The ice had been carried out into the fjord, and lay there, blue and green, rocking gently on the water. Later in the day it lost its freshness, dulled by the sand and mud carried down by the torrent. Streams were pouring everywhere from the heights above, forming small pools here and there where the water spread.
And gradually the earth rose up out of its covering of snow.
The landscape was dark and bare, relieved here and there by white specks—the ptarmigan had not yet changed their winter plumage.
Then the green of spring began to put forth, and birds of passage arrived. The air grew milder, and the song of birds was heard; there was a scent of growth abroad, a promise of harvests to come.
Early blossoms peeped out, braving the frosts with cheerful smiles. Time went on, and the light nights came, when the evening brought but a veil over the day, that was drawn aside again at dawn, when the bright sun rose, passing from a ruddy glow to a fullness of dazzling rays. Butterflies lived their little lives, and sank to earth, to pass through the cycle of nature before they came again. The lambs of last year were mothers now themselves, wise in the vicissitudes of life and saddened by experience.
But the horses, even the older ones, forgot for a moment their mere material needs, and galloped madly about under the influence of the joy-filled air.
Cattle let loose for the first time from their confinement behaved in most undignified fashion; even the astonished calves followed suit and joined in the romp with their elders. Good-natured mothers pretended to let themselves be outdone by their month-old offspring, until some youngster grew overbold, and had to be reminded by what was fitting. Great days, these, for a young calf, a time to play at being a grown-up bull, and making ferocious charges against all and sundry.
All the light-heartedness of spring about her brought at times a smile to Alma’s saddened face. But it was a smile of pity rather than of pleasure. All these young creatures, this life new to the world, had not yet tasted the bitterness of existence upon earth.
So she lived through the spring with the winter of life in her heart, that nothing could melt away once it had set in. No springtide for her, no budding and bloom.
She longed only for peace—in forgetfulness or death.