible feeling. Almost swooning, she closed her eyes, but the agony and the itching grew no less. And then, suddenly, she perceived that the pain was gone; and, when she opened her eyes, she was hovering through the air on stiff, glittering wings, a brilliant dragon-fly! Beneath her, on the leaf of the water-lily, lay the ugly gray covering which she had worn as a grub.

“Hurrah!” cried the new dragon-fly. “Now the wish of my heart is fulfilled.”

And she flew through the air as swiftly as though she meant to fly to the end of the earth.

“The hussy has got her way after all!” thought the water-lily. “Now we shall see if she is more contented than before.”

Two days later, the dragon-fly came flying up and settled on the flowers of the water-lily.

“Good-morning,” said the water-lily. “So you’ve come at last. I was beginning to think that you had grown too grand to come and see your old friends.”

“Good-morning,” said the dragon-fly. “Where shall I lay my eggs?”

“Oh, you’ll find a place somewhere,” replied the flower. “Sit down first and tell me if you are happier now than when you were an ugly little grub crawling up and down my stalk.”

“Where can I lay my eggs? Oh, wherever can I lay my eggs?” cried the dragon-fly and flew buzzing from leaf to leaf, laying one here and one there, and at last sat down, tired and exhausted, on a leaf.

“Well?” said the water-lily.

“Oh, I was much better off then,” sighed the dragon-fly. “The sunshine is glorious and it is a great delight to fly over the water, but I never have time to enjoy it. I tell you, I’m awfully busy. In the old days, I had nothing to think of. And now I have to fly about all day long to lay these silly eggs. I haven’t a moment to myself and have hardly time to eat.”

“What did I tell you?” cried the water-lily, triumphantly. “Didn’t I prophesy that your happiness would be no greater?”

“Good-bye,” said the dragon-fly, with a sigh. “I have no time to listen to you: I must go and lay more eggs.”

But, just as she was about to fly away, the starling came:

“I say, I say, what a dear little dragon-fly!” he said. “Just a nice little mouthful for my youngsters!”

And with a whizz! he snapped up the dragon-fly in his beak and flew away with her.

“There they go!” cried the water-lily, shaking her leaves with anger. “Those animals, those animals! What extraordinary creatures they are. I must say I prefer my own quiet life. I hurt nobody and no one injures me. I am so hap....”

She got no further, for a boat glided close past her.

“Oh, what a lovely water-lily!” said Ellen, who sat in the stern. “I must have it.”

She bent over the side and tore the flower away. When she got home, she put it into a glass of water, where it stood for three days with a lot of other flowers.

“I don’t know what to think,” said the water-lily, on the fourth day. “I have not fared a whit better than that poor dragon-fly.”

“The flowers are faded,” said Ellen and threw them out of the window.

And the water-lily lay with her fair white petals on the dirty ground.

AUNT EIDER-DUCK

It was winter.

The leaves were gone from the trees and the flowers from the hedge. The birds too were gone, that is to say the more important ones; they had all departed for the South.

But some, of course, had remained behind.

There was the everlasting sparrow, for instance, and the nimble little titmouse, besides the crow and the raven, who looked twice as black and hungry against the snow. There were also a few birds who preferred to take the rough with the smooth rather than travel so far afield.

Down on the beach there was more life than in summer.

There were the gulls who plunged about, in great flocks, wherever a hole had been made in the ice. And there were the wild-duck, who swam in the open water and quacked and dived and flew up whenever a shot was heard from the fishermen’s guns.

“What a crowd!” said the sparrow.

“They come from the North,” said the gull. “From Norway and the Faroe Islands, where it is a hundred times colder than here. As soon as there is the least bit of a change in the temperature, they fly back again. Do you know those two who are coming this way over the ice?”

“How should I know them?” said the sparrow. “I was born last summer and I only wish I were back in the nest!”

“They are eider-ducks,” said the gull. “Look, there’s one more coming.”

So there was. And he was a very handsome bird. He had a green neck, a white throat and a white breast, with a pink sheen on it, and lovely yellow legs.

“That is the drake,” said the gull. “The other two are females and not so smart, although they don’t look bad either.”

