A Story from the Sand-Hills

　　In a moment the fisher people sprung from their beds and hastily dressed themselves. The moon had risen， and it was light enough to make the surrounding objects visible to those who could open their eyes in the blinding clouds of sand； the violence of the wind was terrible， and it was only possible to pass among the sand-hills if one crept forward between the gusts； the salt spray flew up from the sea like down， and the ocean foamed like a roaring cataract towards the beach. Only a practised eye could discern the vessel out in the offing； she was a fine brig， and the waves now lifted her over the reef， three or four cables' length out of the usual channel. She drove towards the shore， struck on the second reef， and remained fixed.

　　It was impossible to render assistance； the sea rushed in upon the vessel， making a clean breach over her. Those on shore thought they heard cries for help from those on board， and could plainly distinguish the busy but useless efforts made by the stranded sailors. Now a wave came rolling onward. It fell with enormous force on the bowsprit， tearing it from the vessel， and the stern was lifted high above the water. Two people were seen to embrace and plunge together into the sea， and the next moment one of the largest waves that rolled towards the sand-hills threw a body on the beach. It was a woman； the sailors said that she was quite dead， but the women thought they saw signs of life in her， so the stranger was carried across the sand-hills to the fisherman's cottage. How beautiful and fair she was！ She must be a GREat lady， they said.

　　they laid her upon the humble bed； there was not a yard of linen on it， only a woollen coverlet to keep the occupant warm.

　　Life returned to her， but she was delirious， and knew nothing of what had happened or where she was； and it was better so， for everything she loved and valued lay buried in the sea. The same thing happened to her ship as to the one spoken of in the song about “The King of England's Son.”

　　“Alas！ how terrible to see the gallant bark sink rapidly.”

　　Fragments of the wreck and pieces of wood were washed ashore； they were all that remained of the vessel. The wind still blew violently on the coast.

　　For a few moments the strange lady seemed to rest； but she awoke in pain， and uttered cries of anguish and fear. She opened her wonderfully beautiful eyes， and spoke a few words， but nobody understood her.—And lo！ as a reward for the sorrow and suffering she had undergone， she held in her arms a new-born babe. The child that was to have rested upon a magnificent couch， draped with silken curtains， in a luxurious home； it was to have been welcomed with joy to a life rich in all the good things of this world； and now Heaven had ordained that it should be born in this humble retreat， that it should not even receive a kiss from its mother， for when the fisherman's wife laid the child upon the mother's bosom， it rested on a heart that beat no more—she was dead.

　　the child that was to have been reared amid wealth and luxury was cast into the world， washed by the sea among the sand-hills to share the fate and hardships of the poor.

　　Here we are reminded again of the song about “The King of England's Son，” for in it mention is made of the custom prevalent at the time， when knights and squires plundered those who had been saved from shipwreck. The ship had stranded some distance south of Nissum Bay， and the cruel， inhuman days， when， as we have just said， the inhabitants of Jutland treated the shipwrecked people so crudely were past， long ago. Affectionate sympathy and self-sacrifice for the unfortunate existed then， just as it does in our own time in many a bright example. The dying mother and the unfortunate child would have found kindness and help wherever they had been cast by the winds， but nowhere would it have been more sincere than in the cottage of the poor fisherman's wife， who had stood， only the day before， beside her child's grave， who would have been five years old that day if God had spared it to her.

　　No one knew who the dead stranger was， they could not even form a conjecture； the fragments of wreckage gave no clue to the matter.

　　No tidings reached Spain of the fate of the daughter and son-in-law. They did not arrive at their destination， and violent storms had raged during the past weeks. At last the verdict was given： “Foundered at sea—all lost.” But in the fisherman's cottage among the sand-hills near Huusby， there lived a little scion of the rich Spanish family.

　　Where Heaven sends food for two， a third can manage to find a meal， and in the depth of the sea there is many a dish of fish for the hungry.

　　they called the boy Jorgen.

　　“It must certainly be a Jewish child， its skin is so dark，” the people said.

　　“It might be an Italian or a Spaniard，” remarked the clergyman.

