The Legend of the White Reindeer 
a whirlwind over the shoulder of Suletind, over 
the knees of Torholmenbree—the Giants that 
sit at the gateway. Faster than man or beast 
could follow, up—up—up—and on; and no 
one saw them go, but a Raven that swooped 
behind, and flew as Raven never flew, and the 
Troll, the same old Troll that sang by the 
Vand-dam, and now danced and sang between 
the antlers: 
Good luck, good luck for Norway 
With the White Storbuk comes riding. 
Over Tvindehoug they faded like flying scud 
on the moorlands, on to the gloomy distance, 
away toward Jétunheim, the home of the Evil 
Spirits, the Land of the Lasting Snow. Their 
every sign and trail was wiped away by the 
drifting storm, and the end of them no man 
knows. 
The Norse folk awoke as from a horrid 
nightmare. Their national ruin was averted; 
there were no deaths, for there were no proofs; 
and the talebearer’s strife was ended. 
The one earthly sign remaining from that 
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