The three eider-ducks had now come so near that the sparrow and the gull could hear what they were talking about.

“Dear lady,” said the drake, “I cannot understand why you stay on the ice. Do come to the open water and let us all enjoy ourselves.”

“I must stay with my niece,” said the elder eider-duck. “She is my sister’s child.”

“And why should not Miss Eider-Duck come too?” said the drake. “In the summer, she was the gayest of us all in the Faroes.”

“That was then,” said Miss Eider-Duck. “But now I have begun to think of other and more serious things.”

The drake tried just a little longer to persuade them, but to no purpose. Then he flew back across the ice.

“Are there no cliffs here, auntie?” asked the young eider-duck. “I am dying to get married and to build a nest.”

“If I may venture to make a remark,” said the sparrow, “I should say that it is still a little too cold. And there are no cliffs in this country.”

“But you can brood in the sand,” said the gull.

“Thank you for the information, my good women,” said Aunt Eider-Duck. “But it is only a fancy of my niece’s. She is three years old now and marriageable.”

“Lord!” said the sparrow. “I was born last summer and, if it was only a little warmer, I could get married at once.”

“It’s easier for one than for another,” said the aunt.

“Let us fly home to the Faroes and get married, auntie,” said the young duck.

“In a month’s time, my child,” said auntie. “But I must decline the honour for myself. I have now been married seven times and have had enough of it. Still, I will gladly chat about it with you. That is so awfully interesting.”

“The trees will not be green yet in a month,” said the sparrow. “This is only January.”

“We have no trees in the Faroes, my girl,” said auntie, “and we don’t want them either.”

“Has the young lady a sweetheart?” asked the gull.

“Not yet,” said auntie. “But he’ll come. You can get sweethearts for the asking. She has spent her three years dancing on the sea and having a good time. One must see a little life first.”

“If only she hits upon the right one,” said the gull.

“All men are alike, my good woman,” said auntie. “They court you and marry you and, perhaps, just lend a hand with the nest and then they go off and leave the rest to us.”

“I can’t say that I agree with you, ma’am,” said the gull. “My husband has always helped me faithfully.”

“And I got lots of flies from my father when I was in the nest,” said the sparrow.

“Then you were luckier than we,” said auntie. “Not one of my seven husbands so much as saw his young ones.”

“Lord!” said the sparrow.

“Shall we be going home to the Faroes soon?” asked Miss Eider-Duck.

“Dear, dear, how interesting youth is!” said auntie and flapped her wings.

Then they flew into the water; but, the next day, they came again and this happened every day until well into February. The young eider-duck’s longing for home grew ever greater and her aunt never tired of talking to her about it.

“Now it’s coming, now it’s coming!” said she. “It’s getting almost too hot here to bear.”

“I don’t think so,” said the sparrow, shivering and longing for the spring.

One day, a charming young eider-drake came and sat beside the two ladies on the ice.

“If he proposes to you, accept him,” whispered auntie. “He has the greenest neck I’ve seen for many a year.”

“If only he would!” said the young girl.

And he did.

After sitting for a while and talking of indifferent things, as long as etiquette required--and etiquette does not demand half as much of eider-duck as it does of men--he asked the young lady if she would be his wife. He went on to talk of birds’-nests and cliffs and dear little eggs and so on, but she stopped him:

“Yes,” she said; and so they were engaged.

He was awfully eloquent and swore to be faithful to her all his life and to build a nest for her and to sit on the eggs for her and to feed the children from morn till night. She nodded and could not speak for sheer happiness.

“Every word that he says is a lie,” said auntie. “But, lord, how charming it is!”

“It’s terrible!” said the sparrow and the gull. “Such a dear young lady!”

“Fiddle!” said auntie. “We all have to go through it. My seven husbands all said the same and not one of them kept his promise. But they were charming, for all that. Only they had not such green necks as this one. He’s splendid. I could fall in love with him myself.”

“When do we start?” asked Miss Eider-Duck.

“To-morrow early, my darling, if the wind is fair,” said her beau.

“I’ll go with you,” said auntie. “In the first place, it’s more proper. And then it’s so charming to see young people so happy.”

They started the next morning.