And one who sees it in winter, when
it is covered with snow, cannot imagine that there is anything under the
snow but garden-plots, rye-fields and clover-meadows as is generally the
case in flat countries. But, in the beginning of April when the snow
finally melts away in Sonnerbo, it is apparent that that which lies
hidden under it is only dry, sandy heaths, bare rocks, and big, marshy
swamps. There are fields here and there, to be sure, but they are so
small that they are scarcely worth mentioning; and one also finds a few
little red or gray farmhouses hidden away in some beech-coppice--almost
as if they were afraid to show themselves.
Where Sonnerbo township touches the boundaries of Halland, there is a
sandy heath which is so far-reaching that he who stands upon one edge of
it cannot look across to the other. Nothing except heather grows on the
heath, and it wouldn't be easy either to coax other growths to thrive
there. To start with one would have to uproot the heather; for it is
thus with heather: although it has only a little shrunken root, small
shrunken branches, and dry, shrunken leaves it fancies that it's a tree.
Therefore it acts just like real trees--spreads itself out in forest
fashion over wide areas; holds together faithfully, and causes all
foreign growths that wish to crowd in upon its territory to die out.
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