Saturday
M I to hear any stories?” asked little Hjalmar, as soon as Olé Luk-Oie had laid him to sleep.
“We shall not have time for any this evening,” said Olé Luk-Oie, spreading his prettiest umbrella over the little boy. “Now, look at these Chinese.” And the umbrella seemed like a large china bowl, with blue trees and pointed bridges, with little Chinese upon them, who stood nodding their heads. “We must put the whole world to rights, that it may look smart to-morrow,” said Olé Luk-Oie; “for it will be a holiday, as it is Sunday. I must be off to the steeples, to see if the little elves that live in the church turrets have polished all the bells, so that they may sound prettily; I must go into the fields, and see if the wind has swept all the dust off the grass and leaves, and, what’s the longest job of all, I must take down all the stars, to furbish them up a bit. I put them into my apron; but they have all to be numbered first, and the holes I take them from must be numbered likewise, in order that they may be put back into the same places, or else they would not stick fast, and then we should have too many falling stars, as they would all tumble down one after the other.”
“I say, Master Olé Luk-Oie,” cried an old portrait, that hung on the wall against which was placed Hjalmar’s bed, “I am Hjalmar’s great grandfather. I am obliged to you for telling the boy stories; only you must not warp his understanding. The stars cannot be taken down and polished. The stars are spheres like our earth, and that is their principal merit.”
“Thank you, old great-grandfather!” said Olé Luk-Oie—“thank you! You are unquestionably the head of the family, and a very aged head, too; but I happen to be older still than you. I am an ancient heathen. The Greeks and Romans used to call me the God of Dreams. I have been into the highest houses, and still visit such to this day. I know how to behave towards the humblest, as well as towards the greatest, upon earth. So you may just tell stories yourself, if you please.” And Olé Luk-Oie went away, taking his umbrella with him.
“Well, well! I suppose next, one must not even give one’s opinion,” grumbled the old portrait.
And thereupon Hjalmar awoke.
Sunday
OOD evening!” said Olé Luk-Oie; and Hjalmar nodded, and sprang forward and turned his great-grandfather’s picture to the wall, that it might not interrupt them as it did yesterday.
“Now you must tell me the stories of the five green peas that lived in a pod, and of the ranunculus that made love to the chick-weed, and of the darning-needle that was so grand that it fancied itself a sewing-needle.”
“One may have too much of a good thing,” said Olé Luk-Oie. “You know that I like better to show you something; so I’ll show you my brother. His name is Olé Luk-Oie, like mine; but he never comes to anybody more than once; and whomsoever he comes to, he takes him away on his horse, and tells him stories. He only knows two stories, however, one of which is so wonderfully beautiful, that nobody in the world can imagine anything like it; and the other so ugly and so frightful, that it is beyond description!” And then Olé Luk-Oie lifted little Hjalmar up to the window, and said. “There, now, you may see my brother, the other Olé Luk-Oie, who is likewise called Death. You may perceive that he does not look as dreadful as in the picture-books, where he is only a skeleton No, his clothes are embroidered with silver, and he wears a most splendid
