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安徒生童話故事第138篇：家禽格麗德的一家Poultry Meg’s Family
引導語：童話是每個孩子必看的書，童話界最出名的則是《安徒生童話》和《格林童話》下面是小編收集的著名童話作家安徒生的《家禽格麗德的一家》童話故事，歡迎大家閱讀!
家禽格麗德是住在那座漂亮的新房子里唯一的人，這是田莊上專門為雞鴨而建筑的一座房子。它位于一個古老的騎士堡寨旁邊。堡寨有塔、鋸齒形的山形墻、壕溝和吊橋。鄰近是一片荒涼的樹林和灌木林，這兒曾經有一個花園。它一直伸展到一個大湖旁邊——這湖現在已經變成了一塊沼地。白嘴鴉、烏鴉和穴烏在這些老樹上飛翔和狂叫——簡直可以說是一群烏合之眾。它們的數目從不減少;雖然常常有人在打它們，它們倒老是在增多起來，住在雞屋里的人都能夠聽到它們的聲音。家禽格麗德就坐在雞屋里;許多小鴨在她的木鞋上跑來跑去。每只雞、每只鴨子，從蛋殼里爬出來的那天起，她統統都認識。她對于這些雞和鴨都感到驕傲，對于專為它們建造的這座房子也感到驕傲。
她自己的那個小房間也是清潔整齊的。這個房子的女主人也希望它是這樣。她常常帶些貴客到這兒來，把這座她所謂的“雞鴨的營房”指給他們看。
這兒有一個衣櫥和安樂椅，甚至還有一個碗柜。柜子上有一個擦得很亮的黃銅盤子，上面刻著“格魯布”這幾個字。這是一位曾經在這兒住過的老貴族的族名。這個黃銅盤子是人們在這兒掘土時發現的。鄉里的牧師說，它除了作為古時的一個紀念物以外，沒有什么別的價值。這塊地方及其歷史，牧師知道得清清楚楚，因為他從書本子上學到許多東西，而且他的抽屜里還存著一大堆手稿呢。因此他對古時的知識非常豐富。不過最老的烏鴉可能比他知道得還多，而且還能用它們自己的語言講出來。當然這是烏鴉的語言，不管牧師怎樣聰明，他是聽不懂的。
每當一個炎熱的夏天過去以后，沼地就就會冒出許多蒸汽，因此在那些許多白嘴鴉、烏鴉和穴烏飛翔的地方——在那些古樹面前——就好像有一個湖出現。這種情形，在騎士格魯布還住在這兒的時候，當那座有很厚的紅墻的公館還存在的時候，就一直沒有改變過。在那個時候，狗的鏈子很長，可以一直拖到大門口。要走進通到各個房間的石鋪走廊，人們得先從塔上走下去。窗子是很小的，窗玻璃很窄，即使那些經常開舞會的大廳也是這樣。不過當格魯布的最后一代還活著的時候，人們卻記不起那些曾經舉行過的舞會了。然而這兒卻留下一個銅鼓;人們曾把它當做樂器使過。這兒還有一個刻有許多精致花紋的碗柜，它里面藏有許多稀有的花根，因為格魯布夫人喜歡弄園藝，栽種樹木和植物。她的丈夫喜歡騎著馬到外面去射狼和野豬，而且他的小女兒總是跟著他一道去的。她還不過只有五歲的時候，她就驕傲地騎在馬上，用她的一對又黑又大的眼睛向四面望。她最喜歡在獵犬群中響著鞭子。但是爸爸卻希望她能在那些跑來參觀主人的農奴孩子的頭上響著鞭子。
在這座公館近鄰的一個土屋里住著一個農夫，他有一個名叫蘇倫的兒子。這孩子年齡跟這位小貴族姑娘差不多。他會爬樹;他常常爬上去為她取下雀窠。鳥兒拼命地大叫;有一只最大的鳥還啄了他的一只眼睛，弄得血流滿面;大家都以為這只眼睛會瞎的，事實上它并沒有受到多大的損傷。
瑪莉·格魯布把他稱為她的蘇倫，這是一件極大的恩寵;對于他可憐的父親約恩說來，這要算是一件幸事。他有一天犯了一個錯誤，應該受到騎木馬的懲罰。木馬就在院子里，它有四根柱子作為腿，一塊狹窄的木板作為背;約恩得張開雙腿騎著，腳上還綁著幾塊重磚，使他騎得并不太舒服。他的臉上露出痛苦的表情。蘇倫哭起來，哀求小瑪莉幫助一下。她馬上就叫人把蘇倫的父親解下來，當人們不聽她話的時候，她就在石鋪地上跺腳，扯著爸爸上衣的袖子，一直到把它扯破為止。她要怎樣就怎樣，而且總是達到目的的。蘇倫的父親被解下來了。
格魯布夫人走過來，把小女兒的頭發撫摸了一下，同時還溫和地望了她一眼，瑪莉不懂得這是什么意思。
她愿意和獵犬在一道，而不愿意跟媽媽到花園里去。媽媽一直走到湖邊;這兒睡蓮和蘆葦都開滿了花。香蒲和燈芯草在蘆葦叢中搖動。她望著這一片豐茂新鮮的植物，不禁說：“多么可愛啊!”花園里有一棵珍貴的樹，是她親手栽的。它名叫“紅山毛櫸”。它是樹中的“黑人”，因為它的葉子是深棕色的。它必須有強烈的太陽光照著，否則在常蔭的地方它會像別的樹一樣變成綠色，而失去它的特點。在那些高大的栗樹里面，正如在那些灌木林和草地上一樣，許多雀子做了窠。這些雀子似乎知道，它們在這兒可以得到保護，因為誰也不能在這兒放一槍。
小小的瑪莉跟蘇倫一塊到這兒來。我們已經知道，他會爬樹，他會取下鳥蛋和捉下剛剛長毛的小鳥。鳥兒在驚惶和恐怖中飛著，大大小小的都在飛!田畈上的田鳧，大樹上的白嘴鴉、烏鴉和穴烏，都在狂叫。這種叫聲跟它們現代子孫的叫聲完全沒有兩樣。
“孩子，你們在做什么呀?”這位賢淑的太太說，“干這種事是罪過呀!”
蘇倫感到非常難為情，甚至這位高貴的小姑娘也感到不好意思。不過她簡單而陰沉地說：“爸爸叫我這樣做的!”
