The Wonderful Adventures of Nils
Selma Lagerloef

Part 1 out of 9

Produced by David Schaal and PG Distributed Proofreaders

[Transcriber's note: The inconsistent orthography of the original is
retained in this etext.]






The Boy

Akka from Kebnekaise

The Wonderful Journey of Nils

Glimminge Castle

The Great Crane Dance on Kullaberg

In Rainy Weather

The Stairway with the Three Steps

By Ronneby River


The Trip to Oeland

Oeland's Southern Point

The Big Butterfly

Little Karl's Island

Two Cities

The Legend of Smaland

The Crows

The Old Peasant Woman

From Taberg to Huskvarna

The Big Bird Lake


The Homespun Cloth

The Story of Karr and Grayskin

The Wind Witch

The Breaking Up of the Ice

Thumbietot and the Bears

The Flood



Gorgo the Eagle

On Over Gaestrikland

A Day in Haelsingland

In Medelpad

A Morning in Angermanland

Westbottom and Lapland

Osa, the Goose Girl, and Little Mats

With the Laplanders

Homeward Bound

Legends from Haerjedalen

Vermland and Dalsland

The Treasure on the Island

The Journey to Vemminghoeg

Home at Last

The Parting with the Wild Geese

_Some of the purely geographical matter in the Swedish original of the
"Further Adventures of Nils" has been eliminated from the English

The author has rendered valuable assistance in cutting certain chapters
and abridging others. Also, with the author's approval, cuts have been
made where the descriptive matter was merely of local interest.

But the story itself is intact.




_Sunday, March twentieth_.

Once there was a boy. He was--let us say--something like fourteen years
old; long and loose-jointed and towheaded. He wasn't good for much, that
boy. His chief delight was to eat and sleep; and after that--he liked
best to make mischief.

It was a Sunday morning and the boy's parents were getting ready to go
to church. The boy sat on the edge of the table, in his shirt sleeves,
and thought how lucky it was that both father and mother were going
away, and the coast would be clear for a couple of hours. "Good! Now I
can take down pop's gun and fire off a shot, without anybody's meddling
interference," he said to himself.

But it was almost as if father should have guessed the boy's thoughts,
for just as he was on the threshold--ready to start--he stopped short,
and turned toward the boy. "Since you won't come to church with mother
and me," he said, "the least you can do, is to read the service at home.
Will you promise to do so?" "Yes," said the boy, "that I can do easy
enough." And he thought, of course, that he wouldn't read any more than
he felt like reading.

The boy thought that never had he seen his mother so persistent. In a
second she was over by the shelf near the fireplace, and took down
Luther's Commentary and laid it on the table, in front of the
window--opened at the service for the day. She also opened the New
Testament, and placed it beside the Commentary. Finally, she drew up the
big arm-chair, which was bought at the parish auction the year before,
and which, as a rule, no one but father was permitted to occupy.

The boy sat thinking that his mother was giving herself altogether too
much trouble with this spread; for he had no intention of reading more
than a page or so. But now, for the second time, it was almost as if his
father were able to see right through him. He walked up to the boy, and
said in a severe tone: "Now, remember, that you are to read carefully!
For when we come back, I shall question you thoroughly; and if you have
skipped a single page, it will not go well with you."

"The service is fourteen and a half pages long," said his mother, just
as if she wanted to heap up the measure of his misfortune. "You'll have
to sit down and begin the reading at once, if you expect to get through
with it."

With that they departed. And as the boy stood in the doorway watching
them, he thought that he had been caught in a trap. "There they go
congratulating themselves, I suppose, in the belief that they've hit
upon something so good that I'll be forced to sit and hang over the
sermon the whole time that they are away," thought he.

But his father and mother were certainly not congratulating themselves
upon anything of the sort; but, on the contrary, they were very much
distressed. They were poor farmers, and their place was not much bigger
than a garden-plot. When they first moved there, the place couldn't feed
more than one pig and a pair of chickens; but they were uncommonly
industrious and capable folk--and now they had both cows and geese.
Things had turned out very well for them; and they would have gone to
church that beautiful morning--satisfied and happy--if they hadn't had
their son to think of. Father complained that he was dull and lazy; he
had not cared to learn anything at school, and he was such an all-round
good-for-nothing, that he could barely be made to tend geese. Mother did
not deny that this was true; but she was most distressed because he was
wild and bad; cruel to animals, and ill-willed toward human beings. "May
God soften his hard heart, and give him a better disposition!" said the
mother, "or else he will be a misfortune, both to himself and to us."

The boy stood for a long time and pondered whether he should read the
service or not. Finally, he came to the conclusion that, this time, it
was best to be obedient. He seated himself in the easy chair, and began
to read. But when he had been rattling away in an undertone for a little
while, this mumbling seemed to have a soothing effect upon him--and he
began to nod.

It was the most beautiful weather outside! It was only the twentieth of
March; but the boy lived in West Vemminghoeg Township, down in Southern
Skane, where the spring was already in full swing. It was not as yet
green, but it was fresh and budding. There was water in all the
trenches, and the colt's-foot on the edge of the ditch was in bloom. All
the weeds that grew in among the stones were brown and shiny. The
beech-woods in the distance seemed to swell and grow thicker with every
second. The skies were high--and a clear blue. The cottage door stood
ajar, and the lark's trill could be heard in the room. The hens and
geese pattered about in the yard, and the cows, who felt the spring air
away in their stalls, lowed their approval every now and then.

The boy read and nodded and fought against drowsiness. "No! I don't want
to fall asleep," thought he, "for then I'll not get through with this
thing the whole forenoon."

But--somehow--he fell asleep.

He did not know whether he had slept a short while, or a long while; but
he was awakened by hearing a slight noise back of him.

On the window-sill, facing the boy, stood a small looking-glass; and
almost the entire cottage could be seen in this. As the boy raised his
head, he happened to look in the glass; and then he saw that the cover
to his mother's chest had been opened.

His mother owned a great, heavy, iron-bound oak chest, which she
permitted no one but herself to open. Here she treasured all the things
she had inherited from her mother, and of these she was especially
careful. Here lay a couple of old-time peasant dresses, of red homespun
cloth, with short bodice and plaited shirt, and a pearl-bedecked breast
pin. There were starched white-linen head-dresses, and heavy silver
ornaments and chains. Folks don't care to go about dressed like that in
these days, and several times his mother had thought of getting rid of
the old things; but somehow, she hadn't had the heart to do it.

Now the boy saw distinctly--in the glass--that the chest-lid was open.
He could not understand how this had happened, for his mother had closed
the chest before she went away. She never would have left that precious
chest open when he was at home, alone.

He became low-spirited and apprehensive. He was afraid that a thief had
sneaked his way into the cottage. He didn't dare to move; but sat still
and stared into the looking-glass.

While he sat there and waited for the thief to make his appearance, he
began to wonder what that dark shadow was which fell across the edge of
the chest. He looked and looked--and did not want to believe his eyes.
But the thing, which at first seemed shadowy, became more and more
clear to him; and soon he saw that it was something real. It was no less
a thing than an elf who sat there--astride the edge of the chest!

To be sure, the boy had heard stories about elves, but he had never
dreamed that they were such tiny creatures. He was no taller than a
hand's breadth--this one, who sat on the edge of the chest. He had an
old, wrinkled and beardless face, and was dressed in a black frock coat,
knee-breeches and a broad-brimmed black hat. He was very trim and smart,
with his white laces about the throat and wrist-bands, his buckled
shoes, and the bows on his garters. He had taken from the chest an
embroidered piece, and sat and looked at the old-fashioned handiwork
with such an air of veneration, that he did not observe the boy had

The boy was somewhat surprised to see the elf, but, on the other hand,
he was not particularly frightened. It was impossible to be afraid of
one who was so little. And since the elf was so absorbed in his own
thoughts that he neither saw nor heard, the boy thought that it would be
great fun to play a trick on him; to push him over into the chest and
shut the lid on him, or something of that kind.

But the boy was not so courageous that he dared to touch the elf with
his hands, instead he looked around the room for something to poke him
with. He let his gaze wander from the sofa to the leaf-table; from the
leaf-table to the fireplace. He looked at the kettles, then at the
coffee-urn, which stood on a shelf, near the fireplace; on the water
bucket near the door; and on the spoons and knives and forks and saucers
and plates, which could be seen through the half-open cupboard door. He
looked at his father's gun, which hung on the wall, beside the portrait
of the Danish royal family, and on the geraniums and fuchsias, which
blossomed in the window. And last, he caught sight of an old
butterfly-snare that hung on the window frame. He had hardly set eyes on
that butterfly-snare, before he reached over and snatched it and jumped
up and swung it alongside the edge of the chest. He was himself
astonished at the luck he had. He hardly knew how he had managed it--but
he had actually snared the elf. The poor little chap lay, head downward,
in the bottom of the long snare, and could not free himself.

The first moment the boy hadn't the least idea what he should do with
his prize. He was only particular to swing the snare backward and
forward; to prevent the elf from getting a foothold and clambering up.

The elf began to speak, and begged, oh! so pitifully, for his freedom.
He had brought them good luck--these many years--he said, and deserved
better treatment. Now, if the boy would set him free, he would give him
an old coin, a silver spoon, and a gold penny, as big as the case on his
father's silver watch.

The boy didn't think that this was much of an offer; but it so
happened--that after he had gotten the elf in his power, he was afraid
of him. He felt that he had entered into an agreement with something
weird and uncanny; something which did not belong to his world, and he
was only too glad to get rid of the horrid thing.

For this reason he agreed at once to the bargain, and held the snare
still, so the elf could crawl out of it. But when the elf was almost out
of the snare, the boy happened to think that he ought to have bargained
for large estates, and all sorts of good things. He should at least have
made this stipulation: that the elf must conjure the sermon into his
head. "What a fool I was to let him go!" thought he, and began to shake
the snare violently, so the elf would tumble down again.

But the instant the boy did this, he received such a stinging box on the
ear, that he thought his head would fly in pieces. He was dashed--first
against one wall, then against the other; he sank to the floor, and lay

When he awoke, he was alone in the cottage. The chest-lid was down, and
the butterfly-snare hung in its usual place by the window. If he had not
felt how the right cheek burned, from that box on the ear, he would have
been tempted to believe the whole thing had been a dream. "At any rate,
father and mother will be sure to insist that it was nothing else,"
thought he. "They are not likely to make any allowances for that old
sermon, on account of the elf. It's best for me to get at that reading
again," thought he.

