he rugged mountain-sides.

But now, when the wild geese and Smirre came to the river, it was cold
and blustery spring-winter; all the trees were nude, and there was
probably no one who thought the least little bit about whether the shore
was ugly or pretty. The wild geese thanked their good fortune that they
had found a sand-strip large enough for them to stand upon, on a steep
mountain wall. In front of them rushed the river, which was strong and
violent in the snow-melting time; behind them they had an impassable
mountain rock wall, and overhanging branches screened them. They
couldn't have it better.

The geese were asleep instantly; but the boy couldn't get a wink of
sleep. As soon as the sun had disappeared he was seized with a fear of
the darkness, and a wilderness-terror, and he longed for human beings.
Where he lay--tucked in under the goose-wing--he could see nothing, and
only hear a little; and he thought if any harm came to the
goosey-gander, he couldn't save him.

Noises and rustlings were heard from all directions, and he grew so
uneasy that he had to creep from under the wing and seat himself on the
ground, beside the goose.

Long-sighted Smirre stood on the mountain's summit and looked down upon
the wild geese. "You may as well give this pursuit up first as last," he
said to himself. "You can't climb such a steep mountain; you can't swim
in such a wild torrent; and there isn't the tiniest strip of land below
the mountain which leads to the sleeping-place. Those geese are too wise
for you. Don't ever bother yourself again to hunt them!"

But Smirre, like all foxes, had found it hard to give up an undertaking
already begun, and so he lay down on the extremest point of the mountain
edge, and did not take his eyes off the wild geese. While he lay and
watched them, he thought of all the harm they had done him. Yes, it was
their fault that he had been driven from Skane, and had been obliged to
move to poverty-stricken Blekinge. He worked himself up to such a pitch,
as he lay there, that he wished the wild geese were dead, even if he,
himself, should not have the satisfaction of eating them.

When Smirre's resentment had reached this height, he heard rasping in a
large pine that grew close to him, and saw a squirrel come down from the
tree, hotly pursued by a marten. Neither of them noticed Smirre; and he
sat quietly and watched the chase, which went from tree to tree. He
looked at the squirrel, who moved