when the wind sweeps across the grass, the field has a ripple like a pond, and when it sweeps across the corn the field waves to and fro like a high sea. that is called the wind's dance; but the wind does not dance only, he also tells stories; and how loudly he can sing out of his deep chest, and how different it sounds in the tree-tops in the forest, and through the loopholes and clefts and cracks in walls! do you see how the wind drives the clouds up yonder, like a frightened flock of sheep? do you hear how the wind howls down here through the open valley, like a watchman blowing his horn? with wonderful tones he whistles and screams down the chimney and into the fireplace. the fire crackles and flares up, and shines far into the room, and the little place is warm and snug, and it is pleasant to sit there listening to the sounds. let the wind speak, for he knows plenty of stories and fairy tales, many more than are known to any of us. just hear what the wind can tell.

huh--uh--ush! roar along! that is the burden of the song.

"by the shores of the great belt, one of the straits that unite the cattegut with the baltic, lies an old mansion with thick red walls," says the wind. "i know every stone in it; i saw it when it still belonged to the castle of marsk stig on the promontory. but it had to be pulled down, and the stone was used again for the walls of a new mansion in another place, the baronial mansion of borreby, which still stands by the coast.

"i knew them, the noble lords and ladies, the changing races that dwelt there, and now i'm going to tell about waldemar daa and his daughters. how proudly he carried himself--he was of royal blood! he could do more than merely hunt the stag and empty the wine-can. 'it _shall_ be done,' he was accustomed to say.

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