Quasqueton Guardian

A Norwegian Wolf Story.

What a strange, wild country is old Norway! The brow of the earth, the forehead of the world, as the Scalds of old loved to call it in their songs. Even in the map, how singular is that jagged, furrowed, long coast line, stretching above a thousand miles, from the North Cape with its eternal ice, down to a genial latitude of wheat lands and flowers. On this vast seaboard, water and land seem to have been struggling for the mastery, till at last all was amicably settled by a division of the territory, and the deep fiords run miles inland, and the steep promontories project far out into the ocean. Truly it is a beautiful country, with its great bosses of snow-fields, the long windings of the lake-like fiords, the roaring Foss, and the endless pine forest. Then, too, what strange sights meet the traveller: the midsummer night's sun never setting, the months of darkness, the shepherd's life in the Saeters, the wandering nomade Laps, and their encampments, the bear hunts, and the Old World superstitions and customs which linger in the secluded valleys.

Norway has still other and more important claims to notice: it is one of those few and favored countries where freedom is enjoyed, and the hardy, prosperous peasantry are living witnesses of the worth of its immemorial institutions. Norway, also, was among the first to shake off the errors of Rome, and to embrace the doctrines of the Reformation. It is true that rationalism and indifference have long chilled the Christian heart of the country, but now it is throbbing with increased vigor, and sending warm streams of life-blood to the extremities of the land.

A pleasant-looking farm that of Ravensdal, nestling beneath some sheltering rocks in an inland valley, not far from the Arctic. The commodious dwelling was of blackened timber, adorned with curious carving, and pious sayings cut in the beams; while clustering round stood the cottages of the peasants who cultivated the soil. In all the province of Norland there was not a farmer more respected and esteemed, or a more upright, honorable man, than Andreas Jansen, the owner of Ravensdal.

It was early one Sunday morning in midwinter, and the Jansens were preparing to start for church, a drive of many miles. One of the sledges had been recently disabled, so none of the farm servants were able to go with them. Rather a large party got into the remaining sleigh, which, though a roomy one, was more than full: but when the farmer proposed to leave the two boys at home, there was so much lamentation that he relented. Andreas handed his comely-looking wife Ingaborg to her seat; she was followed by her son Raoul, the younger, a walking bundle of fur, taking his place on his mother's knees; Ella, the pretty only daughter, next stepped in; and lastly, carrying some wrap for his lady-love, came Hugo, Ella's betrothed, who the day before had arrived on snow-shoes from the southward, to spend a few days at Ravensdal. Andreas mounted to his seat, gently touched with the whip the three horses, harnessed unicorn fashion, and they started at a smart pace. It was quite early, for service began at twelve; and as the distance was great, it was necessary to start betimes. As yet there was no glimmer of daylight, but moon and stars shone with a radiance unknown in our latitudes, and there was abundance of light for the journey. Buried in skins and furs, the party did not feel the cold which, though great, was not excessive -the absence of a breath of wind, and perfect dryness of the atmosphere, making it much more endurable than the same depression of the thermometer would be in this country. It was a grand event, this journey to church, for weeks and weeks had passed since last they were able to go. True, Andreas had every Sunday a sort of prayer-meeting at Ravensdal which the neighboring peasants, but this did not compensate for the lack of the public services. Then, too, the whole family thought it most fortunate that the fairness of the weather should enable them to go on this especial Sunday of all others, for it was what they call an alter-day-i. e., the sacrament was to be administered.

There was an eerie beauty in the scene; the solemn mountains lifting up their hoary heads into the star-sprinkled sky, the small tarn with its glittering icy surface, the stern old pines, whose green looked almost black, contrasted with the snow, and the graceful birken trees, those "ladies of the wood," decked out, as little Raoul said, when the first rime fell that winter, in their white mantles, all ready for sister Ella's wedding-day. But, as if to make amends for the stillness elsewhere, there was no silence in the sledge. Andreas turned round to address his wife, or talked to his horses, in that brotherly way so characteristic of the Norwegian, who always makes friends of the four-footed creatures in his service, and particularly of his horses.— Olaf, the elder boy, who was perched on Hugo's knee, after some vain attempts to obtain his attention, turned to his mother and Raoul, and kept up with them a continuous stream of question and remark; while Hugo and Ella, leaning back in one corner, heeding nobody but themselves, found much to say to each other in low, happy tones. And the tinkling of the merry sleigh-bells, as they jingled round the horse's collars, made to all this a most musical accompaniment.

