It was about the same here as at the former place; none of the travellers thought the least little bit that they had come to a pretty and well-known place.  They thought rather that it was ghastly and dangerous to stand and sleep on slippery, wet stones, in the middle of a rumbling waterfall.  But they had to be content, if only they were protected from carnivorous animals.

The geese fell asleep instantly, while the boy could find no rest in sleep, but sat beside them that he might watch over the goosey-gander.

After a while, Smirre came running along the river-shore.  He spied the geese immediately where they stood out in the foaming whirlpools, and understood that he couldn’t get at them here, either.  Still he couldn’t make up his mind to abandon them, but seated himself on the shore and looked at them.  He felt very much humbled, and thought that his entire reputation as a hunter was at stake.

All of a sudden, he saw an otter come creeping up from the falls with a fish in his mouth.  Smirre approached him but stopped within two steps of him, to show him that he didn’t wish to take his game from him.

“You’re a remarkable one, who can content yourself with catching a fish, while the stones are covered with geese!” said Smirre.  He was so eager, that he hadn’t taken the time to arrange his words as carefully as he was wont to do.  The otter didn’t turn his head once in the direction of the river.  He was a vagabond—­like all otters—­and had fished many times by Vomb Lake, and probably knew Smirre Fox.  “I know very well how you act when you want to coax away a salmon-trout, Smirre,” said he.

“Oh! is it you, Gripe?” said Smirre, and was delighted; for he knew that this particular otter was a quick and accomplished swimmer.  “I don’t wonder that you do not care to look at the wild geese, since you can’t manage to get out to them.”  But the otter, who had swimming-webs between his toes, and a stiff tail—­which was as good as an oar—­and a skin that was water-proof, didn’t wish to have it said of him that there was a waterfall that he wasn’t able to manage.  He turned toward the stream; and as soon as he caught sight of the wild geese, he threw the fish away, and rushed down the steep shore and into the river.

If it had been a little later in the spring, so that the nightingales in Djupafors had been at home, they would have sung for many a day of Gripe’s struggle with the rapid.  For the otter was thrust back by the waves many times, and carried down river; but he fought his way steadily up again.  He swam forward in still water; he crawled over stones, and gradually came nearer the wild geese.  It was a perilous trip, which might well have earned the right to be sung by the nightingales.

Smirre followed the otter’s course with his eyes as well as he could.  At last he saw that the otter was in the act of climbing up to the wild geese.  But just then it shrieked shrill and wild.  The otter tumbled backward into the water, and dashed away as if he had been a blind kitten.  An instant later, there was a great crackling of geese’s wings.  They raised themselves and flew away to find another sleeping-place.