But as he walked toward the table, he noticed something remarkable. It
couldn't be possible that the cottage had grown. But why was he obliged
to take so many more steps than usual to get to the table? And what was
the matter with the chair? It looked no bigger than it did a while ago;
but now he had to step on the rung first, and then clamber up in order
to reach the seat. It was the same thing with the table. He could not
look over the top without climbing to the arm of the chair.

"What in all the world is this?" said the boy. "I believe the elf has
bewitched both the armchair and the table--and the whole cottage."

The Commentary lay on the table and, to all appearances, it was not
changed; but there must have been something queer about that too, for he
could not manage to read a single word of it, without actually standing
right in the book itself.

He read a couple of lines, and then he chanced to look up. With that,
his glance fell on the looking-glass; and then he cried aloud: "Look!
There's another one!"

For in the glass he saw plainly a little, little creature who was
dressed in a hood and leather breeches.

"Why, that one is dressed exactly like me!" said the boy, and clasped
his hands in astonishment. But then he saw that the thing in the mirror
did the same thing. Then he began to pull his hair and pinch his arms
and swing round; and instantly he did the same thing after him; he, who
was seen in the mirror.

The boy ran around the glass several times, to see if there wasn't a
little man hidden behind it, but he found no one there; and then he
began to shake with terror. For now he understood that the elf had
bewitched him, and that the creature whose image he saw in the
glass--was he, himself.


The boy simply could not make himself believe that he had been
transformed into an elf. "It can't be anything but a dream--a queer
fancy," thought he. "If I wait a few moments, I'll surely be turned back
into a human being again."

He placed himself before the glass and closed his eyes. He opened them
again after a couple of minutes, and then expected to find that it had
all passed over--but it hadn't. He was--and remained--just as little. In
other respects, he was the same as before. The thin, straw-coloured
hair; the freckles across his nose; the patches on his leather breeches
and the darns on his stockings, were all like themselves, with this
exception--that they had become diminished.

No, it would do no good for him to stand still and wait, of this he was
certain. He must try something else. And he thought the wisest thing
that he could do was to try and find the elf, and make his peace with

And while he sought, he cried and prayed and promised everything he
could think of. Nevermore would he break his word to anyone; never again
would he be naughty; and never, never would he fall asleep again over
the sermon. If he might only be a human being once more, he would be
such a good and helpful and obedient boy. But no matter how much he
promised--it did not help him the least little bit.

Suddenly he remembered that he had heard his mother say, all the tiny
folk made their home in the cowsheds; and, at once, he concluded to go
there, and see if he couldn't find the elf. It was a lucky thing that
the cottage-door stood partly open, for he never could have reached the
bolt and opened it; but now he slipped through without any difficulty.

When he came out in the hallway, he looked around for his wooden shoes;
for in the house, to be sure, he had gone about in his stocking-feet. He
wondered how he should manage with these big, clumsy wooden shoes; but
just then, he saw a pair of tiny shoes on the doorstep. When he observed
that the elf had been so thoughtful that he had also bewitched the
wooden shoes, he was even more troubled. It was evidently his intention
that this affliction should last a long time.

On the wooden board-walk in front of the cottage, hopped a gray sparrow.
He had hardly set eyes on the boy before he called out: "Teetee! Teetee!
Look at Nils goosey-boy! Look at Thumbietot! Look at Nils Holgersson

Instantly, both the geese and the chickens turned and stared at the boy;
and then they set up a fearful cackling. "Cock-el-i-coo," crowed the
rooster, "good enough for him! Cock-el-i-coo, he has pulled my comb."
"Ka, ka, kada, serves him right!" cried the hens; and with that they
kept up a continuous cackle. The geese got together in a tight group,
stuck their heads together and asked: "Who can have done this? Who can
have done this?"

But the strangest thing of all was, that the boy understood what they
said. He was so astonished, that he stood there as if rooted to the
doorstep, and listened. "It must be because I am changed into an elf,"
said he. "This is probably why I understand bird-talk."

He thought it was unbearable that the hens would not stop saying that it
served him right. He threw a stone at them and shouted:

"Shut up, you pack!"

But it hadn't occurred to him before, that he was no longer the sort of
boy the hens need fear. The whole henyard made a rush for him, and
formed a ring around him; then they all cried at once: "Ka, ka, kada,
served you right! Ka, ka, kada, served you right!"

The boy tried to get away, but the chickens ran after him and screamed,
until he thought he'd lose his hearing. It is more than likely that he
never could have gotten away from them, if the house cat hadn't come
along just then. As soon as the chickens saw the cat, they quieted down
and pretended to be thinking of nothing else than just to scratch in the
earth for worms.

Immediately the boy ran up to the cat. "You dear pussy!" said he, "you
must know all the corners and hiding places about here? You'll be a good
little kitty and tell me where I can find the elf."

The cat did not reply at once. He seated himself, curled his tail into
a graceful ring around his paws--and stared at the boy. It was a large
black cat with one white spot on his chest. His fur lay sleek and soft,
and shone in the sunlight. The claws were drawn in, and the eyes were a
dull gray, with just a little narrow dark streak down the centre. The
cat looked thoroughly good-natured and inoffensive.

"I know well enough where the elf lives," he said in a soft voice, "but
that doesn't say that I'm going to tell _you_ about it."

"Dear pussy, you must tell me where the elf lives!" said the boy. "Can't
you see how he has bewitched me?"

The cat opened his eyes a little, so that the green wickedness began to
shine forth. He spun round and purred with satisfaction before he
replied. "Shall I perhaps help you because you have so often grabbed me
by the tail?" he said at last.

Then the boy was furious and forgot entirely how little and helpless he
was now. "Oh! I can pull your tail again, I can," said he, and ran
toward the cat.

The next instant the cat was so changed that the boy could scarcely
believe it was the same animal. Every separate hair on his body stood on
end. The back was bent; the legs had become elongated; the claws scraped
the ground; the tail had grown thick and short; the ears were laid back;
the mouth was frothy; and the eyes were wide open and glistened like
sparks of red fire.

The boy didn't want to let himself be scared by a cat, and he took a
step forward. Then the cat made one spring and landed right on the boy;
knocked him down and stood over him--his forepaws on his chest, and his
jaws wide apart--over his throat.

The boy felt how the sharp claws sank through his vest and shirt and
into his skin; and how the sharp eye-teeth tickled his throat. He
shrieked for help, as loudly as he could, but no one came. He thought
surely that his last hour had come. Then he felt that the cat drew in
his claws and let go the hold on his throat.

"There!" he said, "that will do now. I'll let you go this time, for my
mistress's sake. I only wanted you to know which one of us two has the
power now."

With that the cat walked away--looking as smooth and pious as he did
when he first appeared on the scene. The boy was so crestfallen that he
didn't say a word, but only hurried to the cowhouse to look for the elf.

There were not more than three cows, all told. But when the boy came in,
there was such a bellowing and such a kick-up, that one might easily
have believed that there were at least thirty.

"Moo, moo, moo," bellowed Mayrose. "It is well there is such a thing as
justice in this world."

"Moo, moo, moo," sang the three of them in unison. He couldn't hear what
they said, for each one tried to out-bellow the others.

The boy wanted to ask after the elf, but he couldn't make himself heard
because the cows were in full uproar. They carried on as they used to do
when he let a strange dog in on them. They kicked with their hind legs,
shook their necks, stretched their heads, and measured the distance with
their horns.

"Come here, you!" said Mayrose, "and you'll get a kick that you won't
forget in a hurry!"

"Come here," said Gold Lily, "and you shall dance on my horns!"

"Come here, and you shall taste how it felt when you threw your wooden
shoes at me, as you did last summer!" bawled Star.

"Come here, and you shall be repaid for that wasp you let loose in my
ear!" growled Gold Lily.

Mayrose was the oldest and the wisest of them, and she was the very
maddest. "Come here!" said she, "that I may pay you back for the many
times that you have jerked the milk pail away from your mother; and for
all the snares you laid for her, when she came carrying the milk pails;
and for all the tears when she has stood here and wept over you!"

The boy wanted to tell them how he regretted that he had been unkind to
them; and that never, never--from now on--should he be anything but
good, if they would only tell him where the elf was. But the cows didn't
listen to him. They made such a racket that he began to fear one of them
would succeed in breaking loose; and he thought that the best thing for
him to do was to go quietly away from the cowhouse.

When he came out, he was thoroughly disheartened. He could understand
that no one on the place wanted to help him find the elf. And little
good would it do him, probably, if the elf were found.

He crawled up on the broad hedge which fenced in the farm, and which was
overgrown with briers and lichen. There he sat down to think about how
it would go with him, if he never became a human being again. When
father and mother came home from church, there would be a surprise for
them. Yes, a surprise--it would be all over the land; and people would
come flocking from East Vemminghoeg, and from Torp, and from Skerup. The
whole Vemminghoeg township would come to stare at him. Perhaps father and
mother would take him with them, and show him at the market place in

No, that was too horrible to think about. He would rather that no human
being should ever see him again.

His unhappiness was simply frightful! No one in all the world was so
unhappy as he. He was no longer a human being--but a freak.

Little by little he began to comprehend what it meant--to be no longer
human. He was separated from everything now; he could no longer play
with other boys, he could not take charge of the farm after his parents
were gone; and certainly no girl would think of marrying _him_.

He sat and looked at his home. It was a little log house, which lay as
if it had been crushed down to earth, under the high, sloping roof. The
outhouses were also small; and the patches of ground were so narrow that
a horse could barely turn around on them. But little and poor though the
place was, it was much too good for him _now_. He couldn't ask for any
better place than a hole under the stable floor.

It was wondrously beautiful weather! It budded, and it rippled, and it
murmured, and it twittered--all around him. But he sat there with such a
heavy sorrow. He should never be happy any more about anything.

Never had he seen the skies as blue as they were to-day. Birds of
passage came on their travels. They came from foreign lands, and had
travelled over the East sea, by way of Smygahuk, and were now on their
way North. They were of many different kinds; but he was only familiar
with the wild geese, who came flying in two long rows, which met at an

Several flocks of wild geese had already flown by. They flew very high,
still he could hear how they shrieked: "To the hills! Now we're off to
the hills!"

