All the same the Närke folk were often rather tired of Ysätter-Kaisa, but she never tired of playing her tricks on them. As she sat on the edge of a cloud and looked down upon Närke, which rested so peacefully and comfortably beneath her, she must have thought: "The inhabitants would fare much too well if I were not in existence. They would grow sleepy and dull. There must be some one like myself to rouse them and keep them in good spirits."
Then she would laugh wildly and, chattering like a magpie, would rush off, dancing and spinning from one end of the plain to the other. When a Närke man saw her come dragging her dust trail over the plain, he could not help smiling. Provoking and tiresome she certainly was, but she had a merry spirit. It was just as refreshing for the peasants to meet Ysätter-Kaisa as it was for the plain to be lashed by the windstorm.
Nowadays 'tis said that Ysätter-Kaisa is dead and gone, like all other witches, but this one can hardly believe. It is as if some one were to come and tell you that henceforth the air would always be still on the plain, and the wind would never more dance across it with blustering breezes and drenching showers.
He who fancies that Ysätter-Kaisa is dead and gone may as well hear what occurred in Närke the year that Nils Holgersson travelled over that part of the country. Then let him tell what he thinks about it.
MARKET EVE
Wednesday, April twenty-seventh.
It was the day before the big Cattle Fair at Örebro; it rained in torrents and people thought: "This is exactly as in Ysätter-Kaisa's time! At fairs she used to be more prankish than usual. It was quite in her line to arrange a downpour like this on a market eve."
As the day wore on, the rain increased, and toward evening came regular cloud-bursts. The roads were like bottomless swamps. The farmers who had started from home with their cattle early in the morning, that they might arrive at a seasonable hour, fared badly. Cows and oxen were so tired they could hardly move, and many of the poor beasts dropped down in the middle of the road, to show that they were too exhausted to go any farther. All who lived along the roadside had to open their doors to the market-bound travellers, and harbour them as best they could. Farm houses, barns, and sheds were soon crowded to their limit.
Meanwhile, those who could struggle along toward the inn did so; but when they arrived they wished they had stopped at some cabin along the road. All the cribs in the barn and all the stalls in the stable were already occupied. There was no other choice than to let horses and cattle stand out in the rain. Their masters could barely manage to get under cover.
The crush and mud and slush in the barn yard were frightful! Some of the animals were standing in puddles and could not even lie down. There were thoughtful masters, of course, who procured straw for their animals to lie on, and spread blankets over them; but there were those, also, who sat in the inn, drinking and gambling, entirely forgetful of the dumb creatures which they should have protected.
The boy and the wild geese had come to a little wooded island in Hjälmar Lake that evening. The island was separated from the main land by a narrow and shallow stream, and at low tide one could pass over it dry-shod.
It rained just as hard on the island as it did everywhere else. The boy could not sleep for the water that kept dripping down on him. Finally he got up and began to walk. He fancied that he felt the rain less when he moved about.
He had hardly circled the island, when he heard a splashing in the stream. Presently he saw a solitary horse tramping among the trees. Never in all his life had he seen such a wreck of a horse! He was broken-winded and stiff-kneed and so thin that every rib could be seen under the hide. He bore neither harness nor saddle—only an old bridle, from which dangled a half-rotted rope-end. Obviously he had had no difficulty in breaking loose.
The horse walked straight toward the spot where the wild geese were sleeping. The boy was afraid that he would step on them.
"Where are you going? Feel your ground!" shouted the boy.
"Oh, there you are!" exclaimed the horse. "I've walked miles to meet you!"
"Have you heard of me?" asked the boy, astonished.
"I've got ears, even if I am old! There are many who talk of you nowadays."
As he spoke, the horse bent his head that he might see better, and the boy noticed that he had a small head, beautiful eyes, and a soft, sensitive nose.
"He must have been a good horse at the start, though he has come to grief in his old age," he thought.
"I wish you would come with me and help me with something," pleaded the horse.
The boy thought it would be embarrassing to accompany a creature who looked so wretched, and excused himself on account of the bad weather.
"You'll be no worse off on my back than you are lying here," said the horse. "But perhaps you don't dare to go with an old tramp of a horse like me."
"Certainly I dare!" said the boy.
"Then wake the geese, so that we can arrange with them where they shall come for you to-morrow," said the horse.
The boy was soon seated on the animal's back. The old nag trotted along better than he had thought possible. It was a long ride in the rain and darkness before they halted near a large inn, where everything looked terribly uninviting! The wheel tracks were so deep in the road that the boy feared he might drown should he fall down into them. Alongside the fence, which enclosed the yard, some thirty or forty horses and cattle were tied, with no protection against the rain, and in the yard were wagons piled with packing cases, where sheep, calves, hogs, and chickens were shut in.
The horse walked over to the fence and stationed himself. The boy remained seated upon his back, and, with his good night eyes, plainly saw how badly the animals fared.
"How do you happen to be standing out here in the rain?" he asked.
"We're on our way to a fair at Örebro, but we were obliged to put up here on account of the rain. This is an inn; but so many travellers have already arrived that there's no room for us in the barns."
The boy made no reply, but sat quietly looking about him. Not many of the animals were asleep, and on all sides he heard complaints and indignant protests. They had reason enough for grumbling, for the weather was even worse than it had been earlier in the day. A freezing wind had begun to blow, and the rain which came beating down on them was turning to snow. It was easy enough to understand what the horse wanted the boy to help him with.
"Do you see that fine farm yard directly opposite the inn?" remarked the horse.
"Yes, I see it," answered the boy, "and I can't comprehend why they haven't tried to find shelter for all of you in there. They are already full, perhaps?"
"No, there are no strangers in that place," said the horse. "The people who live on that farm are so stingy and selfish that it would be useless for any one to ask them for harbour."
"If that's the case, I suppose you'll have to stand where you are."
"I was born and raised on that farm," said the horse; "I know that there is a large barn and a big cow shed, with many empty stalls and mangers, and I was wondering if you couldn't manage in some way or other to get us in over there."
"I don't think I could venture—" hesitated the boy. But he felt so sorry for the poor beasts that he wanted at least to try.
He ran into the strange barn yard and saw at once that all the outhouses were locked and the keys gone. He stood there, puzzled and helpless, when aid came to him from an unexpected source. A gust of wind came sweeping along with terrific force and flung open a shed door right in front of him.
The boy was not long in getting back to the horse.
