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Updated: May 24, 2025
"No, little sister's to have them when she comes." "If it is a girl," put in Lasse Frederik. "When's little sister coming?" "In the spring when the stork comes back to the farm; he'll bring her with him." "Pooh! The stork!" said Lasse Frederik contemptuously. "What a pack of nonsense!" Sister too was wiser than that.
The Hasle trooper and parson were the leaders; but their secret was well kept. With the tidings that the Dutch fleet had forced its way through to Copenhagen with aid for the besieged, and had bottled the Swedish ships up in Landskrona, came a letter purporting to be from King Frederik himself, encouraging the people to rise.
Ellen had so much to tell him when she had him to herself. The child lay staring up into the sky with its dark eyes that were the image of Ellen's. He was brown and chubby; any one could see that he had been conceived in sunshine and love. Lasse Frederik was sitting by the hedge painting a picture that Pelle was not to see until it was finished. He went to the drawing-school now, and was clever.
In Holmens Kirke, where this hero lies buried, a splendid black marble tomb has been erected to his memory by King Frederik IV. Near by lies another naval hero, Niels Juel, whose gilt and copper coffin is surmounted by a tablet which tells of his brave deeds. Captain Hvitfeldt, the hero of Kjöge Bay, blew up his ship with three hundred men to save the Danish fleet from destruction.
He was vexed at his behavior of the day before, and perhaps expected a blowing-up. On a nail above his head hung his blouse and cap. "Is Lasse Frederik a milk-boy?" asked Pelle. "Yes," said Ellen, "and he's very good at it. The drivers praise him." "Isn't he going to get up then, and go? I've met several milk-carts." "No, for we're on strike just now," murmured the boy without turning round.
Footmarks I call them; and so they were, literally, for there were only the prints of a single foot to be seen on the banks of sand, and between them, a series of small, round, deep holes. "What kind of a bird made those marks, Frederik?" I asked my faithful guide. "That is old Pedersen," he said, "with his wooden leg. He makes a dot after every step. We shall catch him in a little while."
The younger son, Frederik, who was just out of his apprenticeship, was as delighted as a child to think of the day when he should become a journeyman and be able to drink brotherhood with the old man.
Now he wheeled the carriage in which Boy Comfort sat in state; and when Sister grew tired she was placed upon the apron with her legs hanging down. They went in a different direction each time, and came to places that even Lasse Frederik did not know.
With all his faults and foibles, Frederik VII was always in manner the Father of his people; always the graceful superior; head up and shoulders well back, patronisingly and affectionately waving his hand: "Thank you, my children, thank you! And now go home and say 'Good-morning' to your wives and children from the King!"
He took the opportunity of telling them that the capital had a population of half a million. "Have you counted them, father?" exclaimed Sister, in perplexity, taking hold of his sleeve. "Why, of course father hasn't, you little donkey!" said Lasse Frederik. "One might be born while he was counting!" Then they were at the cock again, which both began and ended the book.
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