Lisbeth Longfrock Part 8

[14] Horses, as well as other animals, are sent up on the mountains to graze during the summer. They roam about at will, and sometimes go home of their own accord at the end of the season, if no one has been sent to fetch them.

Lisbeth stood still and watched them, half afraid. She had never seen so big a herd before. They noticed her, too, but they did not run at her at all. Only two or three stopped, p.r.i.c.ked up their ears, and gazed at her, trying to make out what kind of little creature she could be.

Then they ran on again, and in an instant the whole herd had gone past.

Lisbeth could only hear the thunder of their hoofs as they galloped into the path leading to the saeter.

But her animals! and the boys' flocks! Naturally the horses had frightened them. Lisbeth could see no trace of them anywhere. She ran from hill to hill, stopping to listen and then running again.

It was all of no use; she could not find them. The only wise course for her was to go back to the saeter.

This was the first and only time that Lisbeth Longfrock went home without taking her animals with her.

But when she reached the saeter there lay the whole flock peacefully within the fold, chewing the cud. They had gone home of their own accord. The horses that had given Lisbeth such a fright were there also, walking about and licking up the salt which the milkmaid had strewn for them.

In the afternoon the milkmaids from the other saeters came to inquire after the boys, for their goats had also come home of themselves long before the usual time.

It was not until much later that Ole and Peter arrived, dragging Crookhorn between them.

When the milkmaids laughed at them the boys could not help feeling a little chagrined. That they had let their flocks stray away could not be denied; but no one could say that they had come home without any animal at all,--although two big boys _did_ seem a rather liberal number to be in charge of a single goat, however large that goat might be.

Things had gone wrong for that day, Ole acknowledged; but Crookhorn was not to think that she had seen the end of the struggle. They would take her with them again the next day. She should get her deserts.

But it turned out otherwise. Crookhorn knew better than to let such a thing happen. When they took off the willow band she stood still awhile with her neck stretched up, looking at the horses which were at that moment going out of the inclosure. Suddenly she kicked up her hind legs in real horse fas.h.i.+on, and then away she went after the herd as fast as she could go.

The milkmaids, as well as the boys, could do nothing but stand and gape when they saw her join the horses.

"Probably she imagines now that she is a horse," thought they.

For a while they stood in silence watching the receding herd. Then Ole said in his dry fas.h.i.+on, "If there had been any elephants here, it would have been just like Crookhorn to imagine herself an elephant."

CHAPTER VII

HOME FROM THE SaeTER

Summer, with its light nights and brilliant days, comes rapidly to full power on the mountains in Norway. The season is brief but intense.

It begins with a creeping of light green over the gentle slopes and unending marshes, and a trickling of light green down around each _tue_, or little mound of earth covered with moss and tiny berry plants. Ptarmigans roam about in solitary pairs, murmuring when any one comes too near their nests; gnats and horseflies buzz through the air; and cows, with tails set straight up, scamper friskily about, trying to escape the irritating stings.

Over everything lies a thick, warm, dark-blue haze, hindering a free outlook.

But soon come the blueberries, the marsh wool or cotton gra.s.s, and later the cloudberries; and on some fine day when the mother ptarmigans go out to walk, peeping sounds are heard around them, here, there, and everywhere. The mother birds scold more than ever, now that their young ones are whirling like so many feathery b.a.l.l.s a yard or more upward, and two or three yards forward, and then tumbling down into the heather again, head foremost. By this time the cows roam about quietly and meditatively over the mountain, seeking the juiciest, best-flavored herbage to nibble; the warm haze melts away and the air becomes so sparklingly clear that mountain peaks miles distant are as delicately and sharply outlined as the nearest little mound. Then the cloudberry blossoms fall, and soon the marshes grow yellow and red, the tiny blossoms of the heather color all the knolls and rocky places, the greenness vanishes, and over the patches of white reindeer moss, which s.h.i.+ne out like snow here and there on the mountain, comes a blush of red and a tinge of brown. Autumn is now drawing near.

Much of the time the sun s.h.i.+nes brightly, and when it does, how glorious to be the herder of a flock!

