Sometimes he looked down at his boots, which were by no means
dancing shoes. But how he could have marked the time with the broad
heels and spun round on the thick soles! Something was dragging and
pulling him and trying to hurl him out on the floor like a whipped
ball. He could still resist it, although his excitement grew
stronger as the hours advanced. He grew delirious and hot. Heigh
ho, he was no longer poor Petter Nord! He was the young whirlwind,
that raises the seas and overthrows the forests.

Just then a hambo-polska [Note: A Swedish national dance of a very
lively character] struck up. The peasant boy was quite beside himself.
He thought it sounded like the polska, like the Värmland polska.

Suddenly Petter Nord was out on the floor. All his fine manners
dropped off him. He was no longer at the town-hall ball; he was at
home in the barn at the midsummer dance. He came forward, his knees
bent, his head drawn down between his shoulders. Without stopping
to ask, he threw his arms round a lady's waist and drew her with
him. And then he began to dance the polska.

The girl followed him, half unwillingly, almost dragged. She was
not in time; she did not know what kind of a dance it was, but
suddenly it went quite of itself. The mystery of the dance was
revealed to her. The polska bore her, lifted her; her feet had
wings; she felt as light as air. She thought that she was flying.

For the Värmland polska is the most wonderful dance. It transforms
the heavy-footed sons of earth. Without a sound soles an inch thick
float over the unplaned barn floor. They whirl about, light as