Then comes a sea-fiord that
cuts far into it. It doesn't mind that, but borders it with birch and
alder, just as if it was an ordinary fresh-water lake. Then still
another wave comes driving in. Nor does the hillside bother itself about
cringing to this, but it, too, gets the same covering as the first one.
Then the fiords begin to broaden and separate, they break up fields and
woods and then the hillside cannot help but notice them. "I believe it
is the sea itself that is coming," says the hillside, and then it begins
to adorn itself. It wreathes itself with blossoms, travels up and down
in hills and throws islands into the sea. It no longer cares about pines
and spruces, but casts them off like old every day clothes, and parades
later with big oaks and lindens and chestnuts, and with blossoming leafy
bowers, and becomes as gorgeous as a manor-park. And when it meets the
sea, it is so changed that it doesn't know itself. All this one cannot
see very well until summertime; but, at any rate, the boy observed how
mild and friendly nature was; and he began to feel calmer than he had
been before, that night. Then, suddenly, he heard a sharp and ugly yowl
from the bath-house park; and when he stood up he saw, in the white
moonlight, a fox standing on the pavement under the balcony. For Smirre
had followed the wild geese once more.
Pages:
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153