A sharp voice called out, “Now!” It was her grandfather’s, and she remembered what she was to do. She put one of her muddy hands into Oeyvind’s and said, “I beg your pardon for taking the little goat.” Then she could keep in no longer; she threw her arms around the goat’s neck and wept aloud.
“You may have the goat,” said Oeyvind.
“Make haste,” cried grandfather. So Marit had to go, and Oeyvind had his little goat again.
—Björnstjerne Björnson
BLUNDER
Blunder was going to the Wishing-Gate, to wish for a pair of Shetland Ponies, and a little coach, like Tom Thumb’s. And of course you may have your wish, if you once get there. But the thing is, to find it; for it is not, as you imagine, a great gate, with a tall marble pillar on each side, and a sign over the top, like this, WISHING-GATE,—but just an old stile, made of three sticks. Put up two fingers, cross them on the top with another finger, and you have it exactly,—the way it looks, I mean,—a worm-eaten stile, in a meadow; and as there are plenty of old stiles in meadows, how are you to know which is the one?
Blunder’s fairy godmother knew, but then she could not tell him, for that was not according to fairy rules and regulations. She could only direct him to follow the road, and ask the way of the first owl he met; and over and over she charged him, for Blunder was a very careless little boy, and seldom found anything, “Be sure you don’t miss him,—be sure you don’t pass him by.” And so far Blunder had come on very well, for the road was straight; but at the turn it forked. Should he go through the wood or turn to the right? There was an owl nodding in a tall oak-tree, the first owl Blunder had seen; but he was a little afraid to wake him up, for Blunder’s fairy godmother had told him that this was a great philosopher, who sat up all night to study the habits of frogs and mice, and knew everything but what went on in the daylight, under his nose; and he could think of nothing better to say to this great philosopher than, “Good Mr. Owl, will you please show me the way to the Wishing-Gate?”
“Eh! what’s that?” cried the owl, starting out of his nap. “Have you brought me a frog?”
“No,” said Blunder, “I did not know that you would like one. Can you tell me the way to Wishing-Gate?”