One-third of the journey was over, when, with a startled exclamation, Andreas suddenly pulled up his horses. At turn of the road there lay, extended on the snow, a human form. In a moment, the farmer had confided the reins to Olaf, proud of the charge, and he and Hugo, jumping down, ran to give assistance.— The pack at the man's side told them that he was one of the pedlars who wander from farm-house to farm-house, all over the country. Overpowered by the cold, he had sunk into that fainting, deathlike sleep, from which there is oftentimes no waking. At first, all efforts to rouse him failed, but life was evidently not extinct; so seeing a chalet close at hand, which in the summer had been used as covert for cattle, and now was a store for firewood, they carried him there, and, kindling a fire on the outside, they rubbed his limbs until some warmth returned, and poured some corn brandy (which no Norwegian travels without) down his throat, and he partially revived. All this occupied some time, and now they were quite in a dilemma as to what to do next. Leave him they could not, to take him on with them was impossible; he was not sufficiently recovered to bear the air, even if they could make room for him in that state. To turn back and take him home was almost as difficult, and if so they must give up church entirely. Ella, who had alighted to assist them, at last said, in a decided tone, "There is but one thing, father, we can do; Hugo must stay with the poor man."

"Yes," said Hugo, "that is the best plan. You drive on to church, and take me up in the afternoon, when you return; by that time he is sure to be all right."

"Well," said Andreas, "it does seem the only way; but it will be a sad disappointment for you, my good girl."

"I do not know that," muttered Hugo; "she was the first to propose getting rid of me."

"Now, that is too bad," said Ella, with a face rueful enough to satisfy her lover, "when you know I have been counting for weeks and weeks upon your being with us for this altar Sunday."

It clearly was the most feasible plan, and so it was settled. Ella murmured to Hugo as he helped her into the sledge again, "God will not the less bless our engagement, that it begins with an act of self-denial."

Some provisions, which had been put into the sledge ready for any emergency, were handed out to Hugo, and he was entreated to take care of himself as well as the pedlar, and to keep up a good fire. "Certainly," said he; "no fear of doing that. Why, here is firewood enough to roast half-a-dozen oxen whole. You are sure you will be able to do without me, Father Andreas?"

"Perfectly. The horses are quite manageable, the road good, and the weather set fair--we can have no difficulty."

So they started off again, Olaf saucily calling out to Hugo, that, now he was gone, Ella would be of some use to other people, and that the rest of the party would gain, not lose, one by his departure. However, Ella was not inclined to be lively, and her gravity infected even the high spirits of her young brothers. The remainder of the drive was rather dull for all parties, and every one of them was glad when the peaked roofs of the small town came into sight. The Jansens drove to a relation's house, put up the horses, left their outer coverings in the sledge, and then entered the church soon after service had commenced. The pastor was a venerable old man, dressed in the black canonicals of the Lutheran clergy. A thick white ruff was round his neck, his long white hair floated over his shoulders, while, on account of the cold, he wore a black velvet skull-cap on his head. Prayers and singing over, he commenced his discourse, without notes of any kind, and in a strain of simple, fervid eloquence, which riveted the attention of his auditors. He expounded the sublime precept which Christianity first inculcated, of doing to others what we would that they should do to us. The sermon over, some christenings followed, and then the communion. The service, which had lasted more than three hours, at length terminated, and they emerged from the church. Many were the greetings to be exchanged between friends and neighbors unseen for long, and it was some time ere the Jansens reached the relation's house, where they were to partake of the mid-day meal. This over, they did not linger long, for Andreas had promised Hugo they would return as soon as possible. As they were leaving the town, they were stopped near the parsonage by the pastor, who pressed them to come in and see the Frau Pastorin. Andreas explained the reasons which made them anxious to be off, and the good old man, shaking him heartily by the hand, said:

"So some of you have been acting what I have been preaching, playing the good Samaritan. Well, well, it shall not lack its reward. God bless you, friend Andreas!"

The short-lived northern day had long waned, when, leaving the clustered wooden dwellings surrounding the church behind them, the Jansens started on their homeward route to Ravensdal. But little was the daylight missed, for the glorious northern lights were up, streaming, flickering like fiery banners across the sky, brighter far than the pale Arctic winter sun, diffusing around a mild, beautiful radiance, neither sunshine nor moonlight, but a light more poetic, more romantic, than that of common day or night. Little Raoul clapped his hands with delight, as from the luminous cloud on the northern horizon streamers of green, purple, red, and golden light shot up. Andreas said it was years and years since an Aurora so splendid had been seen.

