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high road, stands a grass-turf house – one of the
most picturesque. It has but one window,
broader than it is high, and a wild rose branch
forms the curtain outside.
We see it in the spring. The roof is so
delightfully fresh with grass, it has quite the
tint of velvet; and close to it is the chimney,
nay, even a cherry-tree grows out of its side,
now full of flowers: the wind shakes the
leaves down on a little lamb that is tethered to
the chimney. It is the only lamb of the
family. The old dame who lives here, lifts it up
to its place herself in the morning and lifts it down
again in the evening, to give it a place in the
room. The roof can just bear the little lamb,
but not more – this is an experience and a
certainty. Last autumn – and at that time the
grass turf roofs are covered with flowers, mostly
blue and yellow, the Swedish colours – there
grew here a flower of a rare kind. It shone in
the eyes of the old Professor, who on his
botanical tour came past here. The Professor
was quickly up on the roof, and just as quick
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