the balcony looking over the courtyard,
when a bearded farm-hand came up with a big light-maned chestnut horse
prancing in a halter. The beast stood still in the middle of the yard,
flung up its head, and neighed, and the horses in the stable neighed in
answer.

"Oh, what a beauty!" exclaimed Merle, clapping her hands.

"Put him into the gig," called Peer to the stable-boy who had come out
to take the horse.

The man touched his cap. "Horse has never been driven before, sir, I was
to say."

"Everything must have a beginning," said Peer.

Merle glanced at him. But they were both dressed to go out when the
chestnut came dancing up before the door with the gig. The white hoofs
pawed impatiently, the head was high in the air, and the eyes flashed
fire--he wasn't used to having shafts pressing on his sides and wheels
rumbling just behind him. Peer lit a cigar.

"You're not going to smoke?" Merle burst out.

"Just to show him I'm not excited," said Peer. No sooner had they taken
their seats in the gig than the beast began to snort and rear, but
the long lash flicked out over its neck, and a minute later they were
tearing off in a cloud of dust towards the town.

Winter came--and a real winter it was. Peer moved about from one window
to another, calling all the time to Merle to come and look. He had
been away so long--the winter of Eastern Norway was all new to him.
Look--look! A world of white--a frozen white tranquillity--woods,
plains, lakes all in white, a fairy-tale in sunlight, a dreamland at
night under the great bright moon. There was a ringing of sleigh-bells
out on the lake, and up in the snow-powdered forest; the frost stood
thick on the horses' manes and the men's beards were hung with icicles.
And in the middle of the night loud reports of splitting ice would come
from the lake--sounds to make one sit up in bed with a start.

Driving's worth while in weather like this--come, Merle. The new
stallion from Gudbrandsdal wants breaking in--we'll take him. Hallo! and
away they go in their furs, swinging out over the frozen lake, whirling
on to the bare glassy ice, where they skid and come near capsizing,
and Merle screams--but they get on to snow, and hoofs and runners grip
again. None of your galloping--trot now, trot! And Peer cracks his whip.
The black, long-maned Gudbrandsdaler lifts his head and trots out. And
the evening comes, and under the wide and starry sky they dash up again
to Loreng--Loreng th