But when things of that sort began to drift past, the grown-ups, too, bestirred themselves.  They realized now that the river had overflowed its banks somewhere up north, and hurried down to the shores with poles and boat hooks, to haul up on land buildings and furniture.

At the northern end of the parish, where the houses were scattered and people were scarce, Ingmar Ingmarsson alone was standing on the bank, gazing out at the river.  He was then almost sixty, and looked even older.  His face was weatherbeaten and furrowed, his figure bent; he appeared to be as awkward and helpless as ever.  He stood leaning on a long, heavy boat hook, his dull, sleepy-looking eyes fixed on the water.  The river raged and foamed, arrogantly marching past with all that it had matched from the shores.  It was as if it were deriding the peasant for his slowness.  “Oh, you’re not the one to wrest from me any of the things I’m carrying away!” it seemed to say.

Ingmar Ingmarsson made no attempt to rescue any of the floating bridges or boat hulls that passed quite close to the bank.  “All that will be seen to down at the village,” he thought.  Not for a second did his gaze wander from the river.  He took note of everything that drifted past.  All at once he sighted something bright and yellow floating on some loosely nailed boards quite a distance up the river.  “Ah, this is what I have been expecting all along!” he said aloud.  At first he could not quite make out what the yellow was; but for one who knew how little children in Dalecarlia are dressed it was easy to guess.  “Those must be youngsters who were out on a washing pier playing,” he said, “and hadn’t the sense to get back on land before the river took them.”

It was not long until the peasant saw that he had guessed rightly.  Now he could distinctly see three little children, in their yellow homespun frocks and round yellow hats, being carried downstream on a poorly constructed raft that was being slowly torn apart by the swift current and the moving ice floes.

The children were still a long way off.  Big Ingmar knew there was a bend in the river where it touched his land.  If God in His mercy would only direct the raft with the children into this current, he thought, he might be able to get them ashore.

He stood very still, watching the raft.  All at once it seemed as if some one had given it a push; it swung round and headed straight for the shore.  By that time the children were so close that he could see their frightened little faces and hear their cries.  But they were still too far out to be reached by the boat hook, from the bank at least; so he hurried down to the water’s edge, and waded into the river.

As he did so, he had a strange sort of feeling that some one was calling to him to comeback.  “You are no longer a young man, Ingmar; this may prove a perilous business for you!” a voice said to him.

He reflected a moment, wondering whether he had the right to risk his life.  The wife, whom he had once fetched from the prison, had died during the winter, and since her going his one longing had been that he might soon follow.  But, on the other hand, there was his son who needed a father’s care, for he was only a little lad and could not look after the farm.