CHAPTER IV
SPRING: LETTING THE ANIMALS OUT TO PASTURE
One morning, a few weeks after the sad departure from Peerout Castle, Lisbeth Longfrock awoke early in the small sleeping room built under the great staircase at Hoel. She opened her eyes wide at the moment of waking, and tried to gather her thoughts together. She was conscious of a delightful, quivering expectancy, and felt that she had awakened to something great and new,—something that she had waited for and been exceedingly glad over; but she could not at once remember just what it was.
The little room, whose only furniture consisted of a bed, a chair, a stove, and a small wooden shelf with a mirror over it, was filled with daylight in spite of the early hour. The sun fell slanting down through a window set high up in the wall directly over Lisbeth's bed, and the windowpanes were pictured in bright yellow squares on the floor near the tiny stove. The corner of one square spread itself against the stove, and Lisbeth traced it with her eyes as she lay in bed. At the tip of the corner glimmered something light-green and shiny. Was it from there that a fine, wonderful fragrance came floating toward her? She sniffed a little. Yes, indeed! now she remembered. The fragrance came from the fresh birch twigs she had decorated the room with yesterday. Out of doors it was spring,—the sprouting, bursting springtime. To-day the cattle were to be let out and the calves named. To-day she would begin work in earnest and be a responsible individual. In short, she would be the herd girl at Hoel Farm.
It was now a month since Lisbeth had come to Hoel Farm, but up to this time she had been treated merely as company. She had walked about the place, sauntered after Kjersti here and there in the house, ground the coffee, and brought out from a bowl in the pantry the small cakes that they ate with their coffee every afternoon. Frequently, too, she had had pleasant talks with Kjersti.
As for helping with the animals,—the sheep and the goats had been let out, to be sure, but nevertheless they did not need her care because they were allowed, so early in the season, to run about everywhere except in the garden, and that Bearhunter stood guard over. In the cow house there was nothing for her to do, for a milkmaid and an under-milkmaid did the work there. Of course the girl who tended the flocks ought really to be able to help in milking the cows; but it was thought that Lisbeth had better wait a year before she tried to do that,—her hands being rather too small as yet. Lisbeth had kept measuring her hands every now and then and pulling her fingers to make them grow; and after a while she had asked the milkmaid if she did not think they had grown large enough, but the milkmaid did not see that they were any larger. She could not have very good eyes!
Lisbeth had, of course, expected to take care of Crookhorn,—Kjersti and she both thought she ought to do that; but it had proved to be impossible. Crookhorn had become so freakish that sometimes they almost thought her out of her wits. In the building shared by the sheep and goats she ranged back and forth from wall to wall, knocking against the sheep and the other goats so hard as she went that their ribs rattled. At last she had to be tied to one of the walls, and with the shortest rope possible at that. Nor would she allow herself to be milked peaceably in that building. The first time Lisbeth tried it, Crookhorn, with a toss of the head, gave a kick that sent Lisbeth and the pail rolling off in different directions. Afterward the milkmaid herself took Crookhorn in hand at milking time; but even for her it was always a feat of strength, and she had to have some one to help her by holding the goat's horns.
When Crookhorn was let out with the other goats, would she ramble with them over the fields and meadows, seeking food? No, indeed! She would station herself poutingly by the cow-house door and stand there the livelong day,—"bellowing like a cow" the farm boy said; and then in the evening, when the other goats came home plump and well fed, there Crookhorn would stand as thin and hungry as a wolf.
Lisbeth thought that Crookhorn, if provided with a stall in the cow house, would act like a reasonable creature again. But neither Kjersti nor the milkmaid would consent to the removal; they thought a goat ought not to be humored in such unreasonable fancies.
Thus it was that Lisbeth had not had much to do during her first month at Hoel Farm. The only thing that Kjersti had required of her was to keep her own little room under the hall staircase in nice order, and that she had done. Every day she had made the bed herself, and every Saturday she had washed the floor and the shelf, and spread juniper twigs about. Last Saturday Kjersti had come out to take a look at it, and had said to her that she kept her room in better order than the grown-up girls in the south chamber kept theirs; and Lisbeth knew that this was true, for she had noticed it herself.
Lisbeth's Room under the StairsLisbeth's Room under the Stairs
But now everything was going to be different. Kjersti Hoel had come to Lisbeth's room the night before and said that the cows were to be let out early in the morning, and that Lisbeth, like all the rest of the Hoel Farm people, must be up early to help. Later in the day the calves that had been born in the cow house during the winter were to be let out for the first time, and Lisbeth would have to look after them for that afternoon at any rate. Kjersti had said also that Lisbeth was to be allowed to give the calves their names,—names that they would keep all their lives, even after they had grown to be full-sized cows.