When the wild geese saw the tame geese, who walked about the farm, they
sank nearer the earth, and called: "Come along! Come along! We're off to
the hills!"

The tame geese could not resist the temptation to raise their heads and
listen, but they answered very sensibly: "We're pretty well off where we
are. We're pretty well off where we are."

It was, as we have said, an uncommonly fine day, with an atmosphere that
it must have been a real delight to fly in, so light and bracing. And
with each new wild geese-flock that flew by, the tame geese became more
and more unruly. A couple of times they flapped their wings, as if they
had half a mind to fly along. But then an old mother-goose would always
say to them: "Now don't be silly. Those creatures will have to suffer
both hunger and cold."

There was a young gander whom the wild geese had fired with a passion
for adventure. "If another flock comes this way, I'll follow them," said

Then there came a new flock, who shrieked like the others, and the young
gander answered: "Wait a minute! Wait a minute! I'm coming."

He spread his wings and raised himself into the air; but he was so
unaccustomed to flying, that he fell to the ground again.

At any rate, the wild geese must have heard his call, for they turned
and flew back slowly to see if he was coming.

"Wait, wait!" he cried, and made another attempt to fly.

All this the boy heard, where he lay on the hedge. "It would be a great
pity," thought he, "if the big goosey-gander should go away. It would be
a big loss to father and mother if he was gone when they came home from

When he thought of this, once again he entirely forgot that he was
little and helpless. He took one leap right down into the goose-flock,
and threw his arms around the neck of the goosey-gander. "Oh, no! You
don't fly away this time, sir!" cried he.

But just about then, the gander was considering how he should go to
work to raise himself from the ground. He couldn't stop to shake the boy
off, hence he had to go along with him--up in the air.

They bore on toward the heights so rapidly, that the boy fairly gasped.
Before he had time to think that he ought to let go his hold around the
gander's neck, he was so high up that he would have been killed
instantly, if he had fallen to the ground.

The only thing that he could do to make himself a little more
comfortable, was to try and get upon the gander's back. And there he
wriggled himself forthwith; but not without considerable trouble. And it
was not an easy matter, either, to hold himself secure on the slippery
back, between two swaying wings. He had to dig deep into feathers and
down with both hands, to keep from tumbling to the ground.


The boy had grown so giddy that it was a long while before he came to
himself. The winds howled and beat against him, and the rustle of
feathers and swaying of wings sounded like a whole storm. Thirteen geese
flew around him, flapping their wings and honking. They danced before
his eyes and they buzzed in his ears. He didn't know whether they flew
high or low, or in what direction they were travelling.

After a bit, he regained just enough sense to understand that he ought
to find out where the geese were taking him. But this was not so easy,
for he didn't know how he should ever muster up courage enough to look
down. He was sure he'd faint if he attempted it.

The wild geese were not flying very high because the new travelling
companion could not breathe in the very thinnest air. For his sake they
also flew a little slower than usual.

At last the boy just made himself cast one glance down to earth. Then he
thought that a great big rug lay spread beneath him, which was made up
of an incredible number of large and small checks.

"Where in all the world am I now?" he wondered.

He saw nothing but check upon check. Some were broad and ran crosswise,
and some were long and narrow--all over, there were angles and corners.
Nothing was round, and nothing was crooked.

"What kind of a big, checked cloth is this that I'm looking down on?"
said the boy to himself without expecting anyone to answer him.

But instantly the wild geese who flew about him called out: "Fields and
meadows. Fields and meadows."

Then he understood that the big, checked cloth he was travelling over
was the flat land of southern Sweden; and he began to comprehend why it
looked so checked and multi-coloured. The bright green checks he
recognised first; they were rye fields that had been sown in the fall,
and had kept themselves green under the winter snows. The yellowish-gray
checks were stubble-fields--the remains of the oat-crop which had grown
there the summer before. The brownish ones were old clover meadows: and
the black ones, deserted grazing lands or ploughed-up fallow pastures.
The brown checks with the yellow edges were, undoubtedly, beech-tree
forests; for in these you'll find the big trees which grow in the heart
of the forest--naked in winter; while the little beech-trees, which grow
along the borders, keep their dry, yellowed leaves way into the spring.
There were also dark checks with gray centres: these were the large,
built-up estates encircled by the small cottages with their blackening
straw roofs, and their stone-divided land-plots. And then there were
checks green in the middle with brown borders: these were the orchards,
where the grass-carpets were already turning green, although the trees
and bushes around them were still in their nude, brown bark.

The boy could not keep from laughing when he saw how checked everything

But when the wild geese heard him laugh, they called out--kind o'
reprovingly: "Fertile and good land. Fertile and good land."

The boy had already become serious. "To think that you can laugh; you,
who have met with the most terrible misfortune that can possibly happen
to a human being!" thought he. And for a moment he was pretty serious;
but it wasn't long before he was laughing again.

Now that he had grown somewhat accustomed to the ride and the speed, so
that he could think of something besides holding himself on the gander's
back, he began to notice how full the air was of birds flying northward.
And there was a shouting and a calling from flock to flock. "So you came
over to-day?" shrieked some. "Yes," answered the geese. "How do you
think the spring's getting on?" "Not a leaf on the trees and ice-cold
water in the lakes," came back the answer.

When the geese flew over a place where they saw any tame, half-naked
fowl, they shouted: "What's the name of this place? What's the name of
this place?" Then the roosters cocked their heads and answered: "Its
name's Lillgarde this year--the same as last year."

Most of the cottages were probably named after their owners--which is
the custom in Skane. But instead of saying this is "Per Matssons," or
"Ola Bossons," the roosters hit upon the kind of names which, to their
way of thinking, were more appropriate. Those who lived on small farms,
and belonged to poor cottagers, cried: "This place is called
Grainscarce." And those who belonged to the poorest hut-dwellers
screamed: "The name of this place is Little-to-eat, Little-to-eat,

The big, well-cared-for farms got high-sounding names from the
roosters--such as Luckymeadows, Eggberga and Moneyville.

But the roosters on the great landed estates were too high and mighty to
condescend to anything like jesting. One of them crowed and called out
with such gusto that it sounded as if he wanted to be heard clear up to
the sun: "This is Herr Dybeck's estate; the same this year as last year;
this year as last year."

A little further on strutted one rooster who crowed: "This is Swanholm,
surely all the world knows that!"

The boy observed that the geese did not fly straight forward; but
zigzagged hither and thither over the whole South country, just as
though they were glad to be in Skane again and wanted to pay their
respects to every separate place.

They came to one place where there were a number of big, clumsy-looking
buildings with great, tall chimneys, and all around these were a lot of
smaller houses. "This is Jordberga Sugar Refinery," cried the roosters.
The boy shuddered as he sat there on the goose's back. He ought to have
recognised this place, for it was not very far from his home.

Here he had worked the year before as a watch boy; but, to be sure,
nothing was exactly like itself when one saw it like that--from up

And think! Just think! Osa the goose girl and little Mats, who were his
comrades last year! Indeed the boy would have been glad to know if they
still were anywhere about here. Fancy what they would have said, had
they suspected that he was flying over their heads!

Soon Jordberga was lost to sight, and they travelled towards Svedala and
Skaber Lake and back again over Goerringe Cloister and Haeckeberga. The
boy saw more of Skane in this one day than he had ever seen before--in
all the years that he had lived.

Whenever the wild geese happened across any tame geese, they had the
best fun! They flew forward very slowly and called down: "We're off to
the hills. Are you coming along? Are you coming along?"

But the tame geese answered: "It's still winter in this country. You're
out too soon. Fly back! Fly back!"

The wild geese lowered themselves that they might be heard a little
better, and called: "Come along! We'll teach you how to fly and swim."

Then the tame geese got mad and wouldn't answer them with a single honk.

The wild geese sank themselves still lower--until they almost touched
the ground--then, quick as lightning, they raised themselves, just as if
they'd been terribly frightened. "Oh, oh, oh!" they exclaimed. "Those
things were not geese. They were only sheep, they were only sheep."

The ones on the ground were beside themselves with rage and shrieked:
"May you be shot, the whole lot o' you! The whole lot o' you!"

When the boy heard all this teasing he laughed. Then he remembered how
badly things had gone with him, and he cried. But the next second, he
was laughing again.

Never before had he ridden so fast; and to ride fast and
recklessly--that he had always liked. And, of course, he had never
dreamed that it could be as fresh and bracing as it was, up in the air;
or that there rose from the earth such a fine scent of resin and soil.
Nor had he ever dreamed what it could be like--to ride so high above the
earth. It was just like flying away from sorrow and trouble and
annoyances of every kind that could be thought of.



The big tame goosey-gander that had followed them up in the air, felt
very proud of being permitted to travel back and forth over the South
country with the wild geese, and crack jokes with the tame birds. But in
spite of his keen delight, he began to tire as the afternoon wore on. He
tried to take deeper breaths and quicker wing-strokes, but even so he
remained several goose-lengths behind the others.

When the wild geese who flew last, noticed that the tame one couldn't
keep up with them, they began to call to the goose who rode in the
centre of the angle and led the procession: "Akka from Kebnekaise! Akka
from Kebnekaise!" "What do you want of me?" asked the leader. "The white
one will be left behind; the white one will be left behind." "Tell him
it's easier to fly fast than slow!" called the leader, and raced on as

The goosey-gander certainly tried to follow the advice, and increase his
speed; but then he became so exhausted that he sank away down to the
drooping willows that bordered the fields and meadows.

"Akka, Akka, Akka from Kebnekaise!" cried those who flew last and saw
what a hard time he was having. "What do you want now?" asked the
leader--and she sounded awfully angry. "The white one sinks to the
earth; the white one sinks to the earth." "Tell him it's easier to fly
high than low!" shouted the leader, and she didn't slow up the least
little bit, but raced on as before.

The goosey-gander tried also to follow this advice; but when he wanted
to raise himself, he became so winded that he almost burst his breast.

"Akka, Akka!" again cried those who flew last. "Can't you let me fly in
peace?" asked the leader, and she sounded even madder than before.

"The white one is ready to collapse." "Tell him that he who has not the
strength to fly with the flock, can go back home!" cried the leader. She
certainly had no idea of decreasing her speed--but raced on as before.

"Oh! is that the way the wind blows," thought the goosey-gander. He
understood at once that the wild geese had never intended to take him
along up to Lapland. They had only lured him away from home in sport.

