This, too, was one of the Lieutenant’s boy-prank yarns. There were many more up his sleeve; but when he had told this and the one about Mamselle Brorström, Fru Lagerlöf would say:
“Now that is enough for this evening. It’s time for the children to say Good-night, and go to bed.”
[IV
BELLMAN BALLADS]
AT SIX-THIRTY every morning Nurse made a fire in the children’s room, and at seven o’clock the children had to rise and start dressing. When they were ready, say at about half after seven, and the beds had been hurriedly made, a tray was sent up from the kitchen with bowls of gruel and large pieces of buttered knäckebröd. This was the little breakfast. Then, until eight, they sat at a large table by the window and glanced over their lessons. The nursery had to serve as schoolroom, there being no other place available.
On the stroke of eight books were closed. The children then put on their wraps and went out in the half-dark winter morning—whatever the weather. They hurried down to the pond first thing, to see whether there was ice for skating, or, in lieu of that, went sledding on the driveway. If there was nothing else they could do, they ran down to the barn to see the baby rabbits and romp with the sheep-dog.
A little before nine they had big breakfast, which usually consisted of eggs, or griddle-cakes, or fried herring with boiled potatoes, or black pudding with salt pork and cream gravy. At breakfast the family did not sit at the big table, but each person, in turn, helped himself and then sat down at one of the side tables.
At nine sharp one had to be through with the meal, for at that hour lessons began. Then it was back to the nursery again to sit at the long table reading, writing, and figuring until noon. The little girls had a governess now—Ida Melanoz, eldest daughter of Sexton Melanoz, who had her father’s good brain and teaching ability.
At twelve o’clock dinner was served at the round dining table. One of the little girls said grace before the meal, the other after it. Then, rising from table, they kissed Mother’s hand and Father’s hand, and said: “Thanks for the food.” It was never quiet during the dinner hour. Lieutenant Lagerlöf kept the ball of chatter rolling. He could always find something to talk about. If nothing more thrilling had happened than his meeting an old woman in the lane, he would make a whole story out of the incident.
From one to two the children were again out of doors. But they often went in a few minutes before the play hour was up, so as to run through their lessons for the afternoon session, which was from two to four. Afterwards, they would read the lessons for the next day. They were never allowed to sit at their studies later than five o’clock, when they must go out-doors again. Now they were off to some distant coasting hill. At one time they had a big ram to drive, and that, of course, was great sport. When they got back to the house a pleasant hour awaited them. A log fire crackled in the living room and on the folded card table stood a plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of unfermented beer. To sit or lie before the fire while munching their sandwiches—that was something the youngsters enjoyed hugely. They chattered and planned all sorts of things. It was the only hour of the day they had to themselves.