The next day after the letting out of the animals Lisbeth was to take a lunch bag and begin her spring work of going into the forest all day to watch the sheep and goats. It would not do to have them running about the fields at home any longer, Kjersti said.
Suddenly Lisbeth recollected what it was that she had pondered over so long as she lay awake the evening before,—it was the names of the calves. In spite of all her pondering she had got no farther than to wonder whether the cow with the red sides and white head and the gentle but bright-looking face should not be called Bliros. That idea, however, she had given up; it seemed to her that only one cow in the world could be called Bliros. Then she had determined to think no longer about Bliros or the names of the calves, and so had fallen asleep.
What if she had overslept herself now! She hoped not, with all her heart, for she had heard Kjersti Hoel say that she did not like girls to lie abed late and dally in the morning. How mortifying it would be for her not to be on the spot as early as the others to-day, her very first working day!
Wide-awake now, Lisbeth hopped quickly out of bed and popped into her long frock. Then, having made her bed6with all haste, she opened the door, went out through the hall way, and stood on the outside steps.
The sun had just risen above the highest spruce tops over the edge of the eastern hills, and the light was flooding the sides of the valley like a waterfall. In the meadows and on the sloping fields the sunbeams quivered in the dew. They sifted in gold, they glittered in green, they silvered the clear brooks that babbled down the hills. From every bush came a twittering and chirping and clapping of wings. From everything, everywhere, came a message of joy and activity and sprouting life. Mingled in one great morning effervescence, single sights and sounds were lost; only the call of the cuckoo, far up on the birch-clad slope, was heard above the other sounds, and from every shining window glanced a big, serene eye of reflected sun rays.
And just as there were thousands of different sounds, so were there also thousands of different odors,—from the steaming earth, from the growing grass, from buds and blossoms; and above them all, like the cuckoo's call that was heard above the thousands of blended sounds, rose the fine, penetrating fragrance of newly sprouted birch trees.
Lisbeth stood still awhile, drawing deep breaths and letting the sweet air and the effervescence of spring stream in upon her. Then she looked around at the different farm buildings. Quiet brooded within them and every door was shut. Of all the living creatures belonging to the farm, not one was to be seen except Bearhunter, who got up slowly from the flat stone where he had been lying, comfortably sunning himself, and came over to her, looking up into her face and wagging his tail.
Truly, she believed she was the first one up on the whole farm to-day.
Well, of course she would have to wait. So she sat herself down on the steps.
Oh, no; it was just as she might have known it would be. Kjersti Hoel was up. Lisbeth heard her come out of her own room into the kitchen, take a big stick, and knock three times on the ceiling to waken the girls in the south chamber.
In a moment Lisbeth heard a thump! thump! as the girls hopped out of bed, and then a clattering noise as they put on their shoes. Soon Kjersti came out of the house. She was going over to the building where the men slept to waken them.
Catching sight of Lisbeth, she exclaimed: "No! this cannot be Lisbeth already up. What a wide-awake little girl! I think I shall have to make you head milkmaid."
At this Lisbeth became so shy that she could not raise her eyes to look at Kjersti; but it must be acknowledged that when the head milkmaid and the other girls came downstairs a certain small nose was tilted a little higher than usual.
Soon there was life and motion over the whole farm. The activity was very different from that of ordinary days, for everything was done with extra haste, and all that was done seemed to have some connection with the cow house. The doors at both ends of this building stood wide open, and every one seemed to have an errand which obliged him to pass through. The spring air streaming in made the cows turn around in their stalls, stretch their nostrils, and look out. When Kjersti herself appeared on the scene, after the girls had begun milking, and talked to the cows and patted the neck of the bell cow, the creatures at once realized what day it was. The bell cow threw up her head and bellowed till the cow house echoed. That was a signal for all the other cows. They pulled at their chains, swung their tails, and one after another, along the whole row, joined in a manifold bellow of joyful expectancy that shook the entire cow house and seemed as if it would never end. Above the many-voiced chorus could be heard the bellowing of the big bull, deep and even and good-natured, as if he did not need to exert himself in the least in order to be heard.