He felt thoroughly exasperated. To think that his strength should fail
him now, so he wouldn't be able to show these tramps that even a tame
goose was good for something! But the most provoking thing of all was
that he had fallen in with Akka from Kebnekaise. Tame goose that he was,
he had heard about a leader goose, named Akka, who was more than a
hundred years old. She had such a big name that the best wild geese in
the world followed her. But no one had such a contempt for tame geese
as Akka and her flock, and gladly would he have shown them that he was
their equal.

He flew slowly behind the rest, while he deliberated whether he should
turn back or continue. Finally, the little creature that he carried on
his back said: "Dear Morten Goosey-gander, you know well enough that it
is simply impossible for you, who have never flown, to go with the wild
geese all the way up to Lapland. Won't you turn back before you kill

But the farmer's lad was about the worst thing the goosey-gander knew
anything about, and as soon as it dawned on him that this puny creature
actually believed that he couldn't make the trip, he decided to stick it
out. "If you say another word about this, I'll drop you into the first
ditch we ride over!" said he, and at the same time his fury gave him so
much strength that he began to fly almost as well as any of the others.

It isn't likely that he could have kept this pace up very long, neither
was it necessary; for, just then, the sun sank quickly; and at sunset
the geese flew down, and before the boy and the goosey-gander knew what
had happened, they stood on the shores of Vomb Lake.

"They probably intend that we shall spend the night here," thought the
boy, and jumped down from the goose's back.

He stood on a narrow beach by a fair-sized lake. It was ugly to look
upon, because it was almost entirely covered with an ice-crust that was
blackened and uneven and full of cracks and holes--as spring ice
generally is.

The ice was already breaking up. It was loose and floating and had a
broad belt of dark, shiny water all around it; but there was still
enough of it left to spread chill and winter terror over the place.

On the other side of the lake there appeared to be an open and light
country, but where the geese had lighted there was a thick pine-growth.
It looked as if the forest of firs and pines had the power to bind the
winter to itself. Everywhere else the ground was bare; but beneath the
sharp pine-branches lay snow that had been melting and freezing, melting
and freezing, until it was hard as ice.

The boy thought he had struck an arctic wilderness, and he was so
miserable that he wanted to scream. He was hungry too. He hadn't eaten a
bite the whole day. But where should he find any food? Nothing eatable
grew on either ground or tree in the month of March.

Yes, where was he to find food, and who would give him shelter, and who
would fix his bed, and who would protect him from the wild beasts?

For now the sun was away and frost came from the lake, and darkness sank
down from heaven, and terror stole forward on the twilight's trail, and
in the forest it began to patter and rustle.

Now the good humour which the boy had felt when he was up in the air,
was gone, and in his misery he looked around for his travelling
companions. He had no one but them to cling to now.

Then he saw that the goosey-gander was having even a worse time of it
than he. He was lying prostrate on the spot where he had alighted; and
it looked as if he were ready to die. His neck lay flat against the
ground, his eyes were closed, and his breathing sounded like a feeble

"Dear Morten Goosey-Gander," said the boy, "try to get a swallow of
water! It isn't two steps to the lake."

But the goosey-gander didn't stir.

The boy had certainly been cruel to all animals, and to the
goosey-gander in times gone by; but now he felt that the goosey-gander
was the only comfort he had left, and he was dreadfully afraid of losing

At once the boy began to push and drag him, to get him into the water,
but the goosey-gander was big and heavy, and it was mighty hard work for
the boy; but at last he succeeded.

The goosey-gander got in head first. For an instant he lay motionless in
the slime, but soon he poked up his head, shook the water from his eyes
and sniffed. Then he swam, proudly, between reeds and seaweed.

The wild geese were in the lake before him. They had not looked around
for either the goosey-gander or for his rider, but had made straight
for the water. They had bathed and primped, and now they lay and gulped
half-rotten pond-weed and water-clover.

The white goosey-gander had the good fortune to spy a perch. He grabbed
it quickly, swam ashore with it, and laid it down in front of the boy.
"Here's a thank you for helping me into the water," said he.

It was the first time the boy had heard a friendly word that day. He was
so happy that he wanted to throw his arms around the goosey-gander's
neck, but he refrained; and he was also thankful for the gift. At first
he must have thought that it would be impossible to eat raw fish, and
then he had a notion to try it.

He felt to see if he still had his sheath-knife with him; and, sure
enough, there it hung--on the back button of his trousers, although it
was so diminished that it was hardly as long as a match. Well, at any
rate, it served to scale and cleanse fish with; and it wasn't long
before the perch was eaten.

When the boy had satisfied his hunger, he felt a little ashamed because
he had been able to eat a raw thing. "It's evident that I'm not a human
being any longer, but a real elf," thought he.

While the boy ate, the goosey-gander stood silently beside him. But when
he had swallowed the last bite, he said in a low voice: "It's a fact
that we have run across a stuck-up goose folk who despise all tame

"Yes, I've observed that," said the boy.

"What a triumph it would be for me if I could follow them clear up to
Lapland, and show them that even a tame goose can do things!"

"Y-e-e-s," said the boy, and drawled it out because he didn't believe
the goosey-gander could ever do it; yet he didn't wish to contradict
him. "But I don't think I can get along all alone on such a journey,"
said the goosey-gander. "I'd like to ask if you couldn't come along and
help me?" The boy, of course, hadn't expected anything but to return to
his home as soon as possible, and he was so surprised that he hardly
knew what he should reply. "I thought that we were enemies, you and I,"
said he. But this the goosey-gander seemed to have forgotten entirely.
He only remembered that the boy had but just saved his life.

"I suppose I really ought to go home to father and mother," said the
boy. "Oh! I'll get you back to them some time in the fall," said the
goosey-gander. "I shall not leave you until I put you down on your own

The boy thought it might be just as well for him if he escaped showing
himself before his parents for a while. He was not disinclined to favour
the scheme, and was just on the point of saying that he agreed to
it--when they heard a loud rumbling behind them. It was the wild geese
who had come up from the lake--all at one time--and stood shaking the
water from their backs. After that they arranged themselves in a long
row--with the leader-goose in the centre--and came toward them.

As the white goosey-gander sized up the wild geese, he felt ill at ease.
He had expected that they should be more like tame geese, and that he
should feel a closer kinship with them. They were much smaller than he,
and none of them were white. They were all gray with a sprinkling of
brown. He was almost afraid of their eyes. They were yellow, and shone
as if a fire had been kindled back of them. The goosey-gander had always
been taught that it was most fitting to move slowly and with a rolling
motion, but these creatures did not walk--they half ran. He grew most
alarmed, however, when he looked at their feet. These were large, and
the soles were torn and ragged-looking. It was evident that the wild
geese never questioned what they tramped upon. They took no by-paths.
They were very neat and well cared for in other respects, but one could
see by their feet that they were poor wilderness-folk.

The goosey-gander only had time to whisper to the boy: "Speak up quickly
for yourself, but don't tell them who you are!"--before the geese were
upon them.

When the wild geese had stopped in front of them, they curtsied with
their necks many times, and the goosey-gander did likewise many more
times. As soon as the ceremonies were over, the leader-goose said: "Now
I presume we shall hear what kind of creatures you are."

"There isn't much to tell about me," said the goosey-gander. "I was born
in Skanor last spring. In the fall I was sold to Holger Nilsson of West
Vemminghoeg, and there I have lived ever since." "You don't seem to have
any pedigree to boast of," said the leader-goose. "What is it, then,
that makes you so high-minded that you wish to associate with wild
geese?" "It may be because I want to show you wild geese that we tame
ones may also be good for something," said the goosey-gander. "Yes, it
would be well if you could show us that," said the leader-goose. "We
have already observed how much you know about flying; but you are more
skilled, perhaps, in other sports. Possibly you are strong in a swimming
match?" "No, I can't boast that I am," said the goosey-gander. It seemed
to him that the leader-goose had already made up her mind to send him
home, so he didn't much care how he answered. "I never swam any farther
than across a marl-ditch," he continued. "Then I presume you're a crack
sprinter," said the goose. "I have never seen a tame goose run, nor have
I ever done it myself," said the goosey-gander; and he made things
appear much worse than they really were.

The big white one was sure now that the leader-goose would say that
under no circumstances could they take him along. He was very much
astonished when she said: "You answer questions courageously; and he who
has courage can become a good travelling companion, even if he is
ignorant in the beginning. What do you say to stopping with us for a
couple of days, until we can see what you are good for?" "That suits
me!" said the goosey-gander--and he was thoroughly happy.

Thereupon the leader-goose pointed with her bill and said: "But who is
that you have with you? I've never seen anything like him before."
"That's my comrade," said the goosey-gander. "He's been a goose-tender
all his life. He'll be useful all right to take with us on the trip."
"Yes, he may be all right for a tame goose," answered the wild one.
"What do you call him?" "He has several names," said the
goosey-gander--hesitantly, not knowing what he should hit upon in a
hurry, for he didn't want to reveal the fact that the boy had a human
name. "Oh! his name is Thumbietot," he said at last. "Does he belong to
the elf family?" asked the leader-goose. "At what time do you wild geese
usually retire?" said the goosey-gander quickly--trying to evade that
last question. "My eyes close of their own accord about this time."

One could easily see that the goose who talked with the gander was very
old. Her entire feather outfit was ice-gray, without any dark streaks.
The head was larger, the legs coarser, and the feet were more worn than
any of the others. The feathers were stiff; the shoulders knotty; the
neck thin. All this was due to age. It was only upon the eyes that time
had had no effect. They shone brighter--as if they were younger--than
any of the others!

She turned, very haughtily, toward the goosey-gander. "Understand, Mr.
Tame-goose, that I am Akka from Kebnekaise! And that the goose who flies
nearest me--to the right--is Iksi from Vassijaure, and the one to the
left, is Kaksi from Nuolja! Understand, also, that the second right-hand
goose is Kolmi from Sarjektjakko, and the second, left, is Neljae from
Svappavaara; and behind them fly Viisi from Oviksfjaellen and Kuusi from
Sjangeli! And know that these, as well as the six goslings who fly
last--three to the right, and three to the left--are all high mountain
geese of the finest breed! You must not take us for land-lubbers who
strike up a chance acquaintance with any and everyone! And you must not
think that we permit anyone to share our quarters, that will not tell us
who his ancestors were."

