The wonderful adventures of nils

f soil, and then he had thought that everything was well arranged.
“But while he was down in Skane, a couple of heavy showers had come up, and more was not needed to show what his work amounted to. When our Lord came to inspect the land, all the soil had been washed away, and the naked mountain foundation shone forth all over. Where it was about the best, lay clay and heavy gravel over the rocks, but it looked so poor that it was easy to understand that hardly anything except spruce and juniper and moss and heather could grow there. But what there was plenty of was water. It had filled up all the clefts in the mountain; and lakes and rivers and brooks; these one saw everywhere, to say nothing of swamps and morasses, which spread over large tracts. And the most exasperating thing of all was, that while some tracts had too much water, it was so scarce in others, that whole fields lay like dry moors, where sand and earth whirled up in clouds with the least little breeze.
“`What can have been your meaning in creating such a land as this?` said our Lord. Saint Peter made excuses, and declared he had wished to build up a land so high that it should have plenty of warmth from the sun. `But then you will also get much of the night chill,` said our Lord, `for that too comes from heaven. I am very much afraid the little that can grow here will freeze.`
“This, to be sure, Saint Peter hadn`t thought about.
“`Yes, here it will be a poor and frost-bound land,` said our Lord, `it can`t be helped.`”
When little Mats had gotten this far in his story, Osa, the goose-girl, protested: “I cannot bear, little Mats, to hear you say that it is so miserable in Smaland,” said she. “You forget entirely how much good soil there is there. Only think of More district, by Kalmar Sound! I wonder where you`ll find a richer grain region. There are fields upon fields, just like here in Skane. The soil is so good that I cannot imagine anything that couldn`t grow there.”
“I can`t help that,” said little Mats. “I`m only relating what others have said before.”
“And I have heard many say that there is not a more beautiful coast land than Tjust. Think of the bays and islets, and the manors, and the groves!” said Osa. “Yes, that`s true enough,” little Mats admitted. “And don`t you remember,” continued Osa, “the school teacher said that such a lively and picturesque district as that bit of Smaland which lies south of Lake Vettern is not to be found in all Sweden? Think of the beautiful sea and the yellow coast-mountains, and of Grenna and Jonkoping, with its match factory, and think of Huskvarna, and all the big establishments there!” “Yes, that`s true enough,” said little Mats once again. “And think of Visingso, little Mats, with the ruins and the oak forests and the legends! Think of the valley through which Eman flows, with all the villages and flour-mills and sawmills, and the carpenter shops!” “Yes, that is true enough,” said little Mats, and looked troubled.
All of a sudden he had looked up. “Now we are pretty stupid,” said he. “All this, of course, lies in our Lord`s Smaland, in that part of the land which was already finished when Saint Peter undertook the job. It`s only natural that it should be pretty and fine there. But in Saint Peter`s Smaland it looks as it says in the legend. And it wasn`t surprising that our Lord was distressed when he saw it,” continued little Mats, as he took up the thread of his story again. “Saint Peter didn`t lose his courage, at all events, but tried to comfort our Lord. `Don`t be so grieved over this!` said he. `Only wait until I have created people who can till the swamps and break up fields from the stone hills.`
“That was the end of our Lord`s patience-and he said: `No! you can go down to Skane and make the Skaninge, but the Smalander I will create myself.` And so our Lord created the Smalander, and made him quick-witted and contented and happy and thrifty and enterprising and capable, that he might be able to get his livelihood in his poor country.”
Then little Mats was silent; and if Nils Holgersson had also kept still, all would have gone well; but he couldn`t possibly refrain from asking how Saint Peter had succeeded in creating the Skaninge.
“Well, what do you think yourself?” said little Mats, and looked so scornful that Nils Holgersson threw himself upon him, to thrash him. But Mats was only a little tot, and Osa, the goose-girl, who was a year older than he, ran forward instantly to help him. Good-natured though she was, she sprang like a lion as soon as anyone touched her brother. And Nils Holgersson did not care to fight a girl, but turned his back, and didn`t look at those Smaland children for the rest of the day.
THE CROWS
THE EARTHEN CROCK
In the southwest corner of Smaland lies a township called Sonnerbo. It is a rather smooth and even country. 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.
The only place on the heath where the heather is not all-powerful, is a low, stony ridge which passes over it. There you`ll find juniper bushes, mountain ash, and a few large, fine oaks. At the time when Nils Holgersson travelled around with the wild geese, a little cabin stood there, with a bit of cleared ground around it. But the people who had lived there at one time, had, for some reason or other, moved away. The little cabin was empty, and the ground lay unused.
When the tenants left the cabin they closed the damper, fastened the window-hooks, and locked the door. But no one had thought of the broken window-pane which was only stuffed with a rag. After the showers of a couple of summers, the rag had moulded and shrunk, and, finally, a crow had succeeded in poking it out.
The ridge on the heather-heath was really not as desolate as one might think, for it was inhabited by a large crow-folk. Naturally, the crows did not live there all the year round. They moved to foreign lands in the winter; in the autumn they travelled from one grain-field to another all over Gotaland, and picked grain; during the summer, they spread themselves over the farms in Sonnerbo township, and lived upon eggs and berries and birdlings; but every spring, when nesting time came, they came back to the heather-heath.
The one who had poked the rag from the window was a crow-cock named Garm Whitefeather; but he was never called anything but Fumle or Drumle, or out and out Fumle-Drumle, because he always acted awkwardly and stupidly, and wasn`t good for anything except to make fun of. Fumle-Drumle was bigger and stronger than any of the other crows, but that didn`t help him in the least; he was-and remained-a butt for ridicule. And it didn`t profit him, either, that he came from very good stock. If everything had gone smoothly, he should have been leader for the whole flock, because this honour had, from time immemorial, belonged to the oldest Whitefeather. But long before Fumle-Drumle was born, the power had gone from his family, and was now wielded by a cruel wild crow, named Wind-Rush.
This transference of power was due to the fact that the crows on crow-ridge desired to change their manner of living. Possibly there are many who think that everything in the shape of crow lives in the same way; but this is not so. There are entire crow-folk who lead honourable lives-that is to say, they only eat grain, worms, caterpillars, and dead animals; and there are others who lead a regular bandit`s life, who throw themselves upon baby-hares and small birds, and plunder every single bird`s nest they set eyes on.
The ancient Whitefeathers had been strict and temperate; and as long as they had led the flock, the crows had been compelled to conduct themselves in such a way that other birds could speak no ill of them. But the crows were numerous, and poverty was great among them. They didn`t care to go the whole length of living a strictly moral life, so they rebelled against the Whitefeathers, and gave the power to Wind-Rush, who was the worst nest-plunderer and robber that could be imagined-if his wife, Wind-Air, wasn`t worse still. Under their government the crows had begun to lead such a life that now they were more feared than pigeon-hawks and leech-owls.
Naturally, Fumle-Drumle had nothing to say in the flock. The crows were all of the opinion that he did not in the least take after his forefathers, and that he wouldn`t suit as a leader. No one would have mentioned him, if he hadn`t constantly committed fresh blunders. A few, who were quite sensible, sometimes said perhaps it was lucky for Fumle-Drumle that he was such a bungling idiot, otherwise Wind-Rush and Wind-Air would hardly have allowed him-who was of the old chieftain stock-to remain with t…