put in their rucksacks.
“Does Tore have to come as well?” Hjalmar Krekula says, fastening the only three buttons left on his flannel shirt. “Can’t he stay at home with you?”
Hjalmar Krekula is eight years old, will be nine in July. Tore Krekula is six. Hjalmar Krekula would prefer to be in the forest on his own. Tore Krekula is a nuisance, following him around all the time.
“Don’t argue,” his mother says in a voice that will not tolerate contradiction.
She is spreading butter on bread for her boys. Hjalmar Krekula notices that she is spreading the butter more thickly on one of the slices. She wraps the sandwiches in newspaper, and the one with the most butter goes into Tore Krekula’s rucksack. Hjalmar Krekula makes no comment. Tore Krekula is sitting on the kitchen stool, sliding his new knife up and down in its sheath.
“Don’t play with knives,” Hjalmar Krekula says, just as he has been told not to do many times.
Tore Krekula does not seem to hear him. Their mother says nothing. She pours a little yogurt into a small wooden flask and puts a piece of salted fish into an old flour bag. These Hjalmar Krekula will carry in his rucksack.
The family keeps only three cows, to supply their own needs. Isak Krekula, their father, runs the hauling firm, while Kerttu Krekula looks after the house and the cattle.
The boys have their rucksacks. They are wearing caps, and shorts that just cover their knees. Hjalmar Krekula’s boots are too big for him and flop around. Tore Krekula’s boots are a bit too small.
Before they have even crossed the main road, Tore Krekula cuts off a birch switch with which he pokes the cows.
“You don’t need to hit them,” Hjalmar Krekula says with annoyance. “Star is bright. She follows you if you lead the way.”
Star, the lead cow, follows Hjalmar Krekula. She has a bell attached to a leather strap around her neck. Her ears are black, and she has a black star on her forehead. Rosa and Mustikka traipse along behind. Their tails are twitching, aiming at flies. They occasionally run a few paces in order to get away from Tore Krekula and his confounded birch switch.
Hjalmar Krekula presses on. He is leading the cows to the edge of a bog a kilometer or so away. It is a good grazing spot. The sun is warm. The forest is fragrant with wild rosemary, which has just come into bloom. Star trots happily after Hjalmar Krekula. She has learned that he takes her to good grazing grounds.
Tore Krekula keeps on holding them up. He stops to poke a big branch through an anthill, back and forth, back and forth. And he feels the need to cut notches in tree trunks with his new knife. Hjalmar Krekula looks the other way. His own knife is nowhere near as sharp. One of his father’s employees had used it to scrape rust off one of the truck. There is a big hack in the cutting edge, too big to be ground away. Tore Krekula’s knife is brand new.
Tore Krekula prattles away behind his brother and Star. Hjalmar Krekula wishes the younger boy would keep quiet. Youhave to keep silent in the forest. When they reach the edge of the bog, they unpack their lunches. The cows immediately start grazing. They drift farther and farther from the boys.
The bog is white with cloudberry flowers.
When the boys have finished eating, it is time to head for home.
They have been walking for ten minutes when they catch sight of a reindeer. It is standing absolutely still, watching them with big black eyes. The Lapps have already taken their herds up into the mountains; this is one they missed.
The boys try to sneak up on it, but it stretches its neck and sets off at a brisk trot. They hear the clippety-clop of its hooves, and then it is gone.
They try to follow it for a while, but give up after ten minutes. The reindeer is no doubt a long way away by now.
They set off for home again, but after a while Hjalmar Krekula realizes that he does not know where he is. Even so, he continues in the same direction—no
“Does Tore have to come as well?” Hjalmar Krekula says, fastening the only three buttons left on his flannel shirt. “Can’t he stay at home with you?”
Hjalmar Krekula is eight years old, will be nine in July. Tore Krekula is six. Hjalmar Krekula would prefer to be in the forest on his own. Tore Krekula is a nuisance, following him around all the time.
“Don’t argue,” his mother says in a voice that will not tolerate contradiction.
She is spreading butter on bread for her boys. Hjalmar Krekula notices that she is spreading the butter more thickly on one of the slices. She wraps the sandwiches in newspaper, and the one with the most butter goes into Tore Krekula’s rucksack. Hjalmar Krekula makes no comment. Tore Krekula is sitting on the kitchen stool, sliding his new knife up and down in its sheath.
“Don’t play with knives,” Hjalmar Krekula says, just as he has been told not to do many times.
Tore Krekula does not seem to hear him. Their mother says nothing. She pours a little yogurt into a small wooden flask and puts a piece of salted fish into an old flour bag. These Hjalmar Krekula will carry in his rucksack.
The family keeps only three cows, to supply their own needs. Isak Krekula, their father, runs the hauling firm, while Kerttu Krekula looks after the house and the cattle.
The boys have their rucksacks. They are wearing caps, and shorts that just cover their knees. Hjalmar Krekula’s boots are too big for him and flop around. Tore Krekula’s boots are a bit too small.
Before they have even crossed the main road, Tore Krekula cuts off a birch switch with which he pokes the cows.
“You don’t need to hit them,” Hjalmar Krekula says with annoyance. “Star is bright. She follows you if you lead the way.”
Star, the lead cow, follows Hjalmar Krekula. She has a bell attached to a leather strap around her neck. Her ears are black, and she has a black star on her forehead. Rosa and Mustikka traipse along behind. Their tails are twitching, aiming at flies. They occasionally run a few paces in order to get away from Tore Krekula and his confounded birch switch.
Hjalmar Krekula presses on. He is leading the cows to the edge of a bog a kilometer or so away. It is a good grazing spot. The sun is warm. The forest is fragrant with wild rosemary, which has just come into bloom. Star trots happily after Hjalmar Krekula. She has learned that he takes her to good grazing grounds.
Tore Krekula keeps on holding them up. He stops to poke a big branch through an anthill, back and forth, back and forth. And he feels the need to cut notches in tree trunks with his new knife. Hjalmar Krekula looks the other way. His own knife is nowhere near as sharp. One of his father’s employees had used it to scrape rust off one of the truck. There is a big hack in the cutting edge, too big to be ground away. Tore Krekula’s knife is brand new.
Tore Krekula prattles away behind his brother and Star. Hjalmar Krekula wishes the younger boy would keep quiet. Youhave to keep silent in the forest. When they reach the edge of the bog, they unpack their lunches. The cows immediately start grazing. They drift farther and farther from the boys.
The bog is white with cloudberry flowers.
When the boys have finished eating, it is time to head for home.
They have been walking for ten minutes when they catch sight of a reindeer. It is standing absolutely still, watching them with big black eyes. The Lapps have already taken their herds up into the mountains; this is one they missed.
The boys try to sneak up on it, but it stretches its neck and sets off at a brisk trot. They hear the clippety-clop of its hooves, and then it is gone.
They try to follow it for a while, but give up after ten minutes. The reindeer is no doubt a long way away by now.
They set off for home again, but after a while Hjalmar Krekula realizes that he does not know where he is. Even so, he continues in the same direction—no
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