No birds here, no creatures hopping
about, but if I turn up a stone, I may find some insect under it.
"Wonder what these tiny things live on?" I say.
"What tiny things?" says Grindhusen. "Those? That's only ants and things."
"It's a sort of beetle," I tell him. "Put one on the grass and roll a
stone on top of it, and it'll live."
Grindhusen answers: "Ay, maybe so," but thinking never a word of what I've
said, and I think the rest to myself; but put an ant there under the stone
as well, and very soon there'll be no beetle left.
And the rush of the forest and river goes on: 'tis one eternity that
speaks with another, and agrees. But in the storms and in thunder they are
at war.
"Ay, so it is," says Grindhusen at last. "Two years come next fourteenth
of August since the last letter came. There was a smart photograph in,
from Olea, it was, that lives in Dakota, as they call it. A mighty fine
photograph it was, but I never got it sold. Eyah, but we'll manage
somehow, please the Lord," says Grindhusen, with a yawn.
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