Hjalmar nodded, and then sprang out of bed, and turned his great-
grandfather’s portrait to the wall, so that it might not interrupt them as it
had done yesterday. “Now,” said he, “you must tell me some stories about
five green peas that lived in one pod; or of the chickseed that courted the
chickweed; or of the darning needle, who acted so proudly because she
fancied herself an embroidery needle.”
“You may have too much of a good thing,” said Ole-Luk-Oie. “You know
that I like best to show you something, so I will show you my brother. He is
also called Ole-Luk-Oie but he never visits any one but once, and when he
does come, he takes him away on his horse, and tells him stories as they
ride along. He knows only two stories. One of these is so wonderfully
beautiful, that no one in the world can imagine anything at all like it; but the
other is just as ugly and frightful, so that it would be impossible to describe
it.” Then Ole-Luk-Oie lifted Hjalmar up to the window. “There now, you
can see my brother, the other Ole-Luk-Oie; he is also called Death. You
perceive he is not so bad as they represent him in picture books; there he is
a skeleton, but now his coat is embroidered with silver, and he wears the
splendid uniform of a hussar, and a mantle of black velvet flies behind him,
over the horse. Look, how he gallops along.” Hjalmar saw that as this Ole-
Luk-Oie rode on, he lifted up old and young, and carried them away on his
horse. Some he seated in front of him, and some behind, but always
inquired first, “How stands the mark-book?”
“Good,” they all answered.
