[HOW BERNT WENT WHALING.]
Bernt Holter and his sister Hilda were sitting on the beach, playing with large spiral cockles which they imagined were cows and horses. They built stables out of chips, and fenced in their pastures, and led their cattle in long rows through the deep grooves they had made in the sand.
“When I grow up to be a man,” said Bernt, who was twelve years old, “I am going to sea and catch whales, as father did when he was young. I don’t want to stand behind a counter and sell calico and tape and coffee and sugar,” he continued, thrusting his chest forward, putting his hands into his pockets, and marching with a manly swagger across the beach. “I don’t want to play with cockles, like a baby, any more,” he added, giving a forcible kick to one of Hilda’s finest shells and sending it flying across the sand.
“I wish you wouldn’t be so naughty, Bernt,” cried his sister, with tears in her eyes. “If you don’t want to play with me, I can play alone. Bernt, oh—look there!”
Just at that moment a dozen or more columns of water flew high into the air, and the same number of large, black tail-fins emerged from the surface of the fiord, and again slowly vanished.
“Hurrah!” cried Bernt, in great glee, “it is a school of dolphins. Good-by, Hilda dear, I think I’ll run down to the boat-house.”
“I think I’ll go with you, Bernt,” said his sister, obligingly, rising and shaking the sand from her skirts.
“I think you’ll not,” remarked her brother, angrily; “I can run faster than you.”