Little Ib, seven years old and the only child in the house, watched and whittled a stick. He also cut his fingers, but one day he had carved two pieces of wood that looked like little wooden shoes. He said he was giving them to little Christine, the bargeman’s daughter. She was as delicate and lovely as a child of the gentry. If her clothes had been made as well as she was, no one would think she was from the heather thatched cottage on the heath. That’s where her father lived. He was a widower who made his living by hauling wood from the forest down to the Silkeborg eel works and often further up to Randers. He didn’t have anyone to take care of little Christine, who was a year younger than Ib, and so she was almost always with him on the barge and among the heather and lingonberries. When he went all the way to Randers, little Christine stayed at the jeppe-jenses.

Ib and little Christine got along well together, both at play and at mealtimes. They dug and rummaged, they crawled and they wandered around, and one day they dared to go almost to the top of the ridge and deep into the woods by themselves. They found snipe eggs there one day, and that was a great event.

Ib hadn’t been up on the high heath yet, had never gone on the barge between the lakes on the Guden, but now he was going. He had been invited by the bargeman, and the evening before, Ib went home with him.

Early in the morning the two children sat high on the piles of firewood on the barge eating bread and raspberries. The bargeman and his helper poled the barge along with the current, rapidly down the river, through the lakes that always seemed to be closed up with woods and reeds. But there was always a way through, even though the old trees leaned way out, and the oak trees stretched their peeling branches as if they had tucked-up sleeves and wanted to show their lumpy naked arms. Old Alder trees, that the current had torn from the slope, held themselves by their roots on the bottom, and looked like small wooded islands. Water lilies rocked on the water. It was a lovely ride, and then they came to the eel works, where the water roared through the sluices. That was really something for Ib and Christine to watch!

At that time there was neither a factory nor a town there, just the old breeding farm, and there weren’t many people. The water rushing through the sluices, and the cry of the wild ducks—those were the most constant sounds at that time. After the wood was unloaded, Christine’s father bought himself a big bundle of eels and a little slaughtered pig, which were placed in a basket in the stern of the barge. They sailed against the current on the way home, but the wind was with them, and when they added a sail, it was just as good as having two horses pulling them.

After they reached the point in the woods where the helper only had a short distance to walk home, he and Christine’s father went ashore and told the children to remain there quietly and behave themselves, but they didn’t do that for long. They had to look in the basket where the eels and pig were hidden. Then they had to pick up the pig and hold it, and since they both wanted to hold it, they dropped it, and it fell into the water and drifted away on the current. Oh, what a terrible thing!

Ib jumped on shore and ran a short distance. Then Christine came too. “Take me with you!” she shouted, and soon they were in the bushes. They couldn’t see the barge or the river any longer. They ran a short way further, and then Christine fell down and started crying. Ib helped her up.

“Come with me,” he said. “The house is that way!” But it wasn’t that way at all. They walked and walked, over withered leaves and dry fallen branches that crackled under their feet. Then they heard a loud cry—they stood still and listened. An eagle screamed. It was an awful sound, and they became frightened, but ahead of them in the woods were growing enormous amounts of the most beautiful blueberries. It was much too inviting not to stay. So they stayed and ate. Their mouths and cheeks turned quite blue. Then they heard a cry again.

“We’ll get spanked because of the pig,” said Christine.

“Let’s go home to our house,” said Ib. “It’s here in the woods.” And away they went. They came to a road, but it didn’t lead home. It got dark, and they were afraid. The wonderful silence around them was broken by terrible screams from the big horned owl, or sounds from birds they didn’t recognize. Finally they were both tangled up in a bush. Christine cried and Ib cried, and after they had cried for a while, they laid down in the leaves and fell asleep.

The sun was high in the sky when they awoke. They were freezing, but up on the heights close by, the sun shone down through the trees. They could warm themselves there, and from there Ib thought they could see his parents’ house. But they were far away from it in another part of the forest. They climbed all the way to the top of the heights and stood on a slope by a clear, transparent lake. There was a school of fish there shining in the sunlight. What they saw was so unexpected, and close by was a large bush full of nuts, as many as seven in a bunch. They picked them, cracked them, and ate the fine kernels that were ripening. Then came yet another surprise—a terrifying one! A large old woman stepped out from the bush. Her face was dark brown, and her hair was very black and shiny. The whites of her eyes flashed like a black person’s. She had a bundle on her back and a knotty stick in her hand. She was a gypsy. The children didn’t understand what she said right away. She took three big nuts out of her pocket and said that the most beautiful things were hidden in them—they were wishing nuts.

Ib looked at her, and since she was so friendly, he gathered his courage and asked if he could have the nuts. The woman gave them to him and then picked a whole pocket full from those on the bush.

Ib and Christine gazed wide-eyed at the three wishing nuts.

“Is there a coach with horses in this one?” Ib asked.

“There’s a gold carriage with golden horses,” said the woman.

“Give it to me!” said little Christine, and Ib gave it to her. The woman tied the nut up inside Christine’s scarf.

“Is there a beautiful little scarf like the one Christine is wearing in this one?” asked Ib.

