"I know very well how you
act when you want to coax away a salmon-trout, Smirre," said he.
"Oh! is it you, Gripe?" said Smirre, and was delighted; for he knew that
this particular otter was a quick and accomplished swimmer. "I don't
wonder that you do not care to look at the wild geese, since you can't
manage to get out to them." But the otter, who had swimming-webs between
his toes, and a stiff tail--which was as good as an oar--and a skin that
was water-proof, didn't wish to have it said of him that there was a
waterfall that he wasn't able to manage. He turned toward the stream;
and as soon as he caught sight of the wild geese, he threw the fish
away, and rushed down the steep shore and into the river.
If it had been a little later in the spring, so that the nightingales in
Djupafors had been at home, they would have sung for many a day of
Gripe's struggle with the rapid. For the otter was thrust back by the
waves many times, and carried down river; but he fought his way steadily
up again. He swam forward in still water; he crawled over stones, and
gradually came nearer the wild geese. It was a perilous trip, which
might well have earned the right to be sung by the nightingales.
Smirre followed the otter's course with his eyes as well as he could. At
last he saw that the otter was in the act of climbing up to the wild
geese.
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