in 1856, he understood that he had a definite call to literature, and at Copenhagen the following year he wrote his first masterpiece “Synnove Solbakken.”  This was followed, in 1858, by “Arne,” a story which not only brought him into the front rank of contemporary writers, but also marked a new era in Norwegian literature.  From that time there has been a succession of novels, short stories, and plays (Bjoernson on two occasions has been the director of a theatre) from his pen.  A drama, “The King,” produced in 1877, had an after effect of immense political importance.  It was undoubtedly an attack on the ruler of Norway and Sweden, and every Norwegian who wished his country to become an independent nation welcomed Bjoernson as the leader of this new movement—­with what success there is now no need to relate, since it has become a matter of history.  Bjoernson died April 25, 1910.

I.—­The Little Song-Maker

It was up at Kampen that Arne was born.  His mother was Margit, the only child at the little farm among the crags.  When she was eighteen, she stopped too long at a dance one evening; her friends had gone off without her, so Margit thought the way home would be just as long whether she waited till the end of the dance or not.

Thus it came about that Margit remained sitting there till Nils Skraedder, the fiddler, suddenly laid aside his instrument, as was his wont when he had had more than enough to drink, left the dancers to hum their own tune, took hold of the prettiest girl he could find, and, letting his feet keep as good time to the dance as music to a song, jerked off with the heel of his boot the hat of the tallest man in the room.  “Ho!” laughed he.

As Margit walked home that night, the moon was making wondrous sport over the snow.  When she got to the loft where she slept, she could not help looking out at it again.

Next time there was a dance in the parish, Margit was present.  She did not care much to dance that evening, but sat listening to the music.  But when the playing ceased the fiddler rose and went straight across to Margit Kampen.  She was scarcely aware of anything, but that she was dancing with Nils Skraedder!

Before long the weather grew warmer, and there was no more dancing that spring.

One Sunday, when the summer was getting on, Margit went to church with her mother.  When they were at home again her mother threw both her arms around her.  “Hide nothing from me, my child!” she cried.

Winter came again, but Margit danced no more.  Nils Skraedder went on playing, drank more than formerly, and wound up each party by dancing with the prettiest girl there.  It was said for certain that he could have whichever he wished of the farmers’ daughters, and that Birgit, the daughter of Boeen, was sick for love of him.

Just about this time a child of the cotter’s daughter at Kampen was brought to be christened.  It was given the name of Arne, and its father was said to be Nils Skraedder.