Читать книгу Near the Top of the World: Stories of Norway, Sweden & Denmark - Nelle E. Moore - Страница 9
How the Mountain Was Clothed
ОглавлениеA Norwegian story-teller wrote a story “How the Mountain Was Clothed.” This is his story:
Through a deep cut between two mountains, a river hurried down over the rocks. The mountain walls on either side were high and steep. But one side of the mountain was bare. But at the foot even of this side, and so near the river that it was bathed in its spray, stood a cluster of trees. They gazed upward and outward, but they could not move one way or another.
“Suppose we clothe the mountain,” said the juniper to the fir.
The fir looked up at the naked mountainside and replied, “If any body is to do it, I suppose it will have to be we.”
The fir looked over toward the birch and asked, “What do you think, Birch?”
The birch glanced up the bare mountainside. The wall leaned over so that it seemed to the birch as if it could scarcely breathe. “Yes, indeed, let us clothe it,” he said.
So the three took upon themselves the task to clothe the bare mountain. That was their goal, and they soon set out to see whether they could reach that goal. The juniper went first.
When they had gone but a little way, they met the heather. The juniper seemed to want to pass it by. “No, take it along,” said the fir. So the heather joined them.
Before long the juniper began to slip, “Take hold of me,” said the heather. The juniper did so, and whenever the smallest crack could be seen, the heather put its finger into it. Wherever the heather had first pried in a finger, the juniper put a whole hand. They crawled and crept, the fir working hard, the birch always behind the rest.
“This is a noble work,” said the birch.
The mountain began to wonder what kind of creatures these might be that came clambering up its side. And after it had thought the matter over for a hundred years or two it sent a little brooklet down to find out. As it happened, the brook went at the time of the spring floods. It crept down till it met the heather. “Dear, dear heather,” said the brook, “won’t you let me pass? I am so tiny.” The heather was very busy, so merely raised itself a bit, and worked on. The brooklet slipped in underneath and away.
“Dear, dear juniper, won’t you let me pass? I am so very little.” The juniper eyed it severely, but since the heather had let the brook slip by, the juniper might do that too.
The brook raced on down the hill, and came to where the fir stood puffing, out of breath, on the hillside. “Dear, dear fir, won’t you let me by?” begged the brook, “I am so very small,” and kissed the fir on the foot, and smiled. The fir let it by.
And the birch made way for the brook, even before it was asked.
“Hi, hi, hi!” said the brook and grew. “Ha, ha, ha!” said the brook and grew larger. “Ho, ho, ho!” said the brook, and tore up the heather, the juniper, the fir, and the birch by their roots and flung them pell mell, head o’er heels, down the steep slope of the mountain.
The mountain sat for several hundred years after that and smiled at the memory of that day. It was plain to be seen: The mountain did not want to be clothed.
The heather fretted and worried until it grew green again, and then it set forth once more. “Courage!” said the heather.
The juniper half raised itself to get a good look at the heather. So long did it sit half raised that at last it sat upright. It scratched its head, set forth again, and dug in so hard for a foothold that it seemed surely the mountain must feel it. “If you won’t have me, then I will have you.”
The fir stretched its toes a bit to see if they were all right, raised first one foot and then the other, and finally both feet at once. It first looked to see where it had climbed, next where it had been lying, and finally where it was to go. It then went on its way, pretending it had never fallen.
The birch, which had soiled itself badly, got up and brushed itself off. Away they went, faster than ever, to the sides and straight up, in sunshine and in rain.
“What can all this mean?” asked the mountain, one fair day, all glittering with dew, as the summer sun shone down upon it, the birds sang, the hare hopped about, and the woodmouse piped.
The day finally came when the heather could peep over the top with one eye. “Oh dear, oh dear!” said the heather, and away it went.
“Dear me,” said the juniper, “what is it the heather sees?” and just managed to reach high enough to peer over. “Oh dear, oh dear!” it exclaimed and was off.
“What is it the juniper’s up to today?” the fir wondered, taking longer steps in the heat of the sun. Before long it rose on its toes and peered over. “Oh dear, oh dear!” Its branches and needles rose straight up on end.
“What is it all the others see and I don’t?” the birch asked, as it carefully lifted its skirts, and tripped after them. “Oh—oh—! If there isn’t a huge forest of fir and heather and juniper and birch already on the other side of the mountain waiting for us!” it exclaimed. The glittering dew rolled off its leaves as it quivered in the sunshine.
“Ah, that’s what it means to reach our goal!” said the juniper.
(Adapted.)
“Björnstjerne Björnson,” from Norway’s Best
Stories, published by American-Scandinavian
Foundation, New York.
