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WHEN the wind sweeps across the grass, the field has a ripple like a pond,and when it sweeps across the corn the field waves to and fro like a sea. That is called the wind's dance;but hear it tell stories;it sings them out,and how different it sounds in the tree-tops in the forest,and throught the loopholes and clefts and cracks in walls!Do you see how the wind drives the clouds up yonder,like a flock of sheep? Do you hear how the wind howls do here through the open gate, like a watchman blow-in his horn? With wonderful tones he whistles and screams down the chimney and into the fireplace! The fire crackles and flares up, and shines far into the room, and the little place is warm and snug, and it is pleasant to sit there listening to the sounds.Let the Wind speak,for he knows plenty of stories and fairy tales,many more than are known to any of us.Just hear what the Wind can tell.

“Huh-uh-ush! Roar along!” That is the burden of the song.

“By the shores of the Great Belt lies an old mansion with thick red walls, says the Wind.“I know every stone in it; I saw it when it still belonged to the castle of Marsk Stig on the promontory. But it had to be pulled down, and the stone was used again for the walls of a new mansion in another place,the baronial mansion Borreby, which still stands by the coast.

“I knew them, the noble lords and ladies,the changing races that dwelt there, and now I'm going to tell about Waldemar Daa and his daughters. How proudly he carried himself—he was of royal blood! He could do more than merely hunt the stag and empty the wine-can.

‘It shall be done,’he was accustomed to say.

“His wife walked proudly in gold-embroidered garments over the polished marble floors.The tapestries were gorgeous, the furniture was expensive and artistically carved. She had brought gold and silver plate with her into the house,and there was German beer in the cellar. Black fiery horses neighed in the stables.There was a wealthy look about the house of Borreby at that time, when wealth was still at home there.

“Children dwelt there also;three dainty maidens,Ida,Joanna,and Anna Dorothea:I have never forgotten their names.”

“They were rich people,noble people,born in affluence, nurtured in affluence.

“Huh-sh! Roar along!”sang the Wind;and then he continued:

“I did not see here,as in other great noble houses,the high-born lady sitting among her women in the great hall turning the spinning-wheel: she played on the sound-in lute, and sang to the sound, but not always old Danish melodies, but songs of a strange land.Here was life and hospitality:distinguished guests came from far and near,the music sounded, the goblets clashed,and I was not able to drown the noise, said the Wind.“Ostentation, and haughtiness, and splendour, and display,and rule were there,but the fear of the Lord was not there.”

“And it was just on the evening of the first day of May,”the Wind continued.“I came from the west, and had seen how the ships were being crushed by the waves,on the west coast of Jutland. I had hurried across the heath, and the wood-girt coast, and over the Island of Fyen, and now I drove over the Great Belt, groaning and sighing.

“Then I lay down to rest on the shore of Zealand, in the neighbourhood of the great house of Borreby, where the torest, the splendid oak forest, still rose.

“The young men-servants of the neighbourhood were collecting branches and brushwood under the oak trees; the largest and driest they could find they carried into the village, and piled them up in a heap,and set them on fire;and men and maids danced,singing in a circle round the blazing pile.

“I lay quite quiet,”continued the Wind;“but I quietly touched a branch, which had been brought by the handsomest of the men-servants, and the wood blazed up brightly, blazed up higher than all the rest; and now he was the chosen one, and bore the name of Street-goat,and might choose his Street-lamb first from among the maids;and there was mirth and rejoicing,greater than there was in the rich mansion of Borreby.

“And the noble lady drove towards the mansion,with her three daughters, in a gilded carriage drawn by six horses.The daughters were young and fair—three charming blossoms,rose,lily, and pale hyacinth.The mother was a proud tulip, and never acknowledged the salutation of one of the men or maids who paused in their sport to do her honour:the gracious lady seemed a flower that was rather stiff in the stalk.

“Rose,lily,and pale hyacinth;yes, I saw them all three! Whose lambkins will they one day become?”thought I;their Street-goat will be a gallant knight,perhaps a Prince.Huh-sh!Hurry along!Hurry along!

