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.
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