St. Nicholas, Vol. 5, No. 5, March, 1878 by Various

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[Illustration: A HORSE AT SEA. [See page 367.]]

ST. NICHOLAS.

VOL. V.
MARCH, 1878.
No. 5.

[Copyright, 1878, by Scribner & Co.]

HANSA, THE LITTLE LAPP MAIDEN.

BY KATHARINE LEE.

Once upon a time, in a very small village on the borders of one of the
great pine forests of Norway, there lived a wood-cutter, named Peder
Olsen. He had built himself a little log-house, in which he dwelt with
his twin boys, Olaf and Erik, and their little sister Olga.

Merry, happy children were these three, full of life and health, and
always ready for a frolic. Even during the long, cold, dark winter
months, they were joyous and contented. It was never too cold for these
hardy little Norse folk, and the ice and snow which for so many months
covered the land, they looked on as sent for their especial enjoyment.

The wood-cutter had made a sledge for the boys, just a rough box on
broad, wooden runners, to be sure, but it glided lightly and swiftly
over the hard, frozen surface of snow, and the daintiest silver-tipped
sledge could not have given them more pleasure.

They shared it, generously, with each other, as brothers should, and
gave Olga many a good swift ride; but it was cold work for the little
maid, sitting still, and, after a while, she chose rather to watch the
boys from the little window, as they took turns in playing "reindeer."

One day they both wanted to be "reindeer" at once, and begged Olga to
come and drive, but the chimney corner was bright and warm, and she
would not go.

"Of course," said Olaf; "what else could one expect? She is only a
girl! I would far rather take Krikel; he is always ready. Hi! Krikel!
come take a ride!" and he whistled to the clever little black Spitz dog
that Peder Olsen had brought from Tromsoee for the children.

Krikel really seemed to know what was said to him, and scampered to the
door, pushed it open with his paws and nose, then, jumping into the
little sledge, sat up straight and gave a quick little bark, as if to
say: "Come on, then: don't you see I am ready!"

"Come, Erik; Krikel is calling us," said Olaf. But Olga was crying
because she had vexed her brother, and Erik stayed to comfort her. So
Olaf went alone, and he and Krikel had such a good time that they
forgot all about everything, till it grew so very dark that only the
tracks on the pure, white snow, and a little twinkle of light from the
hut window helped them to find their way home again.

In the wood-cutter's home lived some one else whom the children loved
dearly. This was old grandmother Ingeborg, who was almost as good as
the dear mother who had gone to take their baby sister up to heaven,
and had never yet come back to them.

All day long, while the merry children played about the door, or
watched their father swing the bright swift ax that fairly made the
chips dance, Dame Ingeborg spun and knit and worked in the little hut,
that was as clean and bright and cheery as a hut with only one door and
a tiny window could be. But then it had such a grand, wide
chimney-place, where even in summer great logs and branches of fir and
pine blazed brightly, lighting up all the corners of the little room
that the sunbeams could not reach.

Here, when tired with play, the children would gather, and throwing
themselves down on the soft wolf-skins that lay on the floor before the
fire, beg dear grandmother Ingeborg for a story. And such stories as
she told them!

So the long winter went peacefully and happily by, and at last all
hearts were gladdened at sight of the glorious sun, as he slowly and
grandly rose above the snow-topped mountains, bringing to them sunshine
and flowers, and the golden summer days.

One bright day in July, father Peder went to the fair in Lyngen.

"Be good, my children," said he, as he kissed them good-bye, "and I
will bring you something nice from the fair."

But they were nearly always good, so he really need not have said that.

Now, it was a very wonderful thing indeed for the wood-cutter to go
from home in summer, and grandmother Ingeborg was quite disturbed.

"Ah!" said she, "something bad will happen, I know."

But the children comforted her, and ran about so merrily, bringing
fresh, fragrant birch-twigs for their beds, shaking out their blankets
of reindeer-skins, and helping her so kindly, that the good dame quite
forgot to be cross, and before she knew it, was telling them her very,
very best story, that she always kept for Sundays.

[Illustration]

So the hours went by, and the children almost wearied themselves
wondering what father Peder would bring from the fair.

"I should like a little reindeer for my sledge," said Olaf.

"I should like a fur coat and fur boots," said Erik; "I was cold last
winter."

You see, these children did not really know anything about toys, so
could not wish for them.

"_I_ should like a little sister," said Olga, wistfully. "There are two
of you boys for everything, and that is so nice; but there is only one
of me, ever, and that is _so_ lonely."