A lonely road was their way home; no habitations, except a few farm-houses near the town, and, when these were passed, a long stretch of desolate country--wild rocky valleys, all clad in their snowy garments, with the deserted summer chalets scattered over them, mocking the traveller with an idea of human life; beneath, frowning precipices of black rock, where the snow could find no resting place; through pine woods, whose venerable denizens had survived many generations of mortals.

"Moored to the rifted rock,
Proof to the tempest's shock."

The children were asleep, Raoul in his mother's arms, who half unconsciously was humming to herself a hymn of praise as she wrapped the little nestling warm in her furs. Olaf, after repeated declarations that he was not in the least sleepy, had been glad to lean his head against his sister's shoulder; his eyes soon closed, as he was as sound asleep as his little brother. Ella gave herself up to a dreamy reverie, as she thought over the solemn communion service, the sermon, and then the bright future before her. Pleasant thoughts they were; in her life's horizon it was all blue sky behind her, and she saw still more before her. And soon these thoughts were woven together, and bright castles in the air arose, which made her smile to herself as she pictured them before her mind's eye; what Hugo and she would do when they had a home of their own--how they would welcome the wayfarer, nurse the sick, and succor the distressed.

Lost in her own thoughts, Ella had little heeded a noise which was heard from time to time, and which she fancied the fall of avalanches from crag to crag in the mountains. But now all on a sudden she remarked that her father had several times turned his head to look back, and that his face wore a troubled expression.

"What is it, father?" she asked; "is there anything the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing," he answered, in a short, stern manner, not at all usual to him--"I hope nothing;" and then murmured to himself, in a lower tone--"God grant it may be nothing."

Her uneasiness by no means lessened, but, understanding he did not wish to be questioned, she remained silent, but with her attention on the alert to discover the cause for anxiety. The dull noise in the rear certainly increased, and was heard at fitful intervals, now almost swelling into a roar, then dying away, and was decidedly nearer than when she first remarked it. The horses, too, seemed by some wonderful instinct, to partake her father's uneasiness. Just then, the noise began afresh, and now an unmistakable howl sent a flash of certainty to her mind. Unable longer to bear the suspense, she half rose, and gasped out--

"Oh, father, is it--is it the wolves?"

"They are a long way behind," said Andreas; "we shall reach home well, never fear."

But the farmer's face contradicted his cheerful words, and with a sinking of the heart as if its action had been stopped, and then a tumultuous rush of blood through her veins, Ella sank back in her seat. It was a fearful revulsion of feeling to be thus suddenly torn from a state of dreamy reverie, and brought face to face with a great danger. The fainting sensation was over directly, and closing her eyes for a moment, and murmuring a heartfelt prayer, her natural courage returned. Ella had till then only seen dead wolves, the trophies of the chase, and once or twice one securely muzzled, on its way to some foreign menagerie; but too many dreaded wolf-stories are current round Norwegian hearths in the winter, for her not to divine the greatness of the peril, and she tried to calculate the probable distance from home, and their chances of escape.

Frau Ingeborg next heard the howl, and asked the same terrified question as her daughter.

"Oh, God, my poor children!" was her exclamation; and then she, too, was calm and still.

Nearer, nearer is the howling--faster go the terrified horses; their instinct has told them the danger. Ella gently disengages herself from the sleeping Olaf, and, unbidden, gets out the rifle and powder-flask, and in silence looks to the loading. Andreas's eye falls on her; he is even at that moment pleased with the fruit of the training he has given his child, in her pale, composed face and steady hand, like a brave Norse maiden as she was. Her eyes are now strained to look back as far as she can. Ere long, on the brow of a hill they have descended, she sees a black moving mass against the sky.

"I see them, father, but they are far off yet."

A groan escapes from Andreas. "God help us, then!" he mutters. Wife and daughter read his face, and from their hearts, too, goes up that agonized prayer. Ah! well may they pray it. On came the pack, some half hundred gaunt, hungry wolves, their dismal howl freezing the life-blood of the Jansens. The horses bound onward with red nostrils and panting sides: they go like the wind, but the distance is steadily diminished. And the howl of the wolves sounds like a mocking demon cry--

"Ha, ha! ye go fast, we faster; ye are few, we are many. It is our turn now. Ye are the hunted, we are the hunters. Ha, ha! how like ye the change?"

"Would it not be possible," said Ella, "to take refuge in one of these chalets? Could we not barricade ourselves there?"

"It would be only quicker death.-- The wolves would soon force the door; there would be no fastenings of sufficient strength to resist them."