When Akka, the leader-goose, talked in this way, the boy stepped briskly
forward. It had distressed him that the goosey-gander, who had spoken up
so glibly for himself, should give such evasive answers when it
concerned him. "I don't care to make a secret of who I am," said he. "My
name is Nils Holgersson. I'm a farmer's son, and, until to-day, I have
been a human being; but this morning--" He got no further. As soon as he
had said that he was human the leader-goose staggered three steps
backward, and the rest of them even farther back. They all extended
their necks and hissed angrily at him.

"I have suspected this ever since I first saw you here on these shores,"
said Akka; "and now you can clear out of here at once. We tolerate no
human beings among us."

"It isn't possible," said the goosey-gander, meditatively, "that you
wild geese can be afraid of anyone who is so tiny! By to-morrow, of
course, he'll turn back home. You can surely let him stay with us
overnight. None of us can afford to let such a poor little creature
wander off by himself in the night--among weasels and foxes!"

The wild goose came nearer. But it was evident that it was hard for her
to master her fear. "I have been taught to fear everything in human
shape--be it big or little," said she. "But if you will answer for this
one, and swear that he will not harm us, he can stay with us to-night.
But I don't believe our night quarters are suitable either for him or
you, for we intend to roost on the broken ice out here."

She thought, of course, that the goosey-gander would be doubtful when
he heard this, but he never let on. "She is pretty wise who knows how to
choose such a safe bed," said he.

"You will be answerable for his return to his own to-morrow."

"Then I, too, will have to leave you," said the goosey-gander. "I have
sworn that I would not forsake him."

"You are free to fly whither you will," said the leader-goose.

With this, she raised her wings and flew out over the ice and one after
another the wild geese followed her.

The boy was very sad to think that his trip to Lapland would not come
off, and, in the bargain, he was afraid of the chilly night quarters.
"It will be worse and worse," said he. "In the first place, we'll freeze
to death on the ice."

But the gander was in a good humour. "There's no danger," said he. "Only
make haste, I beg of you, and gather together as much grass and litter
as you can well carry."

When the boy had his arms full of dried grass, the goosey-gander grabbed
him by the shirt-band, lifted him, and flew out on the ice, where the
wild geese were already fast asleep, with their bills tucked under their

"Now spread out the grass on the ice, so there'll be something to stand
on, to keep me from freezing fast. You help me and I'll help you," said
the goosey-gander.

This the boy did. And when he had finished, the goosey-gander picked
him up, once again, by the shirt-band, and tucked him under his wing. "I
think you'll lie snug and warm there," said the goosey-gander as he
covered him with his wing.

The boy was so imbedded in down that he couldn't answer, and he was nice
and comfy. Oh, but he was tired!--And in less than two winks he was fast


It is a fact that ice is always treacherous and not to be trusted. In
the middle of the night the loosened ice-cake on Vomb Lake moved about,
until one corner of it touched the shore. Now it happened that Mr.
Smirre Fox, who lived at this time in Oevid Cloister Park--on the east
side of the lake--caught a glimpse of that one corner, while he was out
on his night chase. Smirre had seen the wild geese early in the evening,
and hadn't dared to hope that he might get at one of them, but now he
walked right out on the ice.

When Smirre was very near to the geese, his claws scraped the ice, and
the geese awoke, flapped their wings, and prepared for flight. But
Smirre was too quick for them. He darted forward as though he'd been
shot; grabbed a goose by the wing, and ran toward land again.

But this night the wild geese were not alone on the ice, for they had a
human being among them--little as he was. The boy had awakened when the
goosey-gander spread his wings. He had tumbled down on the ice and was
sitting there, dazed. He hadn't grasped the whys and wherefores of all
this confusion, until he caught sight of a little long-legged dog who
ran over the ice with a goose in his mouth.

In a minute the boy was after that dog, to try and take the goose away
from him. He must have heard the goosey-gander call to him: "Have a
care, Thumbietot! Have a care!" But the boy thought that such a little
runt of a dog was nothing to be afraid of and he rushed ahead.

The wild goose that Smirre Fox tugged after him, heard the clatter as
the boy's wooden shoes beat against the ice, and she could hardly
believe her ears. "Does that infant think he can take me away from the
fox?" she wondered. And in spite of her misery, she began to cackle
right merrily, deep down in her windpipe. It was almost as if she had

"The first thing he knows, he'll fall through a crack in the ice,"
thought she.

But dark as the night was, the boy saw distinctly all the cracks and
holes there were, and took daring leaps over them. This was because he
had the elf's good eyesight now, and could see in the dark. He saw both
lake and shore just as clearly as if it had been daylight.

Smirre Fox left the ice where it touched the shore. And just as he was
working his way up to the land-edge, the boy shouted: "Drop that goose,
you sneak!"

Smirre didn't know who was calling to him, and wasted no time in looking
around, but increased his pace. The fox made straight for the forest and
the boy followed him, with never a thought of the danger he was running.
All he thought about was the contemptuous way in which he had been
received by the wild geese; and he made up his mind to let them see that
a human being was something higher than all else created.

He shouted, again and again, to that dog, to make him drop his game.
"What kind of a dog are you, who can steal a whole goose and not feel
ashamed of yourself? Drop her at once! or you'll see what a beating
you'll get. Drop her, I say, or I'll tell your master how you behave!"

When Smirre Fox saw that he had been mistaken for a scary dog, he was so
amused that he came near dropping the goose. Smirre was a great
plunderer who wasn't satisfied with only hunting rats and pigeons in the
fields, but he also ventured into the farmyards to steal chickens and
geese. He knew that he was feared throughout the district; and anything
as idiotic as this he had not heard since he was a baby.

The boy ran so fast that the thick beech-trees appeared to be running
past him--backward, but he caught up with Smirre. Finally, he was so
close to him that he got a hold on his tail. "Now I'll take the goose
from you anyway," cried he, and held on as hard as ever he could, but he
hadn't strength enough to stop Smirre. The fox dragged him along until
the dry foliage whirled around him.

But now it began to dawn on Smirre how harmless the thing was that
pursued him. He stopped short, put the goose on the ground, and stood on
her with his forepaws, so she couldn't fly away. He was just about to
bite off her neck--but then he couldn't resist the desire to tease the
boy a little. "Hurry off and complain to the master, for now I'm going
to bite the goose to death!" said he.

Certainly the one who was surprised when he saw what a pointed nose, and
heard what a hoarse and angry voice that dog which he was pursuing
had,--was the boy! But now he was so enraged because the fox had made
fun of him, that he never thought of being frightened. He took a firmer
hold on the tail, braced himself against a beech trunk; and just as the
fox opened his jaws over the goose's throat, he pulled as hard as he
could. Smirre was so astonished that he let himself be pulled backward a
couple of steps--and the wild goose got away. She fluttered upward
feebly and heavily. One wing was so badly wounded that she could barely
use it. In addition to this, she could not see in the night darkness of
the forest but was as helpless as the blind. Therefore she could in no
way help the boy; so she groped her way through the branches and flew
down to the lake again.

Then Smirre made a dash for the boy. "If I don't get the one, I shall
certainly have the other," said he; and you could tell by his voice how
mad he was. "Oh, don't you believe it!" said the boy, who was in the
best of spirits because he had saved the goose. He held fast by the
fox-tail, and swung with it--to one side--when the fox tried to catch

There was such a dance in that forest that the dry beech-leaves fairly
flew! Smirre swung round and round, but the tail swung too; while the
boy kept a tight grip on it, so the fox could not grab him.

The boy was so gay after his success that in the beginning, he laughed
and made fun of the fox. But Smirre was persevering--as old hunters
generally are--and the boy began to fear that he should be captured in
the end. Then he caught sight of a little, young beech-tree that had
shot up as slender as a rod, that it might soon reach the free air above
the canopy of branches which the old beeches spread above it.

Quick as a flash, he let go of the fox-tail and climbed the beech tree.
Smirre Fox was so excited that he continued to dance around after his

"Don't bother with the dance any longer!" said the boy.

But Smirre couldn't endure the humiliation of his failure to get the
better of such a little tot, so he lay down under the tree, that he
might keep a close watch on him.

The boy didn't have any too good a time of it where he sat, astride a
frail branch. The young beech did not, as yet, reach the high
branch-canopy, so the boy couldn't get over to another tree, and he
didn't dare to come down again. He was so cold and numb that he almost
lost his hold around the branch; and he was dreadfully sleepy; but he
didn't dare fall asleep for fear of tumbling down.

My! but it was dismal to sit in that way the whole night through, out in
the forest! He never before understood the real meaning of "night." It
was just as if the whole world had become petrified, and never could
come to life again.

Then it commenced to dawn. The boy was glad that everything began to
look like itself once more; although the chill was even sharper than it
had been during the night.

Finally, when the sun got up, it wasn't yellow but red. The boy thought
it looked as though it were angry and he wondered what it was angry
about. Perhaps it was because the night had made it so cold and gloomy
on earth, while the sun was away.

The sunbeams came down in great clusters, to see what the night had been
up to. It could be seen how everything blushed--as if they all had
guilty consciences. The clouds in the skies; the satiny beech-limbs; the
little intertwined branches of the forest-canopy; the hoar-frost that
covered the foliage on the ground--everything grew flushed and red. More
and more sunbeams came bursting through space, and soon the night's
terrors were driven away, and such a marvellous lot of living things
came forward. The black woodpecker, with the red neck, began to hammer
with its bill on the branch. The squirrel glided from his nest with a
nut, and sat down on a branch and began to shell it. The starling came
flying with a worm, and the bulfinch sang in the tree-top.

Then the boy understood that the sun had said to all these tiny
creatures: "Wake up now, and come out of your nests! I'm here! Now you
need be afraid of nothing."

The wild-goose call was heard from the lake, as they were preparing for
flight; and soon all fourteen geese came flying through the forest. The
boy tried to call to them, but they flew so high that his voice couldn't
reach them. They probably believed the fox had eaten him up; and they
didn't trouble themselves to look for him.

The boy came near crying with regret; but the sun stood up
there--orange-coloured and happy--and put courage into the whole world.
"It isn't worth while, Nils Holgersson, for you to be troubled about
anything, as long as I'm here," said the sun.


_Monday, March twenty-first_.