And the little maid sighed; for besides these three, there were no
children in the village. The brawny wood-cutters who lived in groups in
the huts around, and who came home at night-fall to cook their own
suppers and sleep on rude pallets before the fires, were the only
other persons whom the little maiden knew; and sometimes the two boys
(as boys will do to their sisters) teased and laughed at her, because
she was timid, and because her little legs were too short to climb up
on the great pile of logs where they loved to play. So it was no wonder
that she longed for a playmate like herself.

"Hi!" cried the boys, both together; "one might be sure you would wish
for something silly! What should we do with _two_ girls, indeed?"

"But father said he would bring 'something nice,' and _I_ think girls
are the very nicest things in the world," replied Olga, sturdily.

There would certainly have been more serious words, but just then good
grandmother Ingeborg called "supper," and away scampered the hungry
little party to their evening meal of brown bread and cream, to which
was added, as a treat that night, a bit of goat's-milk cheese.

During midsummer in Norway the sun does not set for nearly ten weeks,
and only when little heads nod, and bright eyes shut and refuse to
open, do children know that it is "sleep-time." So on this day, though
the little hearts longed to wait for father's coming, six heavy lids
said "no," and soon the tired children were sleeping soundly on their
sweet, fresh beds of birch-twigs.

[Illustration: OLAF GIVES KRIKEL A RIDE IN HIS SLED.]

A few miles beyond Lyngen, on the north, a little colony of wandering
Lapps had pitched their tents, some years before our story begins, and
finding there a pleasant resting-place, had made it their home,
bringing with them their herds of reindeer to feed on the abundant
lichens with which the stony fields and hill-side trees were covered.
Somewhat apart from the little cluster of tents stood one, quite
pretentious, where dwelt Haakon, the wealthiest Lapp of all the tribe.
He counted his reindeer by hundreds, and in his tent, half buried in
the ground for safe keeping, were two great chests filled with furs,
gay, bright-colored jackets and skirts, beautiful articles of carved
bone and wood, and, more valuable than all, a little iron-bound box
full of silver marks. For Haakon had married Gunilda, a rich maiden of
one of the richest Lapp families, and she had brought these to his
tent.

Here, for a while, Gunilda lived a peaceful, happy life. Haakon was
kind, and, when baby Niels came to share her love, the days were full
of joy and content. She made him a little cradle of green baize bound
with bright scarlet, filled with moss as soft and fine as velvet, and
covered with a dainty quilt of hare's-skin. This was hung by a cord to
one of the tent-poles, and here the baby rocked for hours, while his
mother sang to him quaint, weird songs, that yet were not sad because
of the joyous baby laugh that mingled with the notes.

But, alas! after a time Haakon fell into bad habits and grew cruel and
hard to Gunilda. Though she spoke no word, her meek eyes reproached him
when he let the strong drink, or "finkel," steal away his senses; and
because he could not bear this look, he gave his wife many an unkind
word and blow, so that at last her heart was broken. Even baby Hansa,
who had come to take Niels' place in the little cradle, could not
comfort her; and, one day, when Haakon was sleeping, stupidly, by the
tent-fire, Gunilda kissed her children,--then she, too, slept, but
never to waken.

When Haakon came to his senses, he was sad for a while; but he loved
his finkel more than either children or wealth, and many a long day he
would leave them and go to Lyngen, to drink with his companions there.

Ah! those were lonely days for Niels and little Hansa. The Lapp women
were kind, taking good care of the little ones in Haakon's absence, and
would have coaxed them away to their tents to play with the other
children; but Niels remembered his gentle-voiced mother, and would not
go with those women who spoke so harshly, though their words were kind.
Hansa and he were happy alone together. Each season brought its own
joys to their simple, childish hearts; but they loved best the soft,
balmy summer-time, when the harvests ripened quickly in the warm
sunshine, and they could wander away from their tent to the fields
where the reapers were at work, who had always a kindly word for the
gentle, quiet Lapp children. Here Hansa would sit for hours, weaving
garlands of the sweet yellow violets, pink heath, anemones, and dainty
harebells, that grew in such profusion along the borders of the fields
and among the grain, that the reapers, in cutting the wheat, laid the
flowers low before them as well. Niels liked to bind the sheaves, and
did his work so deftly that he was always welcome. He it was, too, who
made such a wonderful "scarecrow" that not a bird dared venture near.
But little Hansa laughed and said: "Silly birds! the old hat cannot
harm you. See! I will bring my flowers close beside it." Then the
reapers, laughing, called the ugly scarecrow "Hansa's guardian."

