Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“‘I think we shall have snow,’ said the tallest of the fir trees, looking over the heads of his companions.

“‘The sky is very clear,’ remarked a very small and inexperienced fir, who was so short he could not see much of anything.

“‘Yes,’ said the tall one, ‘so you think; but there is a great deal of sky besides that which is over our heads; and I can see the wind gathering handfuls of snow-clouds, which he will fling about us presently.’

“‘Yes,’—repeated the tall fir, with another graceful bend—‘I see them—they are coming.’

“The evergreens were all sorry to hear this, for nothing depressed them so much as snow; the rain they could generally shake off,—at least if it didn’t freeze too hard.

“As for the beeches, they said if that was the case they must put off their summer clothes directly. And one little beech, with a great effort, did succeed in shaking off half-a-dozen green leaves the next time the wind came that way.

“‘You need not hurry yourselves,’ said the tall fir—‘this is only an early storm—the winter will not come yet. I can still see the sun for a few minutes every day.’

“And that was true. For a few minutes the sun shewed himself above the horizon, and then after making a very small arch in the sky, down he went again. Then came the long afternoon of clear twilight; and the longer night, when the stars threw soft shadows like a young moon, and looked down to see their bright eyes in the deep fiord that lay at the foot of the fir trees. For this was on the north-west side of Norway; and the fir trees grew by one of the many inlets of the sea which run far away for miles into the country, and are called fiords.

“At the mouth the fiord was so narrow, and the overhanging trees so thick, that you might have coasted along, backwards and forwards, without perceiving the entrance; but to the country people it was well known, and unmistakeably marked out by one particular hemlock. Pushing your little boat through its green branches that dipped their fingers in the water, the fiord opened before you. The banks on each side were for the most part very steep, and often wooded to the water’s edge; while sometimes a pitch of bare rocks and a noisy cataract came rough and tumble down together, pouring disturbance into the smooth waters of the fiord.

“The fiord itself was too beautiful to be half described. It wound about from rock to rock, now swashing gently at the base of a high mountain, and then turning and spreading out, bay-like, where the shore was lower and the hills stood aloof; but everywhere overhung or nodded to by the great trees that looked as if they had known it since it was a mere rill,—the beeches and oaks and hemlocks, the tall pines like a ship’s mainmast; and most of all by that glory of those forests—the Norway Spruce fir. These watched the fiord everywhere,—in the regions of perfect solitude, and in the spots where a little clearing—a waft of blue smoke—the plaintive bleat of a goat mounting up in the world, or the hearty bow-wow of some hardy little dog, that was minding his own business and everybody’s else, told of a human habitation. Back of all—beyond cliff and wood and everything but the blue sky, towered up the peaks of perpetual snow—whose bare heads no man had ever seen.

“The fiord could not point heavenward after that fashion. But it reflected every bit of blue that came over it, and even when the skies were dark, and the snow-peaks hid their heads in a cloud, the fiord’s reflections were only grave and thoughtful—never gloomy.

“And the water was so clear!

“Sailing along in a little boat you could look down, down, for twenty fathoms, and see the smooth white sand, with little shells and star-fish; and then the bottom of the fiord rose suddenly up like a rocky mountain—over which the boat passed into a deep gulf on the other side. Then came a plain, and great forests, far down in the water; through which large fishes swam softly about; and then another mountain.

“In one of the narrowest parts of the fiord a little spot of cleared and cultivated land lay like a smile between it and the rough mountain. A mere point of land—a little valley wedged in among the heights that rose cliff beyond cliff towards the blue sky, fringed here and there with fir trees. The valley smiled none the less for all this roughness; and the little dwelling that there found a foothold seemed rather to court the protection of the cliffs, and to nestle under their shelter. The house was such as best suited the place.

“It was built of great pine logs, roughly squared and laid one upon another, with layers of moss between; while every crevice and crack was well stuffed with the same. The roof was of boards, covered with strips of birch bark; and over all a coating of earth two or three inches deep in which a fine crop of moss had taken root. The windows were large, and well glazed with coarse glass, while very white curtains hung within; and the door was painted in gay colours. Other little huts or houses stood about, forming a sort of square; and furnishing apartments for the pig, the cows, and their winter provision; while one more carefully built than the rest, held all manner of stores for the family. Raised upon posts, that the rats might not enter, the little alpebod kept safe the fish, the venison, the vegetables,—even the cloth, yarn, and sometimes clothing, of its humble owners.

“In sight of the house, a little way down the fiord, was a wild ravine; skirted on one side with a height of thick woods and rocks, while on the other the rocks stood alone—the sharp ridge rising up hundreds of feet to a ledge in some places not a foot wide. On either side the ridge the pitch was very sheer down, the one depth being filled with forest trees which led on to the wooded hill beyond; while the ravine on the other echoed to the voice of a waterfall, that pouring down over a pile of rocks perhaps two hundred feet high, foamed into the fiord; which then came eddying past the little hut, bearing the white flakes yet on its blue water.

“This was all one could see in the valley; but the tall fir trees looked at long ranges of wooded hills and rocky cliffs, with the fiord in its further windings, and beyond all the snow mountains.

“‘How cold you must be up there!’ said a little pine who was nearly as high as the tall fir’s lower branches. But the fir did not hear him, or perhaps did not take notice, for he was looking off at the fine prospect.

“‘Yes, it is cold up here,’ answered one of the fir cones,—‘and windy—and there’s a great deal of sameness about it. It’s just snow and rain, and wind and sunshine, and then snow again.’