“Yes,the carriage rolled on with them,and the peasant people resumed their dancing. They rode that summer through all the villages round about.But in the night, when I rose again,”said the Wind,“the very noble lady lay down, to rise again no more: that thing came upon her which comes upon all—there is nothing new in that.

“Waldemar Daaa stood for a space silent and thoughtful.‘The proudest tree can be bowed without being broken,'said a voice within him.His daughters wept, and all the people in the mansion wiped their eyes;but Lady Daa had driven away—and I drove away too, and rushed along, huh-sh!” said the Wind.

“I returned again;I often returned again over the Is-land of Fyen and the shores of the Belt, and I sat down by Borreby,by the splendid oak wood;there the heron made his nest, and wood-pigeons haunted the place, and blue ravens, and even the black stork.It was still spring;some of them were yet sitting on their eggs,others had already hatched their young.

“But how they flew up, how they cried! The axe sounded,blow upon blow :the wood was to be felled.Waldemar Daa wanted to build a noble ship,a man-of-war, a three-decker, which the King would be sure to buy;and therefore the wood must be felled, the landmark of the seamen, the refuge of the birds.The hawk started up and flew away, for its nest was destroyed; the heron and all the birds of the forest became homeless, and flew about in fear and in anger:I could well understand how they felt.Crows and jackdaws croaked aloud as if in scorn.“From the nest!From the nest,far,far!”

“Far in the interior of the wood, where the swarm of labourers were working,stood Waldemar Daa and his three daughters; and all laughed at the wild cries of the birds;only one,the youngest,Anna Dorothea,felt grieved in her heart;and when they made preparations to fell a tree that was almost dead, and on whose naked branches the black stork had built his nest, whence the little storks were stretching out their heads, she begged for mercy for the lit-tle things,and tears came,into her eyes. Therefore the tree with the black stork's nest was left standing.The tree was not worth speaking of.

“There was a great hewing and sawing, and a three-decker was built. The architect was of low origin, but of great pride; his eyes and forehead told how clever he was,and Waldemar Daa was fond of listening to him, and so was Waldemar's daughter Ida, the eldest,who was now fifteen years old; and while he built a ship for the father,he was building for himself a castle in the air, into which he and Ida were to go as a married couple—which might indeed have happened, if the castle had been of stone walls,and ramparts, and moats with forest and garden.But in spite of his wise head, the architect remained but a poor bird;and, indeed,what business has a sparrow to take part in a dance of cranes? Huh-sh! I careered away,and he careered away too, for he was not allowed to stay;and little Ida got over it,because she was obliged to get over it.

“The proud black horses were neighing in the stable;they were worth looking at, and they were looked at. The admiral,who had been sent by the King himself to inspect the new ship and take measures for its purchase, spoke loudly in admiration of the beautiful horses.

“I heard all that,”said the Wind.“I accompanied the gentlemen through the open door, and strewed blades of straw like bars of gold before their feet. Waldemar Daa wanted to have gold, and the admiral wished for the black horses, and that is why he praised them so much; but the hint was not taken, and consequently the ship was not bought.It remained on the shore covered over with boards, a Noah’ s ark that never got to the water—Huh-sh! Rush away!Away!—And that was a pity.

“In the winter, when the fields were covered with snow, and the water with large blocks of ice that I blew up on to the coast, continued the Wind,“crows and ravens came,all as black as might be,great flocks of them, and alighted on the dead, deserted,lonely ship by the shore, and croaked in hoarse accents of the wood that was no more,of the many pretty birds ‘nests destroyed,and the old and young ones left without a home;and all for the sake of that great bit of lumber,that proud ship that never sailed forth.

“I made the snow-flakes whirl, and the snow lay like great waves high around the ship, and drifted over it.I let it hear my voice,that it might know what a storm has to say. Certainly I did my part towards teaching it seamanship.Huh-sh! Push along!

“And the winter passed away;winter and summer,both passed away, and they are still passing away, even as I pass away;as the snow whirls along, and the apple-blossom whirls along, and the leaves fall—Away! Away!Away!—And men are passing away too!

