Idyls of Norway and other poems

Trim and graceful, like a clipper, Thora was from top to toe,
Though her dress was very scanty and perhaps not comme il faut.
Bare and brown her little feet were, and her cheeks were sun-burnt too;
But her lips were very rosy and her eyes were very blue.

One black skirt with red embroidery and a snowy white chemise
Were her wonted dress on week-days, when she felt herself at ease.
Hats she only wore in winter, when with snow the air was dim,
But her eyes peeped forth full brightly 'neath the big sou'wester's brim.

For who thinks that a sou'wester, e'en if e'er and e'er so wide,
From the boys' admiring glances could a pretty maiden hide?
And 'tis known how such attention every pretty maid annoys;
And it was a thousand pities, Thora did not like the boys.

They were either rude and noisy, or too bashful and confused.
As for loving them! No, thank you; she would rather be excused!
And, besides, there were so many, stout and slender, short and tall;
How could she her choice determine, since she could not love them all?

Thus she spoke unto her mother, sitting in the evening's glow
In the shadow of the fish-nets, which were drooping, row on row,

From their stakes; while to the westward hung the sun so huge and red,
Tinged with flame the white-winged sea-birds, drifting idly o'er her head.

“Sooth to say, thy words are canny,” said the goodwife with a sigh,
Glancing seaward to conceal the merry twinkle in her eye.
“Yet 'tis right young girls should marry; childless age brings no maid boon;
Beauty gone, in vain they hanker, fretting idly for the moon.

“Therefore I will tell thee, daughter, what 'tis wise for thee to do;
One maid, e'en if e'er so canny, never knows as much as two.
We will call the girls together from the valley's every part;
They shall choose among thy wooers him who is to own thy heart.”

“O, what sport!” cried pretty Thora; “thanks to thee, my mother dear;
O, how gayly we shall chatter when no prying men are near.
Loved and cherished shall my name be by the maidens round about;
I shall cause no cheeks to wither and no pretty lips to pout.”

II.

While the mountain-tops were rosy and with dew the grass was wet,
Thora hastened to the boat-house to repair the fishing-net.
Skipping, jumping, wild and wanton, danced she o'er the fields away,
Tossing to the sportive echoes many a bright and careless lay.

When the lads who boats were bailing heard the pretty Thora sing,
Joining hands they ran to meet her, throwing round the maid a ring.

“Now,” they cried, with boist'rous laughter, “now we've surely caught thee, Miss:
Thou canst only buy thy freedom if thou give us each a kiss.”

Come and take it, lads,” said Thora; “here's my mouth and here's my hand.
Kiss, indeed! Why don't you take it? Modest, sooth, is your demand.”
And when one stepped briskly forward, half emboldened by her speech,
With a slap she sent him spinning, like a top, upon the beach.

With a peal of mocking laughter off she bounded like a hind,
And her loosened yellow tresses fluttered wildly in the wind;
While the lad, abashed, bewildered, strolled away, with burning ears,
To compose his wounded feelings and avoid his comrades' jeers.

Now a gallant lad was Halvor, who in storm and billows' roar
Oft had steered his skiff securely close beneath the rocky shore;
And the thought within him rankled with a dull and gnawing pain,
That a little maid had smote him whom he could not smite again.

And the roguish face of Thora haunted him by night and day;
Half he feared that he must love her; for his wrath had flown away.
Yet he could have cursed his folly, had not cursing been a sin;
Why should he thus love a maiden who was neither kith nor kin?

Strange to say, the little Thora, when her anger was at rest,
Found some queer, soft thoughts awaking dimly in her troubled breast.

Had she not too harshly punished an offence not rudely meant?
Could she hope for God's forgiveness who could rashly thus resent?

As for kissing, that was foolish—that's, of course, before a throng;
Yet, in Scripture, people did it, so it scarcely could be wrong.
Had he only been discreeter—met her 'neath the sinking sun—
Well—in sooth—there is no knowing what she might not then have done.

Thus with doubt and passion battling, and by vague regrets distraught,
Shyly nursing tender yearnings which she dared not frame in thought,
On the beach alone she wandered, where in whispered pulses beat,
Drunk with sleep, the mighty ocean, heaving darkly at her feet.

Then it seemed—what odd illusion!—that her footsteps on the sand
Broke into a double rhythm, sharply echoing o'er the strand,
And she felt a shadowy presence in the moonlight, gaunt and dread,
Moving stealthily behind her, and she dared not turn her head.

Swiftly, wildly, on she hurried, and the cloud and moon and star
With a dumb phantasmal ardor sped along th' horizon's bar;
Till exhausted, panting, sobbing, and bewildered with alarm,
Prone she fell, but up was lifted lightly on her lover's arm.

“Thora,” said he, stooping o'er her, “pardon if I caused thee fright;
But my heart was full to bursting—speak I must and speak to-night.

Silence, Thora, is so heavy, like a load upon the breast.
Sooth, I think thou hast bewitched me—I can find nor peace nor rest.”

Thora half-way stayed her weeping, and the moon, who peeped askance
From behind her cloud, revealed the tearful brightness of her glance.
“Oh, thou wouldst not love me,” sobbed she, “if thou knew'st how bad I am.
Once—I hung—a great live lobster—on the tail of—Hans—our ram.”

Scarce I know how he consoled her, but ere long her tears were dried,
And 'twas rumored in the parish, though again it was denied,
That while all the moon was hidden—all except the golden tips—
There was heard a sound mysterious, as of softly meeting lips.

For the good-wife, mildly grumbling at the idle spinning-wheel,
Rose at length and trudged sedately, anxious for the daughter's weal,
Over stone and sand and tangle, where the frightened plovers flew
Screaming seaward, and majestic skyward soared the silent mew.

And 'twas she who with amazement heard the soft, mysterious sound,
And 'tis said she shook and tottered, almost fainting on the ground.
Scarce her reason she recovered, if the wild report be true,
For she saw a queer-shaped figure which proved later to be two.

“Daughter,” said she, not ungently, “I have sought thee in alarm,
Fearing, in the treacherous moonlight, thou perchance hadst come to harm;

Yet I hoped that I should find thee, though the night be dark and drear,
Knowing that thou lov'st to wander where no prying men are near.”

Dumb, abashed stood little Thora, and her cheeks were flaming red;
Nervously she twirled her apron, and she hung her pretty head;
Till at length she gathered courage and she whispered breathlessly:
“Mother dear—I love him—truly, and he says—that he loves me.”

“Lord ha' mercy on us, daughter!” solemnly the dame replied.
“I who have the maids invited that thy choice they might decide;
For of men there are so many, stout and slender, short and tall—
How's a maid to choose among them, since she cannot love them all?”

Now, the moon, who had been hiding in a veil of misty lace,
Wishing to embarrass no one by the shining of her face,
Peeped again, in modest wonder, ere her cloud she gently broke,
And she saw the good-wife smiling as to Thora thus she spoke:

“Since thou now hast chosen, daughter—every bird must try his wings—
Tell me, how didst thou discover that thy heart to Halvor clings?”
“Well,” she said, in sweet confusion, while her eyes grew big with tears,
“Thou wouldst scarcely—understand it—mother dear—I boxed his ears,”

University of Virginia Library

THORA.

I.

II.