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THE BELL

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  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 bent2 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 forth3 over the lands, nor

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

  peace."

  And he spoke4 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 bard5 struck the strings6 of his harp1, 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 margin7 of the cloud in the

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

  splendor and in majesty8, and vanished like the glancing of the

  northern light. Nought9 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 pathos10 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 swarming11 without, and the storm clutches the

  windows. The bird sings not alone the requiem12 of heroes; he

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

  Northern fidelity13 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 knightly14 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 of 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 lustre15, 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 beak16.

  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 ravens17 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 pinions18, and sing

  of the noble and the great, that will still sprout19 in the

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

  snowy veil.

  No death is there- life reigns20 yonder; we hear it on the

  notes that swell21 onward22 like the tones of the church organ,

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

  of Ossian, like the rushing swoop23 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 clefts24; 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

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