CHAPTER IX

‘HENNENLY TANA’

Forester Kronhjort[7] was on the way home on exactly the same road over which the children had plodded the last days. He had passed close to the little gray cottage up in Barren Moor, gone through the Great Woods, and, like the children, had had to stay over in the first mountain village because of the storm.

[7] Kronhjort, pronounced Kroonyoort.

You may be sure he had not thought of staying with the Spectacle Man, not he; he had lived at the inn, and eaten a good breakfast with cheerful old friends. And so he had started away rather late.

Now he was going down the crooked, troublesome road along the river-bank where the children had just passed, to reach the river road. He sat in his little single-horse sleigh in a wolf-skin coat, fur cap, and fine reindeer-skin boots that reached over his knees. The lashing snow did not trouble him much, especially since he would soon have the wind from the side.

The forester intended to cut across and take the direction that only Skylark, his horse, and he himself knew about: across the river, up toward the ridge, and to the big church-village[8] where he had his home.

[8] Church-village is the largest village of the country parish, where the church of the parish is located.

Just as he was opposite the dwarfed fir which stood farthest out on a point near the road, and which was his landmark for his own short-cut, Skylark shied, and with both forelegs jumped carefully over something which lay right in the middle of the snow-hidden road. Then the horse stood absolutely still, turned her head, and looked at her master.

The forester jumped lightly out of the sleigh. He bent down under the horse.

What in the world was this? A child, alone in this desolation, a poor little one with pale cheeks shining with tears and wrapped in poor man’s rags.

The forester stood awhile absolutely at a loss, with the child in his arms. Was it asleep or dead?

No, it lived--it breathed, began to cry--‘Mother. Andy. Go’n Ho’n. Ita-Tawie.’ The child sobbed, and screamed, and shook with cold.

The young man stood there, stupid and perplexed. He was married and had a home, but he had absolutely no experience or knowledge of how small children should be handled, for he had none himself.

Skylark looked as if she understood the affair better. She scraped in the snow with her front feet, tossed her head, and looked at her master. What was simpler than to take this little human colt which she had nearly trampled to death, and rush home with it? There it would have warmth and care.

As if the forester had understood the horse’s thought, he suddenly knew what to do. He took the little screamer and thrust her inside his fur coat. But with rather decided unwillingness, for the forester was a very refined and neat person, afraid of dirt and rags, most of all afraid of crying, smutty-nosed youngsters. And this one was both crying and smutty-nosed in highest degree.

She sat fast now inside the warm coat. Gradually she quieted down, lulled by the rocking of the sleigh over the unbroken snow, and by the pretty jingle of the sleighbells that rang out lustily. For no matter how hard it was to get through the snow, Skylark plodded on with all her strength. She knew it was important to get home with this poor little frozen human.

A strange feeling came over the forester, who at first had held the little one straight up in front of him, fast inside of his belt, like a stick of wood, when he felt the thin little body tremble with gradually lessening sobs.

What a happy feeling to be able to comfort and help such a little one! He pulled her up into an easier position inside the coat.

What could such a poor mite need in the way of food? ‘God help me,’ he thought. ‘In spite of all I ate and drank this morning, I haven’t so much as the tiniest bit of bread for such a little one.’

‘You’ll have to hurry, my girl,’ he warned the horse.

Skylark sniffed and lifted her head. Hadn’t she been hurrying against a wild snowstorm that tore at mane and tail--waded in the snow to the belly sometimes! But, of course, she could speed up a little more! Yes, she could break her wind, run until she dropped on the spot too, if her master wished it! her master, whom she had served for ten years, and journeyed with in woods and mountains.

The road up through the big forest they now approached was open. Skylark dashed off so that the very bell-collar rang. Toward twilight she had reached the big mountain parish that spread out over the wide valley. Up a steep hill it went. White-stemmed birches marked the way.

They rode through it, turned off to a bright red painted house, with a balcony and veranda in green and white. Firelight shone through the windows, and the smoke rose, straight as an arrow, into the air, which was high and clear with the afterglow of the sunset a rosy red, and already stars gleamed in the sky.

‘Welcome home again, Arthur,’ called a young woman from the veranda. She stood still there with a big woolen shawl over her head. The face which peeped out was delicate and pale, with light hair which curled about in front of the shawl.