"It isn't possible to get into the barn or the cow house," he said, "but there's a big, empty hay shed that they have forgotten to bolt. I can lead you into that."
"Thank you!" said the horse. "It will seem good to sleep once more on familiar ground. It's the only happiness I can expect in this life."
Meanwhile, at the flourishing farm opposite the inn, the family sat up much later than usual that evening.
The master of the place was a man of thirty-five, tall and dignified, with a handsome but melancholy face. During the day he had been out in the rain and had got wet, like every one else, and at supper he asked his old mother, who was still mistress of the place, to light a fire on the hearth that he might dry his clothes. The mother kindled a feeble blaze—for in that house they were not wasteful with wood—and the master hung his coat on the back of a chair, and placed it before the fire. With one foot on top of the andiron and a hand resting on his knee, he stood gazing into the embers. Thus he stood for two whole hours, making no move other than to cast a log on the fire now and then.
The mistress removed the supper things and turned down his bed for the night before she went to her own room and seated herself. At intervals she came to the door and looked wonderingly at her son.
"It's nothing, mother. I'm only thinking," he said.
His thoughts were on something that had occurred shortly before: When he passed the inn a horse dealer had asked him if he would not like to purchase a horse, and had shown him an old nag so weather-beaten that he asked the dealer if he took him for a fool, since he wished to palm off such a played-out beast on him.
"Oh, no!" said the horse dealer. "I only thought that, inasmuch as the horse once belonged to you, you might wish to give him a comfortable home in his old age; he has need of it."
Then he looked at the horse and recognized it as one which he himself had raised and broken in; but it did not occur to him to purchase such an old and useless creature on that account. No, indeed! He was not one who squandered his money.
All the same, the sight of the horse had awakened many, memories—and it was the memories that kept him awake.
That horse had been a fine animal. His father had let him tend it from the start. He had broken it in and had loved it above everything else. His father had complained that he used to feed it too well, and often he had been obliged to steal out and smuggle oats to it.
Once, when he ventured to talk with his father about letting him buy a broadcloth suit, or having the cart painted, his father stood as if petrified, and he thought the old man would have a stroke. He tried to make his father understand that, when he had a fine horse to drive, he should look presentable himself.
The father made no reply, but two days later he took the horse to Örebro and sold it.
It was cruel of him. But it was plain that his father had feared that this horse might lead him into vanity and extravagance. And now, so long afterward, he had to admit that his father was right. A horse like that surely would have been a temptation. At first he had grieved terribly over his loss. Many a time he had gone down to Örebro, just to stand on a street corner and see the horse pass by, or to steal into the stable and give him a lump of sugar. He thought: "If I ever get the farm, the first thing I do will be to buy back my horse."
Now his father was gone and he himself had been master for two years, but he had not made a move toward buying the horse. He had not thought of him for ever so long, until to-night.
It was strange that he should have forgotten the beast so entirely!
His father had been a very headstrong, domineering man. When his son was grown and the two had worked together, the father had gained absolute power over him. The boy had come to think that everything his father did was right, and, after he became the master, he only tried to do exactly as his father would have done.
He knew, of course, that folk said his father was stingy; but it was well to keep a tight hold on one's purse and not throw away money needlessly. The goods one has received should not be wasted. It was better to live on a debt-free place and be called stingy, than to carry heavy mortgages, like other farm owners.
He had gone so far in his mind when he was called back by a strange sound. It was as if a shrill, mocking voice were repeating his thoughts: "It's better to keep a firm hold on one's purse and be called stingy, than to be in debt, like other farm owners."
It sounded as if some one was trying to make sport of his wisdom and he was about to lose his temper, when he realized that it was all a mistake. The wind was beginning to rage, and he had been standing there getting so sleepy that he mistook the howling of the wind in the chimney for human speech.
He glanced up at the wall clock, which just then struck eleven.
"It's time that you were in bed," he remarked to himself. Then he remembered that he had not yet gone the rounds of the farm yard, as it was his custom to do every night, to make sure that all doors were closed and all lights extinguished. This was something he had never neglected since he became master. He drew on his coat and went out in the storm.
He found everything as it should be, save that the door to the empty hay shed had been blown open by the wind. He stepped inside for the key, locked the shed door and put the key into his coat pocket. Then he went back to the house, removed his coat, and hung it before the fire. Even now he did not retire, but began pacing the floor. The storm without, with its biting wind and snow-blended rain, was terrible, and his old horse was standing in this storm without so much as a blanket to protect him! He should at least have given his old friend a roof over his head, since he had come such a long distance.
At the inn across the way the boy heard an old wall clock strike eleven times. Just then he was untying the animals to lead them to the shed in the farm yard opposite. It took some time to rouse them and get them into line. When all were ready, they marched in a long procession into the stingy farmer's yard, with the boy as their guide. While the boy had been assembling them, the farmer had gone the rounds of the farm yard and locked the hay shed, so that when the animals came along the door was closed. The boy stood there dismayed. He could not let the creatures stand out there! He must go into the house and find the key.
"Keep them quiet out here while I go in and fetch the key!" he said to the old horse, and off he ran.
On the path right in front of the house he paused to think out how he should get inside. As he stood there he noticed two little wanderers coming down the road, who stopped before the inn.
The boy saw at once that they were two little girls, and ran toward them.
"Come now, Britta Maja!" said one, "you mustn't cry any more. Now we are at the inn. Here they will surely take us in."
The girl had but just said this when the boy called to her:
"No, you mustn't try to get in there. It is simply impossible. But at the farm house opposite there are no guests. Go there instead."
The little girls heard the words distinctly, though they could not see the one who spoke to them. They did not wonder much at that, however, for the night was as black as pitch. The larger of the girls promptly answered:
"We don't care to enter that place, because those who live there are stingy and cruel. It is their fault that we two must go out on the highways and beg."
"That may be so," said the boy, "but all the same you should go there.
You shall see that it will be well for you."
"We can try, but it is doubtful that they will even let us enter," observed the two little girls as they walked up to the house and knocked.
The master was standing by the fire thinking of the horse when he heard the knocking. He stepped to the door to see what was up, thinking all the while that he would not let himself be tempted into admitting any wayfarer. As he fumbled the lock, a gust of wind came along, wrenched the door from his hand and swung it open. To close it, he had to step out on the porch, and, when he stepped back into the house, the two little girls were standing within.
They were two poor beggar girls, ragged, dirty, and starving—two little tots bent under the burden of their beggar's packs, which were as large as themselves.