So the years went by, and the children lived their quiet life, happy
with each other. It seemed as though the tender mother-love that had
been theirs in their babyhood was around them still, guarding and
shielding them from harm. Niels was a wonderful boy, the neighbors
said, and little Hansa, by the time she was twelve years old, could
spin and weave, and embroider on tanned reindeer-skins (which are used
for boots and harness) better than many a Lapp woman. Besides, she was
so clever and good that every one loved her. Every one, alas! but
Haakon, her father. He was not openly cruel; with Gunilda's death the
blows had ceased, but Hansa seemed to look at him with her mother's
gentle, reproachful eyes, and so he dreaded and disliked her.

One summer's day he said, suddenly: "Hansa, to-day the great fair in
Lyngen is held; dress yourself in your best clothes, and I will take
you there."

"Oh, how kind, dear father!" said Hansa, whose tender little heart
warmed at even the semblance of a kind word. "That will be joyful! But,
may Niels go also? I _cannot_ go without him," she said, entreatingly,
as she saw her father's brow darken.

But Haakon said, gruffly: "No, Niels may _not_ go; he must stay at home
to guard the tent."

"Never mind, Hansa," whispered Niels; "I shall not be lonely, and you
will have so many things to tell me and to show me when you come home,
for father will surely buy us something at the fair; and perhaps," he
added, bravely, seeing that Hansa still lingered at his side, "perhaps
father will love you if you go gladly with him."

"Oh, Niels!" said Hansa, "do you really think so? Quick! help me, then,
that I may not keep him waiting."

Never was toilet more speedily made, and soon Hansa stepped shyly up to
Haakon, saying gently, "I am ready, father."

She was very pretty as she stood before him, so gayly dressed, and with
a real May-day face, all smiles and tears--tears for Niels, to whom for
the first time she must say "good-bye," smiles that perhaps might coax
her father to love her. But Haakon looked not at her, and only saying
"Come, then," walked quickly away.

"Good-bye, my Hansa," said Niels, for the last time. "_I_ love you.
Come back ready to tell me of all the beautiful things at the fair."

Then he went into the tent, and Hansa ran on beside her father, who
spoke not a word as they walked mile after mile till four were passed,
and Lyngen, with its tall church spires, its long rows of houses, and
many gayly decorated shops, was before them. Hansa, to whom everything
was new and wonderful, gazed curiously about her, and many a question
trembled on her tongue but found no voice, as Haakon strode moodily on,
till they reached the market-place, and there beside one of the many
drinking-booths sat himself down, while Hansa stood timidly behind him.
Soon he called for a mug of finkel, and drank it greedily; then another
and another followed, till Hansa grew frightened and said, "Oh, dear
father, do not drink any more!"

Then Haakon beat her till she cried bitterly.

"Oh, cry on!" said the cruel father, who we must hope hardly knew what
he was saying, "for never will I take you back to my tent and to Niels.
I brought you here to-day that some one else may have you. You shall be
my child no longer. I will give you for a pipe, that I may smoke and
drink my finkel in peace. Who'll buy?"

Just then, good Peder Olsen came by, and his kind heart ached for the
little maid.

"See!" said he to the angry Lapp. "Give me the child, and I will give
you a pipe and these thirty marks as well. They are my year's earnings,
but I give them gladly."

"Strike hands! She is yours!" said Haakon, who, without one look at his
weeping child, turned away; while the wood cutter led Hansa, all
trembling and frightened, toward his home.

At first, she longed to tell her kind protector of Niels, and beg him
to take her back. But she was a wise little maid, and curious withal.
So she said to herself: "Who knows? It may be a beautiful home, and the
kind people may send me back for Niels. I will go on now, for I have
never been but one road in all my life, and surely I can find it
again."

So she walked quietly on beside father Peder, till at last his little
cottage appeared in sight.

"This is your new home, dear child," said he, and they stepped quickly
up to the door, opened it softly, and entered the little room.

Grandmother Ingeborg was nodding in her big chair in the chimney
corner, but the soft footsteps aroused her, and, looking up, she said:

"Oh! _tak fur sidst_[A] good Peder. Hi, though! What is that you bring
with you?"

[Footnote A: Thanks for seeing you again.]

Before she could be answered, the children, whose first nap was nearly
over, awoke and saw their father with the little girl clinging to his
hand, and looking shyly at them from his sheltering arm.

"Oh!" cried Olga, "a little sister! _My_ wish has come true!"--and she
ran to the new-comer and gave her sweet kisses of welcome; at which
father Peder said, "That is my own good Olga."

