"Up here, on the hard butterfly-back, only sheep and cows and little
horses go about. Only lapwings and plover live here, and there are no
buildings except windmills and a few stone huts, where we shepherds
crawl in. But down on the coast lie big villages and churches and
parishes and fishing hamlets and a whole city."
He looked questioningly at the other one. This one had finished his
meal, and was tying the food-sack together. "I wonder where you will end
with all this," said he.
"It is only this that I want to know," said the shepherd, as he lowered
his voice so that he almost whispered the words, and looked into the
mist with his small eyes, which appeared to be worn out from spying
after all that which does not exist. "Only this I want to know: if the
peasants who live on the built-up farms beneath the strongholds, or the
fishermen who take the small herring from the sea, or the merchants in
Borgholm, or the bathing guests who come here every summer, or the
tourists who wander around in Borgholm's old castle ruin, or the
sportsmen who come here in the fall to hunt partridges, or the painters
who sit here on Alvaret and paint the sheep and windmills--I should like
to know if any of them understand that this island has been a butterfly
which flew about with great shimmery wings."
"Ah!" said the young shepherd, suddenly.
Pages:
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192