"And there is the ladder out of place." He put it right, and turning to the schoolmaster, said, "The same thing day after day!" As they went further they heard a lively song from the fields. "Hark! they are singing at work," said the schoolmaster. "No, it is little Knut Ostistuen who is singing; he is gathering leaves for his father. It is over there my people are working, they are not singing." "It is not one of the country songs, that?" "No, I hear it is not." "Ovind Pladsen has been a great deal in Ostistuen; it must be one of those he has introduced; where he is, there is sure to be song." No reply. The field they went over was not in good condition, it wanted attention. The schoolmaster remarked it, whereupon Ole stopped. "I cannot do any more," he said, almost in tears; "but it is hard to go over such a field, you may be sure." As they began to talk again about the size of the farm, and what most required attention, they concluded to go up the hill side, where they could overlook the whole. When they had reached the place, and could see the farm laid out before them, the old man was quite moved. "I should not like to leave it as it is. We have worked hard there both I and my parents before me; but now nothing is to be seen of our labour." Just then, right above their heads, there burst out a song, with that peculiar sharpness that a lad's voice has when it is changing. They were not far from the tree where little Knut Ostistuen was sitting, pulling leaves for his father, and they listened to the song:-- All along by copse and glade Up the rocky mountain, Thro' the pleasant birch wood's shade, By the silver fountain. Chase away each thought of care, Gaily, gladly singing, Through the pure and bracing air Joyful echoes ringing. The birds salute from every tree, They form a charming choir, The air grows pure, and light, and free, Higher up and higher. So the thought of childhood's hours To the memory rushes, Recollections from the flowers Peep with rosy blushes. Stay and listen;--it is good, To thy heart appealing-- The grand deep song of solitude, Speaks to every feeling. But a streamlet gurgling on, But a small stone rolling, Calls up forgotten duties gone, Like a death knell tolling. Tremble, yes, but pray, poor soul 'Midst thy saddest thinking;-- Forward to the blesséd goal,-- Keep thy heart from sinking. There is Christ as once of old, Elias too, and Moses; When their glory ye behold, Faith in joy reposes. Ole had seated himself, and hid his head in his hands.