The free press., 1895-12-05
Sylyelin's Home Coming.

IOul ny Ia! LODl hyTu! LIS
cow-call cut fresh and clear through
the air like an arrow. 1t stirred the
birds even in the highest tree-tops till
the air was alive with song. But the
fresh, girlish voice rang above all of
it, till even the birds stopped to listen.
1t cut far across the fields to where
the laborers were busy hay-making,
and one by one they rested their rakes
to listen too.
".Ah, it be Karl Baekkeliens Sylve-
ln," said Johan Crane, and his kind
| old face shone with pleasure.
"H'm! And a useless piece O. goods
she be, too! What be the use o that
lassie with her fairy tales and songs?
Who milks the cows at eventide, I'd
| like to know, she or her old Grannie?
! Not she, 1 tell ye, Johan. She sits
hid behind the barn door, reading
some tales o fiction, fit to turn any
sensible thinking power crazed, 1 war
rant ye, she will end sadly, that las
sie."
"Well, Trine, maybe as she be bit
queer, but her heart is in the right
place. Come next Christmas a
twelvemonth | Was too that bad, ye
will recollect, / most thought my time
had come, and L verify believe /
shouldna ha turned and cared to live,
if it hadna been for that wee bit o
lassie coming to cheer me III all kinds
O weather, with her fancy tales and
song-song, 1 tell ye, that if one
could shut it into ones life would
make long to live it twice over"
Jorgen Thoresoa was standing on
the other side of the field. He, too,
vas resting his rake to listen to the
song that scared above them in tan
talizing strain, half mocking, half
pathetic in its quaint rhyme.
When he saw the others were alb
sorbed in work, he threw down his
rake and sped up the slope. He knew
where to find Sylvelin. He was one
Of the few who dared to join her in
her hidden retreat up among the
branches of an old apple-tree, where
they had played since they were chill
dren together.
As he neared, the song ceased. He
stopped behind some bushes and
peeped through. Yes, there was Syl-
velin, but not up among the branches.
She was lying on her back under the
apple-tree. Her shoes and stockings
We're thrown on moss covered stone
in the middle of the brooklet. She
was laughing to herself in a happy.
cooing way, and the sad gurgle from
The brooklet joined in, till it sounded
like soft ripple of laughter, and
tears mingled in low-to song
She shook the tree now and again,
by pressing her feet with her whole
force against the stem, till the apples
came pelting down on her; then she
laughed, to drown the brooklet's gur-
gle
Suddenly she got up, placed a
wreath of briar roses and forget-me-
bots on her head, and sat down by
The brooklet. She gathered butter
cups awhile, picking off their petals
il her lap was one mass of golden
caves.
Then she filled both hands, and
prinkled them over her head and
orm, stopped over the brooklet and
nodded to her rosy, merry face, that
aughed back at her from mass OF
lowers and gold, as from II wrought
fame. Then she repeated softly to
herself:
''Sylvelin, slender,
Sylvelin, fair,
Wove wreath of roses
In her golden hair,
Looked into the brooklet,
That twined the flowers among,
Nodded to her image,
And sang merry song!
~ s'Sylvelin, slender,
Sylvelin, fair,
Why have you twined the roses
nyour golden hair?
Why does your pretty image
Look back at You so gay?
All some one in the meadow
VIII meet his love today!"