“What is that?” asked Pelle, who wanted to open the book; “are you still writing in your copybook?”
Morten, confused, laid his hand on the book. “No. Besides—oh, as far as that goes,” he said, “you may as well know. I have written a poem. But you mustn’t speak of it.”
“Oh, do read it out to me!” Pelle begged.
“Yes; but you must promise me to be silent about it, or the others will just think I’ve gone crazy.”
He was quite embarrassed, and he stammered as he read. It was a poem about poor people, who bore the whole world on their upraised hands, and with resignation watched the enjoyment of those above them. It was called, “Let them die!” and the words were repeated as the refrain of every verse. And now that Morten was in the vein, he read also an unpretentious story of the struggle of the poor to win their bread.
“That’s damned fine!” cried Pelle enthusiastically. “Monstrously good, Morten! I don’t understand how you put it together, especially the verse. But you’re a real poet. But I’ve always thought that—that you had something particular in you. You’ve got your own way of looking at things, and they won’t clip your wings in a hurry. But why don’t you write about something big and thrilling that would repay reading— there’s nothing interesting about us!”
“But I find there is!”
“No, I don’t understand that. What can happen to poor fellows like us?”
“Then don’t you believe in greatness?”
To be sure Pelle did. “But why shouldn’t we have splendid things right away?”