In the stall
stood a strong, fine animal that looked well fed and well cared for.
"Good day to you!" said the boy. "I have heard that there's a sick horse
in here. Surely it can't be you, who look so healthy and strong."
The horse turned his head and stared fixedly at the boy.
"Are you the son?" he queried. "I have heard many bad reports of him.
But you have such a good face, I couldn't believe that you were he, did
I not know that he was transformed into an elf."
"I know that I left a bad name behind me when I went away from the
farm," admitted Nils Holgersson. "My own mother thinks I am a thief. But
what matters it--I sha'n't tarry here long. Meanwhile, I want to know
what ails you."
"Pity you're not going to stay," said the horse, "for I have the feeling
that you and I might become good friends. I've got something in my
foot--the point of a knife, or something sharp--that's all that ails me.
It has gone so far in that the doctor can't find it, but it cuts so that
I can't walk. If you would only tell your father what's wrong with me,
I'm sure that he could help me. I should like to be of some use. I
really feel ashamed to stand here and feed without doing any work."
"It's well that you have no real illness," remarked Nils Holgersson. "I
must attend to this at once, so that you will be all right again.
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