Oeyvind and Marit
Oeyvind was his name. A low barren cliff overhung the
house in which he was born; fir and birch looked down
on the roof, and wild-cherry strewed flowers over it. Upon this
roof there walked about a little goat, which belonged to Oeyvind.
He was kept there that he might not go astray; and Oeyvind carried
leaves and grass up to him. One fine day the goat
leaped down, and—away to the cliff; he went straight up, and
came where he never had been before. Oeyvind did not see him
when he came out after dinner, and thought immediately of the
fox. He grew hot all over, looked around about, and called,
"Bay-ay-ay," said the goat, from the brow of the hill, as he
cocked his head on one side and looked down.
But at the side of the goat there kneeled a little girl.
"Is it yours, this goat?" she asked.
Oeyvind stood with eyes and mouth wide open, thrust both
hands into the breeches he had on, and asked, "Who are you?"
"I am Marit, mother's little one, father's fiddle, the elf in the
house, grand-daughter of Ole Nordistuen of the Heide farms, four
years old in the autumn, two days after the frost nights, I!"
"Are you really?" he said, and drew a long breath, which he
had not dared to do so long as she was speaking.
"Is it yours, this goat?" asked the girl again.
"Ye-es," he said, and looked up.
"I have taken such a fancy to the goat. You will not give it
"No, that I won't."
She lay kicking her legs, and looking down at him, and then
she said, "But if I give you a butter-cake for the goat, can I
have him then?"
Oeyvind came of poor people, and had eaten butter-cake only
once in his life, that was when grandpapa came there, and anything
like it he had never eaten before nor since. He looked up
at the girl. "Let me see the butter-cake first," said he.
She was not long about it, took out a large cake, which she held
in her hand. "Here it is," she said, and threw it down.
"Ow, it went to pieces," said the boy. He gathered up every
bit with the utmost care; he could not help tasting the very
smallest, and that was so good, he had to taste another, and, before
he knew it himself, he had eaten up the whole cake.
"Now the goat is mine," said the girl. The boy stopped with
the last bit in his mouth, the girl lay and laughed, and the goat
stood by her side, with white breast and dark brown hair, looking
"Could you not wait a little while?" begged the boy; his heart
began to beat. Then the girl laughed still more, and got up quickly
on her knees.
"No, the goat is mine," she said, and threw her arms round its
neck, loosened one of her garters, and fastened it round. Oeyvind
looked up. She got up, and began pulling at the goat; it would
not follow, and twisted its neck downwards to where Oeyvind
stood. "Bay-ay-ay," it said. But she took hold of its hair with
one hand, pulled the string with the other, and said gently, "Come,
goat, and you shall go into the room and eat out of mother's dish
and my apron." And then she sung,—
"Come, boy's goat,
Come, mother's calf,
Come, mewing cat
In snow-white shoes.
Come, yellow ducks,
Come out of your hiding-place;
Come, little chickens,
Who can hardly go;
Come, my doves
With soft feathers;
See, the grass is wet,
But the sun does you good;
And early, early is it in summer,
But call for the autumn, and it will come."
There stood the boy.
He had taken care of the goat since the winter before, when it
was born, and he had never imagined he could lose it; but now it
was done in a moment, and he should never see it again.
His mother came up humming from the beach, with wooden
pans which she had scoured: she saw the boy sitting with his legs
crossed under him on the grass, crying, and she went up to him.
"What are you crying about?"
"O, the goat, the goat!"
"Yes; where is the goat?" asked his mother, looking up at
"It will never come back again," said the boy.
"Dear me! how could that happen?"
He would not confess immediately.
"Has the fox taken it?"
"Ah, if it only were the fox!"
"Are you crazy?" said his mother; "what has become of the
"Oh-h-h—I happened to—to—to sell it for a cake!"
As soon as he had uttered the word, he understood what it was
to sell the goat for a cake; he had not thought of it before. His
"What do you suppose the little goat thinks of you, when you
could sell him for a cake?"
And the boy thought about it, and felt sure that he could never
again be happy in this world, and not even in heaven, he thought
afterwards. He felt so sorry, that he promised himself never
again to do anything wrong, never to cut the thread on the spinning-wheel,
nor let the goats out, nor go down to the sea alone.
