But Olle of Maggebysäter was three-score-and-ten, and so crippled with rheumatism that his fingers were stiff and crooked like claws; his head was drawn to one side, one leg was shorter than the other, his sight was poor, his wits were nothing to brag about, and he was toothless and ugly. Washed and combed he had certainly not been in half a year. The fringe of whiskers under his chin was full of sticks and straws. He owned a little croft up in the woods; but being nothing of a worker, he had not been able to keep poverty out of his house. Always grumpy and discontented, he had no friends. And now as the clouds of tobacco smoke rose from the other men's pipes, he muttered, as if to himself:
"I've had nothin' but trouble and misery all my life; but now I've heard about a land they call America, and there I want to go."
The other men sat tranquilly musing over their pipes and made no response.
Olle of Maggebysäter continued:
"You see, 'tis like this in America—you've only to hit a rock with your stick and the rum'll come spurtin' out. That land I want to see afore I die."
The others gazed straight before them and smiled, but said nothing.
Olle of Maggebysäter talked on:
"No one can make me stick at home in this dull, miserable place, when I know there's a land where the hills are full o' rum."
