WITH CARL OF THE HILL 5 



you are aware of an expression that is harder to define. 

 It is wistful, it is concentrated, it is a touch more 

 spiritual than the look of every day — the look as of 

 one who sees again an object that holds all his heart, 

 passed now beyond the range of voices or response, 

 beyond the aegis of his tenderness and care. So 

 guessing you would not be wrong. But wait. 



One is not prepared to find fine feelings in a squatter 

 in a forest waste? No ? Well, at any rate there is Carl of 

 the Hill — Karl-i-berg, as the people call him — who will 

 be our host and our companion for the next few days. 



It is already sunset, and there is much to be done 

 before bedtime. The two yoke of steers who have 

 been loose in the little meadow since they finished 

 driving oats must be housed for the night. The 

 black sheep must be brought from the forest into the 

 little compound. The horses have to be rubbed and 

 littered down, the drying elk-skins stretched and 

 turned, and what with one thing and another the 

 evening is well on before, supper over, we are talking 

 in front of the big pine fire, the wife busy with house- 

 hold offices, the small boys in the background swinging 

 bare legs over the sides of their little wooden cribs and 

 listening heart and eyes, and the baby fast asleep. 

 Carl has heard of the moose, though he has, of course, /*^r 



