Читать книгу Little Erik of Sweden - Brandeis Madeline - Страница 1

Erik sang as he skated across the lake. The lake glistened with chill, bluish crispness like steel.

It was as natural for Erik to sing as it was for most little boys to breathe. Sometimes it seemed that he had the throat of a bird.

It was Greta who had taught Erik these fairy-tale songs. Greta made them up. She was the eighteen-year-old daughter of Fru Hansson, who owned Hanssonborg, the large estate where Erik lived. Erik was the son of a poor tenant farmer, but Greta had always treated him like her own little brother. They were often together, and Erik thought her as beautiful as any fairy-tale princess.

Suddenly Erik stopped singing and stood still to listen. He had heard the music of sleigh bells on the other side of the snowy pine forest. Now came the thud of horses' hoofs and the crunch of a sleigh's runners, as it stopped before the Hansson home.

"Christmas is coming!" smiled Erik, and struck out again in big, vigorous strides. Christmas in Sweden means visitors and fun and lots of food; and Erik licked his lips. His cheeks glowed with health like ruddy, round apples. His blue eyes caught the icy sparkles from under his feet, and he began to sing once more.

But Erik would not have been so happy if he had known who it was that had just arrived at Hanssonborg. He would not have sung so lustily about wicked giants carrying off fair princesses. For something unpleasant and very real was happening to his friend Greta.

Darkness was falling fast. In Sweden, the winter sunlight is shy. It shows itself late in the morning, and then by early afternoon, it has run away again.

Erik skated to shore. He took off his skates and started walking through the woods toward home. A Swedish law says that everyone who cuts down a tree must plant a new one; so the Swedish forests are thick and beautiful.

Little, lighted candles glowed in the windows of Erik's cottage, which was painted red and had white window frames. Vacation time was a good time, he thought, as he stamped into the cozy kitchen, where a big fire crackled.

His brother Nils sat at a rough, wooden table. Nils's arms were crossed in front of him, and his head rested upon them. How could he study with his head so low? Surely he was not asleep – not big Nils! Why, he was always far too busy studying his farm books or working on the estate to fall asleep in the daytime. What was the matter?

Erik stood in the center of the room with his legs apart and his snow cap pushed back upon his fair, curly hair.

"Ho, Nils!" he shouted.

The older brother did not stir. Erik went over and tapped him on the shoulder.

"I say, what's wrong?"

The young man raised his head. He had a strong, brave face, but just now there was a shadow over it.

"Have you heard the news?" he asked.

The little boy shook his head.

"Baron Karl von Engstrom from Stockholm arrived at Hanssonborg today," said Nils. "He is to spend the holidays here, and they say that he will ask Fru Hansson for Greta's hand in marriage."

Erik's mouth fell open. His eyes widened with horror. A baron from Stockholm! Greta's hand in marriage!

The memory of a few lines from his fairy-tale book flashed over him:

"No, no, Nils," cried Erik. "You can't let him do it. You shan't!"

Nils smiled, but it was a bitter smile. "What are you saying?" he asked Erik. "Do you think that I, a poor tenant farmer, could possibly prevent the marriage of Fru Hansson's daughter?"

"Yes, yes!" screamed Erik. "You must! You shan't allow this giant – this Baron to marry her!" He recalled the words of his song,

And he added, "You must march against him. That's what you must do. With a sword and – and a shield and – "

"And if you don't watch out, you'll drop that platter," laughed Nils.

Erik put down the platter and the knife. He had snatched them up in his anger and excitement, to use them as a shield and a sword.

Oh, but Greta must never marry anybody but Nils! Ever since childhood, they had been the best of friends, and Erik knew that his big brother loved Greta dearly.

However, he had never told her so, for Fru Hansson was proud and belonged to an old, aristocratic family, while Nils was only a peasant. Still in the fairy tales it was always poor Boots who won the princess in the end, because he was brave and cut off the heads of giants.

At the supper table, Erik, who usually did all the talking, was strangely quiet. He did not ask for second helpings of food – which worried his mother. And when, soon after supper, he stole silently away to bed, she decided that all was not well.

When she came to kiss him good night in his funny little cupboard bed built into the wall, she found him scowling to himself and mumbling.

"What's the matter, Erik?" she asked.

"Then off came his head!" answered Erik to the ceiling.

"Off came – what?" cried the astonished mother.

"His head. The giant's," said Erik. "It happened in a fairy tale. The prince slew him with his sword and rescued the princess and – "

"Go to sleep," said his mother, and tucked him in.

That night Erik dreamed of Baron Karl. He was a monster with long, hairy arms; with shoulders like huge boulders and a neck as thick as a bull's.

Next morning Erik could hardly wait to see this terrible creature – this enemy who had come to take Greta away from Nils. So he ran over to the big house and stood outside in the courtyard. He knew that soon the family would be coming out on their way to church. Sunday chimes already were ringing from the near-by village.

Hanssonborg had been built over two hundred years ago. "Borg" means "fort," and that is what it had been, like many other castles in Sweden. But today it looked tired and weatherbeaten.

Snow was falling and the wind whistled through the big chimneys. But Erik did not mind the cold. He was used to it. Besides, his ancestors had roamed icy wastes. Some may even have been brave Vikings – pirates who sailed the northern seas in high-prowed galleys. He was a sturdy boy.

Presently the front door opened, and Fru Hansson walked out. She was straight and tall. Next came Greta, like a lovely, slender flower, and beside her – No, no, it could not be true!

The Baron was far from a giant. Indeed, he was not much taller than Erik himself. Furthermore, he was thin and puny, and his pinched little face peered out through the folds of a great coat.

Erik thought of the wicked gnomes of legend who forged iron in their underground caverns. Some people believe these to be the iron mines of modern Sweden.

The Baron looked like a wizened little gnome.

Erik saw him shiver and draw his warm coat closer about him.

"I shall catch cold!" he muttered, and Erik clenched his strong young fists together.

"He's a weakling!" thought the boy miserably. "A weakling!"

Erik could imagine nothing worse.