“But the daughters were still young,and little Ida was a rose, as fair to look upon as on the day when the architect saw her.I often seized her long brown hair,when she stood in the garden by the apple-tree, musing,and not heeding how I strewed blossoms on her hair,and loosened it,while she was gazing at the red sun and the golden sky, through the dark underwood and the trees of the garden.

“Her sister was bright and slender as a lily. Joanna had height and stateliness, but was like her mother,rather stiff in the stalk.She was very fond of walking through the great hall, where hung the portraits of her ancestors.The women painted in dresses of silk and velvet,with a tiny little hat, embroidered with pearls,on their plaited hair.They were handsome women.Their husbands were in steel, or in costly cloaks lined with squirrel's skin;they wore little ruffs,and swords at their sides, but not buckled to their hips.Where would Joanna's picture find its place on that wall some day? and how would he look, her noble lord and husband? This is what she thought of,and of this she spoke softly to herself. I heard it as I swept into the long hall and turned round to come out again.

“Anna Dorothea,the pale hyacinth,a child of fourteen,was quiet and thoughtful; her great deep-blue eyes had a musing look, but the childlike smile still played around her lips:I was not able to blow it away, nor did I wish to do so.

“We met in the garden, in the hollow lane, in the field and meadow; she gathered herbs and flowers which she knew would be useful to her father in concocting the drinks and drops he distilled. Waldemar Daa was arrogant and proud, but he was also a learned man, and knew a great deal.That was no secret, and mp opinions were expressed concerning it.In his chimney there was fire even in summertime. He would lock the door of his room,and for days the fire would be poked and raked;but of this he did not talk much—the forces of nature must be conquered in silence;and soon he would discover the art of making the best thing of all—the red gold.

“That is why the chimney was always smoking, there-fore the flames crackled so frequently. Yes, I was there too, said the Wind.‘Let it go,’I sang down through the chimney:‘It will end in smoke, air, coals and ashes! You will burn yourself!Hu-uh-ush!Drive away!Drive away!’But Waldemar Daa did not drive it away.

“The splendid black horses in the stable—what be-came of them?What became of the old gold and silver vessels in cupboards and chests, the cows in the fields, and the houses and home itself? Yes, they may melt,may melt in the golden crucible,and yet yield no gold.

“Empty grew the barns and store-rooms,the cellars and magazines.The servants decreased,and the mice multiplied.Then a window broke,and then another,and I could get in elsewhere besides at the door,”said the Wind.‘Where the chimney smokes the meal is being cooked,’[the proverb says.]But here the chimney smoked that devoured all the meals,for the sake of the red gold.

“I blew through the courtyard gate like a watchman blowing his horn,”the Wind went on,“but no watchman was there.I twirled the weathercock round the summit of the tower,and it creaked like the snoring of the warder,but no warder was there;only mice and rats were there.Poverty laid the table-cloth;poverty sat in the wardrobe and in the larder;the door fell off its hinges,cracks and fissures made their appearance,and I went in and out at pleasure;and that is how I know all about it.

“Amid smoke and ashes,amid sorrow and sleepless nights,the hair became grey,in his beard and around his temples;his skin turned pale and yellow,as his eyes looked greedily for the gold,the desired gold.

“I blew the smoke and ashes into his face and beard:debt came instead of gold.I sang through the broken window-panes and the yawning clefts in the walls.I blew into the chests of drawers belonging to the daughters,wherein lay the clothes that had become faded and threadbare form being worn over and over again.That was not the song that had been sung at the children's cradle.The lordly life had changed to a life of penurp.I was the only one who sang aloud in that castle,”said the Wind.“I snowed them up,and they say snow keeps people warm.They had no wood,and the forest from which they might have brought it was cut down.It was a biting frost.I rushed in thrugh loopholes and passages,over gables and roofs,that I might be brisk.They were lying in bed because of the cold,the three high-born daughters,and their father was crouching under his leathern coverlet.Nothing to bite,nothing to burn—there was a life for high-borm people!Huh-sh!let it go!”

