"Sit down, sit down, cousin," said the Badger-mother hospitably. "Bring in the pupils, and let them dry their hair before the fire—they seem in a sad state, poor things!"
"They certainly do look a little untidy," said the Badger, "but we shall soon remedy all that. I have been explaining to the class (at least to as much as I've got of it)," he continued, turning to Knut, "that the plan of the School is to be entirely reformed—ten minutes' Arithmetic per day, and History once weekly. What do you say to that, children?"
A feeble cheer arose from the pupils; and the two little Bears, throwing themselves upon their knees, begged their Master's pardon for all the trouble they had caused him.
CHAPTER VII.
Fru Bjornson, seated on a camp-stool by the side of the entrance gate to her house, was looking anxiously around her. Close by stood Ingold, with one eye tightly screwed up, and an old-fashioned telescope in her hand, trying in vain to adjust the focus.
"What do you see now?" enquired the Bear-mother, leaning forward.
"A great fog with snakes in it!" replied the servant truthfully.
"Why, those are trees, of course!" said Fru Bjornson. "Turn the screw a little more, and it will become as plain as possible."
Ingold twisted her hand several times rapidly, and again applied her eye to the end.