Although everything went so much more speedily to-day than usual, the time seemed long to Lisbeth Longfrock. When the farm people went into the house to eat their early breakfast, she could not understand how they could sit at the table so long. She finished her meal very quickly and asked if she might not go and let out the smaller animals,—the sheep and the goats,—so that that would be done. Yes, Kjersti said she might. In a trice, therefore, she had them out, and as usual they scattered in every direction, leaping and capering,—all except Crookhorn, who seized her chance to slink into the cow house through the open door; but Lisbeth was so busy that she did not notice this.
All at once there came an instant's stillness, as if everything listened. Then from the farmhouse the tuneful clanging of a deep-toned bell was heard, and in a moment this was answered by such a joyful lowing and bellowing, such a sniffing and rattling of chains, that it seemed as if a thunderstorm were passing over the farm; for when the animals recognized the sound of that deep-toned bell, which they had not heard since they were shut up in the cow house the autumn before, they knew that the time for being let out into the open air was close at hand.
A formal procession now issued from the farmhouse. Kjersti marched at the front, carrying the big iron-bound cow collar to which the deep-toned bell was fastened; next came the head milkmaid, followed by the under-milkmaid; then the girls who worked in the farmhouse; and then the two farm hands, with thick sticks, which they afterwards dealt out to the company, giving one to Lisbeth as well as to the rest. Last of all came Bearhunter, who also wanted to have a part in what was going on.
When the procession reached the cow house there was again a sudden silence. The cows, one and all, turned their heads toward the people as they came in, and looked at them with large, expectant eyes.
The procession then divided into groups, and definite work was assigned to each person. The head milkmaid was to unfasten the cows; Lisbeth and the under-milkmaid and the housemaids, each with her stout stick, were to steer the cows out through the door; the farm hands were to stand in the cow lane to meet the creatures and guide them into the right road (they were to be pastured up in the north meadow) and to separate those who fought with each other; and Kjersti and Bearhunter were to watch everything from the gateway.
All was ready. The moment for the start had come.
Kjersti went into the stall of the cow who was to wear the bell. The cow straightened herself up, lifted her head as high as she could, and then stood stock-still. She knew very well that she was the principal cow of the herd, and that the first place when they went out and in through the cow-house door belonged to her; but she knew also that even she had to be on her best behavior when Kjersti, the mistress of the whole farm, did her the honor of clasping around her neck the cow collar with its bell,—emblem of dignity and power,—and of unfastening the chain that held her in the stall. Kjersti clasped on the bell and unloosed the chain, which fell rattling to the floor; and then the bell cow swung slowly and deliberately out of the stall, like a big, heavy ship out of its dock, and wended her way with solemn dignity toward the door. She carried her head so high and so stiffly that you could not see the least swaying of her horns, and her bell gave only a single decided stroke at each step.
The next to be let out was the big bull. The head milkmaid unloosed him, and he sailed out just as stiffly and heavily as the bell cow had done, with horns so high that they nearly touched the cow-house roof, and so wide apart that they seemed to stretch across the whole passageway. Lisbeth had never realized before how large the bull was.
And then, one by one, in regular turn, the rest of the cows marched out. They were Brindle, Morlik (which means "like its mother"), Goldie, Speckle, Blackie, Pusher, Summer-Leaf, Darkey, Wee Bonny, Trot-About, Wreathie, and Moolley.7Wreathie was so named because the white marks on her hide looked something like a wreath.
Beyond the cow stalls, now empty, were the stalls of the heifers, whose names no one quite remembered as yet, and of the half-grown bulls, who did not have any names at all.
When it came to the unloosing of the heifers and young bulls, the scene grew livelier and livelier. They stretched their necks and rubbed against their chains. They fell on their knees as soon as the unlooped chains slipped from their necks, and as they sprang up again you could hear their legs creak,—so stiff were they from standing in the stall all winter. They ran plump against the side wall or up into the wrong passageway. They dashed noisily against the door, two reaching it at the same time and trying to rush through together but getting wedged by their fat sides; while those who had been set free after them came close on their heels, pushing, clashing their horns, butting and bellowing,—until suddenly, the blockade being broken, out rushed the whole throng.
Directly in the wake of the heifers and young bulls, to Lisbeth's extreme surprise, followed Crookhorn, who, kicking up her heels, made a swift dash out through the doorway.