But that is what my Lord Daa could not do—he could not let it go.

“‘After winter comes spring,’he said.‘After want,good times will come,but they must be waited for!Now my house and lands are mortgaged,it is indeed high time;and the gold will soon come.At Easter!’

“I heard how he spoke thus,looking at a spider's web.‘The diligent little weaver,thou dost teach me per-severance.Let them tear they web,and thou wilt begin it again and complete it.Let them destroy it again,and thou wilt resolutely begin to work again—again!That is what we must do,and that will repay itself at last.’

“It was the morning of Easter-day.The bells and the sun seemed to rejoice in the sky.The master had watched through the night in feverish excitement,and had been melting and cooling,distilling and mixting.I heard him sighing like a soul in despair;I heard him praying,and I noticed how he held his breath.The lamp was burned out,but he did not notice it.I blew at the fire of coals,and it threw its red glow upon his ghastly white face,lighting it up with a glare,and his sunken eyes looked forth wildly out of their deep sockets—but they became larger and larger,as though they would burst.

“Look at the alchemic glass!It glows in the crucible,red-hot,and pure and heavy!He lifted it with a trembling hand,and cried with a trembling voice,‘Gold!gold!’

“He was quite dizzy—I could have blown him down”,said the Wind;“ but I only fanned the glowing coals,and accompanied him through the door to where his daughters sat shivering.His coat was powdered with ashes,and there were ashes in his beard and in his tangled hair.He stood straight up,and held his costly treasure on high,in the brittle glass.‘Found,found!—Gold,gold!’he shouted,and again held aloft the glass to let it flash in the sunshine;but his hand trembled,and the alchemic glass fell clattering to the ground,and broke into a thousand pieces;and the last bubble of his happiness had burst!Hu-uh-ush!rushing away!and I rushed away from the gold-maker's house.

“Late in autumn,when the days are short,and the mist comes and strews clod drops upon the berries and leafless branches,I came back in fresh spirits,rushed through the air,swept the sky clear,and snapped the dry twigs—which is certainly no great labour,but yet it must be done.Then there was another kind of sweeping clean at Waldemar Daa's,in the mansion of Borreby.His enemy,Ove Ramel,of Basnas,was there with the mortgage of the house and everything it contained in his pocket.I drummed against the broken window-panes,beat against the old rotten doors,and whistled through cracks and rifts—huh-sh!Ove Ramel was not to be encouraged to stay there.Ida and Anna Dorothea wept bitterly;Joanna stood pale and proud,and bit her thumb till it bled—but what could that avail?Ove Ramel offered to allow Walde-mar Daa to remain in the mansion till the end of his life,but no thanks were given him for his offer.I listened to hear what occurred.I saw the ruined gentleman lift his head and throw it back prouder than ever,and I rushed against the house and the old lime trees with such force,that one of the thickest branches broke,one that was not decayed;and the branch remained lying at the entrance as a broom when any one wanted to sweep the place out:and a grand sweeping out there was—I thought it would be so.

“It was hard on that day to preserve one's composure;but their will was as hard as their fortune.

“There was nothing they could call their own except the clothes they wore:yes,there was one thing more the alchemist's glass,a new one that had lately been bought,and filled with what had been gathered up from the ground,the treasure which promised so much but never kept its promise.Waldemar Daa hid the glass in his bosom,and taking his stick in his hand,the once rich gentleman passed with his daughters out of the house of Borreby.I blew cold upon his heated cheeks,I stroked his grey beard and his long white hair,and I sang as well as I could,—‘Huh-sh!Gone away!Gone away!’And that was the end of the wealth and splendour.

“Ida walked on one side of the old man,and Anna Dorothea on the other.Joanna turned round at the entrance—why?Fortune would not turn because she did so.She looked at the old walls of what had once been the castle of Marsk Stig,and perhaps she thought of his daughters:

The eldest gave the youngest her hand,

And forth they went to the far-off land.

