THE ELF

Sunday, March twentieth. Once there was a boy.

He was--let us say--something like fourteen years old; long and loose-jointed and

towheaded.

He wasn't good for much, that boy. His chief delight was to eat and sleep; and

after that--he liked best to make mischief. It was a Sunday morning and the boy's

parents were getting ready to go to church.

The boy sat on the edge of the table, in his shirt sleeves, and thought how lucky it

was that both father and mother were going away, and the coast would be clear for a

couple of hours.

"Good! Now I can take down pop's gun and fire off a shot, without anybody's meddling

interference," he said to himself.

But it was almost as if father should have guessed the boy's thoughts, for just as he

was on the threshold--ready to start--he stopped short, and turned toward the boy.

"Since you won't come to church with mother and me," he said, "the least you can do, is

to read the service at home. Will you promise to do so?"

"Yes," said the boy, "that I can do easy enough."

And he thought, of course, that he wouldn't read any more than he felt like reading.

The boy thought that never had he seen his mother so persistent.

In a second she was over by the shelf near the fireplace, and took down Luther's

Commentary and laid it on the table, in front of the window--opened at the service

for the day.

She also opened the New Testament, and placed it beside the Commentary.

Finally, she drew up the big arm-chair, which was bought at the parish auction the

year before, and which, as a rule, no one but father was permitted to occupy.

The boy sat thinking that his mother was giving herself altogether too much trouble

with this spread; for he had no intention of reading more than a page or so.

But now, for the second time, it was almost as if his father were able to see right

through him.

He walked up to the boy, and said in a severe tone: "Now, remember, that you are

to read carefully!

For when we come back, I shall question you thoroughly; and if you have skipped a

single page, it will not go well with you."

"The service is fourteen and a half pages long," said his mother, just as if she

wanted to heap up the measure of his misfortune.

"You'll have to sit down and begin the reading at once, if you expect to get

through with it." With that they departed.

And as the boy stood in the doorway watching them, he thought that he had been

caught in a trap.

"There they go congratulating themselves, I suppose, in the belief that they've hit

upon something so good that I'll be forced to sit and hang over the sermon the whole

time that they are away," thought he.

But his father and mother were certainly not congratulating themselves upon anything

of the sort; but, on the contrary, they were very much distressed.

They were poor farmers, and their place was not much bigger than a garden-plot.

When they first moved there, the place couldn't feed more than one pig and a pair

of chickens; but they were uncommonly industrious and capable folk--and now they

had both cows and geese.

Things had turned out very well for them; and they would have gone to church that

beautiful morning--satisfied and happy--if they hadn't had their son to think of.

Father complained that he was dull and lazy; he had not cared to learn anything at

school, and he was such an all-round good- for-nothing, that he could barely be made

to tend geese.

Mother did not deny that this was true; but she was most distressed because he was wild

and bad; cruel to animals, and ill-willed toward human beings.

"May God soften his hard heart, and give him a better disposition!" said the mother,

"or else he will be a misfortune, both to himself and to us."

The boy stood for a long time and pondered whether he should read the service or not.

Finally, he came to the conclusion that, this time, it was best to be obedient.

He seated himself in the easy chair, and began to read.

But when he had been rattling away in an undertone for a little while, this mumbling

seemed to have a soothing effect upon him-- and he began to nod.

It was the most beautiful weather outside!

It was only the twentieth of March; but the boy lived in West Vemminghög Township, down

in Southern Skane, where the spring was already in full swing.

It was not as yet green, but it was fresh and budding.

There was water in all the trenches, and the colt's-foot on the edge of the ditch

was in bloom.

All the weeds that grew in among the stones were brown and shiny.

The beech-woods in the distance seemed to swell and grow thicker with every second.

The skies were high--and a clear blue.

The cottage door stood ajar, and the lark's trill could be heard in the room.

The hens and geese pattered about in the yard, and the cows, who felt the spring air

away in their stalls, lowed their approval every now and then.

The boy read and nodded and fought against drowsiness.

"No! I don't want to fall asleep," thought he, "for then I'll not get through with

this thing the whole forenoon."

But--somehow--he fell asleep. He did not know whether he had slept a

short while, or a long while; but he was awakened by hearing a slight noise back of

him.

On the window-sill, facing the boy, stood a small looking-glass; and almost the entire

cottage could be seen in this.

As the boy raised his head, he happened to look in the glass; and then he saw that the

cover to his mother's chest had been opened.

His mother owned a great, heavy, iron-bound oak chest, which she permitted no one but

herself to open.

Here she treasured all the things she had inherited from her mother, and of these she

was especially careful.

Here lay a couple of old-time peasant dresses, of red homespun cloth, with short

bodice and plaited shirt, and a pearl- bedecked breast pin.

There were starched white-linen head- dresses, and heavy silver ornaments and

chains.

Folks don't care to go about dressed like that in these days, and several times his

mother had thought of getting rid of the old things; but somehow, she hadn't had the

heart to do it.

Now the boy saw distinctly--in the glass-- that the chest-lid was open.

He could not understand how this had happened, for his mother had closed the

chest before she went away.

She never would have left that precious chest open when he was at home, alone.

He became low-spirited and apprehensive. He was afraid that a thief had sneaked his

way into the cottage.

He didn't dare to move; but sat still and stared into the looking-glass.

While he sat there and waited for the thief to make his appearance, he began to wonder

what that dark shadow was which fell across the edge of the chest.

He looked and looked--and did not want to believe his eyes.

