Mogens and Other Stories | Page 3

thorn with the big, white
convolvulus, the stile, a little of the ryefield outside, finally the
councilor's flagpole on the hill, and then the sky.
It was stifling hot, the air was quivering with heat, and then it was very
quiet; the leaves were hanging from the trees as if asleep. Nothing

moved except the lady-birds and the nettles and a few withered leaves
that lay on the grass and rolled themselves up with sudden little jerks as
if they were shrinking from the sunbeams.
And then the man underneath the oak; he lay there gasping for air and
with a melancholy look stared helplessly towards the sky. He tried to
hum a tune, but gave it up; whistled, then gave that up too; turned
round, turned round again and let his eyes rest upon an old mole-hill,
that had become quite gray in the drought. Suddenly a small dark spot
appeared upon the light-gray mold, another, three, four, many, still
more, the entire mole-hill suddenly was quite dark-gray. The air was
filled with nothing but long, dark streaks, the leaves nodded and
swayed and there rose a murmur which turned into a hissing--rain was
pouring down. Everything gleamed, sparkled, spluttered. Leaves,
branches, trunks, everything shone with moisture; every little drop that
fell on earth, on grass, on the fence, on whatever it was, broke and
scattered in a thousand delicate pearls. Little drops hung for a while and
became big drops, trickled down elsewhere, joined with other drops,
formed small rivulets, disappeared into tiny furrows, ran into big holes
and out of small ones, sailed away laden with dust, chips of wood and
ragged bits of foliage, caused them to run aground, set them afloat,
whirled them round and again caused them to ground. Leaves, which
had been separated since they were in the bud, were reunited by the
flood; moss, that had almost vanished in the dryness, expanded and
became soft, crinkly, green and juicy; and gray lichens which nearly
had turned to snuff, spread their delicate ends, puffed up like brocade
and with a sheen like that of silk. The convolvuluses let their white
crowns be filled to the brim, drank healths to each other, and emptied
the water over the heads of the nettles. The fat black wood-snails
crawled forward on their stomachs with a will, and looked approvingly
towards the sky. And the man? The man was standing bareheaded in
the midst of the downpour, letting the drops revel in his hair and brows,
eyes, nose, mouth; he snapped his fingers at the rain, lifted a foot now
and again as if he were about to dance, shook his head sometimes,
when there was too much water in the hair, and sang at the top of his
voice without knowing what he was singing, so pre-occupied was he
with the rain:
Had I, oh had I a grandson, trala, And a chest with heaps and heaps of

gold, Then very likely had I had a daughter, trala, And house and home
and meadows untold.
Had I, oh had I a daughter dear, trala, And house and home and
meadows untold, Then very like had I had a sweetheart, trala. And a
chest with heaps and heaps of gold.
There he stood and sang in the rain, but yonder between the dark
hazelbushes the head of a little girl was peeping out. A long end of her
shawl of red silk had become entangled in a branch which projected a
little beyond the others, and from time to time a small hand went
forward and tugged at the end, but this had no other result, further than
to produce a little shower of rain from the branch and its neighbors.
The rest of the shawl lay close round the little girl's head and hid half of
the brow; it shaded the eyes, then turned abruptly and became lost
among the leaves, but reappeared in a big rosette of folds underneath
the girl's chin. The face of the little girl looked very astonished, she was
just about to laugh; the smile already hovered in the eyes. Suddenly he,
who stood there singing in the midst of the downpour, took a few steps
to the side, saw the red shawl, the face, the big brown eyes, the
astonished little open mouth; instantly his position became awkward, in
surprise he looked down himself; but in the same moment a small cry
was heard, the projecting branch swayed violently, the red end of the
shawl disappeared in a flash, the girl's face disappeared, and there was
a rustling and rustling further and further away behind the hazelbushes.
Then he ran. He did not know why, he did not think at all. The gay
mood, which the rainstorm had called forth, welled up