They looked above, around--neither help nor hope was to be seen. The pitiless earth was wrapped in one vast winding-sheet of snow, and the cold-glancing lights in the sky revealed only too clearly their desperate condition. A cold damp stands on the farmer's brow; still, he guides his horses with firm hand, speaks encouragingly to them, and tho he, knowing the peril best, has given up hope first, he still relaxes no effort. It was hard, in the first flush of manhood, the prime of life, with the blood coursing through every vein in strength and power, to have nothing to do but die. As he looked at his dear ones, he thought, were these but safe, death would not be so fearful; but, then, the image of the pleasant home at Ravensdal rose up before him; and to leave all this, to die, and leave no name, no heir behind, it was hard! Was it not a triumph of Christian faith that he, thus circumstanced, could bow his head meekly, and say, "Thy will be done?"

Dame Ingeborg said nothing, but her tears fell fast over the nestling Raoul, she was straining to her heart, and, as the child started at the noise, she hushed him off to sleep as carefully as if he had been in his little bed at home, thankful that one at least of her darlings was spared the anguish of this valley of the shadow of death. And yet to her arose a ray of light, a gleam of happiness, as she thought that she and all her dear ones would cross the river of death at the same time. No widowhood, no orphanage, no childlessness--the parting of a moment, and then the eternal reunion in bliss. Olaf, roused by his sister's rising, had awoke, and seeing the wolves, had burst out into terrified crying; but when Ella gently bade him pray to God, and try and be a brave boy, he caught the infection of her calmness. Swallowing his tears, he knelt on the seat, and, hiding his face in the fur wraps, that he might not see the object of his dread, he manfully tried to stifle his sobs, and repeated over and over again his simple prayer.

Of all, Ella was the happiest, for one great comfort was hers; her best beloved was safe, and, as she thought, with a thrill of joy that seemed strange at such an instant, through an act of self-denial to which she had urged him, and which God was blessing by his deliverance. The wolves were gaining fast; they could distinguish the fiery eyes, the red tongues hanging out. Ella, as she saw one in advance, quite close to them, cried out--

"Father, father! the rifle."

"Then take the reins an instant," said he, as he took the weapon from her hand. Ella obeyed, the horses wanted but little guidance, and the wolf fell dead beneath her father's sure aim. There was a stop to the whole pack, and the Jansons almost dared to hope.

Andreas's face was as gloomy as before. "Only a check," murmured he; "they are mad with hunger. The one I have killed will be devoured, and then--"

His words were verified. In five minutes' time, they again heard the baying of the pack; and they were soon in sight, their appetite whetted by the taste of blood--on, on, with increased ardor for the chase. Again was one shot down--again occurred the temporary lull, and then afresh began the ghastly hunt.

"There is but one charge more, father," said Ella.

"We will save it as long as we can," was Andreas's reply. And his voice was hoarse and husky.

We left Hugo at his Good-Samaritan deed of kindness towards the hawker.-- The man soon recovered sufficiently to sit up, and give some account of himself. "As Andreas Jansen had supposed, he had lost his way, travelling from one farm-house to another, and had sunk exhausted into the deep slumber which generally subsides into death. In answer to his inquiries as to how he had been found, he heard about the intended drive to church, and discovered the self-denial Hugo had practised in giving up the expedition to take care of him.

"I owe you thanks, young man. You have preferred remaining with an old pedlar in difficulties, to accompanying your betrothed. It is a dull exchange.

"Indeed," said Hugo, "I am quite repaid by seeing you all right again. I was afraid, at first, it was all over. What a narrow escape! Another half hour, we should have been too late."

"Yes, another lease of life," said the hawker, gravely, "spared a little longer by the Heavenly Friend who has stood by my side in many dangers during a long life of wandering.

"Let me hear your experience. How much you must have seen! It will be hours before my friends are back. Talking them over will help while away the time."

