“Disturb what?” said Torkel.
The Parson pointed to the woodpecker, which was not a dozen yards from them. The bird paused a moment, and looked at them, but evinced no symptoms of timidity.
“What, the Gertrude-bird?” said Torkel; “no one would disturb her while working out her penance, poor thing! She knows that well enough; look at her.” And, in truth, the bird did seem to know it, for another loud rattle of taps formed an appropriate accompaniment to Torkel’s speech; though Birger and the Captain at that moment came up, the one with his last fish, the other with a couple of ducks, a tjäder, and two brace of grouse, of one sort or another, which he had met with during his morning’s exploration.
The Parson nodded to the Captain, congratulated Birger, but, ever ready for a legend, turned round to Torkel.
“What do you mean by a Gertrude-bird, and what is her penance?” said he.
Birger smiled—not unbelievingly, though; for the legend is as well known in Sweden as it is in Norway; and few people, in either of these countries, who believe in anything at all, are altogether sceptical on matters of popular superstition.
“That bird,” said Torkel, “or at least her ancestors, was once a woman; and it is a good lesson that she reads us every time we see her. God grant that we may all be the better for it,” he added, reverentially.
“One day she was kneading bread, in her trough, under the eaves of her house, when our Lord passed by, leaning on St. Peter. She did not know that it was the Lord and his Apostle, for they looked like two poor men, who were travelling past her cottage door.”
“‘Give us of your dough, for the love of God,’ said the Lord Christ; ‘we have come far across the fjeld, and have fasted long!’