Outside the cow house, too, all was life and stir. As the animals came into the lane, they lifted their heads, sniffed the air from the mountain side, and became eager and excited. Stiff-legged old cows, as well as young calves, kicked up their hind legs and made frolicsome leaps this way and that. They rushed playfully or angrily at each other, clashing their horns, and giving a short bellow if worsted in the tussle; then they dashed off to assail other members of the crowd. Everything combined to form a hubbub of lowing and bellowing, horn clashing and fence creaking, whacking of sticks and shouting of people; while back and forth through all the confusion, with his horns high above all the other horns, went the big bull, like a great heavy snowplow, clearing the way. Of the whole herd, only one cow stood undisturbed amid the wild uproar, calmly waiting and looking about. That was the bell cow, whom, of course, none of the other cows dared to disturb.
At last the head milkmaid came to the front and gave a call. The bell cow threw up her head and with a loud, echoing bellow started to follow her. Next came Brindle, still sniffing with anger after her many encounters. She had got the best of all who were worth getting the best of, and if she could not be the bell cow, she would, at any rate, stand next to her.
Directly after Brindle came Crookhorn, with a self-important air and making herself as tall as possible. But Brindle was in no mood for seeing the funny side of things to-day, so she lunged out with one of her long hind legs and gave Crookhorn a blow on the head that made the prideful goat see stars. But Crookhorn merely tossed her head and went on as if nothing had happened. Such actions, she thought, were probably customary among cows.
The head milkmaid kept on calling, and the cows, one after another, hearing her voice, started toward her. Soon the whole noisy herd, led by the deep-toned bell and urged by shouts and flourishing of sticks, was going in full swing toward the north meadow.
Up in the meadow, which they reached after a while, the ground was level and there was plenty of room, so that the danger of collisions and other accidents was lessened. The young creatures danced around in wild play, and those of the cows who had not settled the question of mastery fought now a battle that was to be decisive for the whole summer. Soon, however, everything became quiet again, and in a couple of hours all of the animals, even the worst combatants, were grazing placidly side by side.
After this the farm people began to go home,—all except the head milkmaid and Lisbeth, who were to remain a while longer so as to be on hand in case anything happened. And something did happen. Brindle, whose quiet behavior had been only temporary, soon began to rove uneasily back and forth, sniffing hard.Shewas really the one who ought to be wearing the bell, she sniffed to herself; and then suddenly, with a violent rush, she hurled herself at the bell cow. Such a fight as there was then! The turf flew in all directions. Soon a sharp crack was heard, and a short, wild bellow, and one of Brindle's horns hung dangling.
Brindle shook her head till the blood splashed; then, giving another bellow, she turned and ran the shortest way home as fast as her legs could carry her, never stopping until she had reached the cow-house door. There she gave vent to a terrible bellowing, as if she wanted to bring all the farm buildings down over the people's ears.
After dinner the calves were let out. Lisbeth had finally named the three cow calves Yellow Speckle, Redsides, and Young Moolley, but as yet she had found no name to suit her for the bull calf. Lisbeth saw plainly that Kjersti wondered why she had not called any of the calves after Bliros (Gentle Cow), but she gave no sign of having noticed Kjersti's thought.
This is the way the calves were induced to leave their pen and to cross the cow-house floor. To begin with, a good-sized pail with a little milk in it was held out to each calf. In their eagerness to get the milk the calves thrust their heads clear into the pails; and when the persons holding these began to run, the calves ran too, with the pails over their heads like hats. Outside the cow-house door the pails were snatched off and there stood the calves, who had never before been beyond their pen, in the very midst of the great, wonderful new world.
The startled creatures gave an amazed look and then began to back, just as if they felt themselves suddenly standing at the head of a steep stairway; but soon they ventured to put one foot carefully forward, then another, and another. It was slow work, one step at a time; but at length they found that there was firm ground in this new region. They concluded that the world was only a larger calf pen, after all; but it was a wonderfully light calf pen, and its walls were certainly a long way off. Swish! up went their tails into the air and away they scampered like the wildest of forest animals.
Then began a great race in the big field,—from fence to fence, this way and that, crosswise, and round and round. Every time the calves jumped over a hillock Kjersti and Lisbeth saw their tails stand straight up against the sky like tillers. Lisbeth thought she had never seen anything so funny. But they could not keep together long. They soon ran off in various directions, and in the evening Lisbeth had to go to the farthest corners of the field with a pail and coax them home one by one; for of course they did not have sense enough to know when to go home,—they who were out in the world for the first time!
Lisbeth was lying again in her little room. It was the evening of her first working day. She had said her simple evening prayer, as usual, and then stretched herself out on the bed, feeling how good it was to rest, for her body was tired through and through.
