e moved close to her, and then she recited a little snatch of a song,
four or five times, until the boy learned it, and it was the first
thing he learned at school.

"Dance!" cried the fiddle;
Its strings all were quaking,
The lensmand's son making
Spring up and say "Ho!"
"Stay!" called out Ola,
And tripped him up lightly;
The girls laughed out brightly,
The lensmand lay low.

"Hop!" said then Erik,
His heel upward flinging;
The beams fell to ringing,
The walls gave a shriek.
"Stop!" shouted Elling,
His collar then grasping,
And held him up, gasping:
"Why, you're far too weak!"

"Hey!" spoke up Rasmus,
Fair Randi then seizing;
"Come, give without teasing
That kiss. Oh! you know!"
"Nay!" answered Randi,
And boxing him smartly,
Dashed off, crying tartly:
"Take that now and go!"[1]

[Footnote 1: Auber Forestier's translation.]

"Up, youngsters!" cried the school-master; "this is the first day, so
you shall be let off early; but first we must say a prayer and sing."

The whole school was now alive; the little folks jumped down from the
benches, ran across the floor and all spoke at once.

"Silence, little gypsies, young rascals, yearlings!--be still and walk
nicely across the floor, little children!" said the school-master, and
they quietly took their places, after which the school-master stood in
front of them and made a short prayer. Then they sang; the
school-master started the tune, in a deep bass; all the children,
folding their hands, joined in. Oyvind stood at the foot, near the
door, with Marit, looking on; they also clasped their hands, but they
could not sing.

This was the first day at school.

CHAPTER III.

Oyvind grew and became a clever boy; he was among the first scholars at
school, and at home he was faithful in all his tasks. This was because
at home he loved his mother and at school the school-master; he saw but
little of his father, who was always either off fishing or was
attending to the mill, where half the parish had their grinding done.

What had the most influence on his mind in these days was the
school-master's history, which his mother related to him one evening as
they sat by the hearth. It sank into his books, it thrust itself
beneath every word the school-master spoke, it lurked in the
school-room when all was still. It ca