THE BIRD OF POPULAR SONG故事

　　 IT is winter-time. The earth wears a snowy garment, and

　　 looks like marble hewn out of the rock; the air is bright and

　　 clear; the wind is sharp as a well-tempered sword, and the

　　 trees stand like branches of white coral or blooming almond

　　 twigs, and here it is keen as on the lofty Alps.

　　 The night is splendid in the gleam of the Northern Lights,

　　 and in the glitter of innumerable twinkling stars.

　　 But we sit in the warm room, by the hot stove, and talk

　　 about the old times. And we listen to this story:

　　 By the open sea was a giant's grave; and on the

　　 grave-mound sat at midnight the spirit of the buried hero, who

　　 had been a king. The golden circlet gleamed on his brow, his

　　 hair fluttered in the wind, and he was clad in steel and iron.

　　 He bent his head mournfully, and sighed in deep sorrow, as an

　　 unquiet spirit might sigh.

　　 And a ship came sailing by. Presently the sailors lowered

　　 the anchor and landed. Among them was a singer, and he

　　 approached the royal spirit, and said,

　　 "Why mournest thou, and wherefore dost thou suffer thus?"

　　 And the dead man answered,

　　 "No one has sung the deeds of my life; they are dead and

　　 forgotten. Song doth not carry them forth over the lands, nor

　　 into the hearts of men; therefore I have no rest and no

　　 peace."

　　 And he spoke of his works, and of his warlike deeds, which

　　 his contemporaries had known, but which had not been sung,

　　 because there was no singer among his companions.

　　 Then the old bard struck the strings of his harp, and sang

　　 of the youthful courage of the hero, of the strength of the

　　 man, and of the greatness of his good deeds. Then the face of

　　 the dead one gleamed like the margin of the cloud in the

　　 moonlight. Gladly and of good courage, the form arose in

　　 splendor and in majesty, and vanished like the glancing of the

　　 northern light. Nought was to be seen but the green turfy

　　 mound, with the stones on which no Runic record has been

　　 graven; but at the last sound of the harp there soared over

　　 the hill, as though he had fluttered from the harp, a little

　　 bird, a charming singing-bird, with ringing voice of the

　　 thrush, with the moving voice pathos of the human heart, with

　　 a voice that told of home, like the voice that is heard by the

　　 bird of passage. The singing-bird soared away, over mountain

　　 and valley, over field and wood- he was the Bird of Popular

　　 Song, who never dies.

　　 We hear his song- we hear it now in the room while the

　　 white bees are swarming without, and the storm clutches the

　　 windows. The bird sings not alone the requiem of heroes; he

　　 sings also sweet gentle songs of love, so many and so warm, of

　　 Northern fidelity and truth. He has stories in words and in

　　 tones; he has proverbs and snatches of proverbs; songs which,

　　 like Runes laid under a dead man's tongue, force him to speak;

　　 and thus Popular Song tells of the land of his birth.

　　 In the old heathen days, in the times of the Vikings, the

　　 popular speech was enshrined in the harp of the bard.

　　 In the days of knightly castles, when the strongest fist

　　 held the scales of justice, when only might was right, and a

　　 peasant and a dog were of equal importance, where did the Bird

　　 of Song find shelter and protection? Neither violence nor

　　 stupidity gave him a thought.

　　 But in the gabled window of the knightly castle, the lady

　　 of the castle sat with the parchment roll before her, and

　　 wrote down the old recollections in song and legend, while

　　 near her stood the old woman from the wood, and the travelling

　　 peddler who went wandering through the country. As these told

　　 their tales, there fluttered around them, with twittering and

　　 song, the Bird o

　　f Popular Song, who never dies so long as the

　　 earth has a hill upon which his foot may rest.

　　 And now he looks in upon us and sings. Without are the

　　 night and the snow-storm. He lays the Runes beneath our

　　 tongues, and we know the land of our home. Heaven speaks to us

　　 in our native tongue, in the voice of the Bird of Popular

　　 Song. The old remembrances awake, the faded colors glow with a

　　 fresh lustre, and story and song pour us a blessed draught

　　 which lifts up our minds and our thoughts, so that the evening

　　 becomes as a Christmas festival.

　　 The snow-flakes chase each other, the ice cracks, the

　　 storm rules without, for he has the might, he is lord- but not

　　 the LORD OF ALL.

　　 It is winter time. The wind is sharp as a two-edged sword,

　　 the snow-flakes chase each other; it seems as though it had

　　 been snowing for days and weeks, and the snow lies like a

　　 great mountain over the whole town, like a heavy dream of the

　　 winter night. Everything on the earth is hidden away, only the

　　 golden cross of the church, the symbol of faith, arises over

　　 the snow grave, and gleams in the blue air and in the bright

　　 sunshine.

　　 And over the buried town fly the birds of heaven, the

　　 small and the great; they twitter and they sing as best they

　　 may, each bird with his beak.

　　 First comes the band of sparrows: they pipe at every

　　 trifle in the streets and lanes, in the nests and the houses;

　　 they have stories to tell about the front buildings and the

　　 back buildings.

　　 "We know the buried town," they say; "everything living in

　　 it is piep! piep! piep!"

　　 The black ravens and crows flew on over the white snow.

　　 "Grub, grub!" they cried. "There's something to be got

　　 down there; something to swallow, and that's most important.

　　 That's the opinion of most of them down there, and the opinion

　　 is goo-goo-good!"

　　 The wild swans come flying on whirring pinions, and sing

　　 of the noble and the great, that will still sprout in the

　　 hearts of men, down in the town which is resting beneath its

　　 snowy veil.

　　 No death is there- life reigns yonder; we hear it on the

　　 notes that swell onward like the tones of the church organ,

　　 which seize us like sounds from the elf-hill, like the songs

　　 of Ossian, like the rushing swoop of the wandering spirits'

　　 wings. What harmony! That harmony speaks to our hearts, and

　　 lifts up our souls! It is the Bird of Popular Song whom we

　　 hear.

　　 And at this moment the warm breath of heaven blows down

　　 from the sky. There are gaps in the snowy mountains, the sun

　　 shines into the clefts; spring is coming, the birds are

　　 returning, and new races are coming with the same home sounds

　　 in their hearts.

　　 Hear the story of the year: "The night of the snow-storm,

　　 the heavy dream of the winter night, all shall be dissolved,

　　 all shall rise again in the beauteous notes of the Bird of

　　 Popular Song, who never dies!"

　　 THE END