THE AMERICAN-SCANDIN AVIAN REVIEW 
6 13 
and ice cream. I shall stand on the front porch and shake hands with 
everybody. Of course, I shall be loaded down with countless messages 
for everybody’s relatives in Sweden from Malmo to Haparanda. That 
is to be expected, naturally. My picture will be in the paper. I may 
even be briefly mentioned in the Minneapolis Sunday papers as being 
one of the tourists who are leaving for Europe this spring.” 
He walked down the road singing at the top of his voice, 
“So weave we the broadcloth 
So strick we together , 
Lift the heddle , 
Drop the heddle 
And let the shuttle fly through!” 
When he came to the mail-box he halted, for the little red flag 
was up. 
“H-mn,” he reflected as he took out the contents, “I suppose it 
would be of no use to order my mail forwarded. I shall be gailyvanting 
up and down the whole Scandinavian peninsula with mother. It is 
going to be a hard job to locate Herr Karl-August Akerbrand of 
America when he gets going.” 
He shuffled through the stack of tractor catalogues, agricultural 
journals, and Swedish-American newspapers, holding them out on 
a level with his thigh and peering at them far-sightedly. 
“Yes-siree, when a son comes home to his mother, and when he is 
young in soul—” 
He stopped. There, between the folds of a newspaper was a 
square, black-bordered envelope. It had some Swedish postmarks on 
the corner. Puzzled, he opened it. The handwriting was strange and 
he wondered from whom it could be. He glanced at the end first. 
“The Lord God will upbear you under this overwhelming sorrow. 
Zacharias Malmquist, pastor.” Tremblingly he turned back to the 
beginning. 
Karl-August ploughed as long as there was light that day. He was 
very tired, but he allowed himself no rest. 
■% • _ ' 
“Here you shall toil and slave to the end of your days, for you are 
an old man, Karl-August, old all the way through.” 