"Who are you that go prowling about at this hour of the night?" said the master gruffly.
The two children did not answer immediately, but first removed their packs. Then they walked up to the man and stretched forth their tiny hands in greeting.
"We are Anna and Britta Maja from the Engärd," said the elder, "and we were going to ask for a night's lodging."
He did not take the outstretched hands and was just about to drive out the beggar children, when a fresh recollection faced him. Engärd—was not that a little cabin where a poor widow with five children had lived? The widow had owed his father a few hundred kroner and in order to get back his money he had sold her cabin. After that the widow, with her three eldest children, went to Norrland to seek employment, and the two youngest became a charge on the parish.
As he called this to mind he grew bitter. He knew that his father had been severely censured for squeezing out that money, which by right belonged to him.
"What are you doing nowadays?" he asked in a cross tone. "Didn't the board of charities take charge of you? Why do you roam around and beg?"
"It's not our fault," replied the larger girl. "The people with whom we are living have sent us out to beg."
"Well, your packs are filled," the farmer observed, "so you can't complain. Now you'd better take out some of the food you have with you and eat your fill, for here you'll get no food, as all the women folk are in bed. Later you may lie down in the corner by the hearth, so you won't have to freeze."
He waved his hand, as if to ward them off, and his eyes took on a hard look. He was thankful that he had had a father who had been careful of his property. Otherwise, he might perhaps have been forced in childhood to run about and beg, as these children now did.
No sooner had he thought this out to the end than the shrill, mocking voice he had heard once before that evening repeated it, word for word.
He listened, and at once understood that it was nothing—only the wind roaring in the chimney. But the queer thing about it was, when the wind repeated his thoughts, they seemed so strangely stupid and hard and false!
The children meanwhile had stretched themselves, side by side, on the floor. They were not quiet, but lay there muttering.
"Do be still, won't you?" he growled, for he was in such an irritable mood that he could have beaten them.
But the mumbling continued, and again he called for silence.
"When mother went away," piped a clear little voice, "she made me promise that every night I would say my evening prayer. I must do this, and Britta Maja too. As soon as we have said 'God who cares for little children—' we'll be quiet."
The master sat quite still while the little ones said their prayers, then he rose and began pacing back and forth, back and forth, wringing his hands all the while, as though he had met with some great sorrow.
"The horse driven out and wrecked, these two children turned into road beggars—both father's doings! Perhaps father did not do right after all?" he thought.
He sat down again and buried his head in his hands. Suddenly his lips began to quiver and into his eyes came tears, which he hastily wiped away. Fresh tears came, and he was just as prompt to brush these away; but it was useless, for more followed.
When his mother stepped into the room, he swung his chair quickly and turned his back to her. She must have noticed something unusual, for she stood quietly behind him a long while, as if waiting for him to speak. She realized how difficult it always is for men to talk of the things they feel most deeply. She must help him of course.
From her bedroom she had observed all that had taken place in the living room, so that she did not have to ask questions. She walked very softly over to the two sleeping children, lifted them, and bore them to her own bed. Then she went back to her son.
"Lars," she said, as if she did not see that he was weeping, "you had better let me keep these children."
"What, mother?" he gasped, trying to smother the sobs.
"I have been suffering for years—ever since father took the cabin from their mother, and so have you."
"Yes, but—"
"I want to keep them here and make something of them; they are too good to beg."
He could not speak, for now the tears were beyond his control; but he took his old mother's withered hand and patted it.
Then he jumped up, as if something had frightened him.
"What would father have said of this?"
"Father had his day at ruling," retorted the mother. "Now it is your day. As long as father lived we had to obey him. Now is the time to show what you are."
Her son was so astonished that he ceased crying.
"But I have just shown what I am!" he returned.
"No, you haven't," protested the mother. "You only try to be like him. Father experienced hard times, which made him fear poverty. He believed that he had to think of himself first. But you have never had any difficulties that should make you hard. You have more than you need, and it would be unnatural of you not to think of others."
When the two little girls entered the house the boy slipped in behind them and secreted himself in a dark corner. He had not been there long before he caught a glimpse of the shed key, which the farmer had thrust into his coat pocket.
"When the master of the house drives the children out, I'll take the key and ran," he thought.
But the children were not driven out and the boy crouched in the corner, not knowing what he should do next.
The mother talked long with her son, and while she was speaking he stopped weeping. Gradually his features softened; he looked like another person. All the while he was stroking the wasted old hand.
"Now we may as well retire," said the old lady when she saw that he was calm again.
"No," he said, suddenly rising, "I cannot retire yet. There's a stranger without whom I must shelter to-night!"
He said nothing further, but quickly drew on his coat, lit the lantern and went out. There were the same wind and chill without, but as he stepped to the porch he began to sing softly. He wondered if the horse would know him, and if he would be glad to come back to his old stable.
As he crossed the house yard he heard a door slam.
"That shed door has blown open again," he thought, and went over to close it.
A moment later he stood by the shed and was just going to shut the door, when he heard a rustling within.
The boy, who had watched his opportunity, had run directly to the shed, where he left the animals, but they were no longer out in the rain: A strong wind had long since thrown open the door and helped them to get a roof over their heads. The patter which the master heard was occasioned by the boy running into the shed.
By the light of the lantern the man could see into the shed. The whole floor was covered with sleeping cattle. There was no human being to be seen; the animals were not bound, but were lying, here and there, in the straw.
He was enraged at the intrusion and began storming and shrieking to rouse the sleepers and drive them out. But the creatures lay still and would not let themselves be disturbed. The only one that rose was an old horse that came slowly toward him.
All of a sudden the man became silent. He recognized the beast by its gait. He raised the lantern, and the horse came over and laid its head on his shoulder. The master patted and stroked it.
"My old horsy, my old horsy!" he said. "What have they done to you? Yes, dear, I'll buy you back. You'll never again have to leave this place. You shall do whatever you like, horsy mine! Those whom you have brought with you may remain here, but you shall come with me to the stable. Now I can give you all the oats you are able to eat, without having to smuggle them. And you're not all used up, either! The handsomest horse on the church knoll—that's what you shall be once more! There, there! There, there!"
THE BREAKING UP OF THE ICE
Thursday, April twenty-eighth.
The following day the weather was clear and beautiful. There was a strong west wind; people were glad of that, for it dried up the roads, which had been soaked by the heavy rains of the day before.