What a day it had been! A long day, too, she knew; nevertheless, she could not imagine where it had gone. She felt that she must think over all that had happened. But drowsiness came stealing upon her and threw the scenes of the day into confusion. She saw a pair of big horns that plowed like a snow plow through a swarming crowd, and then she saw Brindle standing in her stall with her head on one side and a big bandage over one of her horns, looking exactly like an old peasant woman with a kerchief tied around her head for a headache; and then she thought she saw, written in the air, a couplet that she had once heard:
Rearing its tail against the sky,Danced the calf on the hilltop high.
Rearing its tail against the sky,Danced the calf on the hilltop high.
Rearing its tail against the sky,
Danced the calf on the hilltop high.
And then Lisbeth Longfrock fell asleep.
The next day, with the lunch bag upon her back, Lisbeth Longfrock set out for a forest that lay not far off, taking the sheep and goats with her. She had not succeeded in getting Crookhorn to go along, however. The self-willed goat had taken the shortest cut up to the north meadow, where the cows were again pastured.
Lisbeth's second working day, like her first, seemed a very long one, for the forest was wonderfully lonesome and still. The little girl had time to think of many, many things,—of her mother and Jacob and Peerout Castle; and it must be acknowledged that she cried a wee bit, too.
CHAPTER V
SUMMER: TAKING THE ANIMALS UP TO THE SÆTER
Upward over the open slope across the valley from Hoel Farm a lengthy procession was taking its way.
Kjersti Hoel stood at the window of her room, following the procession with her eyes as long as she could, for soon it would vanish from the open slope into the wooded part of the mountain. The herds belonging to Hoel Farm were that day being taken up to the sæter,8to spend the summer grazing on the rich grass which grows in sunny spaces here and there on the mountain heights.
At the head of the procession rode the milkmaid on the military horse,9which for this occasion had a woman's saddle upon its back. The saddle had a high frame, so that it looked almost like an easy-chair; and the milkmaid sitting aloft on it, dressed in her best, and with a white linen kerchief on her head, was rosy, plump, and also somewhat self-conscious, for was not she the most important person in the company, the one who was to give all the commands?
After her came two farm hands, each leading a horse whose back fairly curved in under its heavy load. Then followed the herds in order of rank. First came the bell cow, then Brindle with her wounded horn that had grown on awry, then Crookhorn, then Darkey, and behind Darkey the whole long train of cows,—all except two, old Moolley and the pet, Wee Bonny, who were to stay at home to furnish milk for the people there and to teach the new calves to follow. After the cows stalked the big bull, as if acting as rear guard for his herd.
Next came the goats, hurrying along and trying to get ahead; then the sheep in a tight clump; and behind these, four great pigs and a few calves; while at the very end of the train came the under-milkmaid, and Lisbeth Longfrock with her lunch bag on her back.
In the beginning all had gone as gayly as a dance, for almost every one had pleasant memories of the summer before, and it seemed impossible to reach the mountain top quickly enough; but as they mounted, the way became steeper and steeper, and the sun rose higher and higher, burning their backs. The pigs began to lag behind, trying to branch off at every side path so as to get a little nap in the shade or cool themselves in a mudhole. The sheep and goats, feeling the need of something in their stomachs, slipped aside whenever they spied a young birch tree whose leaves they could nibble, or a fence to peep through, or a plot of green grass. The last year's calves, who had not been to the sæter before, saw no reason at all for hurrying, and made no attempt at it except when the stick was used upon them.
So Lisbeth Longfrock had to keep rushing off the road into side paths, behind bushes, into forest thickets and boggy marshes, to drag the various creatures back into line; and scarcely did she get them safely into the road from one side before they slipped out again on the other.
She had to take off one of her long knitted garters and tie it around her waist so that she could tuck her long frock up out of the way; for she was constantly on the run, coaxing, shouting, and circumventing.
It was a hard struggle. Her light hair became dripping wet and her face was as red as a half-ripe mountain cranberry; but Lisbeth did not notice her discomfort, so absorbed was she in what she had to do. The under-milkmaid would return to the farm with the men when the sæter was reached. It was Lisbeth who was to have the responsibility for the smaller animals during the whole summer, and who was to bring them home in the autumn fat and glossy. She and the head milkmaid had their special responsibilities, each at her own end of the line, as it were; and even if Lisbeth's was only the tail end, she did not wish to have the disgrace of being unable to keep it in order.