“離開吧!離開吧!”那些大黑鳥兒說，同時也離開了。但是第二天它們又回來了，因為這兒就是它們的家。
但是那位安靜溫柔的太太在這兒沒有住多久。我們的上帝把她召去了;和他在一起，要比住在這個公館里舒服得多。當她的尸體被運進教堂里去的時候，教堂的鐘就莊嚴的鳴起來了。許多窮人的眼睛都濕潤了，因為她待他們非常好。
自從她去世以后，就再也沒有誰管她種的那些植物了。這個花園變得荒涼了。
人們說格魯布老爺是一個厲害的人，但是他的女兒雖然年輕，卻能夠駕馭他。他見了她只有笑，滿足她的一切要求。她現在已經有十二歲了，身體很結實。她的那雙大黑眼睛老是盯著人。她騎在馬上像一個男人，她放起槍來像一個有經驗的射手。
有一天，附近來了兩個了不起的客人——非常高貴的客人：年輕的國王①和他的異父兄弟兼密友烏爾里克·佛列得里克·古爾登羅夫②。他們要在這兒獵取野豬，還要在格魯布老爺的公館里住留一晝夜。
古爾登羅夫吃飯的時候坐在瑪莉·格魯布的旁邊。他摟著她的脖子，和她親了一吻，好像他們是一家人似的。但是她卻在他的嘴上打了一巴掌，同時說她不能寬恕他。這使得大家哄堂大笑，好像這是一件很有趣的事情似的。
事情也可能是如此。因為五年以后，當瑪莉滿了十七歲的時候，有一個信使送一封信來，古爾登羅夫向這位年輕的小姐求婚。這可不是一件小事情!
“他是王國里一個最華貴和瀟灑的人!”格魯布說，“可不要瞧不起這件事情啊。”
“我對他不感興趣!”瑪莉·格魯布說，不過她并不拒絕這國家的一位最華貴、經常坐在國王旁邊的人。
她把銀器、毛織品和棉織品裝上了船，向哥本哈根運去。她自己則在陸地上旅行了十天。裝著這些嫁妝的船不是遇著逆風，就完全遇不見一點風。四個月過去了，東西還沒有到。當東西到來的時候，古爾登羅夫夫人已經不在那兒了。
“我寧愿睡在麻袋上，而不愿躺在他鋪著綢緞的床上!”她說。“我寧愿打著赤腳走路而不愿跟他一起坐著馬車!”
在十一月一個很晚的夜里，有兩個女人騎著馬到奧湖斯鎮上來了。這就是古爾登羅夫的夫人瑪莉·格魯布和她的使女。她們是從維勒來的——她們乘船到那兒去的。她坐車子到格魯布老爺的石建的宅邸里去。他對客人的來訪并不感到高興。她聽到了一些不客氣的話語。但是她卻得到了一個睡覺的房間。她的早餐吃得很好，但是所聽到的話卻不可愛。父親對她發了怪脾氣;她對這一點也不習慣。她并不是一個性情溫和的人。既然有人有意見，當然她也應該做出回答。她的確也作了回答，她談起了她的丈夫，語氣中充滿了怨恨的情緒。她不能和他生活在一起;對著這種人說來，她是太純潔和正當了。
一年過去了，但是這一年過得并不愉快。父女之間的言語都不好——這本是不應該有的事情。惡毒的話語結出惡毒的果實。這情形最后會有一個什么結果呢?
“我們兩人不能在同一個屋頂下面生活下去，”有一天父親說。“請你離開此地，到我們的老農莊里去吧。不過我希望你最好把你的舌頭咬掉，而不要散布謊言!”
兩人就這樣分開了。她帶著她的使女到那個老農莊里來——她就是在這兒出生和長大起來的。那位溫柔而虔誠的太太——她的母親——就躺在這兒教堂的墓窖里。屋子里住著一個老牧人，除此以外再沒有第二個人了。房間里掛著蜘蛛網，灰塵使它們顯得陰沉。花園里長著一片荒草。在樹和灌木林之間，蛇麻和爬藤密密層層地交織在一起。毒胡蘿卜和蕁麻長得又大又粗。“紅山毛櫸”被別的植物蓋住了，見不到一點陽光。它的葉子像一般的樹一樣，也是綠的;它的光榮已經都消逝了。白嘴鴉、烏鴉和穴烏密密麻麻地在那些高大的栗樹上飛。它們叫著號著，好像它們有重要的消息要互相報告似的：現在她又來了——曾經叫人偷它們的蛋和孩子的那個小女孩又來了。至于那個親自下手偷東西的賊子，他現在則爬著一棵沒有葉子的樹——坐在高大的船桅上。如果他不老實的話，船索就會結結實實地打到他的身上。
牧師在我們的這個時代里，把這整個的故事敘述了出來。他從書籍和信札中把這些故事收集攏來。它們現在和一大堆手稿一道藏在桌子的抽屜里。
“世事就是這樣起伏不平的!”他說，“聽聽是蠻好玩的!”
我們現在就要聽聽瑪莉·格魯布的事情，但我們也不要忘記坐在那個漂亮雞屋里的，現代的家禽格麗德。瑪莉·格魯布是過去時代的人，她跟我們的老家禽格麗德在精神上是不同的。
冬天過去了，春天和夏天過去了，秋天帶著風暴和又冷又潮的海霧到來了。這個農莊里的生活是寂寞和單調的。
因此，瑪莉·格魯布拿起她的槍，跑到了荒地上去打野兔和狐貍以及她所遇見的任何雀鳥。她不止一次遇見諾列貝克的貴族巴列·杜爾。他也是帶著槍和獵犬在打獵。他是一個身材魁梧的人;當他們在一起的時候，他常常夸耀這一點。他很可以和富恩島上愛格斯柯夫的已故的布洛根胡斯大爺比一比，因為這人的氣力也是遠近馳名的。巴列·杜爾也模仿他，在自己的大門上掛一條系著打獵號角的鐵鏈子。他一回家就拉著鐵鏈子，連人帶馬從地上立起來，吹起這個號角。
“瑪莉夫人，請您自己去看看吧!”他說道。“諾列貝克現在吹起了新鮮的風呀!”
