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Updated: May 1, 2025
She lay silent for a little while, getting her breath, while she gazed at a withered bunch of heather hanging from a beam. "He gathered that for me the first time we lay in the flowering heather. He was so uncommonly fond of the heather, was Anders, and every year when it flowered, he took me out of my bed and carried me out there every year until he was called away.
Bengta and Anders had some difficulty in agreeing; they quarrelled every other minute, but they did not mean much by it. And Karna made herself agreeable. They descended into a swamp, and went up again by a steep ascent where the great trees stood with their feet in one another's necks. Pelle leaped about everywhere like a young kid.
"Tell them," said Captain Vane to Anders, the Eskimo interpreter, "that these are the machines that drive the ship along when there is no wind." He pointed down the hatchway, where the complication of rods and cranks glistened in the hold. "Huk!" exclaimed the Eskimos.
"Who sent Lasse for gin?" he asked sternly. They looked at one another as if not understanding. "Is Lasse out?" asked Mons then, with the most innocent look in the world. "Ay, the old man's fond of spirits," said Anders, in explanation. "Oh, yes; you're good comrades!" said the bailiff. "First you make the old man go, and then you leave him in the lurch. You deserve a thrashing, all of you."
After these achievements the wind plunged down into the heather, ran along the deep ditches, and took a substantial grip of the mail-coach, which it met half a mile from the town. 'He is always in a devil of a hurry to get to Krarup Kro! growled Anders, the postboy, cracking his whip over the perspiring horses.
"Oh, nonsense! Tell us what it really is!" exclaimed another. "A quarter to the miller's girl," answered Anders. "Oh, what fools you are! Can't you answer properly? You, Karl Johan!" "It's short!" said Karl Johan gravely. "No, seriously now, I'll tell you what it is," exclaimed Mons innocently, drawing a great "turnip" out of his pocket.
Brangwyn as well as Anders Zorn has been called a rough-and-ready artist. For exquisite tone and pattern we must go to Whistler and his school. Brangwyn is never exquisite, though he is often poetic, even epical. Look at that Bridge, Barnard Castle. It is noble in outline, lovely in atmosphere. Or at the Old Hammersmith "swell," as the artist slang goes.
It was certain, however, that he did not often have to sing, and woe to any one who dared to say, "Sing, Anders." This was, of course, when he was young; he was now so broken down that any one could say what they liked to him. There was, therefore, no longer any pleasure in teasing him, and he was allowed to go in peace.
"Clap the women under hatches," shouted the Captain, with more good sense than refinement. Benjy, Butterface, and Anders at the word lifted a corner of their respective sheets. Obedient Toolooha, Oblooria, and Tekkona bent their meek heads and disappeared: The sheets were refastened, and the men, taking their places, held on to the cords or life-lines. It was an anxious moment.
Anders Ekman took up some wood-carving and went quietly to work; while Grandmother Ekman selected a well-worn book from the book-shelf, and seated herself in the big chair by the window to look over the Norse legends of the gods and giants. She turned the pages slowly until she found the pleasant tale of Frey, who married Gerd, the beautiful daughter of one of the frost giants.
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