The procession continued mounting higher and higher, and soon the whole valley lay below, deep and wide and delicately green. The fir trees became smaller and more scattered, the slender birches grew closer together. Before long the first specimens of black crowberries and "old woman's switches" (dwarf birch trees) were seen; and with that the procession was up over the crest of the mountain side.
The Valley and the FarmsThe Valley and the Farms
Then, all at once, it seemed as if a heavy weight slipped off; as if all weariness was smoothed away from man and beast. The whole mountain sent its freshness and peace streaming over them. They were in a new world. Before them, with its boundless surface broken into level spaces and undulating slopes, lay the mountain top, stretching itself far, far away, until lost in the deepening blue of a snow-streaked summit. If they looked back, the valley seemed to have sunk out of sight; but on the mountain top across the valley they could see wide expanses of open land dotted with shining water and grassy sæter districts.
Drawing a long breath, all gazed silently around. What a tranquillity lay over everything! Of their own accord the animals fell into order along the stony road curving endlessly beyond them. They made no more attempts to branch off into side paths, but walked slowly along at an even pace. That gave Lisbeth a little time to view her surroundings. She had never seen a place so broad and open. And up here she was to spend the whole bright summer.
All at once, in the midst of this vastness and space, Lisbeth felt herself so wonderfully little! But she was not at all terrified; she only felt very solemn and peaceful.
She began to think of the future,—of the rest of the day, the coming summer, and the many summers that would follow. Sometime she herself would be big and grown up, like the head milkmaid, whom she could now see sitting on the high saddle far ahead. Sometime she herself would sit up there, perhaps, and ride at the front.
The pack horses refused to go slowly now, even under their heavy loads. They forged ahead, passed the mounted milkmaid, and soon disappeared over a distant ridge. The procession followed slowly. Hour after hour it wound its curving way over ridges and brooks, past sæters and shining mountain lakes. Lisbeth had the honor of sitting up in the saddle and riding awhile, the milkmaid feeling that she would gladly walk a little.
Evening began to draw nigh. They took their way high up through a gap in the mountain which they had seen in the distance early in the morning. After that the road began to descend. They met with birch trees again and one single warped fir tree; and from below they heard the rushing sound of a large river.
They reached at last the edge of the sæter valley to which they were bound, and stood still to look down. Below them lay a comparatively level space, peaceful and green, with its three sæter huts, belonging to Hœgseth,10Lunde,11and Hoel farms. From the chimneys of two of the huts smoke was ascending in the still afternoon air.
The gazers were filled with delight. This, then, was the spot where they were to spend the summer! The cows began to bellow. The smaller animals, one and all, started on a run past the cows and down the hill.
Early the next morning Lisbeth was on her way across the mountain pasture with the small animals in her charge. She did not have the lunch bag on her back now, for while she was up at the sæter she was to take dinner at the hut every noon.
The sunshine was brilliant. The cows had been turned loose and were walking away on the nearest cow path, going in single file as if strung on a line. The leader's bell rang deeply and regularly, its tone mingling with others quite as deep from the neighboring sæters; and in upon this solemn ringing broke the delicate, brisk dingle-dangle of the smaller creatures' bells.
The time had now come when Lisbeth Longfrock was to make her first entrance into the vast unknown. The milkmaid had told her that while tending her animals this first day she should not wander too far, lest she might not be able to find her way back. She was to listen to the other herders and keep near them. The milkmaid did not know whether the other herders were boys or girls this year.
Lisbeth kept looking back every now and then to keep track of the way she had come, and was apparently loath to lose sight of the hut; but the animals drifted rapidly off in the distance and she had to follow so as not to lose sight of them altogether, and after a while, when she looked back, the hut could not be seen. Around her were only the unending wastes of hill and marsh and the faraway mountain peaks. How spacious and silent it was! Not a sound was to be heard except that of the bells; not even the river's rushing harmonies reached up to where she stood.
She suddenly felt herself so utterly alone and remote and had such a longing to caress some living creature that she went among the flock and petted now this one and now that. The bell goat became so envious that it butted the others out of the way and stood rubbing itself against her.
All at once there came a call, "Ho-i-ho! ho-i-ho!" so loud and clear that the mountains echoed with it. The goats pricked up their ears, and Lisbeth, too, listened breathlessly. The call was so unexpected that she had not distinguished from what quarter it came. It sounded near, and yet, because of the echoes, from all directions.
"Ho-i-ho! ho-i-ho!" This time the call was still louder. Presently she heard bells, several bells, and then she saw a large flock of sheep and goats come straggling over the crest of a hill.