But the thing, which at first seemed shadowy, became more and more clear to him;

and soon he saw that it was something real.

It was no less a thing than an elf who sat there--astride the edge of the chest!

To be sure, the boy had heard stories about elves, but he had never dreamed that they

were such tiny creatures.

He was no taller than a hand's breadth-- this one, who sat on the edge of the chest.

He had an old, wrinkled and beardless face, and was dressed in a black frock coat,

knee-breeches and a broad-brimmed black hat.

He was very trim and smart, with his white laces about the throat and wrist-bands, his

buckled shoes, and the bows on his garters.

He had taken from the chest an embroidered piece, and sat and looked at the old-

fashioned handiwork with such an air of veneration, that he did not observe the boy

had awakened.

The boy was somewhat surprised to see the elf, but, on the other hand, he was not

particularly frightened. It was impossible to be afraid of one who

was so little.

And since the elf was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he neither saw nor heard,

the boy thought that it would be great fun to play a trick on him; to push him over

into the chest and shut the lid on him, or something of that kind.

But the boy was not so courageous that he dared to touch the elf with his hands,

instead he looked around the room for something to poke him with.

He let his gaze wander from the sofa to the leaf-table; from the leaf-table to the

fireplace.

He looked at the kettles, then at the coffee-urn, which stood on a shelf, near

the fireplace; on the water bucket near the door; and on the spoons and knives and

forks and saucers and plates, which could

be seen through the half-open cupboard door.

He looked at his father's gun, which hung on the wall, beside the portrait of the

Danish royal family, and on the geraniums and fuchsias, which blossomed in the

window.

And last, he caught sight of an old butterfly-snare that hung on the window

frame.

He had hardly set eyes on that butterfly- snare, before he reached over and snatched

it and jumped up and swung it alongside the edge of the chest.

He was himself astonished at the luck he had.

He hardly knew how he had managed it--but he had actually snared the elf.

The poor little chap lay, head downward, in the bottom of the long snare, and could not

free himself. The first moment the boy hadn't the least

idea what he should do with his prize.

He was only particular to swing the snare backward and forward; to prevent the elf

from getting a foothold and clambering up. The elf began to speak, and begged, oh! so

pitifully, for his freedom.

He had brought them good luck--these many years--he said, and deserved better

treatment.

Now, if the boy would set him free, he would give him an old coin, a silver spoon,

and a gold penny, as big as the case on his father's silver watch.

The boy didn't think that this was much of an offer; but it so happened--that after he

had gotten the elf in his power, he was afraid of him.

He felt that he had entered into an agreement with something weird and uncanny;

something which did not belong to his world, and he was only too glad to get rid

of the horrid thing.

For this reason he agreed at once to the bargain, and held the snare still, so the

elf could crawl out of it.

But when the elf was almost out of the snare, the boy happened to think that he

ought to have bargained for large estates, and all sorts of good things.

He should at least have made this stipulation: that the elf must conjure the

sermon into his head.

"What a fool I was to let him go!" thought he, and began to shake the snare violently,

so the elf would tumble down again.

But the instant the boy did this, he received such a stinging box on the ear,

that he thought his head would fly in pieces.

He was dashed--first against one wall, then against the other; he sank to the floor,

and lay there--senseless. When he awoke, he was alone in the cottage.

The chest-lid was down, and the butterfly- snare hung in its usual place by the

window.

If he had not felt how the right cheek burned, from that box on the ear, he would

have been tempted to believe the whole thing had been a dream.

"At any rate, father and mother will be sure to insist that it was nothing else,"

thought he. "They are not likely to make any allowances

for that old sermon, on account of the elf.

It's best for me to get at that reading again," thought he.

But as he walked toward the table, he noticed something remarkable.

It couldn't be possible that the cottage had grown.

But why was he obliged to take so many more steps than usual to get to the table?

And what was the matter with the chair?

It looked no bigger than it did a while ago; but now he had to step on the rung

first, and then clamber up in order to reach the seat.

It was the same thing with the table.

He could not look over the top without climbing to the arm of the chair.

"What in all the world is this?" said the boy.

"I believe the elf has bewitched both the armchair and the table--and the whole

cottage."

The Commentary lay on the table and, to all appearances, it was not changed; but there

must have been something queer about that too, for he could not manage to read a

single word of it, without actually standing right in the book itself.

He read a couple of lines, and then he chanced to look up.

With that, his glance fell on the looking- glass; and then he cried aloud: "Look!

There's another one!"

For in the glass he saw plainly a little, little creature who was dressed in a hood

and leather breeches.

"Why, that one is dressed exactly like me!" said the boy, and clasped his hands in

astonishment. But then he saw that the thing in the

mirror did the same thing.

Then he began to pull his hair and pinch his arms and swing round; and instantly he

did the same thing after him; he, who was seen in the mirror.

The boy ran around the glass several times, to see if there wasn't a little man hidden

behind it, but he found no one there; and then he began to shake with terror.

For now he understood that the elf had bewitched him, and that the creature whose

image he saw in the glass--was he, himself.

THE WILD GEESE

The boy simply could not make himself believe that he had been transformed into

an elf. "It can't be anything but a dream--a queer

fancy," thought he.

"If I wait a few moments, I'll surely be turned back into a human being again."

He placed himself before the glass and closed his eyes.

He opened them again after a couple of minutes, and then expected to find that it

had all passed over--but it hadn't. He was--and remained--just as little.

In other respects, he was the same as before.

The thin, straw-coloured hair; the freckles across his nose; the patches on his leather