她究竟什么時候到他的公館里來的，沒有人把這記載下來。不過人們在諾列貝克教堂的蠟燭臺上可以讀到，這東西是諾列貝克公館的巴列·杜爾和瑪莉·格魯布贈送的。
巴列·杜爾有結實的身材。他喝起酒來像一塊吸水的海綿，是一只永遠盛不滿的桶。他打起鼾來像一窩豬。他的臉上是又紅又腫。
“他像豬一樣粗笨!”巴列·杜爾夫人——格魯布先生的女兒——說。
她很快就對這種生活厭煩起來，但這在實際上并沒有什么好處。
有一天餐桌已經鋪好了，菜也涼了，巴列·杜爾正在獵取狐貍，而夫人也不見了。巴列·杜爾到了半夜才回來，但杜爾夫人半夜既沒有回來，天明時也沒有回來。她不喜歡諾列貝克，因此她既不打招呼，也不告辭，就騎著馬走了。
天氣是陰沉而潮濕的。風吹得很冷。一群驚叫的黑鳥從她頭上飛過去——它們并不是像她那樣無家可歸的。
她先向南方走去，接近德國的邊界。她用幾個金戒指和幾個寶石換了一點錢，于是她又向東走，接著她又回轉到西邊來。她沒有一個什么目的地，她的心情非常壞，對什么人都生氣，連對善良的上帝都是這樣。不久她的身體也壞下來，她幾乎連腳都移不動了。當她倒在草叢上，田鳧從那里飛出來。這鳥兒像平時一樣尖聲地叫著：“你這個賊子!你這個賊子!”她從來沒有偷過鄰人的東西，但是她小時候曾經叫人為她取過樹上和草叢里的鳥蛋和小雀子。她現在想起了這件事情。
她從她躺著的地方可以看到海灘上的沙丘;那兒有漁人住著。但是她卻沒有氣力走過去，因為她已經病了。白色的大海鷗在她頭上飛，并且在狂叫，像在她家里花園上空飛的白嘴鴉、烏鴉和穴烏一樣。鳥兒在她上面飛得很低，后來她把它們想象成為漆黑的東西，但這時她面前也已經是一片黑夜了。
當她再把眼睛睜開的時候，她已經被人扶起來了。一個粗壯的男子已經把她托在懷中。她向他滿臉胡子的臉上望去：他有一只眼上長了一個疤，因此他的眉毛好像是分成了兩半。可憐的她——他把她抱到船上去。船長對他的這種行為結結實實地責備了一番。
第二天船就開了，瑪莉·格魯布并沒有上岸;她跟船一起走了。但是她會不會一定回來呢?會的，但是在什么時候呢，怎樣回來呢?
牧師也可以把這件事的前后經過講出來，而且這也不是他編造的一個故事。這整個奇怪的故事，他是從一本可靠的舊書里來的。我們可以把它取出來親自讀一下。
丹麥的歷史學家路得維格·荷爾堡③寫了許多值得讀的書和有趣的劇本;從這些書中我們可以知道他的時代和人民。他在他的信件中提到過瑪莉·格魯布和他在什么地方和怎樣遇見她。這是值得一聽的，但是我們不要忘記家禽格麗德，她坐在那個漂亮的雞屋里，感到那么愉快和舒服。
船帶著瑪莉·格魯布開走了，我們講到此地為止。
許多年、許多年過去了。
鼠疫在哥本哈根流行著，那是一七一一年的事情④。丹麥的皇后回到她德國的娘家去;國王離開這王國的首都。任何人，只要有機會，都趕快走開。甚至那些得到膳宿免費的學生，也在想辦法離開這個城市。他們之中有一位——最后的一位——還住在勒根生附近的所謂波爾其專科學校里。他現在也要走了。這是清晨兩點鐘的事情。他背著一個背包動身——里面裝的書籍和稿紙要比衣服多得多。
城上覆著一層粘濕的霧。他所走過的街上沒有一個人。許多門上都畫著十字，表明屋里不是有鼠疫，就是人死光了。在那條彎彎曲曲的、比較寬闊的屠夫街上——那時從圓塔通到王宮的那條街就叫這個名字——也看不見一個人。一輛貨車正在旁邊經過。車夫揮著鞭子，馬兒連蹦帶跳地馳著。車上裝著的全是尸體。這位年輕的學生把雙手蒙在臉上，聞著他放在一個銅匣子里吸有強烈酒精的一塊海綿。
從街上一個酒館里飄來一陣嘈雜的歌聲和不愉快的笑聲。這是通夜喝酒的那些人發出來的。他們想要忘記這種現實：鼠疫就站在他們門口，而且還想要送他們到貨車上去陪伴那些尸體呢。這位學生向御河橋那個方向走去。這兒停著一兩條小船，其中有一只正要起錨，打算離開這個鼠疫流行的城市。
“假如上帝要保留我們的生命，而我們又遇見順風的話，我們就向法爾斯特⑤附近的格龍松得開去。”船主說，同時問這位想一同去的學生叫什么名字。
“路得維格·荷爾堡。”學生說。那時這個名字跟別的名字沒有一點特殊的地方;現在它卻是丹麥的一個最驕傲的名字。那時他不過是一個不知名的青年學生罷了。
船在王宮旁邊開過去了。當它來到大海的時候，天還沒有亮。一陣輕微的風吹起來了，帆鼓了起來，這位青年學生面對著風坐著，同時也慢慢地睡過去了，而這并不是一件太聰明的事情。
第三天早晨，船已經停在法爾斯特面前了。
“你能不能介紹這里一個什么人給我，使我可以住得經濟一點?”荷爾堡問船長。
“我想你最好跟波爾胡斯的那個擺渡的女人住在一起，”他說。“如果你想客氣一點，你可以把她稱為蘇倫·蘇倫生·莫勒爾媽媽!不過，如果你對她太客氣了，她很可能變得非常粗暴的!她的丈夫因為犯罪已經被關起來了。她親自撐那條渡船。她的拳頭可不小呢!”
