The otter soon came on land.  He said nothing, but commenced to lick one of his forepaws.  When Smirre sneered at him because he hadn’t succeeded, he broke out:  “It was not the fault of my swimming-art, Smirre.  I had raced all the way over to the geese, and was about to climb up to them, when a tiny creature came running, and jabbed me in the foot with some sharp iron.  It hurt so, I lost my footing, and then the current took me.”

He didn’t have to say any more.  Smirre was already far away on his way to the wild geese.

Once again Akka and her flock had to take a night fly.  Fortunately, the moon had not gone down; and with the aid of its light, she succeeded in finding another of those sleeping-places which she knew in that neighbourhood.  Again she followed the shining river toward the south.  Over Djupadal’s manor, and over Ronneby’s dark roofs and white waterfalls she swayed forward without alighting.  But a little south of the city and not far from the sea, lies Ronneby health-spring, with its bath house and spring house; with its big hotel and summer cottages for the spring’s guests.  All these stand empty and desolate in winter—­which the birds know perfectly well; and many are the bird-companies who seek shelter on the deserted buildings’ balustrades and balconies during hard storm-times.

Here the wild geese lit on a balcony, and, as usual, they fell asleep at once.  The boy, on the contrary, could not sleep because he hadn’t cared to creep in under the goosey-gander’s wing.

The balcony faced south, so the boy had an outlook over the sea.  And since he could not sleep, he sat there and saw how pretty it looked when sea and land meet, here in Blekinge.

You see that sea and land can meet in many different ways.  In many places the land comes down toward the sea with flat, tufted meadows, and the sea meets the land with flying sand, which piles up in mounds and drifts.  It appears as though they both disliked each other so much that they only wished to show the poorest they possessed.  But it can also happen that, when the land comes toward the sea, it raises a wall of hills in front of it—­as though the sea were something dangerous.  When the land does this, the sea comes up to it with fiery wrath, and beats and roars and lashes against the rocks, and looks as if it would tear the land-hill to pieces.

But in Blekinge it is altogether different when sea and land meet.  There the land breaks itself up into points and islands and islets; and the sea divides itself into fiords and bays and sounds; and it is, perhaps, this which makes it look as if they must meet in happiness and harmony.