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SKETCHES. 317
stranger’s pocket-book to Mother Bengta, in payment for
her trouble with the letter, which with real agony she en-
joined her to take good care of and to deliver without loss
of time.
She then turned again to the child, which had just awak-
ened.
“How the waterfall roars,” said the little one; “I feel
so uneasy, manima! take me upon your knee; I shall rest
better there.”
“ Wow are you, my child?” —“ Better, mamma; I have
had such a beautiful dream ; I saw an angel and a bright
light—mamiuna, you ’re weeping ; kiss me. How the water-
fall roars! sing to me the song about the North, mamma, so
that I may not hear that roar; when you sirg to nie, time
flies quicker.”
The mother sang, and when she came to the last lines,
she sang so slowly and with deep emotion : —
O thou glorious North
That a cradle me gave,
In thy well-beloved earth
Let me sleep in my grave;
With my little one dreaming
Where the snow-drifts are gleaming.
And thus she sat all night, rocking her child upon her
lap, slowly singing.
Meanwhile, Mother Bengta was trudging goose-fashion
along the road to Werna. Have you, dear reader, ever
known persons who were wonderfully clever at the trick
of losing every thing? It is a curious spectacle! They
begin, for instance, with dropping their pocket-handkerchief;
and when they stoop down to pick it up, they drop a key,
a glove, or a letter, or a memorandum-book, or the pocket-
handkerchief a second time; and if they do not drop their
nose, it is merely because they do not have it in their hands.
Mother Bengta was one of those persons, gifted with a
similar talent, and after having (on her way to Werna, be-
ginning with her garter) gone through the aforesaid drop-
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