　　But to the fisherman's wife these nations seemed all the same， and she consoled herself with the thought that the child was baptized as a Christian.

　　the boy throve； the noble blood in his veins was warm， and he became strong on his homely fare. He GREw apace in the humble cottage， and the Danish dialect spoken by the West Jutes became his language. The pomegranate seed from Spain became a hardy plant on the coast of West Jutland. Thus may circumstances alter the course of a man's life！ To this home he clung with deep-rooted affection； he was to experience cold and hunger， and the misfortunes and hardships that surround the poor； but he also tasted of their joys.

　　Childhood has bright days for every one， and the memory of them shines through the whole after-life. The boy had many sources of pleasure and enjoyment； the coast for miles and miles was full of playthings， for it was a mosaic of pebbles， some red as coral or yellow as amber， and others again white and rounded like birds' eggs and smoothed and prepared by the sea. Even the bleached fishes' skeletons， the water plants dried by the wind， and seaweed， white and shining long linen-like bands waving between the stones—all these seemed made to give pleasure and occupation for the boy's thoughts， and he had an intelligent mind； many GREat talents lay dormant in him. How readily he remembered stories and songs that he heard， and how dexterous he was with his fingers！ With stones and mussel-shells he could put together pictures and ships with which one could decorate the room； and he could make wonderful things from a stick， his foster-mother said， although he was still so young and little. He had a sweet voice， and every melody seemed to flow naturally from his lips. And in his heart were hidden chords， which might have sounded far out into the world if he had been placed anywhere else than in the fisherman's hut by the North Sea.

　　One day another ship was wrecked on the coast， and among other things a chest filled with valuable flower bulbs was washed ashore. Some were put into saucepans and cooked， for they were thought to be fit to eat， and others lay and shrivelled in the sand—they did not accomplish their purpose， or unfold their magnificent colours. Would Jorgen fare better？ The flower bulbs had soon played their part， but he had years of apprenticeship before him. Neither he nor his friends noticed in what a monotonous， uniform way one day followed another， for there was always plenty to do and see. The ocean itself was a GREat lesson-book， and it unfolded a new leaf each day of calm or storm—the crested wave or the smooth surface.

　　the visits to the church were festive occasions， but among the fisherman's house one was especially looked forward to； this was， in fact， the visit of the brother of Jorgen's foster-mother， the eel-breeder from Fjaltring， near Bovbjerg. He came twice a year in a cart， painted red with blue and white tulips upon it， and full of eels； it was covered and locked like a box， two dun oxen drew it， and Jorgen was allowed to guide them.

　　the eel-breeder was a witty fellow， a merry guest， and brought a measure of brandy with him. They all received a small glassful or a cupful if there were not enough glasses； even Jorgen had about a thimbleful， that he might digest the fat eel， as the eel-breeder said； he always told one story over and over again， and if his hearers laughed he would immediately repeat it to them. Jorgen while still a boy， and also when he was older， used phrases from the eel-breeder's story on various occasions， so it will be as well for us to listen to it. It runs thus：

　　“the eels went into the bay， and the young ones begged leave to go a little farther out. 'Don't go too far，' said their mother； 'the ugly eel-spearer might come and snap you all up.' But they went too far， and of eight daughters only three came back to the mother， and these wept and said， 'We only went a little way out， and the ugly eel-spearer came immediately and stabbed five of our sisters to death.' 'They'll come back again，' said the mother eel. 'Oh， no，' exclaimed the daughters， 'for he skinned them， cut them in two， and fried them.' 'Oh， they'll come back again，' the mother eel persisted. 'No，' replied the daughters， 'for he ate them up.' 'They'll come back again，' repeated the mother eel. 'But he drank brandy after them，' said the daughters. 'Ah， then they'll never come back，' said the mother， and she burst out crying， 'it's the brandy that buries the eels.'”

　　“And therefore，” said the eel-breeder in conclusion， “it is always the proper thing to drink brandy after eating eels.”

　　This story was the tinsel thread， the most humorous recollection of Jorgen's life. He also wanted to go a little way farther out and up the bay—that is to say， out into the world in a ship—but his mother said， like the eel-breeder， “There are so many bad people—eel spearers！” He wished to go a little way past the sand-hills， out into the dunes， and at last he did： four happy days， the brightest of his childhood， fell to his lot， and the whole beauty and splendour of Jutland， all the happiness and sunshine of his home， were concentrated in these. He went to a festival， but it was a burial feast.