The sketch Eric Peterman gave of his life was indeed remarkable. He was one of those pious men, not unfrequently met with in Norway, who, while earning their livelihood by hawking, are at the same time humble missionaries, Bible and tract colporteurs, holding prayer meetings in the villages when they can get a congregation, and, in an unobtrusive way, often doing a great deal of good.-- Like most of his brethren, he was a man of few advantages of education, but well versed in the Scriptures, and possessing native eloquence, combined with the unfailing attraction of a soul thoroughly in earnest, and ennobled by the pursuit of a lofty and disinterested aim. He had been a disciple of the celebrated Hauge, the John Wesley of the North, and had shared some of his imprisonment at a time when little about religious toleration was known in Norway. Many times he had traversed the country, and even penetrated far into Russian Lapland. One whole winter he had been weather-bound on one of the Loffodens. Strange stories could he tell of perils by land and perils by water, shipwrecks and hair-breadth escapes from robbers who coveted his pack. The time passed quickly in listening to such narratives. The record of this good man's life was like a living sermon to Hugo; the exposition of Gospel truth in a most inviting form, the example of one who had practised all he taught. After a pause, during which they had been partaking of the contents of Dame Ingeborg's basket, Eric said, rather abruptly--

"By the bye, I heard some unpleasant news at the farm I was at yesterday.-- They say a large pack of wolves has come down from the fields to the northward; the early and severe winter this season is supposed to have driven them down. Some hunters out on a bear chase a few days back, had a narrow escape; they report the wolves as going to the south."

"I hope not," said Hugo; they had heard nothing about it at Ravensdal. No more had I: but then I came from the contrary direction. I hope not, though I should like it above everything if we could muster a strong party, and have a good hunt; but wolves are fearful foes to meet unprepared."

Undefined apprehensions he could not shake off filled the young man's mind; and, after trying to talk of other things, he came back to the wolves, and to speculations as to their position and movements. So time sped on, and he paced up and down with a growing uneasiness he in vain told himself was ungrounded and absurd: and he longed for the return of the sleigh, to terminate these secret fears. Eric had been listening intently for some minutes, and all at once exclaimed--

"There, now, I hear a howl!"

Hugo threw himself on the snow to hear better, and ere long heard the same sound.

"I fear it is so. It is far, but, oh, in the same direction they have taken."

After some moments of intense attention, both men satisfied themselves that it was not the howl of a solitary wolf, and that it was steadily advancing.

"Oh, tell me what we can do?" cried Hugo; "it is on a track which leads from the town, just the time they would be on the road. My poor Ella, what can I do?"

"Unarmed as we are, it is only by remaining here we can be of any service. And this is a position we can easily defend. With that amount of fire-wood at our back, I would defy an army of wolves. Look! the chalet stands in a recess of rock; from point to point we can make a rampart of fire." So saying, he began to arrange fagots in a line from one point of rock to the other, leaving an open space in the centre. "I think, with you, young man, that your friends are on the road and that the wolves are pursuing them, else we should not hear that continuous howling nearer and nearer. I am leaving this space for the sledge to pass: the wolves would never dare to attempt to follow through such a wall of flame as we can raise."

"Hist! I hear the gallop of horses," said Hugo, kneeling on the snow.

"Then set fire to the barrier. It may be a beacon to them, and show them where we are."

This was done, and the bright pine-wood flame was ere long streaming into the sky.

"Now," said Eric, "get more fagots ready, for you and I must be prepared to close up the passage immediately the sleigh is safe."

"But the horses," said Hugo, "will they pass between two such fires as we have here?"

"No fear; they are terrified enough to leap over a precipice, if it came in their way--anything, everything--to escape those that are after them."

A few minutes passed in breathless suspense, during which the noise of horses and wolves became louder and louder.

"Ah! there they are," cried Hugo, "and the whole pack close behind. They see us: Andreas is flogging the horses. Oh, God! there is a great wolf close upon them! I would give ten years of my life for a rifle for one instant. Andreas dares not leave the reins. Ella is standing up: she has the rifle. Good heavens! the wolf will spring at her.-- No, she has fired--shot him down! My brave Ella! my own dear girl!"

Another second, and the sledge was in the haven of refuge provided by the forethought of the pedler, from the ruthless wolves, behind the barrier of flames.-- The exhausted horses had stopped of themselves: the Jansens were beneath the shelter of the chalet, half fainting, scarcely crediting their preservation.-- As soon as he could speak, the farmer said in a tremulous tone, "Wife, children, let us thank God!" and, kneeling, with the tears rolling down his hardy cheeks, in a few words of heart-warm thankfulness he returned thanks for their deliverance from a bloody death.

It was some time before sufficient composure returned to relate all that had passed, and when that had been done, Andreas said, "Our pastor might well say, 'It shall in no wise lose its reward.' If you"--turning to the pedlar, "had not required assistance, if Hugo had not remained, we must all have perished."

The Jansens had to stay in the chalet that night; but when the next morning dawned, the wolves had all dispersed, and they reached home with ease and safety. A few days later, Andreas and Hugo had the satisfaction of exhibiting some wolves' skins, as trophies of their vanquished enemies.