But there come days also when the fog spreads itself like a close gray blanket, under which the ground, with its mounds and bushes and heather, creeps stealthily, disappearing a few yards away. And out of the fog comes a fine, mist-like rain, which deposits itself in tiny gray beads on every blade and every pine needle, so that wherever any one goes there is a little sprinkling of water.

In such weather it is far from pleasant to be in charge of a flock. If the animals move forward quietly, the herder must seek shelter under every bush, with a piece of sacking over his shoulders to s.h.i.+eld him from the wet. But it is far more likely that he will be obliged to run about, with the water squeezing in and out of his shoes, trying to keep track of his animals; for in weather like this the mushrooms spring up plentifully and the animals scatter eagerly in all directions to find them, scorning other food when these may be obtained. Sometimes when the herder is speeding along the edge of the marsh, a pair of large, powerful cranes, who are on their journey south, will loom suddenly before him out of the fog. This startles him greatly, for the cranes seem to the herder much larger than they really are. They look like a couple of great sheep with wings on.

Later in the season comes a morning when all is glistening white. A little snow has fallen during the night,--not enough to last, however; it melts away as the day goes on. But after this the animals no longer like to go up on the higher parts of the mountain. The cows stand lowing at the gate of the saeter inclosure; they know that sooner or later they will be allowed to slip in there to enjoy the last of the mountain's good grazing. The goats look inquiringly backward as they are let out of the fold. Summer is over. Every one longs to go down again to the home farm.

At last a day comes when the gate is opened and the cows rush into the saeter inclosure. They know now that they will not have to go up on the bare mountain again this year. Then the farm hands come up with pack horses, and other horses that have been running wild on the mountain all summer are found and taken home. The packs are tied up; there is a great was.h.i.+ng, a clearing away of rubbish and putting things in order for the next summer, and at last _Bufar_ day, the long-expected day of returning to the home farm, arrives.

On Bufar day Lisbeth Longfrock stood up on the ridge of the turf-covered cow-house roof, taking a final look at the surrounding scene. She was all ready for the journey. Her lunch bag was on her back, her birch-bark hat on her head, and the goat horn which Peter had given her hung on a string around her neck. In her hand she carried a stout stick. Within the saeter inclosure the cows and smaller animals were roving back and forth from fence to fence impatiently. They knew that Bufar day had come, for along the wall of the saeter hut, in a row, stood the horses' packs, filled with b.u.t.ter tubs, cheese tubs, and cheese boxes; and tied to the fence were the horses themselves. All of these had pack saddles on, except the military horse, which stood foremost among them, bearing a woman's saddle. The farm hands stood outside, too, smoking their pipes. They were all ready, and were only waiting for the milkmaid, who was inside the hut making the last batch of cheese from the morning's milk, which she could not allow to be wasted.

While Lisbeth was standing on the ridge of the cow house Ole and Peter came bobbing along past the fence of the fold. They were not so boisterous as usual to-day, and stopped at the gate, looking at Lisbeth without saying a word at first. Then Peter asked, "Are you going back to the farm to-day, Lisbeth?"

"Yes, I am all ready."

With one impulse Lisbeth and the boys gazed over the mountain's familiar expanse.

"The mountain begins to look barren now," said Peter; "but I shall be here a week longer."

"So long as that?" said Lisbeth. "And you, Ole?"

"I am going day after to-morrow."

All three were silent again for a while. Then Lisbeth said: "I suppose I must go with the others now. They surely must be ready."

She descended from the roof and went over to where the boys were. The conversation came to a standstill again; they could not think of anything to say. Finally Peter spoke.

"Are you coming again next summer, Lisbeth?"

"Yes, if Kjersti Hoel is pleased with me; but that can hardly be expected, since I am going home without Crookhorn."

"It would take a horse trainer to look after her," said Ole.

Again there was silence. Then Ole said: "We did not go up to Glory Peak this summer, to see the spot the king once visited."

"No, we didn't."

"We two boys are coming here again next summer, both of us."

"Perhaps we can go to Glory Peak after all then, even if it is so far away."

"Yes, we can," said Ole. "And I can tell you a good deal about the king's visit, for my father went with him and drove."

"Drove the king's carriage?"

"No, not the king's; the county magistrate's."

"My father went with him, too," said Peter, "and drove; so I can tell about it as well as you."

"Yes, but whose carriage did he drive? A homely old woman's!"