Early in the morning the two Småland children, Osa, the goose girl, and little Mats, were out on the highway leading from Sörmland to Närke. The road ran alongside the southern shore of Hjälmar Lake and the children were walking along looking at the ice, which covered the greater part of it. The morning sun darted its clear rays upon the ice, which did not look dark and forbidding, like most spring ice, but sparkled temptingly. As far as they could see, the ice was firm and dry. The rain had run down into cracks and hollows, or been absorbed by the ice itself. The children saw only the sound ice.
Osa, the goose girl, and little Mats were on their way North, and they could not help thinking of all the steps they would be saved if they could cut straight across the lake instead of going around it. They knew, to be sure, that spring ice is treacherous, but this looked perfectly secure. They could see that it was several inches thick near the shore. They saw a path which they might follow, and the opposite shore appeared to be so near that they ought to be able to get there in an hour.
"Come, let's try!" said little Mats. "If we only look before us, so that we don't go down into some hole, we can do it."
So they went out on the lake. The ice was not very slippery, but rather easy to walk upon. There was more water on it than they expected to see, and here and there were cracks, where the water purled up. One had to watch out for such places; but that was easy to do in broad daylight, with the sun shining.
The children advanced rapidly, and talked only of how sensible they were to have gone out on the ice instead of tramping the slushy road.
When they had been walking a while they came to Vin Island, where an old woman had sighted them from her window. She rushed from her cabin, waved them back, and shouted something which they could not hear. They understood perfectly well that she was warning them not to come any farther; but they thought there was no immediate danger. It would be stupid for them to leave the ice when all was going so well!
Therefore they went on past Vin Island and had a stretch of seven miles of ice ahead of them.
Out there was so much water that the children were obliged to take roundabout ways; but that was sport to them. They vied with each other as to which could find the soundest ice. They were neither tired nor hungry. The whole day was before them, and they laughed at each obstacle they met.
Now and then they cast a glance ahead at the farther shore. It still appeared far away, although they had been walking a good hour. They were rather surprised that the lake was so broad.
"The shore seems to be moving farther away from us," little Mats observed.
Out there the children were not protected against the wind, which was becoming stronger and stronger every minute, and was pressing their clothing so close to their bodies that they could hardly go on. The cold wind was the first disagreeable thing they had met with on the journey.
But the amazing part of it was that the wind came sweeping along with a loud roar—as if it brought with it the noise of a large mill or factory, though nothing of the kind was to be found out there on the ice. They had walked to the west of the big island, Valen; now they thought they were nearing the north shore. Suddenly the wind began to blow more and more, while the loud roaring increased so rapidly that they began to feel uneasy.
All at once it occurred to them that the roar was caused by the foaming and rushing of the waves breaking against a shore. Even this seemed improbable, since the lake was still covered with ice.
At all events, they paused and looked about. They noticed far in the west a white bank which stretched clear across the lake. At first they thought it was a snowbank alongside a road. Later they realized it was the foam-capped waves dashing against the ice! They took hold of hands and ran without saying a word. Open sea lay beyond in the west, and suddenly the streak of foam appeared to be moving eastward. They wondered if the ice was going to break all over. What was going to happen? They felt now that they were in great danger.
All at once it seemed as if the ice under their feet rose—rose and sank, as if some one from below were pushing it. Presently they heard a hollow boom, and then there were cracks in the ice all around them. The children could see how they crept along under the ice-covering.
The next moment all was still, then the rising and sinking began again. Thereupon the cracks began to widen into crevices through which the water bubbled up. By and by the crevices became gaps. Soon after that the ice was divided into large floes.
"Osa," said little Mats, "this must be the breaking up of the ice!"
"Why, so it is, little Mats," said Osa, "but as yet we can get to land.
Run for your life!"
As a matter of fact, the wind and waves had a good deal of work to do yet to clear the ice from the lake. The hardest part was done when the ice-cake burst into pieces, but all these pieces must be broken and hurled against each other, to be crushed, worn down, and dissolved. There was still a great deal of hard and sound ice left, which formed large, unbroken surfaces.
The greatest danger for the children lay in the fact that they had no general view of the ice. They did not see the places where the gaps were so wide that they could not possibly jump over them, nor did they know where to find any floes that would hold them, so they wandered aimlessly back and forth, going farther out on the lake instead of nearer land. At last, confused and terrified, they stood still and wept.
Then a flock of wild geese in rapid flight came rushing by. They shrieked loudly and sharply; but the strange thing was that above the geese-cackle the little children heard these words:
"You must go to the right, the right, the right!" They began at once to follow the advice; but before long they were again standing irresolute, facing another broad gap.
Again they heard the geese shrieking above them, and again, amid the geese-cackle, they distinguished a few words:
"Stand where you are! Stand where you are!"
The children did not say a word to each other, but obeyed and stood still. Soon after that the ice-floes floated together, so that they could cross the gap. Then they took hold of hands again and ran. They were afraid not only of the peril, but of the mysterious help that had come to them.
Soon they had to stop again, and immediately the sound of the voice reached them.
"Straight ahead, straight ahead!" it said.
This leading continued for about half an hour; by that time they had reached Ljunger Point, where they left the ice and waded to shore. They were still terribly frightened, even though they were on firm land. They did not stop to look back at the lake—where the waves were pitching the ice-floes faster and faster—but ran on. When they had gone a short distance along the point, Osa paused suddenly.
"Wait here, little Mats," she said; "I have forgotten something."
Osa, the goose girl, went down to the strand again, where she stopped to rummage in her bag. Finally she fished out a little wooden shoe, which she placed on a stone where it could be plainly seen. Then she ran to little Mats without once looking back.
But the instant her back was turned, a big white goose shot down from the sky, like a streak of lightning, snatched the wooden shoe, and flew away with it.
THUMBIETOT AND THE BEARS
THE IRONWORKS
Thursday, April twenty-eighth.
When the wild geese and Thumbietot had helped Osa, the goose girl, and little Mats across the ice, they flew into Westmanland, where they alighted in a grain field to feed and rest.
A strong west wind blew almost the entire day on which the wild geese travelled over the mining districts, and as soon as they attempted to direct their course northward they were buffeted toward the east. Now, Akka thought that Smirre Fox was at large in the eastern part of the province; therefore she would not fly in that direction, but turned back, time and again, struggling westward with great difficulty. At this rate the wild geese advanced very slowly, and late in the afternoon they were still in the Westmanland mining districts. Toward evening the wind abated suddenly, and the tired travellers hoped that they would have an interval of easy flight before sundown. Then along came a violent gust of wind, which tossed the geese before it, like balls, and the boy, who was sitting comfortably, with no thought of peril, was lifted from the goose's back and hurled into space.
