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Mari, Our Little Norwegian Cousin

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<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> <div class='chaptertitle'>THE FARM</div> "Come, Mari, my little daughter, and you shall help me make the cakes," called her mother. Mari stood in the middle of the big farm-yard with a flock of hens around her. She was scattering grain among them from a big bag on her arm; not a sound could be heard except once in a while the scratching of the hens' feet. They were too busy to notice each other or the big dog that sat on the door-step. The little girl laughed quietly as she watched them. "They are so happy; they love this[10] pleasant summer-time as much as I do," she said to herself. But the moment she heard her mother's voice, she turned quickly toward the house without stopping a moment longer to see whether her pet hen, Biddy Wee, or cross old Yellow Legs got the most dinner. Mari never in her life thought of answering her parents by saying: "Why, papa?" or "Why, mamma?" or "I'll come in a moment." Mari lives in Norway, and Norwegian parents train their children to obey without delay. The little girl was only too glad to come now, however. Her mother had promised she should learn to make flat-bread to-day. She was pleased that she was old enough to be trusted with this important work. Why, she could keep house alone when she had mastered this necessary art, and her mother could leave her in charge. [11] Mari remembers when she was such a tiny tot that her head barely reached above the table. Even then she loved to watch her mother as she sat at the big moulding-board, rolling out the dough until it was nearly as thin as paper. This dough was made of barley-meal which was raised here at the farm. It was rolled out into sheets almost as wide as the table itself, for each cake must be about a half-yard across. Then came the cooking. The cake was lifted from the board to a hot flat stone on the fireplace, where it was quickly baked. How fast the pile grew! and how skilful mother always was. She never seemed to burn or break a single cake. Wherever you go in Mari's country you will find flat-bread. You can eat quantities of it, if you like, yet somehow it will not easily check your hunger, and it gives little strength. "Now, dear, be careful not to get a grain of[12] dust on the floor," said her mother, as Mari stood at the table ready for directions. The child looked very pretty, with her long, light hair hanging down her back in two braids. The snowy kerchief was tied under her chin just as it was when she came in from the farm-yard. She had no need to put on an apron before beginning her work, for she already wore one. She was never without it, in fact, and hardly thought herself dressed in the morning until her apron had been fastened around her plump little waist. Her cheeks looked rosy enough to kiss, but such a thing seldom happened, for mothers in Norway believe that is a bad habit. They think that it often leads to the carrying of disease from one person to another. "Shake hands with the baby and the children," they would say, "but please don't kiss them." They are wise in this,—don't you think so? [13] Before Mari had rolled out six cakes, her cheeks grew rosier yet. It was hard work, although it had seemed easy enough when mother was doing it. The first three cakes had to be rolled over and over again because they would stick to the board. Then the lifting was not such a simple thing as Mari had supposed before she came to do it herself. But she kept trying. Her mother was very patient and encouraged her with loving smiles and kind words. At last the little girl made a really good cake and landed it all by herself on the stone, without doubling, or even wrinkling, it. "Good, good," said her mother, "you will soon be a real helper, Mari. But now you have worked long enough for the first time. I will finish the baking while you take the baby and give him an airing." And where was the baby, bless him? Mari knew, for she went at once to the other side[14] of the room where a pole was fastened into the wall. A big basket was hanging down from the end of this pole, and in the basket was a little blue-eyed baby, cooing softly to himself. Mari's mother was a very busy woman. There was always something to do, either inside the house or out-of-doors. She had very little time for holding a baby. So when Mari and her brothers were away at school, and mother was left alone, that dear little rosy-cheeked fellow sometimes began to cry in a very lively manner. The cooking and the cheese-making and the spinning must go on just the same, and time could not be spent in holding a baby. But he must be amused in some way. So the strong pole was fastened into the wall, and the cradle attached to the end. Do you wonder what fun there could be in staying up in that basket, hour after hour? The baby enjoyed it because the pole would spring a[15] little at every movement of his body. As long as he kept awake, he could, and did, bob up and down. That was amusement enough. He was glad to see Mari now. She was a perfect little mother, and soon had his hood and cloak fastened on. They were hardly needed, for he was already done up in so many garments, it didn't seem possible he could be cold, wherever he went. The living-room, where Mari had been working, was large and high. The beams were dark with age, but the floor was white from the many scrubbings Mari's mother had given it. On one side of the room was the big fireplace where all the cooking was done. During the long winter evenings the family and servants sat in front of the blazing logs and told stories of the famous sea-captains of the olden times. Or perhaps they talked of the fairies[16] and giants, in whom Mari firmly believed. Her mother laughed at the idea of these wonderful creatures. Yet, after all, it was not more than a hundred years ago that they seemed real to many grown-up people. Wonderful creatures who made themselves seen from time to time dwelt in the mountains, the fields, and the rivers. This is what Mari's great-grandma had believed, and was she not a sensible woman? It is no wonder, therefore, that our little cousin loved to think that these beings were still real. When she went to sleep at night, she often dreamed of the gnomes who live far down in the earth, or the giants who once dwelt among the mountains. When she was very little she sometimes waked up from such dreams with a shiver. "O, don't let the cruel giant get me," she would cry. Then she would jump out of her own little cot into the big bed of her parents. She felt quite safe as soon as her mother's[17] loving arms held her tightly, and she was sound asleep again in a minute. That big bed certainly looked strong enough to be a fortress against the giants or any other of the wonderful creatures of fairy-world. It stood in the corner of the living-room, where Mari's mother worked all day, and where the family ate and sat. It was so high that even grown people did not get into it without climbing up the steps at one side. It had a wooden top, which made it seem like a little house. It was not as long as bedsteads in other countries. No grown person could stretch out in it to his full length. He must bend his knees, or curl himself up in some way, for he certainly could not push his feet through the heavy wooden foot-board. Mari's people, however, never thought of its being uncomfortable. All Norwegian bedsteads are made in this way, so they became used to it as they grew up. But sometimes[18] English travellers had stayed at the farmhouse all night when they had been overtaken by a storm. They would be sure to get up in the morning complaining. They would say: "O yes, this country of Norway is very beautiful, but why don't you have beds long enough for people to sleep in with comfort." The farm where Mari lives lies in a narrow valley half a mile from the sea. The cold winter winds are kept off by the mountain which stands behind the houses. No one but Mari's family and the servants who work on the farm live here. Yet I spoke of houses. This is because the little girl's home is made up of several different houses, instead of one large farmhouse, such as one sees in America. Mari's father thinks that two, or perhaps three, rooms are quite enough to build under one roof. He settled here when he was a young man. Mari's mother came here to live when they were married. At that time[19] there was but one house. It contained the living-room and the storeroom. After a while another house was built close by, for the farm hands to sleep in. Still another little building was added after a while for the winter's supplies, for there is no store within many miles of the farm. Mari's mother never says, "Come, my child, run down the road and buy me five pounds of sugar," or, "Hurry, dear, go and get two pounds of steak for dinner." It would be useless for her to think of doing such a thing. All the provisions the family may need must be obtained in large quantities from the distant city, unless they are raised here on the farm. The storehouse was built very carefully. It was raised higher than the other buildings so that rats and other wild creatures should have hard work to reach the supplies. There is not a great deal on hand now, for it is summer-time,[20] but in the autumn the bins will be full of vegetables, and large quantities of fish and meats will hang from the rafters. There will be stores of butter and cheese and a large supply of coffee, for Mari's people drink it freely. <hr class="chap" />[21] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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