Everything remained unchanged in the forest--about as long as it takes a
goose to eat her breakfast. But just as the morning was verging on
forenoon, a goose came flying, all by herself, under the thick
tree-canopy. She groped her way hesitatingly, between the stems and
branches, and flew very slowly. As soon as Smirre Fox saw her, he left
his place under the beech tree, and sneaked up toward her. The wild
goose didn't avoid the fox, but flew very close to him. Smirre made a
high jump for her but he missed her; and the goose went on her way down
to the lake.

It was not long before another goose came flying. She took the same
route as the first one; and flew still lower and slower. She, too, flew
close to Smirre Fox, and he made such a high spring for her, that his
ears brushed her feet. But she, too, got away from him unhurt, and went
her way toward the lake, silent as a shadow.

A little while passed and then there came another wild goose. She flew
still slower and lower; and it seemed even more difficult for her to
find her way between the beech-branches. Smirre made a powerful spring!
He was within a hair's breadth of catching her; but that goose also
managed to save herself.

Just after she had disappeared, came a fourth. She flew so slowly, and
so badly, that Smirre Fox thought he could catch her without much
effort, but he was afraid of failure now, and concluded to let her fly
past--unmolested. She took the same direction the others had taken; and
just as she was come right above Smirre, she sank down so far that he
was tempted to jump for her. He jumped so high that he touched her with
his tail. But she flung herself quickly to one side and saved her life.

Before Smirre got through panting, three more geese came flying in a
row. They flew just like the rest, and Smirre made high springs for them
all, but he did not succeed in catching any one of them.

After that came five geese; but these flew better than the others. And
although it seemed as if they wanted to lure Smirre to jump, he
withstood the temptation. After quite a long time came one single goose.
It was the thirteenth. This one was so old that she was gray all over,
without a dark speck anywhere on her body. She didn't appear to use one
wing very well, but flew so wretchedly and crookedly, that she almost
touched the ground. Smirre not only made a high leap for her, but he
pursued her, running and jumping all the way down to the lake. But not
even this time did he get anything for his trouble.

When the fourteenth goose came along, it looked very pretty because it
was white. And as its great wings swayed, it glistened like a light, in
the dark forest. When Smirre Fox saw this one, he mustered all his
resources and jumped half-way up to the tree-canopy. But the white one
flew by unhurt like the rest.

Now it was quiet for a moment under the beeches. It looked as if the
whole wild-goose-flock had travelled past.

Suddenly Smirre remembered his prisoner and raised his eyes toward the
young beech-tree. And just as he might have expected--the boy had

But Smirre didn't have much time to think about him; for now the first
goose came back again from the lake and flew slowly under the canopy. In
spite of all his ill luck, Smirre was glad that she came back, and
darted after her with a high leap. But he had been in too much of a
hurry, and hadn't taken the time to calculate the distance, and he
landed at one side of the goose. Then there came still another goose;
then a third; a fourth; a fifth; and so on, until the angle closed in
with the old ice-gray one, and the big white one. They all flew low and
slow. Just as they swayed in the vicinity of Smirre Fox, they sank
down--kind of inviting-like--for him to take them. Smirre ran after them
and made leaps a couple of fathoms high--but he couldn't manage to get
hold of a single one of them.

It was the most awful day that Smirre Fox had ever experienced. The wild
geese kept on travelling over his head. They came and went--came and
went. Great splendid geese who had eaten themselves fat on the German
heaths and grain fields, swayed all day through the woods, and so close
to him that he touched them many times; yet he was not permitted to
appease his hunger with a single one of them.

The winter was hardly gone yet, and Smirre recalled nights and days when
he had been forced to tramp around in idleness, with not so much as a
hare to hunt, when the rats hid themselves under the frozen earth; and
when the chickens were all shut up. But all the winter's hunger had not
been as hard to endure as this day's miscalculations.

Smirre was no young fox. He had had the dogs after him many a time, and
had heard the bullets whizz around his ears. He had lain in hiding, down
in the lair, while the dachshunds crept into the crevices and all but
found him. But all the anguish that Smirre Fox had been forced to suffer
under this hot chase, was not to be compared with what he suffered every
time that he missed one of the wild geese.

In the morning, when the play began, Smirre Fox had looked so stunning
that the geese were amazed when they saw him. Smirre loved display. His
coat was a brilliant red; his breast white; his nose black; and his tail
was as bushy as a plume. But when the evening of this day was come,
Smirre's coat hung in loose folds. He was bathed in sweat; his eyes were
without lustre; his tongue hung far out from his gaping jaws; and froth
oozed from his mouth.

In the afternoon Smirre was so exhausted that he grew delirious. He saw
nothing before his eyes but flying geese. He made leaps for sun-spots
which he saw on the ground; and for a poor little butterfly that had
come out of his chrysalis too soon.

The wild geese flew and flew, unceasingly. All day long they continued
to torment Smirre. They were not moved to pity because Smirre was done
up, fevered, and out of his head. They continued without a let-up,
although they understood that he hardly saw them, and that he jumped
after their shadows.

When Smirre Fox sank down on a pile of dry leaves, weak and powerless
and almost ready to give up the ghost, they stopped teasing him.

"Now you know, Mr. Fox, what happens to the one who dares to come near
Akka of Kebnekaise!" they shouted in his ear; and with that they left
him in peace.



_Thursday, March twenty-fourth_.

Just at that time a thing happened in Skane which created a good deal of
discussion and even got into the newspapers but which many believed to
be a fable, because they had not been able to explain it.

It was about like this: A lady squirrel had been captured in the
hazelbrush that grew on the shores of Vomb Lake, and was carried to a
farmhouse close by. All the folks on the farm--both young and old--were
delighted with the pretty creature with the bushy tail, the wise,
inquisitive eyes, and the natty little feet. They intended to amuse
themselves all summer by watching its nimble movements; its ingenious
way of shelling nuts; and its droll play. They immediately put in order
an old squirrel cage with a little green house and a wire-cylinder
wheel. The little house, which had both doors and windows, the lady
squirrel was to use as a dining room and bedroom. For this reason they
placed therein a bed of leaves, a bowl of milk and some nuts. The
cylinder wheel, on the other hand, she was to use as a play-house, where
she could run and climb and swing round.

The people believed that they had arranged things very comfortably for
the lady squirrel, and they were astonished because she didn't seem to
be contented; but, instead, she sat there, downcast and moody, in a
corner of her room. Every now and again, she would let out a shrill,
agonised cry. She did not touch the food; and not once did she swing
round on the wheel. "It's probably because she's frightened," said the
farmer folk. "To-morrow, when she feels more at home, she will both eat
and play."

Meanwhile, the women folk on the farm were making preparations for a
feast; and just on that day when the lady squirrel had been captured,
they were busy with an elaborate bake. They had had bad luck with
something: either the dough wouldn't rise, or else they had been
dilatory, for they were obliged to work long after dark.

Naturally there was a great deal of excitement and bustle in the
kitchen, and probably no one there took time to think about the
squirrel, or to wonder how she was getting on. But there was an old
grandma in the house who was too aged to take a hand in the baking; this
she herself understood, but just the same she did not relish the idea of
being left out of the game. She felt rather downhearted; and for this
reason she did not go to bed but seated herself by the sitting-room
window and looked out.

They had opened the kitchen door on account of the heat; and through it
a clear ray of light streamed out on the yard; and it became so well
lighted out there that the old woman could see all the cracks and holes
in the plastering on the wall opposite. She also saw the squirrel cage
which hung just where the light fell clearest. And she noticed how the
squirrel ran from her room to the wheel, and from the wheel to her room,
all night long, without stopping an instant. She thought it was a
strange sort of unrest that had come over the animal; but she believed,
of course, that the strong light kept her awake.

Between the cow-house and the stable there was a broad, handsome
carriage-gate; this too came within the light-radius. As the night wore
on, the old grandma saw a tiny creature, no bigger than a hand's
breadth, cautiously steal his way through the gate. He was dressed in
leather breeches and wooden shoes like any other working man. The old
grandma knew at once that it was the elf, and she was not the least bit
frightened. She had always heard that the elf kept himself somewhere
about the place, although she had never seen him before; and an elf, to
be sure, brought good luck wherever he appeared.

As soon as the elf came into the stone-paved yard, he ran right up to
the squirrel cage. And since it hung so high that he could not reach it,
he went over to the store-house after a rod; placed it against the cage,
and swung himself up--in the same way that a sailor climbs a rope. When
he had reached the cage, he shook the door of the little green house as
if he wanted to open it; but the old grandma didn't move; for she knew
that the children had put a padlock on the door, as they feared that the
boys on the neighbouring farms would try to steal the squirrel. The old
woman saw that when the boy could not get the door open, the lady
squirrel came out to the wire wheel. There they held a long conference
together. And when the boy had listened to all that the imprisoned
animal had to say to him, he slid down the rod to the ground, and ran
out through the carriage-gate.

The old woman didn't expect to see anything more of the elf that night,
nevertheless, she remained at the window. After a few moments had gone
by, he returned. He was in such a hurry that it seemed to her as though
his feet hardly touched the ground; and he rushed right up to the
squirrel cage. The old woman, with her far-sighted eyes, saw him
distinctly; and she also saw that he carried something in his hands; but
what it was she couldn't imagine. The thing he carried in his left hand
he laid down on the pavement; but that which he held in his right hand
he took with him to the cage. He kicked so hard with his wooden shoes on
the little window that the glass was broken. He poked in the thing which
he held in his hand to the lady squirrel. Then he slid down again, and
took up that which he had laid upon the ground, and climbed up to the
cage with that also. The next instant he ran off again with such haste
that the old woman could hardly follow him with her eyes.

But now it was the old grandma who could no longer sit still in the
cottage; but who, very slowly, went out to the back yard and stationed
herself in the shadow of the pump to await the elf's return. And there
was one other who had also seen him and had become curious. This was the
house cat. He crept along slyly and stopped close to the wall, just two
steps away from the stream of light. They both stood and waited, long
and patiently, on that chilly March night, and the old woman was just
beginning to think about going in again, when she heard a clatter on the
pavement, and saw that the little mite of an elf came trotting along
once more, carrying a burden in each hand, as he had done before. That
which he bore squealed and squirmed. And now a light dawned on the old
grandma. She understood that the elf had hurried down to the hazel-grove
and brought back the lady squirrel's babies; and that he was carrying
them to her so they shouldn't starve to death.