But grandmother Ingeborg, who had put on her spectacles, said:

"Ah! I see now! A good-for-nothing Lapp child! She shall not stay here,
surely!"

"Listen," said Peder Olsen, "and I will tell you why I brought home the
little Hansa, for that is her name,"--and he told the story of the
father's drinking so much finkel, and offering to give his little girl
for a pipe, and how he himself had purchased her. "But see!" added the
worthy Peder, turning toward Hansa, "you are not bound but for as long
as the heart says stay."

Hansa looked about, and, meeting Olga's sweet, entreating glance, said,
"I will stay ever."

Then Olga cried, joyously, "Now, indeed, have I a sister!" and took her
to her own little bed, where soon they both were sleeping, side by
side.

As for Olaf and Erik, they were still silent, though now from anger,
and that was very bad.

Grandmother Ingeborg, I think, was angry, too, for said she to herself:

"Now I shall have to spin more cloth, and sew and knit, that when her
own clothes wear out we may clothe this miserable Lapp child" (for the
good dame was a true Norwegian, and despised the Lapps); "and our
little ones must divide their brown bread and milk with her, for we are
too poor to buy more, and it is very bad altogether. Ah! I was sure
something bad would happen,"--and grandmother fairly grumbled herself
into bed.

In the morning all were awake early, you may be sure, and gazing
curiously at the new-comer, whom they had been almost too sleepy to see
perfectly before; and this is how she appeared to their wondering eyes.

She seemed about twelve years old, but no taller than Olga, who was
just ten. She had beautiful soft, brown eyes; and fair, flaxen hair,
which hung in rich, wavy locks far down her back. She wore a short
skirt of dark blue cloth, with yellow stripes around it; a blue apron,
embroidered with bright-colored threads; a little scarlet jacket; a
jaunty cap, also of scarlet cloth, with a silver tassel; and neat,
short boots of tanned reindeer-skin, embroidered with scarlet and
white.

Soon grandmother Ingeborg, who had been out milking the cow, came in,
and almost dropped her great basin of milk, in her anger.

"What!" cried she to Hansa, "all your Sunday clothes on? That will
never do!"

"But I have no others," said the little maid.

"Then you shall have others," said grandmother, and she took from a
great chest in the corner an old blue skirt of Olga's, a jacket which
Olaf had outgrown, and a pair of Erik's wooden shoes.

[Illustration: "HANSA'S GUARDIAN."]

Meekly, Hansa donned the strange jacket and skirt; but her tiny feet,
accustomed to the soft boots of reindeer-skin, could not endure the
hard, clumsy wooden shoes.

"Ah!" said grandmother, who was watching her. "Then must you wear my
old cloth slippers," which were better, though they would come off
continually.

"Now bring me my big scissors, that I may cut off this troublesome
hair," cried Dame Ingeborg. "I do not like that long mane; Olga's head
is far neater!"

And, in spite of poor Hansa's entreaties, all her long, beautiful,
shining locks were cut short off.

But Hansa proved herself a merry little maid, who, after all, did not
care for such trifles. Besides, this, she was so helpful in straining
the milk, preparing the breakfast, and bringing fresh twigs for the
beds, that Dame Ingeborg quite relented toward her, and said:

"You are very nice indeed--for a Lapp child. If you could only spin,
I'd really like to keep you."

Then Hansa moved quickly toward the great spinning-wheel which stood
near the open door, and, before a word could be spoken, began to spin
so swiftly, yet carefully, that grandmother, in her surprise, forgot to
say "Ah," but kissed the clever little maid instead.

"She'll be proud," said the boys, "because she is so wise. Let us go by
ourselves and play,"--and away they ran.

"Come," said Olga to Hansa; "though they have run away, they will not
be happy without us,"--which wise remark showed that she knew boys
pretty well; and the two little maids went hand in hand, and sat down
beside the boys.

"We have no room for _two_ girls here," said Olaf, and he gave poor
Hansa a very rough push.

"What can you do to make us like you?" said Erik.

"I can tell stories," said Hansa. "Listen!"

And she told them a wonderful tale, far better than grandmother's
Sunday best one.

"That is a very good story," said Olaf, when it was finished, "and you
are not so bad--for a girl. But still, if my father had not bought you,
I should have owned a reindeer for my sledge to-day."

"And I should have had a fur coat and boots, to keep me warm next
winter," said Erik.

At this, Hansa opened her bright eyes very wide, and looked curiously
at the boys for a moment, then said: "Did you wish for those things?"

"We have wished for them all our lives," said Erik; while Olaf, too
sore at his disappointment to say a word, gave Hansa a rude slap
instead.