學生提起了背包，徑直向擺渡人的屋子走去。門并沒有鎖。他把門閂一掀，就走進一個鋪有方磚地的房間里去。這里最主要的家具是一條寬包了皮的板凳，凳子上系著一只白母雞，旁邊圍著一群小雞。它們把一碗水盆踩翻了，弄得水流到一地。這里什么人也沒有，隔壁房子里也沒有人，只有一個躺在搖籃里的嬰孩。渡船開回的時候，里面只裝著一個人——是男是女還不大容易說。這人穿著一件寬大的大衣，頭上還戴著一頂像兜囊的帽子。渡船靠岸了。
從船上下來的是一個女人;她走進這房間里來。當她直起腰來的時候，外表顯得很堂皇，在她烏黑的眉毛下面長有一雙驕傲的眼睛。這就是那個擺渡的女人蘇倫媽媽。白嘴鴉、烏鴉和穴烏愿意為她取另外一個名字，使我們可以更好地認識她。
她老是顯出一種不快的神情，而且似乎不大喜歡講話。不過她總算講了足夠的話語，得出一個結論：她答應在哥本哈根的情況沒有好轉以前，讓這學生和她長期住下去，并且可以搭伙食。
經常有一兩個正直的公民從附近村鎮里來拜訪這個渡口的房子。刀具制造匠佛蘭得和收稅人西魏爾特常常來，他們在這渡口的房子里喝一杯啤酒，同時和這學生聊聊閑天。學生是一個聰明的年輕人，他懂得他的所謂“本行”——他能讀希臘文和拉丁文，同時懂得許多深奧的東西。
“一個人懂得的東西越少，他的負擔就越小!”蘇倫媽媽說。
“你的生活真夠辛苦!”荷爾堡有一天說。這時她正用咸水洗衣服，同時她還要把一個樹根劈碎，當做柴燒。
“這不關你的事!”她回答說。
“你從小就要這樣辛苦操作嗎?”
“你可以從我的手上看出來!”她說，同時把她一雙細小而堅硬、指甲都磨光了的手伸出來。“你有學問，可以看得出來。”
在圣誕節的時候，雪花開始狂暴地飛舞起來。寒氣襲來了，風吹得很厲害，就像它帶有硫酸，要把把人的臉孔洗一番似的。蘇倫媽媽一點也不在乎。她把她的大衣裹在身上，把帽子拉得很低。一到下午，屋子里很早就黑了。她在火上加了些木柴和泥炭，于是她就坐下來補她的襪子——這件工作沒有別人可做。在晚上她和這個學生講的話比白天要多一些：她談論著關于她丈夫的事情。
“他在無意中打死了得拉格爾的一個船主;因了這件事他得帶著鏈子在霍爾門做三年苦工。他是一個普通的水手。因此法律對他必須執行它的任務。”
“法律對于位置高的人也同樣發生效力。”荷爾堡說。
“你以為是這樣嗎?”蘇倫媽媽說，她的眼睛死死盯著火爐里的火。不過她馬上又開始了：“你聽到過開·路克的故事嗎?他叫人拆毀了一個教堂。牧師馬德斯在講臺對于這件事大為不滿，于是他就叫人用鏈子把馬德斯套起來，同時組織一個法庭，判了他砍頭的罪——而且馬上就執行了。這并不是意外，但開·路克卻逍遙法外!”
“在當時的時代條件下，他有權這樣辦!”荷爾堡說，“現在我們已經離開那個時代了!”
“你只有叫傻子相信這話!”蘇倫媽媽說。
她站起身來，向里屋走去，她的孩子“小丫頭”就睡在里面，她拍了她幾下，又把她蓋好。然后她就替這位學生鋪好床。他有皮褥子，但他比她還怕冷，雖然他是在挪威出生的。
新年的早晨是一個陽光燦爛的時節。冰凍一直沒有融解，而且仍然凍得很厲害;積雪都凍硬了，人們可以在它上面走路。鎮上做禮拜的鐘敲起來了，學生荷爾堡穿上他的毛大衣，向城里走去。
白嘴鴉、烏鴉和穴烏在擺渡人的房子上亂飛亂叫;它們的聲音弄得人幾乎聽不見鐘聲。蘇倫媽媽站在門外，用她的黃銅壺盛滿了雪，因為她要在火上融化出一點飲水來。她抬頭把這群鳥兒望了一下，她有她自己的想法。
學生荷爾堡走進教堂里去。他去的時候和回來的時候要經過城門旁邊收稅人西魏爾特的房子。他被請進去喝了一杯帶糖漿和姜汁的熱啤酒。他們在談話中提到了蘇倫媽媽，不過收稅人所知道的關于她的事情并不太多;的確也沒有很多人知道。他說，她并不是法爾斯特的人;她有個時候曾經擁有一點財產;她的男人是一個普通水手，脾氣很壞，曾經把得拉格爾的船主打死了。
“他喜歡打自己的老婆，但是她仍然維護他!”
“這種待遇我可受不了!”收稅人的妻子說。“我也是出身于上流人家的呀，我父親是皇家的織襪人!”
“因此你才跟一個政府的官吏結婚。”荷爾堡說，同時對她和收稅人行了一個禮。
這是“神圣三王節”⑥之夜，蘇倫媽媽為荷爾堡點燃了主顯節燭;就是說三支油燭，是她自己澆的。
“每個人敬一根蠟燭!”荷爾堡說。
“每個人?”這女人說，同時把眼睛死死地盯著他。
“東方的每一個圣者!”荷爾堡說。
“原來是這個意思!”她說。于是她就沉默了很久。
不過在這神圣三王節的晚上，關于她的事情，他知道得比以前多一點。
“你對于你所嫁的這個人懷著一顆感情濃厚的心，”荷爾堡說，“但是人們卻說，他沒有一天對你好過。”
“這是我自己的事，跟誰也沒有關系!”她回答說，“在我小的時候，他的拳頭可能對我有好處。現在無疑地是因為有罪才被打!我知道，他曾經是對我多么好過。”于是她站起來。“當我躺在荒地上病倒的時候，誰也不愿意來理我——大概只有白嘴鴉和烏鴉來啄我，他把我抱在懷里，他因為帶著像我這樣一件東西到船上去，還受到了責罵呢。我是不大生病的，因此我很快就好了。每個人有自己的脾氣，蘇倫也有他自己的脾氣;一個人不能憑頭絡來判斷一匹馬呀!比起國王的那些所謂最豪華和最高貴的臣民來，我跟他生活在一起要舒服得多。我曾經和國王的異母兄弟古爾登羅夫總督結過婚。后來我又嫁給巴列·杜爾!都是半斤八兩，各人有各人的一套，我也有我的一套。說來話長，不過你現在已經知道了!”
