flowed from the place through his little body, sent the adventure
mounting to his head and made him swell with pride. His imagination
rose and soared into the air with some vague, dizzy idea about the
farmer adopting him as his son.

He soon came down again, for in the stable he ran straight into the
arms of the Sunday scrubbing. The Sunday wash was the only great
objection he had to make to life; everything else came and was
forgotten again, but it was always coming again. He detested it,
especially that part of it which had to do with the interior of his
ears. But there was no kind mother to help; Lasse stood ready with
a bucket of cold water, and some soft soap on a piece of broken pot,
and the boy had to divest himself of his clothes. And as if the
scrubbing were not enough, he afterwards had to put on a clean
shirt--though, fortunately, only every other Sunday. The whole thing
was nice enough to look back upon afterwards--like something gone
through with, and not to happen again for a little while.

Pelle stood at the stable door into the yard with a consequential
air, with bristling hair and clean shirt-sleeves, his hands buried
in his trouser pockets. Over his forehead his hair waved in what is
called a "cow's lick," said to betoken good fortune; and his face,
all screwed up as it turned towards the bright light, looked the
oddest piece of topsy-turvydom, with not a single feature in its
proper place. Pelle bent the calves of his legs out backwards, and
stood gently rocking himself to and fro as he saw Gustav doing, up
on the front-door steps, where he stood holding the reins, waiting
for his master and mistress.

The mistress now appeared, with the farmer, and a maid ran down in