Olaf the Dark blinked.
“Oo-oo-oo-ee!” he sighed, as though sucking the sweetest of sweets.
Now, that same evening, when bedtime came, Olaf the Fair pressed his face against the cold bars of the window and stared wistfully at the spangled blue-blackness outside. He thought with envy of the shepherd-boy out there all alone on the hidden hill. For the little king yearned to go out while darkness was spread over the earth. How mysterious the world looked! What, he wondered, happened to all the ordinary daylight things during the night? If he were outside would he be able to see his shadow and what would the flowers and the trees be doing?
After he had climbed into his high, soft, golden bed, the queen came in to say good night.
“Oh, mother!” he said, snuggling into her white arms, “I’ve done such a dreadful, dreadful lot of lessons to-day.”
“Poor little Olaf,” said the Queen, kissing her son.
“Oh, mother,” the little king continued, “I saw such a nice boy to-day out on the hill. And isn’t he lucky? He doesn’t do any lessons at all, and he’s allowed to stay out by himself with nothing but a lot of sheep. Mayn’t I have some nice woolly sheep to play with, mother?”
“Sheep aren’t toys, Olaf. They’re duties, like lessons. The boy must have been a shepherd.”
“Duties, are they, mother? Then I’d much rather do sheep than do lessons. But was he a real shepherd, that boy? Why, he’s only my age! Oh, mother, can’t I be a shepherd?”