于是她走出了這個房間。
她就是瑪莉·格魯布!她的命運之球沿著那么一條奇怪的路在滾動。她沒有能活下去再看更多的“神圣三王節”。荷爾堡曾經記載過，她死于一七一六年七月。但有一件事情他卻沒有記載，因為他不知道：當蘇倫媽媽——大家這樣叫她——的尸體躺在波爾胡斯的時候，有許多龐大的黑鳥在這地方的上空盤旋。它們都沒有叫，好像它們知道葬禮應該是在沉寂中舉行似的。
等她被埋到地底下去了以后，這些鳥兒就不見了。不過在這同一天晚上，在尤蘭的那個老農莊的上空，有一大堆白嘴鴉、烏鴉和穴烏出現。它們在一起大叫，好像它們有什么事情要宣布似的：也許就是關于那個常常取它們的蛋和小鳥的農家孩子——他得到了王島鐵勛章⑦——和那位高貴的夫人吧。這個婦人作為一個擺渡的女人在格龍松得結束了她的一生。
“呱!呱!”它們叫著。
當那座老公館被拆掉了的時候，它們整個家族也都是這樣叫著。
“它們仍然在叫，雖然已經再沒有什么東西值得叫了!”牧師在敘述這段歷史的時候說。“這個家族已經滅亡了，公館已經拆除了。在它的原址上現在是那座漂亮的雞屋——它有鍍金的風信雞家禽格麗德。她對于這座漂亮的住屋感到非常滿意。如果她沒有到這兒來，她一定就會到濟貧院里去了。”
鴿子在她頭上咕咕地叫，吐綬雞在她周圍咯咯地叫，鴨子在嘎嘎地叫。
“誰也不認識她!”它們說，“她沒有什么親戚。因為人家可憐她，她才能住在這兒。她既沒鴨父親，也沒有雞母親，更沒有后代!”
但是她仍然有親族，雖然她自己不知道。牧師雖然在抽屜里保存著許多稿件，他也不知道。不過有一只老烏鴉卻知道，而且也講出來了。它從它的媽媽和祖母那里聽到關于家禽格麗德的母親和祖母的故事——她的外祖母我們也知道。我們知道，她小時候在吊橋上走過的時候，總是驕傲地向四周望一眼，好像整個的世界和所有的雀窠都是屬于她的。我們在沙丘的荒地上看到過她，最后一次是在波爾胡斯看到過她。這家族的最后一人——孫女回來了，回到那個老公館原來的所在地來了。野鳥在這兒狂叫，但是她卻安然地坐在這些馴良的家禽中間——她認識它們，它們也認識她。家禽格麗德再也沒有什么要求。她很愿意死去，而且她是那么老，也可以死去。
“墳墓啊!墳墓啊⑧!”烏鴉叫著。
家禽格麗德也得到了一座很好的墳墓，而這座墳墓除了這只老烏鴉——如果它還沒有死的話——以外，誰也不知道了。
現在我們知道這個古老的公館，這個老家族和整個家禽格麗德一家的故事了。
①指當時還是王儲的克里斯欽五世。
②古爾登羅夫是腓德烈三世(克里斯欽五世的父親)和續弦的皇后瑪格麗特·佩比的兒子。
③丹麥偉大的劇作家。見《丹麥人霍爾格》注14。
④1711年哥本哈根發生鼠疫，能逃的人都逃離了哥本哈根，留下的人很少能幸存。
⑤丹麥哥本哈根南面的一個大島。
⑥神圣三王節(Helligtrekonger Aften)是圣誕節第十二天的一個節日，在這一天東方的三個圣者——美爾卻(Melchior)、加斯巴爾(Gaspar)和巴爾達札爾(Balthazar)特來送禮物給新生的耶穌。
⑦王島鐵勛章(Hosebaand af Jern paa Kongens Holm)是爵士最高的勛章。
⑧原文是“Grav! Grav!”這有雙關的意思：照字音則是模仿烏鴉叫的聲音;照字義則是“墳墓”的意思。
《家禽格麗德的一家》英文版：
Poultry Meg’s Family
POULTRY MEG was the only person who lived in the new stately dwelling that had been built for the fowls and ducks belonging to the manor house. It stood there where once the old knightly building had stood with its tower, its pointed gables, its moat, and its drawbridge. Close by it was a wilderness of trees and thicket; here the garden had been, and had stretched out to a great lake, which was now moorland. Crows and choughs flew screaming over the old trees, and there were crowds of birds; they did not seem to get fewer when any one shot among them, but seemed rather to increase. One heard the screaming into the poultry-house, where Poultry Meg sat with the ducklings running to and fro over her wooden shoes. She knew every fowl and every duck from the moment it crept out of the shell; and she was fond of her fowls and her ducks, and proud of the stately house that had been built for them. Her own little room in the house was clean and neat, for that was the wish of the gracious lady to whom the house belonged. She often came in the company of grand noble guests, to whom she showed “the hens’ and ducks’ barracks,” as she called the little house.
Here were a clothes cupboard, and an, arm-chair, and even a chest of drawers; and on these drawers a polished metal plate had been placed, whereon was engraved the word “Grubbe,” and this was the name of the noble family that had lived in the house of old. The brass plate had been found when they were digging the foundation; and the clerk has said it had no value except in being an old relic. The clerk knew all about the place, and about the old times, for he had his knowledge from books, and many a memorandum had been written and put in his table-drawer. But the oldest of the crows perhaps knew more than he, and screamed it out in her own language; but that was the crow’s language, and the clerk did not understand that, clever as he was.
After the hot summer days the mist sometimes hung over the moorland as if a whole lake were behind the old trees, among which the crows and the daws were fluttering; and thus it had looked when the good Knight Grubbe had lived here—when the old manor house stood with its thick red walls. The dog-chain used to reach in those days quite over the gateway; through the tower one went into a paved passage which led to the rooms; the windows were narrow, and the panes were small, even in the great hall where the dancing used to be; but in the time of the last Grubbe, there had been no dancing in the hall within the memory of man, although an old drum still lay there that had served as part of the music. Here stood a quaintly carved cupboard, in which rare flower-roots were kept, for my Lady Grubbe was fond of plants and cultivated trees and shrubs. Her husband preferred riding out to shoot wolves and boars; and his little daughter Marie always went with him part of the way. When she was only five years old, she would sit proudly on her horse, and look saucily round with her great black eyes. It was a great amusement to her to hit out among the hunting-dogs with her whip; but her father would rather have seen her hit among the peasant boys, who came running up to stare at their lord.
The peasant in the clay hut close by the knightly house had a son named Søren, of the same age as the gracious little lady. The boy could climb well, and had always to bring her down the bird’s nests. The birds screamed as loud as they could, and one of the greatest of them hacked him with its beak over the eye so that the blood ran down, and it was at first thought the eye had been destroyed; but it had not been injured after all. Marie Grubbe used to call him her Søren, and that was a great favor, and was an advantage to Søren’s father—poor Jon, who had one day committed a fault, and was to be punished by riding on the wooden horse. This same horse stood in the courtyard, and had four poles for legs, and a single narrow plant for a back; on this Jon had to ride astride, and some heavy bricks were fastened to his feet into the bargain, that he might not sit too comfortably. He made horrible grimaces, and Søren wept and implored little Marie to interfere. She immediately ordered that Søren’s father should be taken down, and when they did not obey her, she stamped on the floor, and pulled at her father’s sleeve till it was torn to pieces. She would have her way, and she got her way, and Søren’s father was taken down.