He fell asleep where he lay, and dreamed about the goat, that it
had gone to Heaven; our Lord sat there with a great beard as in
the catechism, and the goat stood eating the leaves off a shining
tree; but Oeyvind sat alone on the roof, and could not
Suddenly there came something wet close up to his ear, and he
started up. "Bay-ay-ay!" it said; and it was the goat, who had
come back again.
"What! have you got back?" He jumped up, took it by the
two fore-legs, and danced with it as if it were a brother; he pulled
its beard, and he was just going in to his mother with it, when he
heard some one behind him, and, looking, saw the girl sitting on
the greensward by his side. Now he understood it all, and let go
"Is it you, who have come with it?"
She sat, tearing the grass up with her hands, and said,—
"They would not let me keep it; grandfather is sitting up
While the boy stood looking at her, he heard a sharp voice from
the road above call out, "Now!"
Then she remembered what she was to do; she rose, went over
to Oeyvind, put one of her muddy hands into his, and, turning her
face away, said,—
"I beg your pardon!"
But then her courage was all gone; she threw herself over the
goat, and wept.
"I think you had better keep the goat," said Oeyvind, looking
the other way.
"Come, make haste!" said grandpapa, up on the hill; and Marit
rose, and walked with reluctant feet upwards.
"You are forgetting your garter," Oeyvind called after her. She
turned round, and looked first at the garter and then at him. At
last she came to a great resolution, and said, in a choked voice,—
"You may keep that."
He went over to her, and, taking her hand, said,—
"O, nothing to thank for!" she answered, but drew a long
sigh, and walked on.
He sat down on the grass again. The goat walked about near
him, but he was no longer so pleased with it as before.
The goat was fastened to the wall; but Oeyvind walked about,
looking up at the cliff. His mother came out, and sat down by his
side; he wanted to hear stories about what was far away, for now
the goat no longer satisfied him. So she told him how once every
thing could talk: the mountain talked to the stream, and the
stream to the river, the river to the sea, and the sea to the sky;
but then he asked if the sky did not talk to any one; and the
sky talked to the clouds, the clouds to the trees, the trees to the
grass, the grass to the flies, the flies to the animals, the animals to
the children, the children to the grown-up people; and so it went
on, until it had gone round, and no one could tell where it had
begun. Oeyvind looked at the mountain, the trees, the sky, and
had never really seen them before. The cat came out at that
moment, and lay down on the stone before the door in the sunshine.
"What does the cat say?" asked Oeyvind, pointing. His
"At evening softly shines the sun,
The cat lies lazy on the stone.
Two small mice,
Cream thick and nice,
Four bits of fish,
I stole behind a dish,
And am so lazy and tired,
Because so well I have fared,"
says the cat.
But then came the cock, with all the hens. "What does the
cock say?" asked Oeyvind, clapping his hands together. His
"The mother-hen her wings doth sink,
The cock stands on one leg to think:
That gray goose
Steers high her course;
But sure am I that never she
As clever as a cock can be.
Run in, you hens, keep under the roof to-day,
For the sun has got leave to stay away,"
says the cock.
But the little birds were sitting on the ridge-pole, singing.
"What do the birds say?" asked Oeyvind, laughing.
"Dear Lord, how pleasant is life,
For those who have neither toil nor strife,"
say the birds.
And she told him what they all said, down to the ant, who
crawled in the moss, and the worm who worked in the bark.
That same summer, his mother began to teach him to read. He
had owned books a long time, and often wondered how it would
seem when they also began to talk. Now the letters turned into
animals, birds, and everything else; but soon they began to walk
together, two and two; a stood and rested under a tree, which was
called b; then came e, and did the same; but when three or four
came together, it seemed as if they were angry with each other,
for it would not go right. And the farther along he came, the
more he forgot what they were: he remembered longest a, which
he liked best; it was a little black lamb, and was friends with
everybody; but soon he forgot a also: the book had no more
stories, nothing but lessons.
One day his mother came in, and said to him,—
"To-morrow school begins, and then you are going up to the
farm with me."
