Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Margarita Celsing
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You dear old men, you gave me good gifts in
the old days. You brought the first knowledge of
life’s many vicissitudes to one living in great
loneliness. I saw you take part in mighty battles round
the lake of my childhood’s dreams. But what have
I given you?
Still it may please you that your name will be
mentioned in connection with the dear old places.
May all the splendor which belonged to your lives
descend upon the country where you lived! Borg
still stånds and Björne, and Ekeby still lies beside
the Löfven, beautifully surrounded by the rapids
and the lake and park and smiling forest meadows,
and when you stånd on its broad balconies the old
legends swarm round you like summer bees.
But speaking of bees, let me tell you one more
old story. Little Ruster, who, as drummer-boy,
marched at the head of the Swedish army when it
entered Germany in 1813, was never tired of
describing the wonderful country in the south. The
people there were as tall as steeples, the swallows
as big as eagles, the bees as large as geese.
“Well, and the beehives?”
“Oh, the beehives were just like our own beehives.”
“How did the bees get into them?”
“Well, that was their own affair,” said little
Ruster.
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