Lady Grubbe, who now came up, parted her little daughter’s hair from the child’s brow, and looked at her affectionately; but Marie did not understand why.
She wanted to go to the hounds, and not to her mother, who went down into the garden, to the lake where the water-lily bloomed, and the heads of bulrushes nodded amid the reeds; and she looked at all this beauty and freshness. “How pleasant!” she said. In the garden stood at that time a rare tree, which she herself had planted. It was called the blood-beech—a kind of negro growing among the other trees, so dark brown were the leaves. This tree required much sunshine, for in continual shade it would become bright green like the other trees, and thus lose its distinctive character. In the lofty chestnut trees were many birds’ nests, and also in the thickets and in the grassy meadows. It seemed as though the birds knew that they were protected here, and that no one must fire a gun at them.
Little Marie came here with Søren. He knew how to climb, as we have already said, and eggs and fluffy-feathered young birds were brought down. The birds, great and small, flew about in terror and tribulation; the peewit from the fields, and the crows and daws from the high trees, screamed and screamed; it was just such din as the family will raise to the present day.
“What are you doing, you children?” cried the gentle lady; “that is sinful!”
Søren stood abashed, and even the little gracious lady looked down a little; but then he said, quite short and pretty,
“My father lets me do it!”
“Craw-craw! away-away from here!” cried the great black birds, and they flew away; but on the following day they came back, for they were at home here.
The quiet gentle lady did not remain long at home here on earth, for the good God called her away; and, indeed, her home was rather with Him than in the knightly house; and the church bells tolled solemnly when her corpse was carried to the church, and the eyes of the poor people were wet with tears, for she had been good to them.
When she was gone, no one attended to her plantations, and the garden ran to waste. Grubbe the knight was a hard man, they said; but his daughter, young as she was, knew how to manage him. He used to laugh and let her have her way. She was now twelve years old, and strongly built. She looked the people through and through with her black eyes, rode her horse as bravely as a man, and could fire off her gun like a practiced hunter.
One day there were great visitors in the neighborhood, the grandest visitors who could come. The young King, and his half-brother and comrade, the Lord Ulrik Frederik Gyldenløve. They wanted to hunt the wild boar, and to pass a few days at the castle of Grubbe.
Gyldenløve sat at table next to Marie Grubbe, and he took her by the hand and gave her a kiss, as if she had been a relation; but she gave him a box on the ear, and told him she could not bear him, at which there was great laughter, as if that had been a very amusing thing.
And perhaps it was very amusing, for, five years afterwards, when Marie had fulfilled her seventeenth year, a messenger arrived with a letter, in which Lord Gyldenløve proposed for the hand of the noble young lady. There was a thing for you!
“He is the grandest and most gallant gentleman in the whole country,” said Grubbe the knight; “that is not a thing to despise.”
“I don’t care so very much about him,” said Marie Grubbe; but she did not despise the grandest man of all the country, who sat by the king’s side.
Silver plate, and fine linen and woollen, went off to Copenhagen in a ship, while the bride made the journey by land in ten days. But the outfit met with contrary winds, or with no winds at all, for four months passed before it arrived; and when it came, my Lady Gyldenløve was gone.
“I’d rather lie on coarse sacking than lie in his silken beds,” she declared. “I’d rather walk barefoot than drive with him in a coach!”
Late one evening in November two women came riding into the town of Aarhuus. They were the gracious Lady Gyldenløve (Marie Grubbe) and her maid. They came from the town of Weile, whither they had come in a ship from Copenhagen. They stopped at Lord Grubbe’s stone mansion in Aarhuus. Grubbe was not well pleased with this visit. Marie was accosted in hard words; but she had a bedroom given her, and got her beer soup of a morning; but the evil part of her father’s nature was aroused against her, and she was not used to that. She was not of a gentle temper, and we often answer as we are addressed. She answered openly, and spoke with bitterness and hatred of her husband, with whom she declared she would not live; she was too honorable for that.
A year went by, but it did not go by pleasantly. There were evil words between the father and the daughter, and that ought never to be. Bad words bear bad fruit. What could be the end of such a state of things?
“We two cannot live under the same roof,” said the father one day. “Go away from here to our old manor house; but you had better bite your tongue off than spread any lies among the people.”
And so the two parted. She went with her maid to the old castle where she had been born, and near which the gentle, pious lady, her mother, was lying in the church vault. An old cowherd lived in the courtyard, and was the only other inhabitant of the place. In the rooms heavy black cobwebs hung down, covered with dust; in the garden everything grew just as it would; hops and climbing plants ran like a net between the trees and bushes, and the hemlock and nettle grew larger and stronger. The blood-beech had been outgrown by other trees, and now stood in the shade; and its leaves were green like those of the common trees, and its glory had departed. Crows and choughs, in great close masses, flew past over the tall chestnut trees, and chattered and screamed as if they had something very important to tell one another—as if they were saying, “Now she’s come back again, the little girl who had their eggs and their young ones stolen from them; and as for the thief who had got them down, he had to climb up a leafless tree, for he sat on a tall ship’s mast, and was beaten with a rope’s end if he did not behave himself.”
The clerk told all this in our own times; he had collected it and looked it up in books and memoranda. It was to be found, with many other writings, locked up in his table-drawer.
“Upward and downward is the course of the world,” said he. “It is strange to hear.”
And we will hear how it went with Marie Grubbe. We need not for that forget Poultry Meg, who is sitting in her capital hen-house, in our own time. Marie Grubbe sat down in her times, but not with the same spirit that old Poultry Meg showed.
The winter passed away, and the spring and the summer passed away, and the autumn came again, with the damp, cold sea-fog. It was a lonely, desolate life in the old manor house. Marie Grubbe took her gun in her hand and went out to the heath, and shot hares and foxes, and whatever birds she could hit. More than once she met the noble Sir Palle Dyre, of Nørrebæk, who was also wandering about with his gun and his dogs. He was tall and strong, and boasted of this when they talked together. He could have measured himself against the deceased Mr. Brockenhuus, of Egeskov, of whom the people still talked. Palle Dyre had, after the example of Brockenhuus, caused an iron chain with a hunting-horn to be hung in his gateway; and when he came riding home, he used to seize the chain, and lift himself and his horse from the ground, and blow the horn.