“‘That’s what it is everywhere,’ said the wind as he swept by.

“‘I can’t help it,’—said the cone—‘I am tired of it. I want to travel, and see the world, and be of some use to society. What can one do in the top of a fir tree?’

“‘Why, what can a pine cone do anywhere?’ said some of the beech mast.

“‘The end of a pine cone’s existence is not to be eaten up, however,’ retorted the cone, sharply. ‘Neither am I a pine cone—though people will call me so. We firs hold our heads pretty high, I can tell you. But I will throw myself into the fiord some day, and go to sea. I have no doubt I could sail as well as a boat. It would be a fine thing to discover new islands, and take possession.’

“‘It would be very lonely,’ said a squirrel who was gathering beech mast.

“‘Royally so—’ said the pine cone. ‘There one would be king of all the trees.’

“‘The trees never had but one king, and that was a bramble,’ said a reed at the water’s edge who was well versed in history.

“‘What nonsense you are all talking!’ said the tall fir tree at length. ‘My top leaf is at this moment loaded with a snowflake—there is something sensible for you to think of.’

“At this moment the hut door opened and a woman came out.

“She wore a dark stuff petticoat made very short, with warm stockings and thick shoes; a yellow close-fitting bodice was girdled round her waist, and from under it came out a white kerchief and very full white sleeves. On her head she wore a high white cap.

“She looked first at the weather, and then turning towards the fall she watched or listened for a few minutes,—but water and rocks and firs were all that eye or ear could find out. Then going up to a line stretched between two of the fir-trees, she felt of some things that hung there to dry.”

“I s’pose that was her clothes line,” said Carl.

“No it wasn’t,” replied the cone,—“I might rather call it her bread line. The things that hung there were great pieces of the inner bark of the pine tree, and looked very much like sheets of foolscap paper.”

“She didn’t make bread out of them, I guess,” said Carl.

“Yes she did,” replied the cone. “She made many a loaf of bark bread, by pounding the dry bark and mixing it with flour. It wasn’t particularly bad bread either. So people say—I never tasted it. But the country folks in Norway use it a great deal in hard seasons; and in those woods you often meet great pine trees that have been stripped of their bark, and that have dried and bleached in the weather till they look as if made of bone or marble.

“Well—the pieces of bark were dry, and Norrska began to take them off the line, for of course the snow would not improve them.”

“Who was Norrska?” interrupted Carl.

“The good woman that came out of the house. She took them down, and when they were all in a heap at the foot of the tree she began to carry them off to the alpebod—that is the little storehouse I spoke of. Then she went back into the hut for a minute, and when she came out again she had on a long-sleeved grey woollen jacket, and her luur in her hand.”

“What’s that?” said Carl.

“The luur is a long trumpet-shaped thing, made of hollow pieces of wood, or pieces of birch bark, tied together, and four or five feet long.”

“What was it for?” said Carl.

“Why you shall hear, if you will have patience,” said the cone. “Norrska raised the luur with one hand, and putting her mouth to the little end there came forth of the other sundry sweet and loud sounds, which echoed back and forth among the rocks till they died away, far up the mountain.”

“But I say,” said Carl, “what for?”

And he took hold of the pine cone and gave it a little pinch; but it was pretty sharp and he let go again.

The pine cone settled himself down on the chest, looking just as stiff as ever, and then went on with his story.

“Norrska sounded her luur twice or thrice, and presently the head and horns of a red cow shewed themselves high up among the rocks. Then came in sight her shoulders and fore feet, and her hind feet and tail; and the whole cow began to descend into the valley, while a dun cow’s head shewed itself in just the same place and fashion. But when Norrska had once seen that they were coming she ceased to watch them, and turned to the fall again.

“Its white foam looked whiter than ever in the gathering dusk. The grey clouds which were fast closing in overhead sent down a cold grey light, and the water before it broke no longer sparkled with the sun’s gay beams, but looked leaden and cold and deep. Then breasted with snow like the stormy petrel, it came flying down the precipice, to plunge into the deep fiord below. Its very voice seem changed; for the wind had died away, and the steady roar of the water was the only sound that broke the hush.

“There was no living creature in sight,—unless a little lemming peeped out of his hole, or an eagle soared across the sky, a mere speck upon its clouds. The cows had reached the valley and now stood quietly chewing the cud, having had the precaution to turn their backs to the wind; and now Norrska fetched the milkpails, and drove the red cow up to the milking-corner. And as she went, a snowflake fell on her forehead and another fell on top of her head; and the fir trees sighed, and bowed their heads to what they couldn’t help. Norrska sighed too.

“‘The winter is coming,’ she said, ‘and the snow; and truly the alpebod is but poorly filled. And Sneeflocken sick—and Laaft not home from Lofoden!—And Kline—what can keep him?’ And again she looked towards the fall.

“Kline was there now—she could see him plain enough, though he was but a little spot on that sharp ridge by the waterfall. The path itself was hard to find, as it wound about over and under and around the points of rock that met on the ledge. A stranger could scarce have climbed it but on hands and knees. Yet down there came Kline, sure-footed as a chamois—swiftly down; and singing praises of the rocks and streams and woods and snow as he came. But before he reached the foot of the hill Kline’s song stopped,—with the first look at the hut his thoughts had outrun his feet; and with a quieter step now he came down into the valley and up to where his mother sat milking the red cow. In one hand was a gun, in the other a string of golden plovers.

“‘How late, Kline!’ said Norrska.