Growth of the Soil, Knut Hamsun [best self help books to read txt] 📗

thing at times. Eleseus was named after the priest of her parish, and that was a fine name to be sure; but Sivert was called after his mother’s uncle, the district treasurer, who was a well-to-do man, with neither wife nor child to come after him. They couldn’t do better than name the boy after him.

Then came spring, and the new season’s work; all was down in the earth before Whitsun. When there had been only Eleseus to look after, Inger could never find time to help her husband, being tied to her firstborn; now, with two children in the house, it was different; she helped in the fields and managed a deal of odd work here and there; planting potatoes, sowing carrots and turnips. A wife like that is none so easy to find. And she had her loom besides; at all odd minutes she would slip into the little room and weave a couple of spools, making half-wool stuff for underclothes for the winter. Then when she had dyed her wools, it was red and blue dress material for herself and the little ones; at last she put in several colours, and made a bedspread for Isak all by herself. No fancy work from Inger’s loom; useful and necessary things, and sound all through.

Oh, they were doing famously, these settlers in the wilds; they had got on so far, and if this year’s crops turned out well they would be enviable folk, no less. What was lacking on the place at all? A hayloft, perhaps; a big barn with a threshing-floor inside⁠—but that might come in time. Ay, it would come, never fear, only give then time. And now pretty Silverhorns had calved, the sheep had lambs, the goats had kids, the young stock fairly swarmed about the place. And what of the little household itself? Eleseus could walk already, walk by himself wherever he pleased, and little Sivert was christened. Inger? By all signs and tokens, making ready for another turn; she was not what you’d call niggardly at bearing. Another child⁠—oh, a mere nothing to Inger! Though, to be sure, she was proud enough of them when they came. Fine little creatures, as anyone could see. ’Twas not all, by a long way, that the Lord had blessed with such fine big children. Inger was young, and making the most of it. She was no beauty, and had suffered all her girlhood by reason of the same, being set aside and looked down on. The young men never noticed her, though she could dance and work as well. They found nothing sweet in her, and turned elsewhere. But now her time had come; she was in full flower and constantly with child. Isak himself, her lord and master, was earnest and stolid as ever, but he had got on well, and was content. How he had managed to live till Inger came was a mystery; feeding, no doubt, on potatoes and goats’ milk, or maybe venturesome dishes without a name; now, he had all that a man could think of in his place in the world.

There came another drought, a new bad year. Os-Anders the Lapp, coming by with his dog, brought news that folk in the village had cut their corn already, for fodder.

“ ’Tis a poor look out,” said Inger, “when it comes to that.”

“Ay. But they’ve the herring. A fine haul, ’tis said. Your Uncle Sivert, he’s going to build a country house.”

“Why, he was none so badly off before.”

“That’s true. And like to be the same with you, for all it seems.”

“Why, as to that, thank God, we’ve enough for our little needs. What do they say at home about me up here?”

Os-Anders wags his head helplessly; there’s no end to the great things they say; more than he can tell. A pleasant-spoken fellow, like all the Lapps.

“If as you’d care for a dish of milk now, you’ve only to say so,” says Inger.

“ ’Tis more than’s worth your while. But if you’ve a sup for the dog here.⁠ ⁠…”

Milk for Os-Anders, and food for the dog. Os-Anders lifts his head suddenly, at a kind of music inside the house.

“What’s that?”

“ ’Tis only our clock,” says Inger. “It strikes the hours that way.” Inger bursting with pride.

The Lapp wags his head again: “House and cattle and all manner of things. There’s nothing a man could think of but you’ve that thing.”

“Ay, we’ve much to be thankful for, ’tis true.”

“I forgot to say, there’s Oline was asking after you.”

“Oline? How is it with her?”

“She’s none so poorly. Where will your husband be now?”

“He’ll be at work in the fields somewhere.”

“They say he’s not bought yet,” says the Lapp carelessly.

“Bought? Who says so?”

“Why, ’tis what they say.”

“But who’s he to buy from? ’Tis common land.”

“Ay, ’tis so.”

“And sweat of his brow to every spade of it.”

“Why, they say ’tis the State owns all the land.”

Inger could make nothing of this. “Ay, maybe so. Was it Oline said so?”

“I don’t well remember,” says the Lapp, and his shifty eyes looked all ways around.

Inger wondered why he did not beg for anything; Os-Anders always begged, as do all the Lapps. Os-Anders sits scraping at the bowl of his clay pipe, and lights up. What a pipe! He puffs and draws at it till his wrinkled old face looks like a wizard’s runes.

“No need to ask if the little ones there are yours,” says he, flattering again. “They’re as like you as could be. The living image of yourself when you were small.”

Now Inger was a monster and a deformity to look at; ’twas all wrong, of course, but she swelled with pride for all that. Even a Lapp can gladden a mother’s heart.

“If it wasn’t that your sack there’s so full, I’d find you something to put in it,” says Inger.

“Nay, ’tis more than’s worth your while.”

Inger goes inside with the child on her arm; Eleseus stays outside with the Lapp. The two make friends at once; the child sees