Little and light as he was, he could not fall straight to the ground in such a wind; so at first he was carried along with it, drifting down slowly and spasmodically, as a leaf falls from a tree.
"Why, this isn't so bad!" thought the boy as he fell. "I'm tumbling as easily as if I were only a scrap of paper. Morten Goosey-Gander will doubtless hurry along and pick me up."
The first thing the boy did when he landed was to tear off his cap and wave it, so that the big white gander should see where he was.
"Here am I, where are you? Here am I, where are you?" he called, and was rather surprised that Morten Goosey-Gander was not already at his side.
But the big white gander was not to be seen, nor was the wild goose flock outlined against the sky. It had entirely disappeared.
He thought this rather singular, but he was neither worried nor frightened. Not for a second did it occur to him that folk like Akka and Morten Goosey-Gander would abandon him. The unexpected gust of wind had probably borne them along with it. As soon as they could manage to turn, they would surely come back and fetch him.
But what was this? Where on earth was he anyway? He had been standing gazing toward the sky for some sign of the geese, but now he happened to glance about him. He had not come down on even ground, but had dropped into a deep, wide mountain cave—or whatever it might be. It was as large as a church, with almost perpendicular walls on all four sides, and with no roof at all. On the ground were some huge rocks, between which moss and lignon-brush and dwarfed birches grew. Here and there in the wall were projections, from which swung rickety ladders. At one side there was a dark passage, which apparently led far into the mountain.
The boy had not been travelling over the mining districts a whole day for nothing. He comprehended at once that the big cleft had been made by the men who had mined ore in this place.
"I must try and climb back to earth again," he thought, "otherwise I fear that my companions won't find me!"
He was about to go over to the wall when some one seized him from behind, and he heard a gruff voice growl in his ear: "Who are you?"
The boy turned quickly, and, in the confusion of the moment, he thought he was facing a huge rock, covered with brownish moss. Then he noticed that the rock had broad paws to walk with, a head, two eyes, and a growling mouth.
He could not pull himself together to answer, nor did the big beast appear to expect it of him, for it knocked him down, rolled him back and forth with its paws, and nosed him. It seemed just about ready to swallow him, when it changed its mind and called:
"Brumme and Mulle, come here, you cubs, and you shall have something good to eat!"
A pair of frowzy cubs, as uncertain on their feet and as woolly as puppies, came tumbling along.
"What have you got, Mamma Bear? May we see, oh, may we see?" shrieked the cubs excitedly.
"Oho! so I've fallen in with bears," thought the boy to himself. "Now
Smirre Fox won't have to trouble himself further to chase after me!"
The mother bear pushed the boy along to the cubs. One of them nabbed him quickly and ran off with him; but he did not bite hard. He was playful and wanted to amuse himself awhile with Thumbietot before eating him. The other cub was after the first one to snatch the boy for himself, and as he lumbered along he managed to tumble straight down on the head of the one that carried the boy. So the two cubs rolled over each other, biting, clawing, and snarling.
During the tussle the boy got loose, ran over to the wall, and started to scale it. Then both cubs scurried after him, and, nimbly scaling the cliff, they caught up with him and tossed him down on the moss, like a ball.
"Now I know how a poor little mousie fares when it falls into the cat's claws," thought the boy.
He made several attempts to get away. He ran deep down into the old tunnel and hid behind the rocks and climbed the birches, but the cubs hunted him out, go where he would. The instant they caught him they let him go, so that he could run away again and they should have the fun of recapturing him.
At last the boy got so sick and tired of it all that he threw himself down on the ground.
"Run away," growled the cubs, "or we'll eat you up!"
"You'll have to eat me then," said the boy, "for I can't run any more."
Immediately both cubs rushed over to the mother bear and complained:
"Mamma Bear, oh, Mamma Bear, he won't play any more."
"Then you must divide him evenly between you," said Mother Bear.
When the boy heard this he was so scared that he jumped up instantly and began playing again.
As it was bedtime, Mother Bear called to the cubs that they must come now and cuddle up to her and go to sleep. They had been having such a good time that they wished to continue their play next day; so they took the boy between them and laid their paws over him. They did not want him to move without waking them. They went to sleep immediately. The boy thought that after a while he would try to steal away. But never in all his life had he been so tumbled and tossed and hunted and rolled! And he was so tired out that he too fell asleep.
By and by Father Bear came clambering down the mountain wall. The boy was wakened by his tearing away stone and gravel as he swung himself into the old mine. The boy was afraid to move much; but he managed to stretch himself and turn over, so that he could see the big bear. He was a frightfully coarse, huge old beast, with great paws, large, glistening tusks, and wicked little eyes! The boy could not help shuddering as he looked at this old monarch of the forest.
"It smells like a human being around here," said Father Bear the instant he came up to Mother Bear, and his growl was as the rolling of thunder.
"How can you imagine anything so absurd?" said Mother Bear without disturbing herself. "It has been settled for good and all that we are not to harm mankind any more; but if one of them were to put in an appearance here, where the cubs and I have our quarters, there wouldn't be enough left of him for you to catch even a scent of him!"
Father Bear lay down beside Mother Bear. "You ought to know me well enough to understand that I don't allow anything dangerous to come near the cubs. Talk, instead, of what you have been doing. I haven't seen you for a whole week!"
"I've been looking about for a new residence," said Father Bear. "First I went over to Vermland, to learn from our kinsmen at Ekshärad how they fared in that country; but I had my trouble for nothing. There wasn't a bear's den left in the whole forest."
"I believe the humans want the whole earth to themselves," said Mother Bear. "Even if we leave people and cattle in peace and live solely upon lignon and insects and green things, we cannot remain unmolested in the forest! I wonder where we could move to in order to live in peace?"
"We've lived comfortably for many years in this pit," observed Father Bear. "But I can't be content here now since the big noise-shop has been built right in our neighbourhood. Lately I have been taking a look at the land east of Dal River, over by Garpen Mountain. Old mine pits are plentiful there, too, and other fine retreats. I thought it looked as if one might be fairly protected against men—"
The instant Father Bear said this he sat up and began to sniff.
