. Stories for the household . archment roll before her, and wrote down the oldrecollections in song and legend, while near her stood the old womanfrom the wood, and the travelling pedlar who went wandering throughthe country. As these told their tales, there fluttered around them, CGG 2 82C Stories firr the Household. with twittering and song, the Bird of Popular Song, who never dies solong as the earth has a hill upon which his foot may rest. And now he looks in upon us and sings. Without are the night andthe snow-storm : he lays the Runes beneath our tongues, and we knowthe land of our home.
. Stories for the household . archment roll before her, and wrote down the oldrecollections in song and legend, while near her stood the old womanfrom the wood, and the travelling pedlar who went wandering throughthe country. As these told their tales, there fluttered around them, CGG 2 82C Stories firr the Household. with twittering and song, the Bird of Popular Song, who never dies solong as the earth has a hill upon which his foot may rest. And now he looks in upon us and sings. Without are the night andthe snow-storm : he lays the Runes beneath our tongues, and we knowthe land of our home. Heaven speaks to us in our native tongue, inthe voice of the Bird of Popular Song: the old remembrances awake,the faded colours glow with a fresh lustre, and story and song pour usa blessed draught which lifts up our minds and our thoughts, so thatthe evening becomes as a Christmas festival. The snow-flakes chase each other, the ice cracks, the storm rules with-out, for he has the might, he is lord—but not the LOED OF THE SNOW-STOEM. It is winter-time. The wind is sharp as a two-edged sword, the snow-flakes chase each other: it seemed as though it had been snowing fordays and weeks, and the snow lies like a great mountain over the wholetown, like a heavy dream of the winter night. Everything on the earthis hidden away, only the golden cross of the church, the symbol of faith,arises over the snow grave, and gleams in the blue air and in the brightsunshine. And over the buried town fly the birds of heaven, the small and thegreat; they twitter and they sing as best they may, each bird with hisbeak. First comes the baud of sparrows: they pipe at every trifle in thestreets and lanes, in the nests and the houses ; they have stories to telLabout the front buildings and the back buildings. We know the buried town, they say; everything living in it ispiep! piep ! piep ! The black ravens and crows flew on over the white snow. Grub, grub ! they cried. There s something to be got
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