That night, when all were sleeping soundly, little Hansa arose,
dressed, and stole softly from the hut. The sun was shining brightly,
and it seemed as if the path over which father Peder had led her showed
itself, and said, "Come, follow me, and I will lead you home!" And so
it did, safely and surely, though the way seemed long, and her little
feet ached sorely before she had gone many miles. But she kept bravely
on, till at last her father's tent appeared in sight. Then her heart
failed her.

"I hope father is not home," said she, "else he will beat me again. I
only want my Niels."

And she gave a curious little whistle that Niels had taught her as a
signal; but no answer came back. So she crept gently up to the tent,
drew aside the scarlet curtain that hung before the opening, and looked
in.

Meanwhile, let us go back to Haakon at the fair.

As father Peder led Hansa away, he turned again to the booth, and being
soon joined by some friendly Lapps, spent the night, and far on into
the next day, in games and wild sports (such as abound at the fair)
with them.

At last, a thought of home seemed to come to him, and, heedless of all
cries and exclamations from his companions, he hurried away. The long
road was passed as in a kind of dream, and, almost ere he knew it, he
stood before his tent, with Niels' frightened eyes looking into his,
and Niels' eager voice crying:

"Oh, father! where is Hansa? What have you done with my sister?"

"Be silent, boy!" said Haakon, sternly. "Your sister is well, but--she
will never come back to the tent again!"

Then, as if suddenly a true knowledge of his crime flashed upon him, he
buried his face in his hands, and tears, that for many years had been
strangers to his eyes, trickled slowly down his rough brown cheeks, and
so, not daring to meet his boy's truthful questioning gaze, he told him
all.

"Oh, father, let us go for her! She will surely come back if you are
sorry," cried Niels, eagerly.

"You cannot, for, alas! I know neither her new master's name nor
whither he went," said Haakon.

Then Niels, in despair, threw himself down on his bed and wept
bitterly--wept, till at last, all exhausted with the force of his
grief, he slept. How long he knew not, for in the Lapp's tent was
nothing to mark the flight of the hours; but he awoke, finally, with a
start, sat up and rubbed his eyes, and looked wildly about, saying:

"Yes, there sits father, just where I left him, and there is no one
else here. But I am sure I heard Hansa whistle to me; no one else knows
our signal, and----Oh! there--_there_ she is at the door!" and he
sprang toward her and clasped her in his arms, crying, "Hansa, my
Hansa! I have had a dream--such an ugly dream! How joyful that I am
awake at last! See, father," he said, leading her to Haakon; "have you,
too, dreamed?"

"It was no dream, boy," said his father; and, turning to Hansa, he
asked, more gently than he had ever yet spoken to her, "How came you
back, my child?"

Then Hansa, clinging closely to Niels the while, told him all that had
befallen her, and of the pleasant home she had found, and added,
boldly;

"Father, let me take these kind friends some gifts; we have _so_ much,
and I wish to make them happy."

"Take what you want, child," said Haakon. "And see! here is a bag of
silver marks; give it to Peder Olsen, and say that each year I will
fill it anew for him, so that he shall never more want." Then, turning
to Niels, he added: "Go you, too, with Hansa. Surely those kind people
will give you a home as well. It is better for you both that you have a
happier home, and care; and I--can lead my life best alone."

In the wood-cutter's little hut, Olga was the first to discover Hansa's
absence.

"Ah, you naughty boys!" cried she. "You have driven my new sister
away!"--and she wept all day and would not be comforted.

Bed-time came, but brought no trace of Hansa. Poor, tender-hearted Olga
cried herself to sleep; while Olaf and Erik were really both frightened
and sorry, and whispered privately to each other, under their reindeer
blanket, that if Hansa should ever come back, they would be very good
to her.

"And I will give her my Sunday cap," said Erik, "since she cannot wear
my shoes."

Two, three, four days went by, and still Hansa came not; and father
Peder, who was the last to give up hope, said, finally:

"I fear we shall never see our little maid again."

The children gathered around him, sorrowing, while Dame Ingeborg threw
her apron over her head, and rocked to and fro in her big chair in the
chimney corner.

Just then came a gentle little tap on the door, which, as Olga sprang
toward it, softly opened, and there on the threshold stood little
Hansa, smiling at them; and--wonder of wonders!--behind her was a
little reindeer, gayly harnessed, with bright silver bells fastened to
the collar, which tinkled merrily as it tossed its pretty head. Beside
it stood a boy, somewhat taller than Olaf, balancing on his head a
great package.

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