Very likely it was the other herders who were calling. Lisbeth saw two straw hats rise above the hill, and by degrees two tall boys seemed to grow up out of the hilltop,—boys about as big as Jacob.
At sight of them Lisbeth felt so shy that she kneeled down and hid herself behind a bushy little mound.
The boys shaded their eyes with their hands and looked down from the hilltop.
"Ho-i-ho!" they called, and then listened. "Ho-i-ho!"
No answer. All was still.
Then one of the boys cried out:
Oh, ho! you boy from Hoel, don't you hear?If you have pluck, we call you to appear!
Oh, ho! you boy from Hoel, don't you hear?If you have pluck, we call you to appear!
Oh, ho! you boy from Hoel, don't you hear?
If you have pluck, we call you to appear!
They stood awhile, watching. Then they darted forward, turned two or three somersaults, and ran down the hill toward her, repeating their call and shouting. Again they stopped and listened, as if uncertain.
"Ho-i-ho!" Again they challenged:
If you lie hid behind some bush or stone,Come out and show there's marrow in your bone!
If you lie hid behind some bush or stone,Come out and show there's marrow in your bone!
If you lie hid behind some bush or stone,
Come out and show there's marrow in your bone!
Then the two boys came to the bottom of the hill, where Lisbeth's flock was, and looked around. No, they did not see any one. The new herder from Hoel, who dared to lose track of his flock the first day, must be a reckless young scamp—a fellow it might be fun to get acquainted with. Very likely he had heard of their bathing place in the Sloping Marsh. Probably that was where he had gone now.
Well, they would take his animals with them and go there themselves; but first they would give another call. Perhaps he was not so far away but that he might hear if they gave a good loud one.
"Ho-i-ho!" From far away echo repeated the sounds in "dwarf language," as the Norwegian boys call it.
When all was still again, there sounded close at hand, as thin and clear as the peep of a bird, "Ho-i-ho!"
This was from Lisbeth, who, when she heard that they were going to take her flock away, felt that she ought to call out, although it was extremely embarrassing.
The boys stopped short, greatly astonished. From behind the bushy little mound there arose something small, just like a tiny "hill woman," in a plaid neckerchief and a long frock, who stood stock-still and looked at them with large, shy eyes.
At sight of her the boys were somewhat abashed. It was a little embarrassing for them to find that their boastful, taunting rhymes had been directed against a poor timorous "young one," and a girl at that; but it was exasperating, too, for they had expected to see a comrade of their own size.
Humph! any one could see that Hoel Farm had women folk at the head of it. The mistress was not willing that even the herder should be a boy.
If the "young one" had only been bigger,—bigger than themselves,—they could have shown their contempt for her and chased her; but that little midget! no, indeed, grown-up fellows like them did not waste either words or blows on such small fry! It would be a good plan, however, to talk with her a bit and hear whether another herder was not coming to take her place. After that they would have nothing more to do with her. They could get along by themselves for one summer. All that was necessary was to frighten her a little, so that she would keep out of their way.
They came over to Lisbeth and stood before her, big-boy-like, with their hands in their pockets. Then one of them said, "Are you going to be the Hoel herder this summer?"
"Yes," answered Lisbeth. Then, as if to excuse herself, she added quickly, "Kjersti wanted me to."
"What is your name?"
"Lisbeth; and Jacob calls me Longfrock."
"Where are you from?"
"From Peerout."
"Are you Jacob Peerout's sister? We went to school with him last winter."
"Yes, I am."
"What a nuisance that Jacob himself did not come! We haven't any use at all for young ones like you up here."
The speaker, who was the larger of the two boys, stood awhile waiting for a reply; but Lisbeth did not know what answer to make to his remark and therefore said nothing. So he continued: "Well, we only wanted to say to you—I'm Ole Hœgseth and that fellow over there is Peter Lunde—that you must keep out of our way. You must not dare to come a step beyond a line running from Pancake Stone down around the Sloping Marsh to the Pointing Stump near the Hœgseth cow path. If you let your animals graze beyond that line, your brother Jacob, next winter, shall get all the thrashings you ought to have this summer."
Lisbeth was dreadfully frightened and her mouth began to tremble. Then the second boy said to the larger one, "Yes, but Jacob is so strong that he will get the best of you."
"Not when I have brought myself into good training. Hoi!" and he turned a handspring.
"Now you know what Jacob may expect, so take care what you do! We boys are going up to the Sloping Marsh to bathe. Ho-i-ho!"