"It's extraordinary that whenever I speak of human beings I catch that queer scent again," he remarked.
"Go and see for yourself if you don't believe me!" challenged Mother Bear. "I should just like to know where a human being could manage to hide down here?"
The bear walked all around the cave, and nosed. Finally he went back and lay down without a word.
"What did I tell you?" said Mother Bear. "But of course you think that no one but yourself has any nose or ears!"
"One can't be too careful, with such neighbours as we have," said Father Bear gently. Then he leaped up with a roar. As luck would have it, one of the cubs had moved a paw over to Nils Holgersson's face and the poor little wretch could not breathe, but began to sneeze. It was impossible for Mother Bear to keep Father Bear back any longer. He pushed the young ones to right and left and caught sight of the boy before he had time to sit up.
He would have swallowed him instantly if Mother Bear had not cast herself between them.
"Don't touch him! He belongs to the cubs," she said. "They have had such fun with him the whole evening that they couldn't bear to eat him up, but wanted to save him until morning."
Father Bear pushed Mother Bear aside.
"Don't meddle with what you don't understand!" he roared. "Can't you scent that human odour about him from afar? I shall eat him at once, or he will play us some mean trick."
He opened his jaws again; but meanwhile the boy had had time to think, and, quick as a flash, he dug into his knapsack and brought forth some matches—his sole weapon of defence—struck one on his leather breeches, and stuck the burning match into the bear's open mouth.
Father Bear snorted when he smelled the sulphur, and with that the flame went out. The boy was ready with another match, but, curiously enough, Father Bear did not repeat his attack.
"Can you light many of those little blue roses?" asked Father Bear.
"I can light enough to put an end to the whole forest," replied the boy, for he thought that in this way he might be able to scare Father Bear.
"Oh, that would be no trick for me!" boasted the boy, hoping that this would make the bear respect him.
"Good!" exclaimed the bear. "You shall render me a service. Now I'm very glad that I did not eat you!"
Father Bear carefully took the boy between his tusks and climbed up from the pit. He did this with remarkable ease and agility, considering that he was so big and heavy. As soon as he was up, he speedily made for the woods. It was evident that Father Bear was created to squeeze through dense forests. The heavy body pushed through the brushwood as a boat does through the water.
Father Bear ran along till he came to a hill at the skirt of the forest, where he could see the big noise-shop. Here he lay down and placed the boy in front of him, holding him securely between his forepaws.
"Now look down at that big noise-shop!" he commanded. The great ironworks, with many tall buildings, stood at the edge of a waterfall. High chimneys sent forth dark clouds of smoke, blasting furnaces were in full blaze, and light shone from all the windows and apertures. Within hammers and rolling mills were going with such force that the air rang with their clatter and boom. All around the workshops proper were immense coal sheds, great slag heaps, warehouses, wood piles, and tool sheds. Just beyond were long rows of workingmen's homes, pretty villas, schoolhouses, assembly halls, and shops. But there all was quiet and apparently everybody was asleep. The boy did not glance in that direction, but gazed intently at the ironworks. The earth around them was black; the sky above them was like a great fiery dome; the rapids, white with foam, rushed by; while the buildings themselves were sending out light and smoke, fire and sparks. It was the grandest sight the boy had ever seen!
"Surely you don't mean to say you can set fire to a place like that?" remarked the bear doubtingly.
The boy stood wedged between the beast's paws thinking the only thing that might save him would be that the bear should have a high opinion of his capability and power.
"It's all the same to me," he answered with a superior air. "Big or little, I can burn it down."
"Then I'll tell you something," said Father Bear. "My forefathers lived in this region from the time that the forests first sprang up. From them I inherited hunting grounds and pastures, lairs and retreats, and have lived here in peace all my life. In the beginning I wasn't troubled much by the human kind. They dug in the mountains and picked up a little ore down here, by the rapids; they had a forge and a furnace, but the hammers sounded only a few hours during the day, and the furnace was not fired more than two moons at a stretch. It wasn't so bad but that I could stand it; but these last years, since they have built this noise-shop, which keeps up the same racket both day and night, life here has become intolerable. Formerly only a manager and a couple of blacksmiths lived here, but now there are so many people that I can never feel safe from them. I thought that I should have to move away, but I have discovered something better!"
The boy wondered what Father Bear had hit upon, but no opportunity was afforded him to ask, as the bear took him between his tusks again and lumbered down the hill. The boy could see nothing, but knew by the increasing noise that they were approaching the rolling mills.
Father Bear was well informed regarding the ironworks. He had prowled around there on many a dark night, had observed what went on within, and had wondered if there would never be any cessation of the work. He had tested the walls with his paws and wished that he were only strong enough to knock down the whole structure with a single blow.
He was not easily distinguishable against the dark ground, and when, in addition, he remained in the shadow of the walls, there was not much danger of his being discovered. Now he walked fearlessly between the workshops and climbed to the top of a slag heap. There he sat up on his haunches, took the boy between his forepaws and held him up.
"Try to look into the house!" he commanded. A strong current of air was forced into a big cylinder which was suspended from the ceiling and filled with molten iron. As this current rushed into the mess of iron with an awful roar, showers of sparks of all colours spurted up in bunches, in sprays, in long clusters! They struck against the wall and came splashing down over the whole big room. Father Bear let the boy watch the gorgeous spectacle until the blowing was over and the flowing and sparkling red steel had been poured into ingot moulds.
The boy was completely charmed by the marvellous display and almost forgot that he was imprisoned between a bear's two paws.
Father Bear let him look into the rolling mill. He saw a workman take a short, thick bar of iron at white heat from a furnace opening and place it under a roller. When the iron came out from under the roller, it was flattened and extended. Immediately another workman seized it and placed it beneath a heavier roller, which made it still longer and thinner. Thus it was passed from roller to roller, squeezed and drawn out until, finally, it curled along the floor, like a long red thread.
But while the first bar of iron was being pressed, a second was taken from the furnace and placed under the rollers, and when this was a little along, a third was brought. Continuously fresh threads came crawling over the floor, like hissing snakes. The boy was dazzled by the iron. But he found it more splendid to watch the workmen who, dexterously and delicately, seized the glowing snakes with their tongs and forced them under the rollers. It seemed like play for them to handle the hissing iron.
"I call that real man's work!" the boy remarked to himself.
The bear then let the boy have a peep at the furnace and the forge, and he became more and more astonished as he saw how the blacksmiths handled iron and fire.
