s Melby was afraid that she being so stout, the boat we
had to cross the mountain lake in would not be strong enough to bear
her. Miss Jordan had been at a hundred saeters, she said, and the only
difference among them was that one was a little dirtier than another;
and that degree of difference she wouldn't bother herself to see, she
said. Mrs. Kloed is so nervous she never dares do anything. So at last
there were none to go but Petter, Karsten, Andrine, and myself, as I
have said.

Karsten had taken it into his head that at saeters there were always
bears, and that cream at saeters was always exactly an inch thick; and
bears and inch-thick cream were what he wanted to see. Petter Kloed
wished to get hold of certain mountain flowers that he could classify.
Such botany I will have nothing to do with. I smell the flowers and
think they are charming, but I don't care a button which class they
belong to, not I! As for going to the saeter, Andrine and I wanted to go
just for the fun of going.

Well, one day in August, Olsen, the farm-boy, and Trond Oppistuen were
going to the saeter to cut hay. If we wished, we were welcome to go
along with them.

If we wished! Hurrah!

The next morning off we went. The lunch, and Andrine, and I, and
Karsten, and Petter Kloed were in a wagon, and Trond and Olsen walked
alongside with their scythes and rakes on their shoulders.

Far, far up the mountain we were to go--away up where the trees looked
no taller than half a pin's length, and the thin light air was white and
shining; up there and then far along to the west.

Olsen was red-haired and freckled, small and wiry. He kept step with the
horse the whole way, but Trond lagged behind us down the slope.

We all sang, each our own tune, as we climbed. The air was clear, oh! so
clear! The farms in the valley grew smaller and smaller, and the birch
trees we passed were little and stunted.

Whenever Petter Kloed jumped out of the wagon after a flower or
anything, we whipped the horse so as to get as far ahead of him as
possible; Petter is as lazy as a log and hates to walk a step, so it was
good enough for him.

Any boy with more grown-up, mannish airs than Petter Kloed puts on could
not be found the world over. He wears long trousers and has been in the
theatre a thousand times, he says; he smokes cigarettes too; and,
always, about everything, no matter what it is, he says, pooh! he has
seen that before; so it seems as if there were