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Updated: May 31, 2025
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.
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.
Then Torfi Torfason's wife spoke again: By the way, what do you think of the cows here in America, Torfi? Don't you think they're awfully poor milkers? Somehow or other I feel as if I could never get fond of Mulley. It seems to me as if it would be impossible to let yourself get fond of a foreign cow.
So Torfi Torfason has sold his sheep and his cows and his horses, torn himself away from his land, and journeyed to America where the raisins grow all over the place and where a much brighter future awaits us and our children.
Torfi hung the picture of Jon Sigurdsson on one wall, and on another his wife hung a calendar with a picture of a girl in a wide-brimmed hat. The neighbours were helpful to them in building their cabin, making ditches, and in other ways.
After that they trudged off again with their mittens and scarfs like any other improvident wretches. Then came the winter, and what was to be done now? Torfi christened his farm Riverbank. There was only one cow at Riverbank, three children, and very little in the cupboard. The cow's name was Mulley, in spite of the fact that she had very long horns, and she was known as Riverbank Mulley.
'Nevermore. And Torfi Torfason thinks of his ewes and his cows and his horses and all that he has lost. Then all of a sudden a wretched bitch waddled out from the woods into his path. It was a vagrant bitch, as thin as a skeleton, and so big in the belly that she walked with difficulty. Her dugs dragged along the snow, for she was in pup.
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