“Come yourself, and see me do that, Dame Marie,” he said. “One can breathe fresh and free at Nørrebæk.”
When she went to his castle is not known, but on the altar candlestick in the church of Nørrebæk it was inscribed that they were the gift of Palle Dyre and Marie Grubbe, of Nørrebæk Castle.
A great stout man was Palle Dyre. He drank like a sponge. He was like a tub that could never get full; he snored like a whole sty of pigs, and he looked red and bloated.
“He is treacherous and malicious,” said Dame Pally Dyre, Grubbe’s daughter. Soon she was weary of her life with him, but that did not make it better.
One day the table was spread, and the dishes grew cold. Palle Dyre was out hunting foxes, and the gracious lady was nowhere to be found. Towards midnight Palle Dyre came home, but Dame Dyre came neither at midnight, nor next morning. She had turned her back upon Nørrebæk, and had ridden away without saying good-bye.
It was gray, wet weather; the wind grew cold, and a flight of black screaming birds flew over her head. They were not so homeless as she.
First she journeyed southward, quite down into the German land. A couple of golden rings with costly stones were turned into money; and then she turned to the east, and then she turned again and went towards the west. She had no food before her eyes, and murmured against everything, even against the good God himself, so wretched was her soul. Soon her body became wretched too, and she was scarcely able to move a foot. The peewit flew up as she stumbled over the mound of earth where it had built its nest. The bird cried, as it always cried, “You thief! you thief!” She had never stolen her neighbor’s goods; but as a little girl she had caused eggs and young birds to be taken from the trees, and she thought of that now.
From where she lay she could see the sand-dunes. By the seashore lived fishermen; but she could not get so far, she was so ill. The great white sea-mews flew over her head, and screamed as the crows and daws screamed at home in the garden of the manor house. The birds flew quite close to her, and at last it seemed to her as if they became black as crows, and then all was night before her eyes.
When she opened her eyes again, she was being lifted and carried. A great strong man had taken her up in his arms, and she was looking straight into his bearded face. He had a scar over one eye, which seemed to divide the eyebrow into two parts. Weak as she was, he carried her to the ship, where he got a rating for it from the captain.
The next day the ship sailed away. Madame Grubbe had not been put ashore, so she sailed away with it. But she will return, will she not? Yes, but where, and when?
The clerk could tell about this too, and it was not a story which he patched together himself. He had the whole strange history out of an old authentic book, which we ourselves can take out and read. The Danish historian, Ludwig Holberg, who has written so many useful books and merry comedies, from which we can get such a good idea of his times and their people, tells in his letters of Marie Grubbe, where and how he met her. It is well worth hearing; but for all that, we don’t at all forget Poultry Meg, who is sitting cheerful and comfortable in the charming fowl-house.
The ship sailed away with Marie Grubbe. That’s where we left off.
Long years went by.
The plague was raging at Copenhagen; it was in the year 1711. The Queen of Denmark went away to her German home, the King quitted the capital, and everybody who could do so hurried away. The students, even those who had board and lodging gratis, left the city. One of these students, the last who had remained in the free college, at last went away too. It was two o’clock in the morning. He was carrying his knapsack, which was better stacked with books and writings than with clothes. A damp mist hung over the town; not a person was to be seen in the streets; the street-doors around were marked with crosses, as a sign that the plague was within, or that all the inmates were dead. A great wagon rattled past him; the coachman brandished his whip, and the horses flew by at a gallop. The wagon was filled with corpses. The young student kept his hand before his face, and smelt at some strong spirits that he had with him on a sponge in a little brass scent-case. Out of a small tavern in one of the streets there were sounds of singing and of unhallowed laughter, from people who drank the night through to forget that the plague was at their doors, and that they might be put into the wagon as the others had been. The student turned his steps towards the canal at the castle bridge, where a couple of small ships were lying; one of these was weighing anchor, to get away from the plague-stricken city.
“If God spares our lives and grants us a fair wind, we are going to Gronmud, near Falster,” said the captain; and he asked the name of the student who wished to go with him.
“Ludvig Holberg,” answered the student; and the name sounded like any other. But now there sounds in it one of the proudest names of Denmark; then it was the name of a young, unknown student.
The ship glided past the castle. It was not yet bright day when it was in the open sea. A light wind filled the sails, and the young student sat down with his face turned towards the fresh wind, and went to sleep, which was not exactly the most prudent thing he could have done.
Already on the third day the ship lay by the island of Falster.
“Do you know any one here with whom I could lodge cheaply?” Holberg asked the captain.
“I should think you would do well to go to the ferry-woman in Borrehaus,” answered the captain. “If you want to be very civil to her, her name is Mother Søren Sørensen Muller. But it may happen that she may fly into a fury if you are too polite to her. The man is in custody for a crime, and that’s why she manages the ferry-boat herself—she has fists of her own.”
The student took his knapsack and betook himself to the ferry-house. The house door was not locked—it opened, and he went into a room with a brick floor, where a bench, with a great coverlet of leather, formed the chief article of furniture. A white hen, who had a brood of chickens, was fastened to the bench, and had overturned the pipkin of water, so that the wet ran across the floor. There were no people either here or in the adjoining room; only a cradle stood there, in which was a child. The ferry-boat came back with only one person in it. Whether that person was a man or a woman was not an easy matter to determine. The person in question was wrapped in a great cloak, and wore a kind of hood. Presently the boat lay to.
It was a woman who got out of it and came into the room. She looked very stately when she straightened her back; two proud eyes looked forth from beneath her black eyebrows. It was Mother Søren, the ferry-wife. The crows and daws might have called out another name for her, which we know better.
She looked morose, and did not seem to care to talk; but this much was settled, that the student should board in her house for an indefinite time, while things looked so bad in Copenhagen.
This or that honest citizen would often come to the ferry-house from the neighboring little town. There came Frank the cutler, and Sivert the exciseman. They drank a mug of beer in the ferry-house, and used to converse with the student, for he was a clever young man, who knew his “Practica,” as they called it; he could read Greek and Latin, and was well up in learned subjects.
“The less one knows, the less it presses upon one,” said Mother Søren.
“You have to work hard,” said Holberg one day, when she was dipping clothes in the strong soapy water, and was obliged herself to split the logs for the fire.
“That’s my affair,” she replied.
“Have you been obliged to toil in this way from your childhood?”