"Those men have no fear of heat and flames," he thought. The workmen were sooty and grimy. He fancied they were some sort of firefolk—that was why they could bend and mould the iron as they wished. He could not believe that they were just ordinary men, since they had such power!
"They keep this up day after day, night after night," said Father Bear, as he dropped wearily down on the ground. "You can understand that one gets rather tired of that kind of thing. I'm mighty glad that at last I can put an end to it!"
"Indeed!" said the boy. "How will you go about it?"
"Oh, I thought that you were going to set fire to the buildings!" said Father Bear. "That would put an end to all this work, and I could remain in my old home."
The boy was all of a shiver.
So it was for this that Father Bear had brought him here!
"If you will set fire to the noise-works, I'll promise to spare your life," said Father Bear. "But if you don't do it, I'll make short work of you!" The huge workshops were built of brick, and the boy was thinking to himself that Father Bear could command as much as he liked, it was impossible to obey him. Presently he saw that it might not be impossible after all. Just beyond them lay a pile of chips and shavings to which he could easily set fire, and beside it was a wood pile that almost reached the coal shed. The coal shed extended over to the workshops, and if that once caught fire, the flames would soon fly over to the roof of the iron foundry. Everything combustible would burn, the walls would fall from the heat, and the machinery would be destroyed. "Will you or won't you?" demanded Father Bear. The boy knew that he ought to answer promptly that he would not, but he also knew that then the bear's paws would squeeze him to death; therefore he replied:
"I shall have to think it over."
"Very well, do so," assented Father Bear. "Let me say to you that iron is the thing that has given men the advantage over us bears, which is another reason for my wishing to put an end to the work here."
The boy thought he would use the delay to figure out some plan of escape, but he was so worried he could not direct his thoughts where he would; instead he began to think of the great help that iron had been to mankind. They needed iron for everything. There was iron in the plough that broke up the field, in the axe that felled the tree for building houses, in the scythe that mowed the grain, and in the knife, which could be turned to all sorts of uses. There was iron in the horse's bit, in the lock on the door, in the nails that held furniture together, in the sheathing that covered the roof. The rifle which drove away wild beasts was made of iron, also the pick that had broken up the mine. Iron covered the men-of-war he had seen at Karlskrona; the locomotives steamed through the country on iron rails; the needle that had stitched his coat was of iron; the shears that clipped the sheep and the kettle that cooked the food. Big and little alike—much that was indispensable was made from iron. Father Bear was perfectly right in saying that it was the iron that had given men their mastery over the bears.
"Now will you or won't you?" Father Bear repeated.
The boy was startled from his musing. Here he stood thinking of matters that were entirely unnecessary, and had not yet found a way to save himself!
"You mustn't be so impatient," he said. "This is a serious matter for me, and I've got to have time to consider."
"Well, then, consider another moment," said Father Bear. "But let me tell you that it's because of the iron that men have become so much wiser than we bears. For this alone, if for nothing else, I should like to put a stop to the work here."
Again the boy endeavoured to think out a plan of escape, but his thoughts wandered, willy nilly. They were taken up with the iron. And gradually he began to comprehend how much thinking and calculating men must have done before they discovered how to produce iron from ore, and he seemed to see sooty blacksmiths of old bending over the forge, pondering how they should properly handle it. Perhaps it was because they had thought so much about the iron that intelligence had been developed in mankind, until finally they became so advanced that they were able to build great works like these. The fact was that men owed more to the iron than they themselves knew.
"Well, what say you? Will you or won't you?" insisted Father Bear.
The boy shrank back. Here he stood thinking needless thoughts, and had no idea as to what he should do to save himself.
"It's not such an easy matter to decide as you think," he answered. "You must give me time for reflection."
"I can wait for you a little longer," said Father Bear. "But after that you'll get no more grace. You must know that it's the fault of the iron that the human kind can live here on the property of the bears. And now you understand why I would be rid of the work."
The boy meant to use the last moment to think out some way to save himself, but, anxious and distraught as he was, his thoughts wandered again. Now he began thinking of all that he had seen when he flew over the mining districts. It was strange that there should be so much life and activity and so much work back there in the wilderness.
"Just think how poor and desolate this place would be had there been no iron here!
"This very foundry gave employment to many, and had gathered around it many homes filled with people, who, in turn, had attracted hither railways and telegraph wires and—"
"Come, come!" growled the bear. "Will you or won't you?"
The boy swept his hand across his forehead. No plan of escape had as yet come to his mind, but this much he knew—he did not wish to do any harm to the iron, which was so useful to rich and poor alike, and which gave bread to so many people in this land.
"I won't!" he said.
Father Bear squeezed him a little harder, but said nothing.
"You'll not get me to destroy the ironworks!" defied the boy. "The iron is so great a blessing that it will never do to harm it."
"Then of course you don't expect to be allowed to live very long?" said the bear.
"No, I don't expect it," returned the boy, looking the bear straight in the eye.
Father Bear gripped him still harder. It hurt so that the boy could not keep the tears back, but he did not cry out or say a word.
"Very well, then," said Father Bear, raising his paw very slowly, hoping that the boy would give in at the last moment.
But just then the boy heard something click very close to them, and saw the muzzle of a rifle two paces away. Both he and Father Bear had been so engrossed in their own affairs they had not observed that a man had stolen right upon them.
"Father Bear! Don't you hear the clicking of a trigger?" cried the boy.
"Run, or you'll be shot!"
Father Bear grew terribly hurried. However, he allowed himself time enough to pick up the boy and carry him along. As he ran, a couple of shots sounded, and the bullets grazed his ears, but, luckily, he escaped.
The boy thought, as he was dangling from the bear's mouth, that never had he been so stupid as he was to-night. If he had only kept still, the bear would have been shot, and he himself would have been freed. But he had become so accustomed to helping the animals that he did it naturally, and as a matter of course.
When Father Bear had run some distance into the woods, he paused and set the boy down on the ground.
"Thank you, little one!" he said. "I dare say those bullets would have caught me if you hadn't been there. And now I want to do you a service in return. If you should ever meet with another bear, just say to him this—which I shall whisper to you—and he won't touch you."
Father Bear whispered a word or two into the boy's ear and hurried away, for he thought he heard hounds and hunters pursuing him.
The boy stood in the forest, free and unharmed, and could hardly understand how it was possible.
