"Sure, sir? Listen to the whistling of their wings, hundreds and thousands of them flying over as fast as they can go. Yes, they always fly in the night when they're going from here south, and I believe birds come north in the same way, following after the frost as it is driven north. I've noticed it at home near Nordoe. To-day there would be no birds at all in the spring; next day there would be hundreds of them flying about. They must have come in the night." Steve had not a word to say, but stood there silent, listening to the whirring of the thousands of wings which echoed from the ice and the sides of the fiord, sounding so close that he felt disposed to stretch out his hand and try to touch that which seemed to be within reach. Then he began to wonder how many thousands there would be, and where they had come from; and then how it was that this plain, homely Norwegian should know so much better than he, and show that he had passed his life picking up knowledge peculiar to his surroundings, so that he was able to teach those around him again and again. "Isn't there going to be any end of them?" said the boy at last; for the peculiar whirring had been going on for quite half an hour. "Oh yes, sir; they'll all be by soon," replied Johannes; and almost as he spoke the whirring sound grew fainter, fainter, and then died away. "Hah!" ejaculated Steve, drawing a long breath. "How strange it sounded!" He was about to say, "I am glad you were here, for it quite startled me," when the Norseman spoke: "I remember hearing one of these night flights, sir when I was quite a lad somewhere about your age. I was out quite alone, and it frightened me so that I ran away. It was one night, and I was going straight home over the mountain when it began. First thing I did was to throw myself flat on my face; but the noise seemed to come close down to me, and I was so scared that I jumped up and began to run. But that did no good, for I started running in the same direction as the wild fowl were flying, and consequently the noise sounded as if following me, and kept on louder and louder till I reached home, dashed myself, out of breath, against the door, and rushed in to where my father and mother were sitting with the window open listening, as I thought, for me. In a moment I'd banged to and barred the door, and then I turned to my father. "`Shut the window,' I said. `Quick! they're coming in.' "`What are?' said my father. "`I don't know. I think it's a pack of wolves,' I panted as I sank in a chair. `Get the gun.' "`Oh yes,' said my father. `Perhaps it is flying wolves with feathers instead of fur coats, and they were after you to eat you.' "`Yes, father,' I said, `I thought so.'