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Thereupon he explained to the eagle how he had fallen into captivity and how Clement Larsson had left Skansen without setting him free. Nevertheless the eagle would not relinquish his plan. "Listen to me, Thumbietot," he said. "My wings can carry you wherever you wish to go, and my eyes can search out whatever you wish to find.
He was on his way down the steep hill leading out of Skansen, when he met an island fisherman coming along with his game bag. The fisherman was an active young man who came to Skansen with seafowl that he had managed to capture alive. Clement had met him before, many times. The fisherman stopped Clement to ask if the superintendent at Skansen was at home.
It was good to relate this to the Laplanders and Dalecarlian peasant girls at Skansen, but what was that compared to being able to tell of it at home? Even if Clement were to end in the poorhouse, it wouldn't be so hard after this. He was a totally different man from what he had been, and he would be respected and honoured in a very different way. This new yearning took possession of Clement.
He was by no means certain that the doctor would think him such a great find or would offer to pay so high a sum for him; so he accepted Clement's proffer. The fiddler poked his purchase into one of his wide pockets, turned back to Skansen, and went into a moss-covered hut, where there were neither visitors nor guards.
He gave a graphic description of Clement Larsson, and added that he had heard at Skansen that the little fiddler was from Hälsingland. "We'll search for him through the whole of Hälsingland from Ljungby to Mellansjö; from Great Mountain to Hornland," said the eagle. "To-morrow before sundown you shall have a talk with the man!"
This feeling deepened as time went on and Wednesday evening at Skansen a new note was added. All we saw of Swedish nature and Swedish life in that beautiful open air museum, the national dances, the characteristic art of Sven Scholander and his daughter Lisa, gave us a deeper understanding of the people whose guests we were and showed us some of the roots from which it draws its strength.
It may seem strange that Clement Larsson had not restored the boy's liberty, but one must remember how excited the little fiddler had been when he left Skansen. The morning of his departure he had thought of setting out the midget's food in a blue bowl, but, unluckily, he had been unable to find one.
Hazelius attempted to collect at Skansen actual types representing every industry, activity, and national trait. His thought was expressed in a motto inscribed over one of the gates of this outdoor museum: "The day will come when all our gold will not be sufficient to buy an accurate picture of the times long past."
However, none of the geese was hurt; but just there, above the boat, Prettywing opened her bill and dropped Thumbietot into the sea. A few years ago, at Skansen the great park just outside of Stockholm where they have collected so many wonderful things there lived a little old man, named Clement Larsson.
"There is no museum in all Europe like Skansen," he said at last, quite proudly; "and there are many people who come here to see it, because they cannot travel, as Gerda and I did, and see the real homes in the country." "I am one of them," said Karen. "This is the only way I shall ever see a Laplander's tent and reindeer."
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