The wild geese had been flying back and forth the whole evening, peering and calling, but they had been unable to find Thumbietot. They searched long after the sun had set, and, finally, when it had grown so dark that they were forced to alight somewhere for the night, they were very downhearted. There was not one among them but thought the boy had been killed by the fall and was lying dead in the forest, where they could not see him.
But the next morning, when the sun peeped over the hills and awakened the wild geese, the boy lay sleeping, as usual, in their midst. When he woke and heard them shrieking and cackling their astonishment, he could not help laughing.
They were so eager to know what had happened to him that they did not care to go to breakfast until he had told them the whole story. The boy soon narrated his entire adventure with the bears, but after that he seemed reluctant to continue.
"How I got back to you perhaps you already know?" he said.
"No, we know nothing. We thought you were killed."
"That's curious!" remarked the boy. "Oh, yes!—when Father Bear left me I climbed up into a pine and fell asleep. At daybreak I was awakened by an eagle hovering over me. He picked me up with his talons and carried me away. He didn't hurt me, but flew straight here to you and dropped me down among you."
"Didn't he tell you who he was?" asked the big white gander.
"He was gone before I had time even to thank him. I thought that Mother
Akka had sent him after me."
"How extraordinary!" exclaimed the white goosey-gander. "But are you certain that it was an eagle?"
"I had never before seen an eagle," said the boy, "but he was so big and splendid that I can't give him a lowlier name!"
Morten Goosey-Gander turned to the wild geese to hear what they thought of this; but they stood gazing into the air, as though they were thinking of something else.
"We must not forget entirely to eat breakfast today," said Akka, quickly spreading her wings.
THE FLOOD
THE SWANS
May first to fourth.
There was a terrible storm raging in the district north of Lake Mälar, which lasted several days. The sky was a dull gray, the wind whistled, and the rain beat. Both people and animals knew the spring could not be ushered in with anything short of this; nevertheless they thought it unbearable.
After it had been raining for a whole day, the snowdrifts in the pine forests began to melt in earnest, and the spring brooks grew lively. All the pools on the farms, the standing water in the ditches, the water that oozed between the tufts in marshes and swamps—all were in motion and tried to find their way to creeks, that they might be borne along to the sea.
The creeks rushed as fast as possible down to the rivers, and the rivers did their utmost to carry the water to Lake Mälar.
All the lakes and rivers in Uppland and the mining district quickly threw off their ice covers on one and the same day, so that the creeks filled with ice-floes which rose clear up to their banks.
Swollen as they were, they emptied into Lake Mälar, and it was not long before the lake had taken in as much water as it could well hold. Down by the outlet was a raging torrent. Norrström is a narrow channel, and it could not let out the water quickly enough. Besides, there was a strong easterly wind that lashed against the land, obstructing the stream when it tried to carry the fresh water into the East Sea. Since the rivers kept running to Mälaren with more water than it could dispose of, there was nothing for the big lake to do but overflow its banks.
It rose very slowly, as if reluctant to injure its beautiful shores; but as they were mostly low and gradually sloping, it was not long before the water had flooded several acres of land, and that was enough to create the greatest alarm.
Lake Mälar is unique in its way, being made up of a succession of narrow fiords, bays, and inlets. In no place does it spread into a storm centre, but seems to have been created only for pleasure trips, yachting tours, and fishing. Nowhere does it present barren, desolate, wind-swept shores. It looks as if it never thought that its shores could hold anything but country seats, summer villas, manors, and amusement resorts. But, because it usually presents a very agreeable and friendly appearance, there is all the more havoc whenever it happens to drop its smiling expression in the spring, and show that it can be serious.
At that critical time Smirre Fox happened to come sneaking through a birch grove just north of Lake Mälar. As usual, he was thinking of Thumbietot and the wild geese, and wondering how he should ever find them again. He had lost all track of them.
As he stole cautiously along, more discouraged than usual, he caught sight of Agar, the carrier-pigeon, who had perched herself on a birch branch.
"My, but I'm in luck to run across you, Agar!" exclaimed Smirre. "Maybe you can tell me where Akka from Kebnekaise and her flock hold forth nowadays?"
"It's quite possible that I know where they are," Agar hinted, "but I'm not likely to tell you!"
"Please yourself!" retorted Smirre. "Nevertheless, you can take a message that I have for them. You probably know the present condition of Lake Mälar? There's a great overflow down there and all the swans who live in Hjälsta Bay are about to see their nests, with all their eggs, destroyed. Daylight, the swan-king, has heard of the midget who travels with the wild geese and knows a remedy for every ill. He has sent me to ask Akka if she will bring Thumbietot down to Hjälsta Bay."
"I dare say I can convey your message," Agar replied, "but I can't understand how the little boy will be able to help the swans."
"Nor do I," said Smirre, "but he can do almost everything, it seems."
"It's surprising to me that Daylight should send his messages by a fox,"
Agar remarked.
"Well, we're not exactly what you'd call good friends," said Smirre smoothly, "but in an emergency like this we must help each other. Perhaps it would be just as well not to tell Akka that you got the message from a fox. Between you and me, she's inclined to be a little suspicious."
The safest refuge for water-fowl in the whole Mälar district is Hjälsta
Bay. It has low shores, shallow water and is also covered with reeds.
It is by no means as large as Lake Tåkern, but nevertheless Hjälsta is a good retreat for birds, since it has long been forbidden territory to hunters.
It is the home of a great many swans, and the owner of the old castle nearby has prohibited all shooting on the bay, so that they might be unmolested.
As soon as Akka received word that the swans needed her help, she hastened down to Hjälsta Bay. She arrived with her flock one evening and saw at a glance that there had been a great disaster. The big swans' nests had been torn away, and the strong wind was driving them down the bay. Some had already fallen apart, two or three had capsized, and the eggs lay at the bottom of the lake.
When Akka alighted on the bay, all the swans living there were gathered near the eastern shore, where they were protected from the wind.
Although they had suffered much by the flood, they were too proud to let any one see it.
"It is useless to cry," they said. "There are plenty of root-fibres and stems here; we can soon build new nests."
None had thought of asking a stranger to help them, and the swans had no idea that Smirre Fox had sent for the wild geese!
There were several hundred swans resting on the water. They had placed themselves according to rank and station. The young and inexperienced were farthest out, the old and wise nearer the middle of the group, and right in the centre sat Daylight, the swan-king, and Snow-White, the swan-queen, who were older than any of the others and regarded the rest of the swans as their children.