. Stories for the household . Schoonen, among the blooming apple trees behind thefarmers house, you will fancy yourself still iu Denmark. Fly with me, said the Swallow ; I fly over the mountain ridge of 924 Stories for the House/told. Halland, where the beech trees cease. I fly farther northward than theStork. I will show you where the arable land must give place to therock ; you shall see pleasant towns, old churches, and lonely farms, inwhose interiors it is comfortable and good to dwell, where the familystand in a circle round the table covered with steaming dishes, whilethe prayer is spoke
. Stories for the household . Schoonen, among the blooming apple trees behind thefarmers house, you will fancy yourself still iu Denmark. Fly with me, said the Swallow ; I fly over the mountain ridge of 924 Stories for the House/told. Halland, where the beech trees cease. I fly farther northward than theStork. I will show you where the arable land must give place to therock ; you shall see pleasant towns, old churches, and lonely farms, inwhose interiors it is comfortable and good to dwell, where the familystand in a circle round the table covered with steaming dishes, whilethe prayer is spoken by the mouth of the youngest child, and where apious song is sung morning and evening: I have heard it, and I haveseen it, when I was yet small, from my nest under the roof. Come, come ! cries the restless Sea-Gull, flying impatiently roundin a circle. Follow me to the Scheeren, where thousands of islands,covered with pine trees, lie along the coast like flower-beds, and wherethe fisherman draws the full net from the TUK TKAVELLEKS. Sit down between our outspread wings, sing the wild Swans ; wewill carry you to the great lakes, to the ever-rushing, swift-flowingmountain stream, where the oak no longer flourishes, and even the birchis dwarfed. Sit down between our outspread wings—we soar aloft uponSulitelma, the Eye of the Islands, as they call the mountain ; we flyfrom the valley green in the smile of spring, over the drifts of snow, upto the mountains, from whose tall summits you may behold the NorthSea stretching out beyond Norway. We fly to Jamteland, with itslofty blue mountains, where the waterfalls foam, where the beacon firesblaze up as signals from shore to shore to tell that people are waitingfor the ferry. Up to the deep, cold, hurrying waters, which in theheight of summer see not the sun go down—where the evening red isthe morning dawn. Thus sing the birds. Shall we take their song to heart, and followthem, at least for a space ? We will not seat oursel
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