With shout and call they took their way up over the hill again. At the top they looked back and then glanced a little dubiously at each other. Lisbeth Longfrock was still standing where they had left her, and—she was crying!
Lisbeth felt very small and forlorn as she stood there. She certainly did not want to do anything that Jacob would get a thrashing for. If she only knew where it was that she was not allowed to go! but she had not the least idea where either the Pointing Stump or the Sloping Marsh lay. All that she could do would be to keep with her animals and find out about these places later.
Sometime afterwards, when Lisbeth had mounted a small round hill, she heard the bells of the boys' flocks again. That gave her a fright, and she began to chase her animals off in another direction. But as she turned around to do so she saw, far, far down the marsh, two white figures running, jumping, and playing leapfrog in the sunshine beside a gleaming pond. The boys had let their flocks stray away from them!
Lisbeth dreaded incurring more displeasure, but surely something ought to be done. There was no help for it; she would really have to take care of the stray animals for a while. The boys could not be angry at that, she knew, because the greatest disgrace that can befall a herder is the losing of his flock, and for boys so big as these to go back to the sæter without any animals would be especially humiliating.
So Lisbeth went to work gathering the flocks together, jumping up on a mound every now and then to see if the boys were not ready to come; but they appeared to have forgotten everything except their play.
At length she saw that the boys suddenly stood still and listened, peering about in all directions. Then they started into activity again, snatched up their clothes, put them on in great haste, and started off on a run toward the opposite edge of the marsh. Every little while they would stop and listen, and then run on again. They were so far off that there was no use in Lisbeth's shouting to them or trying to give the call "Ho-i-ho!"
When the boys reached a round hill that lay on the other side of the marsh, they ran to the top and again peered in all directions for a long time. Then, as fast as their legs could carry them, they made their way back across the marsh straight toward the small round hill where Lisbeth was. As they neared it Lisbeth thought that now was the time to give the herder's call, for the flocks were on the other side of the hill and their bells could not be heard by the boys. Her first call was too weak. She gave another somewhat stronger.
The boys stopped and answered.
Lisbeth called again, "Ho-i-ho!" and then the boys came up the hill. They found it a little difficult to break the silence. It was rather annoying to be obliged to question that "young one" about their flocks; but there was no other way.
"Have you seen our animals?"
Lisbeth looked at them pleadingly. "They are here at the foot of the hill. I have been taking care of them, but you must not thrash Jacob for it."
The boys looked as they felt,—rather crestfallen. But they had to say something, so Ole remarked, as they turned and left her, "Oh, well, we 'll let him off for this one time."
When Lisbeth went to fasten the gate of the fold that evening Peter Lunde came bobbing along outside the fence.
"You haven't a strange sheep here, have you?"
"No; I have counted mine."
"Well, perhaps I counted mine wrong. Very likely they are all there."
The two stood looking at each other for a while; then both grew shy and had to turn their eyes away. At last Peter said: "Lisbeth, if you want to, you may tend your flock wherever we tend ours, and you may come to our pond. I understood Ole to say that he is willing, too; but if he makes any fuss about it, why Icanthrash him if I really want to."
"Yes, I will come gladly, you may be sure."
"Well, then, I will come after you to-morrow morning, back of the hill here."
Lisbeth did not get a chance to say anything more, for Peter was off like a flash around the corner. He had seen Ole coming.
Ole came lounging along in his usual fashion, with his hands in his pockets.
"You haven't seen a strange sheep, have you?"
"No."
"Humph!"
"Is one of yours missing?"
"Oh, I don't know exactly. Humph! I thought I would tell you that you need not bother yourself about what I said to-day. I did not mean anything by it. It was Peter that made me say it; and if you want me to, I can thrash him for it to-morrow."
CHAPTER VI
THE TAMING OF CROOKHORN
It was early morning in the latter part of the summer, and the sun was shining brightly over Hoel Sæter.
Lisbeth was alone inside the fold, milking goats. All was quiet and peaceful. Not a bell was heard. The only sounds were the gentle rush of the river far below and an occasional soft thud from the cow house when a cow bumped her horns against the wall in getting up. The milkmaid was inside the cow house, milking the cows. Lisbeth's hands were still too small for that work, so it had been arranged that she should have entire charge of the goats instead of helping with the larger animals.
Suddenly from the hill above the sæter rang out "Ho-o-i-ho!" and in a few minutes the call was answered a little farther off with a touch of irritation in the tone, "Ho-o-i-ho!"