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Updated: June 4, 2025
Tota was taking care of the little boy, but little Imba was sitting silent beside the stove. Mamma had gone away. Torfi Torfason patched up the door, patched up the walls, all that day, and carried in wood. In the evening, the little girls bring him porridge, bread, and a slice of meat. The little boy frets and cries.
The tiny kerosene lamp burned in the window, but the frost flowers bloomed on the window-panes. It seems to me it can get cold here, no less than at home, said Torfi Torfason presently. Do you remember what fun it often was when guests came in the evening? There would be sure to be talk about the sheep at this time of the autumn on our farm.
So this was what had to happen to Torfi Torfason, renowned as a man of peace, who had never harmed a living creature to throw a man out of his own house, hurl him out on the frozen ground in the middle of the night, and all for one she-dog. Perhaps I have even killed him, Torfi thought, but that's the end of that that's how it had to be. To think that I ever moved to New Iceland!
Well, it takes all kinds to make a world, said Torfi Torfason. And he took off his pack and sat down in the snow with his legs stretched out in front of him. In the mouth of the pack there was something that little Tota had scraped together for her papa on the trip. And then the bitch began to wag her tail back and forth in the snow and gaze with lustful eyes at the mouth of the pack.
Then Torfi Torfason gets up, gropes his way out through the hall, lets the bitch in, and she crawls at once over her pups. After that he lies down to sleep. But he has not lain long when he is aroused by somebody walking about and he can not figure out why.
She's going on fourteen now, Tota is. I could perhaps manage to send home a mess of fish once in a while, said Torfi Torfason. This was an evening early in November, snow had fallen on the woods, the swamps were frozen over. They spoke no more of their parting. Jon Sigurdsson grinned out into the room, and the calendar girl with the wide-brimmed hat laid her blessing upon the sleeping children.
Around their heads, they had tied Icelandic woollen shawls. They say they are such good walkers. They intend to take lodging somewhere for the night for their pennies. When the women had disappeared, Torfi Torfason looked into the cabin where they had drunk their last drop of coffee, and the mugs were still standing unwashed on the ledge.
Oh, that's just a notion, said Torfi Torfason, spitting through his teeth, although he had long since given up chewing. Why shouldn't the cows here be up and down just the same as other cows? But there's one thing sure. I'll never get so attached to another horse again, since I sold my Skjoni ... There was a fine fellow.
But it turns out to be the fisherman, who gets up out of bed, walks out into the hall, lights the lamp, takes the bitch by the scruff of her neck for the second time and throws her out into the snow. Then he lies down to sleep again. Again the bitch begins to howl outside and the pups to whine, and Torfi Torfason gets up out of bed, lets the bitch in to the pups again, and again lies down.
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