‘Thanks, little woman! Ask Dordi to come and get what I’ve got with me.’

Dordi, the old servant who had taken care of the forester’s wife as a child, came jovially down the steps. It happened sometimes that the forester had something especially good in the way of food, or something else with him, a bear steak, a wolf-skin, or different kinds of birds. So Dordi was prepared to be loaded down. But she drew back in alarm.

‘Goodness gracious, master! What have we to do with such a thing? Go in, ma’am, it’s cold.’

But now came a cry from the sleigh, a disconsolate, forlorn baby cry.

The young mistress threw aside the shawl. She ran down the stairs in a couple of steps, took the crying bundle of rags in her arms and carried it up. ‘Little mite--poor little mite--what have they done to you? Hush, hush, now. We’ll soon be where it’s warm and can get some food into the poor little body.’

Mistress Gerda was not afraid of screaming, dirty-faced youngsters. She was used to little children from her own childhood home where there had been a big family of children. To her deep secret sorrow, she herself had no children. Her wish for a foster-child was not approved by her husband. He did not want to ‘take the responsibility of other people’s children,’ and suffered at the very thought of ‘naughty, disobedient, crying, dirty children.’ Any other kind of child he could not imagine. And now it was he himself who had brought a child to the house!

Later in the evening, after he had eaten and rested, the forester sat and watched how his wife quickly and cleverly made big garments into little ones; how she, in a marvelous way, got together a little dress, light blue in color, a little apron, little bits of underwear.

She was so eager, his little wife. Her light hair curled down over her forehead, and the cheeks that were otherwise so pale were a rosy red, with eagerness and sewing. She looked up at her husband with glowing eyes.

‘Arthur, we _may_ keep her for the present? You should see her! She’s lying, all tucked in, in a big clothes-basket out with Dordi.’

‘Till the one she belongs to comes, I suppose she’ll have to stay. We can’t exactly throw her out on the road. It’s a wonder that none of the wolves that have been around these days came upon her.’

‘Ugh, and you shot two of those beasts the day before yesterday. Oh, if only no one owned her! Her name must be Henrietta, for she calls herself “Ata-Eta.” She is so sweet! And do you know, she folded her hands when I gave her gruel and bread, and said, “T’ank oo,” and she talks so funny.’

‘I can imagine what such a half-year-old youngster, or whatever she is, can say.’

‘She’s more than a half-year old, my dear; why, she has her whole mouth full of small white teeth, and she walks around so prettily. She must have a good mother.’

‘I hope so, for the child’s sake, if it ever gets back to her.’

‘Oh, no, Arthur! We can’t let her go! She must have a sister or other good friend who gives her milk, for when she got milk right after she came, she called, time after time “Go’n Ho’n.” “Ita-Tawie” she says often too. I used to be good at guessing baby talk, and my guess is that she means “little kitty.” To-morrow I’ll try to get a cat for her. When she was in bed, after we had warmed her poor frozen little feet, she folded her hands again and sang, do you know, with a really good voice, such a sweet song.’

‘With words, too?’ asked the forester, a little mockingly, although he could not help listening with obvious pleasure to his wife’s description.

‘Words, of course, but I couldn’t make out what they meant. She sang the same words over and over again, so sweetly with her head on the side, “Hennenly Tana.”’

‘Oh, “Many, many swans”! That is a song my mother used to sing to me at bedtime when I was a child, a song about many wild swans. I believe it was that song that made me love the woods and animals so well that I became a woodsman.’

‘But it is certainly strange that this poor mite away from the north and the western famine districts should come here and sing a song that you, who are a Scanian,[9] fell asleep to when you were small. And then that you, who never thought of understanding baby talk, now understand right away what she sings. There must be some meaning in it.’

[9] Scanian, a resident of Scania, the southernmost province of Sweden.

‘Yes, it is strange. I don’t deny that,’ said the forester, quite flattered at his wife’s appreciation of his ability to understand baby talk.

‘If no one comes and demands her, she may stay, for me. It will be hardest for you, who’ll have to take care of her.’

‘For me! Oh, Arthur, after I’ve longed so for a little child!’

The forester drew his wife close.

‘Do you know, so have I sometimes.’

He went out whistling ‘Many, many swans,’ a song he had not sung since he was a little boy.