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Updated: May 19, 2025
Early one morning a snow-slip landed on the cabin on the Point, burying both father and son. By some inexplicable means little Snjolfur managed to scratch his way out of the drift. As soon as he realised that for all his efforts he could not dig his father out single-handed, he raced off to the village and got people out of their beds.
Then little Snjolfur came to the heart of the if he let out the use of the landing-place on the Point to the factor for the coming summer how much would he be willing to pay to have his Faroese crews land their catches there? Only for the coming summer, mind! Wouldn't it be more straightforward if I bought the Point from you? asked the factor, doing his best to conceal his amusement.
He had to stay at home through days of unrelieved torment and agony. There had been no one to look after him while he was too small to go off in the boat with his father, and old Snjolfur was forced to tie the boy to the bed-post to keep him out of danger in his absence. Old Snjolfur could not sit at home all the time: he had to get something to put in the pot.
The boy had more vivid memories of happier times, smiling summer days on a sea glittering in the sunshine. He remembered sitting in the stern and watching his father pulling in the gleaming fish. But even those times were mingled with bitterness, for there were days when the sky wept and old Snjolfur rowed out alone.
It looked as if little Snjolfur was ready for this answer, and indeed his errand was now at an end, but he asked the factor to come out with him round the corner of the store. They went out, the boy in front, and onto the pebble-bank nearby. The boy stopped at a stone lying there, got a grip of it, lifted it without any obvious exertion and heaved it away from him. Then he turned to the factor.
The two of them lived just outside the They were both called Snjolfur, and they usually distinguished as old Snjolfur and little Snjolfur. They themselves, however, addressed each other only as Snjolfur. This was a habit of long standing: it may be that, having the same name, they felt themselves bound still more firmly together by using it unqualified in this way.
Old Snjolfur was something over fifty, little Snjolfur only just over twelve. They were close together, the pair of them each felt lost without the other. It had been like that ever since little Snjolfur could remember. His father could look further back.
Little Snjolfur stoutly rejected this suggestion he didn't want that. Then I have no home if I sell the Point, I mean. The factor tried to get him to see that he could not live there in any case, by himself, destitute, in the open. They will not allow it, my boy.
I don't know what the funeral will cost yet, replied the orphan in worried tones. At any rate I should need enough to pay for Snjolfur's funeral. Then I should count myself lucky. Then let's say that, struck in the factor, and went on to say that he would see about the coffin and everything there was no need for little Snjolfur to fret about it any more.
They could row most ways from there I'm not exaggerating they had to stay at home time and time again last summer, when it was easy for Snjolfur and me to put off. There's a world of difference between a deep-water landing-place and a shallow-water one that's what Snjolfur said many a time. The factor asked his visitor what price he had thought of putting on it for the summer.
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