The race had at one time been beautiful, its wings large and powerful; then, one evening, a mighty forest bird said to it: ‘Brother, shall we fly to the river in the morning, if God will, and drink?’ And the ostrich replied: ‘I will.’ When day broke they flew off, at first high up towards the sun--the eye of God--ever higher and higher, the ostrich far before all the others; it flew in its pride towards the light; it relied on its own strength, and not on the Giver; it did not say, ‘If God will!’ Then the avenging angel drew back the veil from the burning flame, and in that instant the bird’s wings were burnt; it sank miserably to the earth. Its descendants are no longer able to raise themselves; they fly in terror, rush about in circles in that narrow space. It is a reminder to us men, in all our thoughts, in all our actions, to say: ‘If God will!’ And Helga thoughtfully bowed her head, looked at the hurrying ostrich, saw its fear, saw its silly delight at the sight of its own great shadow on the white sunlit wall. And deep seriousness fixed itself into her mind and thoughts. So rich a life, so full of prosperity, was given, was obtained--what would happen? What was yet to come? The best thing: ‘If God will!’ * * * * * In the early spring, when the storks again started for the north, little Helga took her gold bracelet, scratched her name on it, beckoned to the stork-father, placed the golden circlet about his neck, and asked him to bear it to the Viking’s wife, by which she would understand that her foster-daughter was alive, and that she was happy, and thought of her. ‘That is heavy to carry!’ thought the father-stork when it was placed around his neck; ‘but one does not throw gold and honour on the high-road. They will find it true up there that the stork brings fortune!’ ‘You lay gold, and I lay eggs!’ said the mother-stork; ‘but you only lay once, and I lay every year! But it vexes me that neither of us is appreciated.’ ‘But we are quite aware of it ourselves, mother!’ said father-stork. ‘But you can’t hang that on you,’ said mother-stork. ‘It neither gives us fair wind nor food.’ And so they flew. The little nightingale, that sang in the tamarind-bush, also wished to start for the north immediately. Little Helga had often heard him up there near the moor; she wished to give him a message, for she understood the speech of birds when she flew in the swan’s skin, and she had often since that time used it with the stork and the swallow. The nightingale would understand her, and she asked him to fly to the beech-forest on the peninsula of Jutland, where she had erected the grave of stones and boughs; there she asked him to bid all the small birds to protect the grave, and always to sing their songs around it. And the nightingale flew--and time flew also. * * * * *