Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“‘Yes mother—I tried to get shot at a reindeer. How is she?’

“Norrska silently pointed to a snowflake, which falling on her hand as she talked, had lain for a moment in all its pure beauty, but was now melting fast away. She watched till it disappeared, and then bending her head lower than ever, she resumed her work.

“Kline stood silent and thoughtful.

“‘May be not, mother,’ he said at length. ‘Her appetite has been better lately. See—I have these plovers for her to-night, and to-morrow I will have the deer. Think of my finding one in these parts!’

“But his mother said no more, and when the pails were full Kline took them from her and carried them into one of the little huts; and then returning he drove the cows into their little log dwelling, and taking up his birds and gun he walked slowly to the house. But the gayly-painted door was out of tune with his mood, and he turned and went round the back way.

“Leaving both gun and birds in the kitchen, Kline opened softly a door leading to one of the bedrooms and went in.

“The corners of this room and the sides of the windows were boarded, and the floor was strewed with fresh twigs of the juniper tree; which gave a sweet smell through the room, and made it look pretty too. Of the three windows two looked towards the fiord and one to the mountain and over the little clearing. The bed stood in a recess that had doors like one of your cupboards; but these now were open, and by the bedside stood a little white pine table, and upon it a wooden bowl and spoon—all prettily carved.”

“How were they carved?” said Carl.

“The bowl had carved upon it a spray of the wild bramble—twining round with its leaves and berries; and the handle of the spoon was like a wild duck’s head; and the feet of the table were like bear’s feet. Kline had done it all, for in Norway the men and boys carve a great deal, and very beautifully; and this bowl and spoon had been made for his little sister as he sat by her bedside, and Kline was very proud of them. The feathers on the duck’s head were beautifully done, and the bramble-berries looked pretty enough to eat. But Kline did not once look at them now, for something far prettier lay on the bed, and that was little Sneeflocken.”

“What did they call her that for?” said Carl.

“Because that is the name of the snowflakes. And she was just as pure and fresh as they, and had never had the least bit of colour in her cheeks from the time she was a baby. You could scarcely have distinguished them from the pillow, but for the fair hair that came between. She was covered with a quilt made of down; for Kline had risked his life almost in climbing to the high difficult places where the eider ducks build their nests, that he might get the soft down which the mother duck plucks from her own breast to keep her eggs and nestlings warm. And Norrska had made it into a quilt, the warmest thing that could be—while the weight of it was almost nothing.

“And beneath this soft quilt Sneeflocken lay, with her eyes closed, and singing softly to herself in the Norse language a hymn, which was something like this:—

‘O little child, lie still and sleep!—
Jesus is near,
Thou need’st not fear;—
No one need fear, whom God doth keep
By day or night.
Then lay thee down in slumber deep
Till morning light.

O little child, thou need’st not wake;—
Though bears should prowl,
And wolfish howl
And watch-dog’s bark the silence break.
Jesus is strong,—
And angels watch thee for his sake,
The whole night long.

O little child, lie still and rest,—
He sweetly sleeps
Whom Jesus keeps,—
And in the morning wake, so blest,
His child to be.
Love every one, but love him best,—
He first loved thee.

O little child! when thou must die,
Fear nothing then,—
But say Amen
To God’s command; and quiet lie
In his kind hand,
Till he shall say, ‘Dear child, come, fly
To heaven’s bright land.’

Then with thy angel-wings quick grown,
Shalt thou ascend,
To meet thy Friend,—
Jesus the little child will own—
Safe, at his side!
And thou shalt live before the throne
Because he died!’

“Kline had to step back into the shadow of the door of the recess, to wipe the tears off his face, before he could venture to speak to his little sister. But she spoke first.

“‘Kline!’

“‘What, dear?’ said her brother, coming forward.

“‘I thought I heard your step,’ said Sneeflocken with a smile, and putting up her lips to kiss him. ‘Where have you been all day?’

“‘O—over the mountains—hunting,’ said Kline as cheerfully as he could. ‘I saw a great big reindeer, Flocken; and I mean to go and find him to-morrow. That would fill the alpebod finely, and you would like some venison—wouldn’t you dear?’

“‘O yes,’ said Flocken—with a little smile—‘but I wouldn’t kill the deer for that.’

“‘I would,’ said Kline. ‘And it would help mother, too.’

“‘I should like to help mother, if I could,’ said Sneeflocken, putting her little thin hands together. ‘But Jesus will—I have asked him.’

“‘Why you help us all,’ said Kline; ‘just as the birds do when they sing, or the sun when it shines.’

“‘Maybe I shall by and by,’ said the child, smiling again in that grave, quiet way.

“‘Yes, by and by,—when you grow up to be a strong woman,’ said Kline.

“‘No, Kline,’ said Sneeflocken stroking his face—‘No, dear Kline—but by and by when I go to heaven. Maybe God will let me help take care of her then, and of you too, Kline. But you will not know that it is your little Sneeflocken.’

“And Kline could only sit and hold her in his arms, and say nothing.

“The snow fell all that night, and the winter set in early; and the waterfall scattered icicles upon every branch and rock in its way, and then built for itself an ice trough through which it poured down as noisily as ever. Then the sun never shewed his face but for a few minutes, and the rest of the day was twilight. And at night the moon shone splendidly, and the Northern Lights showed peaks of fire in the heavens,—or sometimes there were only the stars, burning clear in the high lift, and twinkling down in the dark fiord between the shadows of the fir trees. Now and then a bear would come out, and prowl about the little dwelling,—or a wolf gave a concert with the waterfall; but cows and pigs were safe shut up; and Foss, the little dog, shewed so much disapprobation at the concert, that often the wolves did not have one for nights together. Laaft, the father of Kline, got home from Lofoden with his stock of dried fish; and Kline himself had shot his reindeer; and both meat and fish were safely stowed in the alpebod. Didn’t the wolves know that! and didn’t their mouths water sometimes at night till they were fringed with icicles! But they never tried to break in, for the alpebod was strong; and little Foss knew as well as the wolves what good things were there; and scolded terribly if every body and every thing did not keep at a respectful distance. And besides all that, the wolves were afraid of the light that always shone from one room of the little cottage.

“‘This is a very quiet way of life—ours,’ said the fir trees nodding to each other.

“‘I’m very tired of it,’ said one of the cones. ‘It’s very cold up here, and really in the dark one cannot see to do much.’

“‘A fir glories in the frost and the cold and the snow,’ said the tall tree proudly. ‘We are not called upon to do anything but to make sweet music to the wind, and to keep it from blowing too fiercely upon the little hut, and to shew our fine heads against the sky. The snow-birds are warm in our arms during the long night, for we have plenty of good clothes all the year round.’

“The beeches heard this speech, but were too frost-bound to make any answer.”