Troubadour Tales 6

Troubadour Tales 6

After a while they dipped out the soft food and fed the cows; and then,

when they had milked them, one of the girls poured out a bowlful of new

milk and set it beside the stone hearth, and then they both went off

singing toward the house.

 

Now Elsa knew, as every little Finnish farm girl knows, that the fresh

milk was set there for the fairies; for should any roving band of elfin

people chance to wander thither, they might be vexed and do mischief

if they did not find a fresh, sweet draft awaiting them. So Elsa felt

quite safe, sure that the fairies would not trouble her; and, by and

by, lulled by the soft breathing of the cows, she fell asleep.

 

Very early in the morning she awoke, and though at first much

bewildered, she soon remembered everything, and determined to slip away

before any one should find her.

 

So fastening her cloak and taking her little belongings, she again set

forth. As she stepped out in the early morning light, a white frost

glittered over the fields; and as she gazed around seeking the road,

she saw a faintly-marked path that seemed to lead to the highway. She

made a little breakfast from the things she found in her basket, and

then walked on; but the path, instead of leading to the highroad,

took her farther and farther from it, for she did not know that the

farm whither the cows had led her was a long distance from the way she

wished to follow.

 

Indeed Elsa was lost; and as she went on the country grew wilder and

more rugged. Before she knew it the path had disappeared altogether and

she could find no trace of it; and as far as she could see, there was

no living being near.

 

All the while she was becoming more and more frightened, yet still

bravely she went on, vainly seeking the road. Before long she came to a

dense wood of firs, and thinking that perhaps the way lay just beyond,

she slowly entered the forest, stepping timidly between the dark

resinous trees. Once or twice she trembled as a fox crossed her path,

but, by and by, as she looked ahead, her heart fairly stood still with

terror. For there in the distance, where a great ledge of rocks cropped

out of the ground, she saw a large brown something; and the more she

looked the more certain she felt that it was a bear.

 

And true enough, it was a bear, “honey-paw,” as Elsa would have said,

for so the Finlanders call the brown bear, because of his great liking

for wild honey. Now, as it happened, this particular honey-paw was for

the time so intent upon his own affairs that at first he did not see

Elsa. He was walking carefully round and round the great mass of rock,

hunting a good spot where he might curl up, bear fashion, and sleep

through the coming winter. He had been looking at these rocks for many

days, as is the custom of bears, trying to decide which of the little

caves they offered would suit him best for his long sleep; and he was

still perplexed about it when he happened to look in Elsa’s direction.

 

The little girl was standing still, frozen with terror, when he saw

her. Perhaps he would not have noticed her had it not been for the red

hood she wore, which, of course, could be seen for a long distance.

When honey-paw realized, however, that some one was looking at him,

he was greatly displeased; for when bears are selecting their winter

hiding places they like to keep the matter as secret as possible. So

with a little growl of resentment he started toward her. At this Elsa

uttered a scream and, dropping her basket, took to her heels, running

as fast as she could, she knew not whither. The bear followed, at an

awkward pace, but when he came up and sniffed at her basket she was

already far in the distance.

 

As good fortune would have it, in her wild flight Elsa had come to the

edge of one of the great bogs that cover so large a part of Finland,

and her light steps had taken her some distance over its uncertain

surface. On she went, springing lightly from tussock to tussock of the

coarse grass, till at last she reached a little space of firmer ground,

and sank down, exhausted, upon the fallen trunk of a willow tree.

 

Meantime honey-paw also had come to the edge of the bog, but after

a few cautious steps had found himself too heavy to gain a foothold

on the soft ground, so with another sniff or two he turned about and

trotted off.

 

When Elsa saw him going away, she was so worn out with fright, and so

very tired, that she did just what any other little girl would have

done: she began to cry, and cried and cried as if her heart would

break. She sat there sobbing a long time, and was quite sure she would

have to stay in that little spot the rest of her life, till the wicked

bog witches found her or the bears ate her up; for she did not think

she could ever venture on alone.

 

Indeed she cried so hard that she did not notice that she was quite

near the bank of a good-sized river that flowed to the east, nor did

she know that after a while a large flat-boat drifted in sight. It was

laden with a great number of bark-bound barrels, and on the deck a man

stood guiding the boat with a long pole. As it floated slowly along,

the boatman saw Elsa, and called out in surprise.

