“How do the gulls know about the weather?” he asked.

“They’re weather-sick,” said his father.  “But as for that they’re no more so than the flies.  How it may be with flies, I can’t say, if they get the gout, or feel giddy, or what.  But never hit out at a fly, for ’twill only make him worse—­remember that, boys!  The horsefly he’s a different sort, he dies of himself.  Turns up suddenly one day in summer, and there he is; then one day suddenly he’s gone, and that’s the end of him.”

“But how does he die?” asked Eleseus.

“The fat inside him stiffens, and he lies there dead.”

Every day they learned something new.  Jumping down from high rocks, for instance, to keep your tongue in your mouth, and not get it between your teeth.  When they grew bigger, and wanted to smell nice for going to church, the thing was to rub oneself with a little tansy that grew on the hillside.  Father was full of wisdom.  He taught the boys about stones, about flint, how that the white stone was harder than the grey; but when he had found a flint, he must also make tinder.  Then he could strike fire with it.  He taught them about the moon, how when you can grip in the hollow side with your left hand it is waxing, and grip in with the right, it’s on the wane; remember that, boys!  Now and again, Isak would go too far, and grow mysterious; one Friday he declared that it was harder for a camel to enter the kingdom of heaven than for a human being to thread the eye of a needle.  Another time, telling them of the glory of the angels, he explained that angels had stars set in their heels instead of hob-nails.  Good and simple teaching, well fitted for settlers in the wilds; the schoolmaster in the village would have laughed at it all, but Isak’s boys found good use for it in their inner life.  They were trained and taught for their own little world, and what could be better?  In the autumn, when animals were to be killed, the lads were greatly curious, and fearful, and heavy at heart for the ones that were to die.  There was Isak holding with one hand, and the other ready to strike; Oline stirred the blood.  The old goat was led out, bearded and wise; the boys stood peeping round the corner.  “Filthy cold wind this time,” said Eleseus, and turned away to wipe his eyes.  Little Sivert cried more openly, could not help calling out:  “Oh, poor old goat!” When the goat was killed, Isak came up to them and gave them this lesson:  “Never stand around saying ‘Poor thing’ and being pitiful when things are being killed.  It makes them tough and harder to kill.  Remember that!”

So the years passed, and now it was nearing spring again.

Inger had written home to say she was well, and was learning a lot of things where she was.  Her little girl was big, and was called Leopoldine, after the day she was born, the 15th November.  She knew all sorts of things, and was a genius at hemstitch and crochet, wonderful fine work she could do on linen or canvas.