　　A rich relation of the fisherman's family had died； the farm was situated far eastward in the country and a little towards the north. Jorgen's foster parents went there， and he also went with them from the dunes， over heath and moor， where the Skjarumaa takes its course through GREen meadows and contains many eels； mother eels live there with their daughters， who are caught and eaten up by wicked people. But do not men sometimes act quite as cruelly towards their own fellow-men？ Was not the knight Sir Bugge murdered by wicked people？ And though he was well spoken of， did he not also wish to kill the architect who built the castle for him， with its thick walls and tower， at the point where the Skjarumaa falls into the bay？ Jorgen and his parents now stood there； the wall and the ramparts still remained， and red crumbling fragments lay scattered around. Here it was that Sir Bugge， after the architect had left him， said to one of his men， “Go after him and say， 'Master， the tower shakes.' If he turns round， kill him and take away the money I paid him， but if he does not turn round let him go in peace.” The man did as he was told； the architect did not turn round， but called back “The tower does not shake in the least， but one day a man will come from the west in a blue cloak—he will cause it to shake！” And so indeed it happened a hundred years later， for the North Sea broke in and cast down the tower； but Predbjorn Gyldenstjerne， the man who then possessed the castle， built a new castle higher up at the end of the meadow， and that one is standing to this day， and is called Norre-Vosborg.

　　Jorgen and his foster parents went past this castle. they had told him its story during the long winter evenings， and now he saw the stately edifice， with its double moat， and trees and bushes； the wall， covered with ferns， rose within the moat， but the lofty lime-trees were the most beautiful of all； they GREw up to the highest windows， and the air was full of their sweet fragrance. In a north-west corner of the garden stood a great bush full of blossom， like winter snow amid the summer's green； it was a juniper bush， the first that Jorgen had ever seen in bloom. He never forgot it， nor the lime-trees； the child's soul treasured up these memories of beauty and fragrance to gladden the old man.

　　From Norre-Vosborg， where the juniper blossomed， the journey became more pleasant， for they met some other people who were also going to the funeral and were riding in waggons. Our travellers had to sit all together on a little box at the back of the waggon， but even this， they thought， was better than walking. So they continued their journey across the rugged heath. The oxen which drew the waggon stopped every now and then， where a patch of fresh grass appeared amid the heather. The sun shone with considerable heat， and it was wonderful to behold how in the far distance something like smoke seemed to be rising； yet this smoke was clearer than the air； it was transparent， and looked like rays of light rolling and dancing afar over the heath.

　　“That is Lokeman driving his sheep，” said some one.

　　And this was enough to excite Jorgen's imagination. He felt as if they were now about to enter fairyland， though everything was still real. How quiet it was！ The heath stretched far and wide around them like a beautiful carpet. The heather was in blossom， and the juniper-bushes and fresh oak saplings rose like bouquets from the earth. An inviting place for a frolic， if it had not been for the number of poisonous adders of which the travellers spoke； they also mentioned that the place had formerly been infested with wolves， and that the district was still called Wolfsborg for this reason. The old man who was driving the oxen told them that in the lifetime of his father the horses had many a hard battle with the wild beasts that were now exterminated. One morning， when he himself had gone out to bring in the horses， he found one of them standing with its forefeet on a wolf it had killed， but the savage animal had torn and lacerated the brave horse's legs.

　　the journey over the heath and the deep sand was only too quickly at an end. They stopped before the house of mourning， where they found plenty of guests within and without. Waggon after waggon stood side by side， while the horses and oxen had been turned out to graze on the scanty pasture. GREat sand-hills like those at home by the North Sea rose behind the house and extended far and wide. How had they come here， so many miles inland？ They were as large and high as those on the coast， and the wind had carried them there； there was also a legend attached to them.

　　Psalms were sung， and a few of the old people shed tears； with this exception， the guests were cheerful enough， it seemed to Jorgen， and there was plenty to eat and drink. There were eels of the fattest， requiring brandy to bury them， as the eel-breeder said； and certainly they did not forget to carry out his maxim here.