He glanced about him and tried to reason out why so many stopped. Then he discovered that they were no longer in southern Sweden. The march had been so rapid that they were already in Svealand.
Up there the oak began to move more cautiously. It paused awhile to consider, took a few faltering steps, then came to a standstill.
"Why doesn't the oak come along?" asked the boy.
"It's afraid of the Ice Witch," said a fair young birch that tripped along so boldly and cheerfully that it was a joy to watch it. The crowd hurried on as before. In a short time they were in Norrland, and now it mattered not how much the Sun cried and coaxed—the apple tree stopped, the cherry tree stopped, the rye blade stopped!
The boy turned to them and asked:
"Why don't you come along? Why do you desert the Sun?"
"We dare not! We're afraid of the Ice Witch, who lives in Lapland," they answered.
The boy comprehended that they were far north, as the procession grew thinner and thinner. The rye blade, the barley, the wild strawberry, the blueberry bush, the pea stalk, the currant bush had come along as far as this. The elk and the domestic cow had been walking side by side, but now they stopped. The Sun no doubt would have been almost deserted if new followers had not happened along. Osier bushes and a lot of brushy vegetation joined the procession. Laps and reindeer, mountain owl and mountain fox and willow grouse followed.
Then the boy heard something coming toward them. He saw great rivers and creeks sweeping along with terrible force.
"Why are they in such a hurry?" he asked.