The old grandma stood very still, so as not to disturb them; and it did
not look as if the elf had noticed her. He was just going to lay one of
the babies on the ground so that he could swing himself up to the cage
with the other one--when he saw the house cat's green eyes glisten close
beside him. He stood there, bewildered, with a young one in each hand.

He turned around and looked in all directions; then he became aware of
the old grandma's presence. Then he did not hesitate long; but walked
forward, stretched his arms as high as he could reach, for her to take
one of the baby squirrels.

The old grandma did not wish to prove herself unworthy of the
confidence, so she bent down and took the baby squirrel, and stood there
and held it until the boy had swung himself up to the cage with the
other one. Then he came back for the one he had entrusted to her care.

The next morning, when the farm folk had gathered together for
breakfast, it was impossible for the old woman to refrain from telling
them of what she had seen the night before. They all laughed at her, of
course, and said that she had been only dreaming. There were no baby
squirrels this early in the year.

But she was sure of her ground, and begged them to take a look into the
squirrel cage and this they did. And there lay on the bed of leaves,
four tiny half-naked, half blind baby squirrels, who were at least a
couple of days old.

When the farmer himself saw the young ones, he said: "Be it as it may
with this; but one thing is certain, we, on this farm, have behaved in
such a manner that we are shamed before both animals and human beings."
And, thereupon, he took the mother squirrel and all her young ones from
the cage, and laid them in the old grandma's lap. "Go thou out to the
hazel-grove with them," said he, "and let them have their freedom back

It was this event that was so much talked about, and which even got into
the newspapers, but which the majority would not credit because they
were not able to explain how anything like that could have happened.


_Saturday, March twenty-sixth_.

Two days later, another strange thing happened. A flock of wild geese
came flying one morning, and lit on a meadow down in Eastern Skane not
very far from Vittskoevle manor. In the flock were thirteen wild geese,
of the usual gray variety, and one white goosey-gander, who carried on
his back a tiny lad dressed in yellow leather breeches, green vest, and
a white woollen toboggan hood.

They were now very near the Eastern sea; and on the meadow where the
geese had alighted the soil was sandy, as it usually is on the
sea-coast. It looked as if, formerly, there had been flying sand in this
vicinity which had to be held down; for in several directions large,
planted pine-woods could be seen.

When the wild geese had been feeding a while, several children came
along, and walked on the edge of the meadow. The goose who was on guard
at once raised herself into the air with noisy wing-strokes, so the
whole flock should hear that there was danger on foot. All the wild
geese flew upward; but the white one trotted along on the ground
unconcerned. When he saw the others fly he raised his head and called
after them: "You needn't fly away from these! They are only a couple of

The little creature who had been riding on his back, sat down upon a
knoll on the outskirts of the wood and picked a pine-cone in pieces,
that he might get at the seeds. The children were so close to him that
he did not dare to run across the meadow to the white one. He concealed
himself under a big, dry thistle-leaf, and at the same time gave a
warning-cry. But the white one had evidently made up his mind not to let
himself be scared. He walked along on the ground all the while; and not
once did he look to see in what direction they were going.

Meanwhile, they turned from the path, walked across the field, getting
nearer and nearer to the goosey-gander. When he finally did look up,
they were right upon him. He was so dumfounded, and became so confused,
he forgot that he could fly, and tried to get out of their reach by
running. But the children followed, chasing him into a ditch, and there
they caught him. The larger of the two stuck him under his arm and
carried him off.

When the boy, who lay under the thistle-leaf saw this, he sprang up as
if he wanted to take the goosey-gander away from them; then he must have
remembered how little and powerless he was, for he threw himself on the
knoll and beat upon the ground with his clenched fists.

The goosey-gander cried with all his might for help: "Thumbietot, come
and help me! Oh, Thumbietot, come and help me!" The boy began to laugh
in the midst of his distress. "Oh, yes! I'm just the right one to help
anybody, I am!" said he.

Anyway he got up and followed the goosey-gander. "I can't help him,"
said he, "but I shall at least find out where they are taking him."

The children had a good start; but the boy had no difficulty in keeping
them within sight until they came to a hollow where a brook gushed
forth. But here he was obliged to run alongside of it for some little
time, before he could find a place narrow enough for him to jump over.

When he came up from the hollow the children had disappeared. He could
see their footprints on a narrow path which led to the woods, and these
he continued to follow.

Soon he came to a cross-road. Here the children must have separated, for
there were footprints in two directions. The boy looked now as if all
hope had fled. Then he saw a little white down on a heather-knoll, and
he understood that the goosey-gander had dropped this by the wayside to
let him know in which direction he had been carried; and therefore he
continued his search. He followed the children through the entire wood.
The goosey-gander he did not see; but wherever he was likely to miss his
way, lay a little white down to put him right.

The boy continued faithfully to follow the bits of down. They led him
out of the wood, across a couple of meadows, up on a road, and finally
through the entrance of a broad _allee_. At the end of the _allee_ there
were gables and towers of red tiling, decorated with bright borders and
other ornamentations that glittered and shone. When the boy saw that
this was some great manor, he thought he knew what had become of the
goosey-gander. "No doubt the children have carried the goosey-gander to
the manor and sold him there. By this time he's probably butchered," he
said to himself. But he did not seem to be satisfied with anything less
than proof positive, and with renewed courage he ran forward. He met no
one in the _allee_--and that was well, for such as he are generally
afraid of being seen by human beings.

The mansion which he came to was a splendid, old-time structure with
four great wings which inclosed a courtyard. On the east wing, there was
a high arch leading into the courtyard. This far the boy ran without
hesitation, but when he got there he stopped. He dared not venture
farther, but stood still and pondered what he should do now.

There he stood, with his finger on his nose, thinking, when he heard
footsteps behind him; and as he turned around he saw a whole company
march up the _allee_. In haste he stole behind a water-barrel which
stood near the arch, and hid himself.

Those who came up were some twenty young men from a folk-high-school,
out on a walking tour. They were accompanied by one of the instructors.
When they were come as far as the arch, the teacher requested them to
wait there a moment, while he went in and asked if they might see the
old castle of Vittskoevle.

The newcomers were warm and tired; as if they had been on a long tramp.
One of them was so thirsty that he went over to the water-barrel and
stooped down to drink. He had a tin box such as botanists use hanging
about his neck. He evidently thought that this was in his way, for he
threw it down on the ground. With this, the lid flew open, and one could
see that there were a few spring flowers in it.

The botanist's box dropped just in front of the boy; and he must have
thought that here was his opportunity to get into the castle and find
out what had become of the goosey-gander. He smuggled himself quickly
into the box and concealed himself as well as he could under the
anemones and colt's-foot.

He was hardly hidden before the young man picked the box up, hung it
around his neck, and slammed down the cover.

Then the teacher came back, and said that they had been given
permission to enter the castle. At first he conducted them no farther
than the courtyard. There he stopped and began to talk to them about
this ancient structure.

He called their attention to the first human beings who had inhabited
this country, and who had been obliged to live in mountain-grottoes and
earth-caves; in the dens of wild beasts, and in the brushwood; and that
a very long period had elapsed before they learned to build themselves
huts from the trunks of trees. And afterward how long had they not been
forced to labour and struggle, before they had advanced from the log
cabin, with its single room, to the building of a castle with a hundred
rooms--like Vittskoevle!

It was about three hundred and fifty years ago that the rich and
powerful built such castles for themselves, he said. It was very evident
that Vittskoevle had been erected at a time when wars and robbers made it
unsafe in Skane. All around the castle was a deep trench filled with
water; and across this there had been a bridge in bygone days that could
be hoisted up. Over the gate-arch there is, even to this day, a
watch-tower; and all along the sides of the castle ran sentry-galleries,
and in the corners stood towers with walls a metre thick. Yet the castle
had not been erected in the most savage war time; for Jens Brahe, who
built it, had also studied to make of it a beautiful and decorative
ornament. If they could see the big, solid stone structure at Glimminge,
which had been built only a generation earlier, they would readily see
that Jans Holgersen Ulfstand, the builder, hadn't figured upon anything
else--only to build big and strong and secure, without bestowing a
thought upon making it beautiful and comfortable. If they visited such
castles as Marsvinsholm, Snogeholm and Oevid's Cloister--which were
erected a hundred years or so later--they would find that the times had
become less warlike. The gentlemen who built these places, had not
furnished them with fortifications; but had only taken pains to provide
themselves with great, splendid dwelling houses.

The teacher talked at length--and in detail; and the boy who lay shut up
in the box was pretty impatient; but he must have lain very still, for
the owner of the box hadn't the least suspicion that he was carrying him

Finally the company went into the castle. But if the boy had hoped for
a chance to crawl out of that box, he was deceived; for the student
carried it upon him all the while, and the boy was obliged to accompany
him through all the rooms. It was a tedious tramp. The teacher stopped
every other minute to explain and instruct.

In one room he found an old fireplace, and before this he stopped to
talk about the different kinds of fireplaces that had been used in the
course of time. The first indoors fireplace had been a big, flat stone
on the floor of the hut, with an opening in the roof which let in both
wind and rain. The next had been a big stone hearth with no opening in
the roof. This must have made the hut very warm, but it also filled it
with soot and smoke. When Vittskoevle was built, the people had advanced
far enough to open the fireplace, which, at that time, had a wide
chimney for the smoke; but it also took most of the warmth up in the air
with it.

If that boy had ever in his life been cross and impatient, he was given
a good lesson in patience that day. It must have been a whole hour now
that he had lain perfectly still.

In the next room they came to, the teacher stopped before an old-time
bed with its high canopy and rich curtains. Immediately he began to talk
about the beds and bed places of olden days.

The teacher didn't hurry himself; but then he did not know, of course,
that a poor little creature lay shut up in a botanist's box, and only
waited for him to get through. When they came to a room with gilded
leather hangings, he talked to them about how the people had dressed
their walls and ceilings ever since the beginning of time. And when he
came to an old family portrait, he told them all about the different
changes in dress. And in the banquet halls he described ancient customs
of celebrating weddings and funerals.