 

“Ho, little one! what dost thou in yonder bog? Art lost?” When Elsa

heard him, she quickly looked up, and begged piteously that he take her

away from that dangerous spot!

 

“That will I do right gladly,” said he; and directing her how to reach

the bank in safety, he guided his boat to land and then helped Elsa

aboard.

 

He gave her a little box on which to sit, and told her that the heavy

barrels arranged in rows in the boat were filled with turpentine which

he was floating down the river from the pine woods farther inland. Then

looking curiously at Elsa, who sat there still tightly holding her

little kantele, which she had unconsciously kept through her flight

from honey-paw, he said:

 

“But who art thou, little one?”

 

The man had a good face and a kindly manner that quite reassured

Elsa, who, now that her fear of the bear was relieved, had begun to

wonder who her companion might be. When she told him her name, “Ah,” he

exclaimed, “I know thy father well! But whither art thou going all by

thyself?”

 

When Elsa told him of her journey to the peasant Ulricborg, he looked

astonished, but told her to have no fear, as he would see her safely to

the Ulricborg home, which was down the very river on which they were

floating, and at no great distance from the bank.

 

As the boat glided along Elsa’s new friend beguiled the time by telling

her of the great pine forests whence he had come, and explaining how

the pitch and turpentine were harvested. After a while when he asked

if she would sing him a little song, she gladly assented; and striking

the strings of her little harp, she sang a Finnish boat-song, her voice

ringing out clear and sweet on the frosty air, through which some big

snowflakes were beginning to fall. She had scarcely finished her song

when she noticed that they were no longer in the center of the stream,

but that the boatman was deftly turning his craft sidewise and guiding

it toward the bank.

 

In a few minutes he had made it fast to a stout oak tree that grew

near the water’s edge, and then helping Elsa out, he took her hand and

led her up a narrow path between tall grasses and yellowing willows;

then turning into a lane they came toward a small weather-beaten house

standing in the midst of a little group of fir trees. The door stood

open, and a short distance from the house they spied a bent old woman

gathering pine cones in the forest close by. She had her apron filled,

and presently, turning around and seeing her visitors, she straightened

herself as best she could and came toward them with greetings. As she

drew near, Elsa saw that her face was withered and wrinkled, and her

hands brown with toil.

 

“Good morrow, Dame Ulricborg!” said the boatman, “and how fares thy

goodman to-day?”

 

“Ah,” answered the dame, “he is very weak and grows more feeble every

day. This twelve-month past he hath scarce left his bed, and ’tis weary

work for an old woman to keep the kettle boiling and the thatch mended

over our heads.”

 

“True,” said the boatman, sympathetically, “thou hast done well, Dame

Ulricborg!” Then looking down at Elsa, he added: “Here is a little girl

come to see thee.”

 

The old dame looked curiously at Elsa; then, as the latter held up her

little skirt and asked the dame if she might not help carry the cones,

she grew more kindly and led the way to the house. But the boatman,

seeing Elsa thus safe at her journey’s end, bade them good by and

hastened back to his boat.

 

Now, Dame Ulricborg very much wondered what the little girl could

possibly wish with her; but as it is considered unkind to question a

guest as to his coming, she said nothing, but waited for Elsa to make

known her errand.

 

[Illustration]

 

As they drew near the door of the house, Elsa hastened to explain to

her how she had come, and how she hoped to learn the rune from the lips

of the aged peasant Ulricborg. At this the old woman, who had listened

attentively, shook her head.

 

“Ah, little one,” said she, “thou little knowest how feeble he hath

grown! He hath strange fancies, too, and I doubt if he will wish to let

thee learn it. He hath never been willing to teach it to any one. But,”

she added, “thou canst at least ask, if thou wishest.”

 

By this time they had reached the threshold of Dame Ulricborg’s home,

and stepped within. The house was bare, but not uncomfortable; some

rings of flat-bread hung from the ceiling; there was a spinning-wheel,

two or three benches, and, on the wall over the fireplace, a kantele.

 

The dame told Elsa to draw one of the benches near the fire and warm

herself, while she went into the next room to see how her sick husband

fared, as she had been obliged to leave him all alone when she went to

gather the cones.

 

By and by the dame came back, and shaking her head sadly, said to Elsa:

 

“Nay, to-day ’tis useless; his thoughts are wandering and he will

notice nothing. ’Tis often so when he grows overweary. But thou must

bide the night with us, and it may be in the morning he will be better.”