_I.--The Little Song-Maker_


It was up at Kampen that Arne was born. His mother was Margit, the only
child at the little farm among the crags. When she was eighteen, she
stopped too long at a dance one evening; her friends had gone off
without her, so Margit thought the way home would be just as long
whether she waited till the end of the dance or not.

Thus it came about that Margit remained sitting there till Nils
Skrædder, the fiddler, suddenly laid aside his instrument, as was his
wont when he had had more than enough to drink, left the dancers to hum
their own tune, took hold of the prettiest girl he could find, and,
letting his feet keep as good time to the dance as music to a song,
jerked off with the heel of his boot the hat of the tallest man in the
room. "Ho!" laughed he.

As Margit walked home that night, the moon was making wondrous sport
over the snow. When she got to the loft where she slept, she could not
help looking out at it again.

Next time there was a dance in the parish, Margit was present. She did
not care much to dance that evening, but sat listening to the music. But
when the playing ceased the fiddler rose and went straight across to
Margit Kampen. She was scarcely aware of anything, but that she was
dancing with Nils Skrædder!

Before long the weather grew warmer, and there was no more dancing that
spring.