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 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 mother sang,--

 "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 mother sang,--

 "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 _c_, 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 was.

"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.

 [Illustration: "THE GOAT IS MINE," SHE SAID, AND THREW HER ARMS AROUND
 ITS NECK]

"Here I bring a little boy who wants to learn to read," said his mother.

"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 Whitehead!"

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.

"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 louder and louder to get the preponderance, here
trebles piped up, the rougher voices drummed 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.

"Have you?"

"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."

"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 hear it?"

"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.

"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 mouths.

"Silence! you young torments, you little beggars, you noisy boys! be
quiet

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