The children, of course, had all the animals about the place, and Eleseus had still his coloured pencil besides.  He used it very carefully, and rarely lent it to his brother, but for all that the walls were covered with blue and red drawings as time went on, and the pencil got smaller and smaller.  At last Eleseus was simply forced to put Sivert on rations with it, lending him the pencil on Sunday only, for one drawing.  Sivert was not pleased with the arrangement, but Eleseus was a fellow who would stand no nonsense.  Not so much as being the stronger, but he had longer arms, and could manage better when it came to a quarrel.

But that Sivert!  Now and again he would come across a bird’s nest in the woods; once he talked about a mouse-hole he had found, and made a lot of that; another time it was a great fish as big as a man, he had seen in the river.  But it was all evidently his own invention; he was somewhat inclined to make black into white, was Sivert, but a good sort for all that.  When the cat had kittens, it was he who brought her milk, because she hissed too much for Eleseus.  Sivert was never tired of standing looking at the box full of movement, a nest of tumbling furry paws.

The chickens, too, he noticed every day:  the cock with his lordly carriage and fine feathers, the hens tripping about chattering low, and pecking at the sand, or screaming out as if terribly hurt every time they had laid an egg.

And there was the big wether.  Little Sivert had read a good deal to what he knew before, but he could not say of the wether that the beast had a fine Roman nose, begad!  That he could not say.  But he could do better than that.  He knew the wether from the day when it had been a lamb, he understood it and was one with it—­a kinsman, a fellow-creature.  Once, a strange primitive impression flickered through his senses:  it was a moment he never forgot.  The wether was grazing quietly in the field; suddenly it threw up its head, stopped munching, simply stood there looking out.  Sivert looked involuntarily in the same direction.  No—­nothing remarkable.  But Sivert himself felt something strange within him:  “’Tis most as if he stood looking into the garden of Eden,” he thought.

There were the cows,—­the children had each a couple,—­great sailing creatures, so friendly and tame that they let themselves be caught whenever you liked; let human children pat them.  There was the pig, white and particular about its person when decently looked after, listening to every sound, a comical fellow, always eager for food, and ticklish and fidgety as a girl.  And there was the billy-goat, there was always one old billy-goat at Sellanraa, for as soon as one died another was ready to take his place.  And was there ever anything so solemnly ridiculous to look at?  Just now he had a whole lot of goats to look after, but at times he would get sick and tired of them all, and lie down, a bearded, thoughtful spectacle, a veritable Father Abraham.  And then in a moment, up again and off after the flock.  He always left a trail of sourish air behind him.