Perhaps her father had sent his birds with a greeting to her, so that
she would not feel so sad and lonely when she came to her former home.
As she thought of this, there welled up within her such an intense
longing for the old times that her eyes filled with tears. Life had
been beautiful in this place. They had had weeks of work broken by many
holiday festivities. They had toiled hard all day, but at evening they
had gathered around the lamp and read Tegner and Runeberg, "_Fru"_
Lenngren and "_Mamsell"_ Bremer. They had cultivated grain, but also
roses and jasmine. They had spun flax, but had sung folk-songs as they
spun. They had worked hard at their history and grammar, but they had
also played theatre and written verses. They had stood at the kitchen
stove and prepared food, but had learned, also, to play the flute and
guitar, the violin and piano. They had planted cabbages and turnips,
peas and beans in one garden, but they had another full of apples and
pears and all kinds of berries. They had lived by themselves, and this
was why so many stories and legends were stowed away in their memories.
They had worn homespun clothes, but they had also been able to lead
care-free and independent lives.
"Nowhere else in the world do they know how to get so much out of life
as they did at one of these little homesteads in my childhood!" she
thought.
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