Tales From Two Hemispheres | Page 5

in his Norse innocence he took for mothers or aunts of the chil-
dren, wheeling baby-carriages which to Norse eyes seemed miracles of
dainty ingenuity, under the shady crowns of the elm-trees. He did not
know how long he had been sitting there, when a little bright-eyed girl

with light kid gloves, a small blue parasol and a blue polonaise, quite a
lady of fashion en miniature, stopped in front of him and stared at him
in shy wonder. He had always been fond of children, and often rejoiced
in their affectionate ways and confidential prattle, and now it suddenly
touched him with a warm sense of human fellowship to have this little
daintily befrilled and crisply starched beauty single him out for notice
among the hundreds who reclined in the arbors, or sauntered to and fro
under the great trees.
[1] "I am a Dane. I speak Danish."

"What is your name, my little girl?" he asked, in a tone of friendly
interest.
"Clara," answered the child, hesitatingly; then, having by another look
assured herself of his harmlessness, she added: "How very funny you
speak!"
"Yes," he said, stooping down to take he tiny begloved hand. "I do not
speak as well as you do, yet; but I shall soon learn."
Clara looked puzzled.
"How old are you?" she asked, raising her parasol, and throwing back
her head with an air of superiority.
"I am twenty-four years old."
She began to count half aloud on her fingers: "One, two, three, four,"
but, before she reached twenty, she lost her patience.
"Twenty-four," she exclaimed, "that is a great deal. I am only seven,
and papa gave me a pony on my birthday. Have you got a pony?"
"No; I have nothing but what is in this valise, and you know I could not
very well get a pony into it."

Clara glanced curiously at the valise and laughed; then suddenly she
grew serious again, put her hand into her pocket and seemed to be
searching eagerly for something. Presently she hauled out a small
porcelain doll's head, then a red-painted block with letters on it, and at
last a penny.
"Do you want them?" she said, reaching him her treasures in both
hands. "You may have them all."
Before he had time to answer, a shrill, penetrating voice cried out:
"Why, gracious! child, what are you doing ? "
And the nurse, who had been deeply absorbed in "The New York
Ledger," came rushing up, snatched the child away, and retreated as
hastily as she had come.
Halfdan rose and wandered for hours aimlessly along the intertwining
roads and footpaths. He visited the menageries, admired the statues,
took a very light dinner, consisting of coffee, sandwiches, and ice, at
the Chinese Pavilion, and, toward evening, discovered an inviting leafy
arbor, where he could withdraw into the privacy of his own thoughts,
and ponder upon the still unsolved problem of his destiny. The little
incident with the child had taken the edge off his unhappiness and
turned him into a more conciliatory mood toward himself and the great
pitiless world, which seemed to take so little notice of him. And he,
who had come here with so warm a heart and so ardent a will to join in
the great work of human advancement--to find himself thus harshly
ignored and buffeted about, as if he were a hostile intruder! Before him
lay the huge unknown city where human life pulsated with large, full
heart-throbs, where a breathless, weird intensity, a cold, fierce passion
seemed to be hurrying everything onward in a maddening whirl, where
a gentle, warm- blooded enthusiast like himself had no place and could
expect naught but a speedy destruction. A strange, unconquerable dread
took possession of him, as if he had been caught in a swift, strong
whirlpool, from which he vainly struggled to escape. He crouched
down among the foliage and shuddered. He could not return to the city.
No, no: he never would return. He would remain here hidden and

unseen until morning, and then he would seek a vessel bound for his
dear native land, where the great mountains loomed up in serene
majesty toward the blue sky, where the pine-forests whispered their
dreamily sympathetic legends, in the long summer twilights, where
human existence flowed on in calm beauty with the modest aims, small
virtues, and small vices which were the happiness of modest, idyllic
souls. He even saw himself in spirit recounting to his astonished
countrymen the wonderful things he had heard and seen during his
foreign pilgrimage, and smiled to himself as he imagined their wonder
when he should tell them about the beautiful little girl who had been
the first and only one to offer him a friendly greeting in the strange land.
During