Thereupon, the teacher talked a little about the excellent men and women
who had lived in the castle; about the old Brahes, and the old
Barnekows; of Christian Barnekow, who had given his horse to the king to
help him escape; of Margareta Ascheberg who had been married to Kjell
Barnekow and who, when a widow, had managed the estates and the whole
district for fifty-three years; of banker Hageman, a farmer's son from
Vittskoevle, who had grown so rich that he had bought the entire estate;
about the Stjernsvaerds, who had given the people of Skane better
ploughs, which enabled them to discard the ridiculous old wooden ploughs
that three oxen were hardly able to drag. During all this, the boy lay
still. If he had ever been mischievous and shut the cellar door on his
father or mother, he understood now how they had felt; for it was hours
and hours before that teacher got through.

At last the teacher went out into the courtyard again. And there he
discoursed upon the tireless labour of mankind to procure for themselves
tools and weapons, clothes and houses and ornaments. He said that such
an old castle as Vittskoevle was a mile-post on time's highway. Here one
could see how far the people had advanced three hundred and fifty years
ago; and one could judge for oneself whether things had gone forward or
backward since their time.

But this dissertation the boy escaped hearing; for the student who
carried him was thirsty again, and stole into the kitchen to ask for a
drink of water. When the boy was carried into the kitchen, he should
have tried to look around for the goosey-gander. He had begun to move;
and as he did this, he happened to press too hard against the lid--and
it flew open. As botanists' box-lids are always flying open, the student
thought no more about the matter but pressed it down again. Then the
cook asked him if he had a snake in the box.

"No, I have only a few plants," the student replied. "It was certainly
something that moved there," insisted the cook. The student threw back
the lid to show her that she was mistaken. "See for yourself--if--"

But he got no further, for now the boy dared not stay in the box any
longer, but with one bound he stood on the floor, and out he rushed.
The maids hardly had time to see what it was that ran, but they hurried
after it, nevertheless.

The teacher still stood and talked when he was interrupted by shrill
cries. "Catch him, catch him!" shrieked those who had come from the
kitchen; and all the young men raced after the boy, who glided away
faster than a rat. They tried to intercept him at the gate, but it was
not so easy to get a hold on such a little creature, so, luckily, he got
out in the open.

The boy did not dare to run down toward the open _allee,_ but turned in
another direction. He rushed through the garden into the back yard. All
the while the people raced after him, shrieking and laughing. The poor
little thing ran as hard as ever he could to get out of their way; but
still it looked as though the people would catch up with him.

As he rushed past a labourer's cottage, he heard a goose cackle, and saw
a white down lying on the doorstep. There, at last, was the
goosey-gander! He had been on the wrong track before. He thought no more
of housemaids and men, who were hounding him, but climbed up the
steps--and into the hallway. Farther he couldn't come, for the door was
locked. He heard how the goosey-gander cried and moaned inside, but he
couldn't get the door open. The hunters that were pursuing him came
nearer and nearer, and, in the room, the goosey-gander cried more and
more pitifully. In this direst of needs the boy finally plucked up
courage and pounded on the door with all his might.

A child opened it, and the boy looked into the room. In the middle of
the floor sat a woman who held the goosey-gander tight to clip his
quill-feathers. It was her children who had found him, and she didn't
want to do him any harm. It was her intention to let him in among her
own geese, had she only succeeded in clipping his wings so he couldn't
fly away. But a worse fate could hardly have happened to the
goosey-gander, and he shrieked and moaned with all his might.

And a lucky thing it was that the woman hadn't started the clipping
sooner. Now only two quills had fallen under the shears' when the door
was opened--and the boy stood on the door-sill. But a creature like
that the woman had never seen before. She couldn't believe anything else
but that it was Goa-Nisse himself; and in her terror she dropped the
shears, clasped her hands--and forgot to hold on to the goosey-gander.

As soon as he felt himself freed, he ran toward the door. He didn't give
himself time to stop; but, as he ran past him, he grabbed the boy by the
neck-band and carried him along with him. On the stoop he spread his
wings and flew up in the air; at the same time he made a graceful sweep
with his neck and seated the boy on his smooth, downy back.

And off they flew--while all Vittskoevle stood and stared after them.


All that day, when the wild geese played with the fox, the boy lay and
slept in a deserted squirrel nest. When he awoke, along toward evening,
he felt very uneasy. "Well, now I shall soon be sent home again! Then
I'll have to exhibit myself before father and mother," thought he. But
when he looked up and saw the wild geese, who lay and bathed in Vomb
Lake--not one of them said a word about his going. "They probably think
the white one is too tired to travel home with me to-night," thought the

The next morning the geese were awake at daybreak, long before sunrise.
Now the boy felt sure that he'd have to go home; but, curiously enough,
both he and the white goosey-gander were permitted to follow the wild
ones on their morning tour. The boy couldn't comprehend the reason for
the delay, but he figured it out in this way, that the wild geese did
not care to send the goosey-gander on such a long journey until they had
both eaten their fill. Come what might, he was only glad for every
moment that should pass before he must face his parents.

The wild geese travelled over Oevid's Cloister estate which was situated
in a beautiful park east of the lake, and looked very imposing with its
great castle; its well planned court surrounded by low walls and
pavilions; its fine old-time garden with covered arbours, streams and
fountains; its wonderful trees, trimmed bushes, and its evenly mown
lawns with their beds of beautiful spring flowers.

When the wild geese rode over the estate in the early morning hour there
was no human being about. When they had carefully assured themselves of
this, they lowered themselves toward the dog kennel, and shouted: "What
kind of a little hut is this? What kind of a little hut is this?"

Instantly the dog came out of his kennel--furiously angry--and barked at
the air.

"Do you call this a hut, you tramps! Can't you see that this is a great
stone castle? Can't you see what fine terraces, and what a lot of pretty
walls and windows and great doors it has, bow, wow, wow, wow? Don't you
see the grounds, can't you see the garden, can't you see the
conservatories, can't you see the marble statues? You call this a hut,
do you? Do huts have parks with beech-groves and hazel-bushes and
trailing vines and oak trees and firs and hunting-grounds filled with
game, wow, wow, wow? Do you call this a hut? Have you seen huts with so
many outhouses around them that they look like a whole village? You must
know of a lot of huts that have their own church and their own
parsonage; and that rule over the district and the peasant homes and the
neighbouring farms and barracks, wow, wow, wow? Do you call this a hut?
To this hut belong the richest possessions in Skane, you beggars! You
can't see a bit of land, from where you hang in the clouds, that does
not obey commands from this hut, wow, wow, wow!"

All this the dog managed to cry out in one breath; and the wild geese
flew back and forth over the estate, and listened to him until he was
winded. But then they cried: "What are you so mad about? We didn't ask
about the castle; we only wanted to know about your kennel, stupid!"

When the boy heard this joke, he laughed; then a thought stole in on him
which at once made him serious. "Think how many of these amusing things
you would hear, if you could go with the wild geese through the whole
country, all the way up to Lapland!" said he to himself. "And just now,
when you are in such a bad fix, a trip like that would be the best thing
you could hit upon."

The wild geese travelled to one of the wide fields, east of the estate,
to eat grass-roots, and they kept this up for hours. In the meantime,
the boy wandered in the great park which bordered the field. He hunted
up a beech-nut grove and began to look up at the bushes, to see if a
nut from last fall still hung there. But again and again the thought of
the trip came over him, as he walked in the park. He pictured to himself
what a fine time he would have if he went with the wild geese. To freeze
and starve: that he believed he should have to do often enough; but as a
recompense, he would escape both work and study.

As he walked there, the old gray leader-goose came up to him, and asked
if he had found anything eatable. No, that he hadn't, he replied, and
then she tried to help him. She couldn't find any nuts either, but she
discovered a couple of dried blossoms that hung on a brier-bush. These
the boy ate with a good relish. But he wondered what mother would say,
if she knew that he had lived on raw fish and old winter-dried blossoms.

When the wild geese had finally eaten themselves full, they bore off
toward the lake again, where they amused themselves with games until
almost dinner time.

The wild geese challenged the white goosey-gander to take part in all
kinds of sports. They had swimming races, running races, and flying
races with him. The big tame one did his level best to hold his own, but
the clever wild geese beat him every time. All the while, the boy sat on
the goosey-gander's back and encouraged him, and had as much fun as the
rest. They laughed and screamed and cackled, and it was remarkable that
the people on the estate didn't hear them.

When the wild geese were tired of play, they flew out on the ice and
rested for a couple of hours. The afternoon they spent in pretty much
the same way as the forenoon. First, a couple of hours feeding, then
bathing and play in the water near the ice-edge until sunset, when they
immediately arranged themselves for sleep.

"This is just the life that suits me," thought the boy when he crept in
under the gander's wing. "But to-morrow, I suppose I'll be sent home."

Before he fell asleep, he lay and thought that if he might go along with
the wild geese, he would escape all scoldings because he was lazy. Then
he could cut loose every day, and his only worry would be to get
something to eat. But he needed so little nowadays; and there would
always be a way to get that.

So he pictured the whole scene to himself; what he should see, and all
the adventures that he would be in on. Yes, it would be something
different from the wear and tear at home. "If I could only go with the
wild geese on their travels, I shouldn't grieve because I'd been
transformed," thought the boy.

He wasn't afraid of anything--except being sent home; but not even on
Wednesday did the geese say anything to him about going. That day passed
in the same way as Tuesday; and the boy grew more and more contented
with the outdoor life. He thought that he had the lovely Oevid Cloister
park--which was as large as a forest--all to himself; and he wasn't
anxious to go back to the stuffy cabin and the little patch of ground
there at home.

On Wednesday he believed that the wild geese thought of keeping him with
them; but on Thursday he lost hope again.

Thursday began just like the other days; the geese fed on the broad
meadows, and the boy hunted for food in the park. After a while Akka
came to him, and asked if he had found anything to eat. No, he had not;
and then she looked up a dry caraway herb, that had kept all its tiny
seeds intact.

When the boy had eaten, Akka said that she thought he ran around in the
park altogether too recklessly. She wondered if he knew how many enemies
he had to guard against--he, who was so little. No, he didn't know
anything at all about that. Then Akka began to enumerate them for him.

Whenever he walked in the park, she said, that he must look out for the
fox and the marten; when he came to the shores of the lake, he must
think of the otters; as he sat on the stone wall, he must not forget the
weasels, who could creep through the smallest holes; and if he wished to
lie down and sleep on a pile of leaves, he must first find out if the
adders were not sleeping their winter sleep in the same pile. As soon as


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