Oeyvind had heard that school was a place where many boys
played together; and he had no objection. Indeed, he was much
pleased. He had often been at the farm, but never when there was
school there; and now he was so anxious to get there, he walked
faster than his mother up over the hills. As they came up to the
neighboring house, a tremendous buzzing, like that from the water-mill
at home, met their ears; and he asked his mother what it
"That is the children reading," she answered; and he was
much pleased, for that was the way he used to read, before he
knew the letters. When he came in, there sat as many children
round a table as he had ever seen at church; others were sitting
on their luncheon-boxes, which were ranged round the walls; some
stood in small groups round a large printed card; the schoolmaster,
an old gray-haired man, was sitting on a stool by the chimney-corner,
filling his pipe. They all looked up as Oeyvind and his
mother entered, and the mill-hum ceased as if the water had suddenly
been turned off. All looked at the new-comers; the mother
bowed to the schoolmaster, who returned her greeting.
"Here I bring a little boy who wants to learn to read," said his
"What is the fellow's name?" said the schoolmaster, diving
down into his pouch after tobacco.
"Oeyvind," said his mother; "he knows his letters, and can
put them together."
"Is it possible!" said the schoolmaster; "come here, you
Oeyvind went over to him: the schoolmaster took him on his
lap, and raised his cap.
"What a nice little boy!" said he, and stroked his hair. Oeyvind
looked up into his eyes, and laughed.
"Is it at me you are laughing?" asked he, with a frown.
"Yes, it is," answered Oeyvind, and roared with laughter. At
that the schoolmaster laughed, Oeyvind's mother laughed; the
children understood that they also were allowed to laugh, and so
they all laughed together.
So Oeyvind became one of the scholars.
As he was going to find his seat, they all wanted to make room
for him. He looked round a long time, while they whispered and
pointed; he turned round on all sides, with his cap in his hand
and his book under his arm.
"Now, what are you going to do?" asked the schoolmaster,
who was busy with his pipe again. Just as the boy is going to
turn round to the schoolmaster, he sees close beside him, sitting
down by the hearthstone on a little red painted tub, Marit, of the
many names; she had covered her face with both hands, and sat
peeping at him through her fingers.
"I shall sit here," said Oeyvind, quickly, taking a tub and
seating himself at her side. Then she raised a little the arm
nearest him, and looked at him from under her elbow; immediately
he also hid his face with both hands, and looked at her from
under his elbow. So they sat, keeping up the sport, until she
laughed, then he laughed too; the children had seen it, and laughed
with them; at that, there rung out in a fearfully strong voice, which,
however, grew milder at every pause,—
"Silence! you young scoundrels, you rascals, you little good-for-nothings!
keep still, and be good to me, you sugar-pigs."
That was the schoolmaster, whose custom it was to boil up, but
calm down again before he had finished. It grew quiet immediately
in the school, until the water-wheels again began to go;
every one read aloud from his book, the sharpest trebles piped up,
the rougher voices drummed louder and louder to get the preponderance;
here and there one shouted in above the others, and
Oeyvind had never had such fun in all his life.
"Is it always like this here?" whispered he to Marit.
"Yes, just like this," she said.
Afterwards, they had to go up to the schoolmaster, and read;
and then a little boy was called to read, so that they were allowed
to go and sit down quietly again.
"I have got a goat now, too," said she.
"Yes; but it is not so pretty as yours."
"Why don't you come oftener up on the cliff?"
"Grandpapa is afraid I shall fall over."
"But it is not so very high."
"Grandpapa won't let me, for all that."
"Mother knows so many songs," said he.
"Grandpapa does, too, you can believe."
"Yes; but he does not know what mother does."
"Grandpapa knows one about a dance. Would you like to
"Yes, very much."
"Well, then, you must come farther over here, so that the
schoolmaster may not hear."
He changed his place, and then she recited a little piece of a
song three or four times over, so that the boy learned it, and that
was the first he learned at school.
"Up with you, youngsters!" called out the schoolmaster.
"This is the first day, so you shall be dismissed early; but first
we must say a prayer, and sing."
Instantly, all was life in the school; they jumped down from
the benches, sprung over the floor, and talked into each other's
"Silence! you young torments, you little beggars, you noisy
boys! be quiet, and walk softly across the floor, little children,"
said the schoolmaster; and now they walked quietly, and took their
places; after which the schoolmaster went in front of them, and
made a short prayer. Then they sung. The schoolmaster began in
a deep bass; all the children stood with folded hands, and joined
in. Oeyvind stood farthest down by the door with Marit, and
looked on; they also folded their hands, but they could not sing.
That was the first day at school.