CHAPTER I

by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson

　　His name was Oyvind, and he cried when he was born. But no sooner didhe sit up on his mother's lap than he laughed, and when the candle waslit in the evening the room rang with his laughter, but he cried whenhe was not allowed to reach it.

　　"Something remarkable will come of that boy!" said the mother.

　　A barren cliff, not a very high one, though, overhung the house wherehe was born; fir and birch looked down upon the roof, the bird-cherrystrewed flowers over it. And on the roof was a little goat belongingto Oyvind; it was kept there that it might not wander away, and Oyvindbore leaves and grass up to it. One fine day the goat leaped down andwas off to the cliff; it went straight up and soon stood where it hadnever been before. Oyvind did not see the goat when he came out in theafternoon, and thought at once of the fox. He grew hot all over, andgazing about him, cried,—

　　"Killy-killy-killy-killy-goat!"

　　"Ba-a-a-a!" answered the goat, from the brow of the hill, putting itshead on one side and peering down.

　　At the side of the goat there was kneeling a little girl.

　　"Is this goat yours?" asked she.

　　Oyvind opened wide his mouth and eyes, thrust both hands into his pantsand said,—

　　"Who are you?"

　　"I am Marit, mother's young one, father's fiddle, the hulder of thehouse, granddaughter to Ola Nordistuen of the Heidegards, four yearsold in the autumn, two days after the frost nights—I am!"

　　"Is that who you are?" cried he, drawing a long breath, for he had notventured to take one while she was speaking.

　　"Is this goat yours?" she again inquired.

　　"Ye-es!" replied he, raising his eyes.

　　"I have taken such a liking to the goat;—you will not give it to me?"

　　"No, indeed I will not."

　　She lay kicking up her heels and staring down at him, and presently shesaid: "But if I give you a twisted bun for the goat, can I have itthen?"

　　Oyvind was the son of poor people; he had tasted twisted bun only oncein his life, that was when grandfather came to his house, and he hadnever eaten anything equal to it before or since. He fixed his eyes onthe girl.

　　"Let me see the bun first?" said he.

　　She was not slow in producing a large twisted bun that she held in herhand.

　　"Here it is!" cried she, and tossed it down to him.

　　"Oh! it broke in pieces!" exclaimed the boy, picking up every fragmentwith the utmost care. He could not help tasting of the very smallestmorsel, and it was so good that he had to try another piece, and beforehe knew it himself he had devoured the whole bun.

　　"Now the goat belongs to me," said the girl.

　　The boy paused with the last morsel in his mouth; the girl lay therelaughing, and the goat stood by her side, with its white breast andshining brown hair, giving sidelong glances down.

　　"Could you not wait a while," begged the boy,—his heart beginning tothrob. Then the girl laughed more than ever, and hurriedly got up onher knees.

　　"No, the goat is mine," said she, and threw her arms about it, thenloosening one of her garters she fastened it around its neck. Oyvindwatched her. She rose to her feet and began to tug at the goat; itwould not go along with her, and stretched its neck over the edge ofthe cliff toward Oyvind.

　　"Ba-a-a-a!" said the goat.

　　Then the little girl took hold of its hair with one hand, pulled at thegarter with the other, and said prettily: "Come, now, goat, you shallgo into the sitting-room and eat from mother's dish and my apron."

　　And then she sang,—

　　"Come, boy's pretty goatie,

　　Come, calf, my delight,

　　Come here, mewing pussie,

　　In shoes snowy white,

　　Yellow ducks, from your shelter,

　　Come forth, helter-skelter.

　　Come, doves, ever beaming,

　　With soft feathers gleaming!

　　The grass is still wet,

　　But sun 't will soon get;

　　Now call, though early 't is in the summer,

　　And autumn will be the new-comer."[1]