“You can read that from my hands,” she replied, and held out her hands, that were small indeed, but hard and strong, with bitten nails. “You are learned, and can read.”
At Christmas-time it began to snow heavily. The cold came on, the wind blue sharp, as if there were vitriol in it to wash the people’s faces. Mother Søren did not let that disturb her; she threw her cloak around her, and drew her hood over her head. Early in the afternoon—it was already dark in the house—she laid wood and turf on the hearth, and then she sat down to darn her stockings, for there was no one to do it for her. Towards evening she spoke more words to the student than it was customary with her to use; she spoke of her husband.
“He killed a sailor of Dragor by mischance, and for that he has to work for three years in irons. He’s only a common sailor, and therefore the law must take its course.”
“The law is there for people of high rank, too,” said Holberg.
“Do you think so?” said Mother Søren; then she looked into the fire for a while; but after a time she began to speak again. “Have you heard of Kai Lykke, who caused a church to be pulled down, and when the clergyman, Master Martin, thundered from the pulpit about it, he had him put in irons, and sat in judgment upon him, and condemned him to death? Yes, and the clergyman was obliged to bow his head to the stroke. And yet Kai Lykke went scot-free.”
“He had a right to do as he did in those times,” said Holberg; “but now we have left those times behind us.”
“You may get a fool to believe that,” cried Mother Søren; and she got up and went into the room where the child lay. She lifted up the child, and laid it down more comfortably. Then she arranged the bed-place of the student. He had the green coverlet, for he felt the cold more than she, though he was born in Norway.
On New Year’s morning it was a bright sunshiny day. The frost had been so strong, and was still so strong, that the fallen snow had become a hard mass, and one could walk upon it. The bells of the little town were tolling for church. Student Holberg wrapped himself up in his woollen cloak, and wanted to go to the town.
Over the ferry-house the crows and daws were flying with loud cries; one could hardly hear the church bells for their screaming. Mother Søren stood in front of the house, filling a brass pot with snow, which she was going to put on the fire to get drinking water. She looked up to the crowd of birds, and thought her own thoughts.
Student Holberg went to church. On his way there and on his return he passed by the house of tax-collector Sivert, by the town-gate. Here he was invited to take a mug of brown beer with treacle and sugar. The discourse fell upon Mother Søren, but the tax collector did not know much about her, and, indeed, few knew much about her. She did not belong to the island of Falster, he said; she had a little property of her own at one time. Her husband was a common sailor, a fellow of a very hot temper, and had killed a sailor of Dragor; and he beat his wife, and yet she defended him.
“I should not endure such treatment,” said the tax-collector’s wife. “I am come of more respectable people. My father was stocking-weaver to the Court.”
“And consequently you have married a governmental official,” said Holberg, and made a bow to her and to the collector.
It was on Twelfth Night, the evening of the festival of the Three Kings, Mother Søren lit up for Holberg a three-king candle, that is, a tallow candle with three wicks, which she had herself prepared.
“A light for each man,” said Holberg.
“For each man?” repeated the woman, looking sharply at him.
“For each of the wise men from the East,” said Holberg.
“You mean it that way,” said she, and then she was silent for a long time. But on this evening he learned more about her than he had yet known.
“You speak very affectionately of your husband,” observed Holberg, “and yet the people say that he ill-uses you every day.”
“That’s no one’s business but mine,” she replied. “The blows might have done me good when I was a child; now, I suppose, I get them for my sins. But I know what good he has done me,” and she rose up. “When I lay sick upon the desolate heath, and no one would have pity on me, and no one would have anything to do with me, except the crows and daws, which came to peck me to bits, he carried me in his arms, and had to bear hard words because of the burden he brought on board ship. It’s not in my nature to be sick, and so I got well. Every man has his own way, and Søren has his; but the horse must not be judged by the halter. Taking one thing with another, I have lived more agreeably with him than with the man whom they called the most noble and gallant of the King’s subjects. I have had the Stadtholder Gyldenløve, the King’s half-brother, for my husband; and afterwards I took Palle Dyre. One is as good as another, each in his own way, and I in mine. That was a long gossip, but now you know all about me.”
And with those words she left the room.
It was Marie Grubbe! so strangely had fate played with her. She did not live to see many anniversaries of the festival of the Three Kings; Holberg has recorded that she died in June, 1716; but he has not written down, for he did not know, that a number of great black birds circled over the ferry-house, when Mother Søren, as she was called, was lying there a corpse. They did not scream, as if they knew that at a burial silence should be observed. So soon as she lay in the earth, the birds disappeared; but on the same evening in Jutland, at the old manor house, an enormous number of crows and choughs were seen; they all cried as loud as they could, as if they had some announcement to make. Perhaps they talked of him who, as a little boy, had taken away their eggs and their young; of the peasant’s son, who had to wear an iron garter, and of the noble young lady, who ended by being a ferryman’s wife.
“Brave! brave!” they cried.
And the whole family cried, “Brave! brave!” when the old house was pulled down.
“They are still crying, and yet there’s nothing to cry about,” said the clerk, when he told the story. “The family is extinct, the house has been pulled down, and where it stood is now the stately poultry-house, with gilded weathercocks, and the old Poultry Meg. She rejoices greatly in her beautiful dwelling. If she had not come here,” the old clerk added, “she would have had to go into the work-house.”
The pigeons cooed over her, the turkey-cocks gobbled, and the ducks quacked.
“Nobody knew her,” they said; “she belongs to no family. It’s pure charity that she is here at all. She has neither a drake father nor a hen mother, and has no descendants.”
She came of a great family, for all that; but she did not know it, and the old clerk did not know it, though he had so much written down; but one of the old crows knew about it, and told about it. She had heard from her own mother and grandmother about Poultry Meg’s mother and grandmother. And we know the grandmother too. We saw her ride, as child, over the bridge, looking proudly around her, as if the whole world belonged to her, and all the birds’ nests in it; and we saw her on the heath, by the sand-dunes; and, last of all, in the ferry-house. The granddaughter, the last of her race, had come back to the old home, where the old castle had stood, where the black wild birds were screaming; but she sat among the tame birds, and these knew her and were fond of her. Poultry Meg had nothing left to wish for; she looked forward with pleasure to her death, and she was old enough to die.
“Grave, grave!” cried the crows.
And Poultry Meg has a good grave, which nobody knew except the old crow, if the old crow is not dead already.
And now we know the story of the old manor house, of its old proprietors, and of all Poultry Meg’s family.
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