Was she thinking of this old song?Here were three of them,and their father was with them too.They walked along the road on which they had once driven in their splendid carriage—they walked forth as beggars,with their father,and wandered out into the open field,and into a mud hut,which they rented for ten marks a year into their new house with the empty rooms and empty vessels.Crows and jackdaws fluttered above them,and cried,as if in contempt,‘From the nest!From the nest!far!far!’as they had done in the wood at Borreby when the trees were felled.

“Daa and his daughters could not help hearing it.I blew about their ears for what use would it be that they should listen?

“And they went to live in the mud hut on the open field,and I wandered away over moor and field,through bare bushes and leafless forests,to the open waters,to other lands—huh-uh-ush!away,away!—year after year!”

And how did Waldemar Daa and his daughters pros-per?The Wind tells us:

“The one I saw last,yes,for the last time,was Anna Dorothea,the pale hyacinth:then she was old and bent,for it was fifty years afterwards.She lived longer than the rest;she knew all.

“Yonder on the heath,by the town of Wiborg,stood the fine new house of the Dean,built of red bricks with projecting gables;the smoke came up thickly from the chimney.The Dean's gentle lady and her beautiful daughters sat in the bay window,and looked over the hawthorn hedge of the garden towards the brown heath.What were they looking at?They looked on the stork's nest out there,on the hut,which was almost falling in;the roof consisted of moss and houseleek,in so far as a roof existed there at all—the stork's nest covered the greater part of it,and that alone was in proper condition,for it was kept in order by the stork himself.

“That is a house to be looked at,but not to be touched:I must deal gently with it,”said the Wind.“For the sake of the stork's nest the hut has been allowed to stand,though it was a blot upon the landscape.They did not like to drive the stork away,therefore the old shed was left standing,and the poor woman who dwelt in it was allowed to stay:she had the Egyptian bird to thank for that;or was it perchance her reward,because she had once interceded for the nest of its black brother in the forest of Borreby?At that time she,the poor woman,was a young child,a pale hyacinth in the rich garden.She remembered all that right well,did Anna Dorothea.

“‘Oh!oh!’Yes,people can sigh like the wind moaning in the rushes and reeds.‘Oh!oh!’she sighed,‘no bells sounded at they burial,Waldemar Daa!The poor schoolboys did not even sing a psalm when the former lord of Borreby was laid in the earth to rest!Oh,everything has an end,even misery.Sister Ida became the wife of a peasant.That was the hardest trial that befell our father,that the husband of a daughter of his should be a miserable serf,whom the proprietor could mount on the wooden horse for punishment!I suppose he is under the ground now.And thou,Ida?Alas,alas!It is not ended yet,wretch that I am!Grant me that I may die,kind Heaven!

“That was Anna Dorothea's prayer in the wretched hut which was left standing for the sake of the stork.

“I took pity on the fairest of the sisters,”said the Wind.“Her courage was like that of a man,and in man's clothes she took service as a sailor on board a ship.She was sparing of words,and of a dark countenance,but willing at her work.But she did not know how to limb;so I blew her overboard before anybody found out that she was a woman,and that was well done of me!”said the Wind.

“On such an Easter morning as that on which Waldemar Daa had fancied that he had found the red gold,I heard the tones of a psalm under the stork's nest,among the crumbling walls—it was Anna Dorothea's last song.

“There was no window,only a hole in the wall.The sun rose up like a mass of gold,and looked through.What a splendour he diffused!Her eyes and her heart were breaking—but that they would have done,even if the sun had not shone that morning on her.

“The stork covered her hut till her death.I sang at her grave!”said the Wind.“I sang at her father's grave;I know where his grave is,and where hers is,and nobody else knows it.

“New times,changed times!The old high road now runs through cultivated fields;the new road winds among the trim ditches,and soon the railway will come with its train of carriages,and rush over the graves which are for-gotten like the names—hu-ush!Passed away!Passed away!

“That is the story of Waldemar Daa and his daughters.Tell it better,any of you,if you know how,”said the Wind,and turned away—and he was gone.




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