is hoofs on the stone
floor and whinny.

Ditte laughed. "He's asking for more sugar," said she. "Just like
little Povl when he's eating porridge; he scrapes the top off too."

But Lars Peter growled. "Eat it all up, you old skeleton," said he.
"These aren't times to pick and choose."

The nag would answer with a long affectionate whinny, and go on as
before.

At last Lars Peter would get up and go to the manger, mixing the
straw together in the middle. "Eat it up, you obstinate old thing!"
said he, giving the horse a slap on the back. The horse, smelling
the straw, turned its head towards Lars Peter; and looked
reproachfully at him as though saying: "What's the matter with you
today?" And nothing else would serve, but he must take a handful of
corn and mix it with the straw. "But no tricks now," said he,
letting his big hand rest on the creature's back. And this time
everything was eaten up.

Lars Peter came back and sat under the lantern again.

"Old Klavs is wise," said Ditte, "he knows exactly how far to go.
But he's very faddy all the same."

"I'll tell you, he knows that we're going on a long trip; and wants
a big feed beforehand," answered Lars Peter as if in excuse. "Ay,
he's a wise rascal!"

"But pussy's much sharper than that," said Ditte proudly, "for she
can open the pantry door herself. I couldn't understand how she got
in and drank the milk; I thought little Povl had left the door open,
and was just going to smack him for it. But yesterday I came behind
pussy, and can you imagine what she did? Jumped up on the sink, and
flew against the pantry door, striking the latch with one paw so it
came undone. Then she could just stand on the floor and push the
door open."

They sat under the lantern, which hung from one of the beams,
sorting rags, which lay round them in bundles; wool, linen and
cotton--all carefully separated. Outside it was cold and dark, but
here it was cosy. The old nag was working at his food like a
threshing machine, the cow lay panting with well-being as it chewed
the cud, and the hens were cackling sleepily from the hen-house. The
new pig was probably dreaming of its mother--now and again a sucking
could be heard. It had only left its mother a few days ago.

"Is this wool?" asked Ditte, holding out a big rag.

Lars Peter examined it, drew out a thread and put it in the flame of
the lantern.

"It should be wool," said he at last, "for it melts and smells of
horn. But Heaven k