“There are ten scarves,” said the woman. “There are fine dresses, stockings, and a hat.”

“I want that one too!” said Christine, and little Ib gave her the second nut too. The third nut was a little black one.

“You can keep that one,” said Christine. “It’s pretty too.”

“What’s in that one?” asked Ib.

“The very best thing for you,” said the woman.

Ib held the nut tightly. The woman promised to set them on the right path home, and so they walked, but they went in exactly the opposite direction than they should have gone, but you can’t accuse her of wanting to steal children because of that.

In the pathless forest they met Chrœn, a forest ranger. He knew Ib and led the children home. Everyone was very worried about them, and they were forgiven, although they both deserved a good spanking, first because they let the pig fall into the water, and then because they ran away.

Christine came home to the heath, and Ib remained in the little house in the woods. The first thing he did that night was to take out the nut that hid the very best. He laid it between the door and the door jam and shut the door until the nut cracked, but there was no kernel to be seen. It was filled with something like snuff or humus. It was worm-eaten, as it’s called.

“Well, I suppose I could have guessed that,” thought Ib. “How would there be room inside that little nut for the very best thing? Christine won’t get fine clothes or a gold carriage from her nuts either.”

And winter came and then the New Year.

Several years went by. It was time for Ib to be confirmed, and he lived far from the minister. At that time the bargeman came one day and told Ib’s parents that little Christine was now going out to earn her living. It was very fortunate for her that she had come into such good hands. She was going to work for the rich innkeeper further west in Herning. She was going to help the mistress there, and if she did well and was confirmed there, they would keep her on.

Then Ib and Christine said good bye to each other. People called them sweethearts, and she showed him at their parting that she still had the two nuts he had given her when they were lost in the woods, and she told him that in her chest she kept the little wooden shoes he had carved for her as a boy. And so they parted.

Ib was confirmed, but he lived at home with his mother because he was a good clog maker, and he took good care of the little plot of land in the summer. His mother had no one else to help because Ib’s father had died.

Only rarely did they hear anything about Christine from a postal carrier or an itinerant eel-trader. She was doing well at the rich innkeeper’s, and when she was confirmed, she wrote her father a letter with greetings for Ib and his mother. She wrote that she had gotten six new shifts and a lovely dress from the master and mistress. The news was certainly good.

The next spring, on a beautiful day, there was somebody at Ib and his mother’s door. It was the bargeman with Christine. She had come for a visit for the day. She had been given the opportunity to catch a ride to Tem and back and took advantage of it. She was beautiful, like a real lady, and was wearing fine clothes that were well sewn and suited her nicely. There she stood in all her glory, and Ib was in his old, everyday clothes. He couldn’t think of anything to say, but he took her hand and held it tightly. He was intensely happy, but couldn’t get his tongue to work. Little Christine didn’t have that problem. She could talk and had much to say, and she kissed Ib right on the lips.

“Don’t you know me any more?” she asked, but even when they were alone and he was still holding her hand, all he could say was, “You’ve become a fine lady! And I look so straggly! But oh, how I have thought about you, Christine! And about old times!”

And they walked arm in arm up the ridge and looked out over the Guden river to the heath with the wide slopes of heather, and Ib didn’t say anything. But when they separated, it was clear to him that Christine had to become his wife. They had been called sweethearts from their childhood. He thought of them as an engaged couple, even though neither of them had said it.

They only had a few hours together before she would go back to Tem where early the next morning she would catch a coach back west. Her father and Ib followed her to Tem. There was clear moonlight, and when they got there, Ib was still holding her hand. He couldn’t let go of it, and his eyes were so clear. He spoke very little, but his heart was in every word. “If you haven’t become too used to finery,” he said, “and if you could put up with living in Mother’s house with me as your husband, then you and I will get married one day—but we can wait a while.”

“Let’s wait and see, Ib,” she said. He squeezed her hand and kissed her lips. “I trust you, Ib,” said Christine, “and I think I love you. But let me sleep on it.”

And then they parted. Ib told the bargeman that he and Christine were as good as engaged, and the bargeman said that he had always pictured that, and he went home with Ib and spent the night there, but nothing more was said about the engagement.

A year passed. Two letters had been exchanged between Ib and Christine. “Faithful unto death” was written by the signature. One day the bargeman came to Ib with greetings from Christine. It took him a while to finish what he had to say, but it was that things were going well for Christine, more than that. She was a beautiful girl, respected and well regarded. The innkeeper’s son had been home for a visit. He was employed at an office in some big firm in Copenhagen. He was very fond of Christine, and she also found him to her liking. His parents weren’t unwilling, but it weighed on Christine’s heart that Ib was still in love with her. So she had decided to cast aside her chance at good fortune, said the bargeman.

Ib didn’t say a word at first, but he turned as white as a sheet. Then he shook his head slightly and said, “Christine mustn’t cast her good fortune away!”

“Write her a few words,” said the bargeman.

Ib did write, but he couldn’t quite put the words together the way he wanted, and he crossed things out and ripped things up—but in the morning there was a letter for little Christine, and here it is:

So the letter was sent, and Christine received it.

At Martinmas in November the banns were read in the church on the heath and also in Copenhagen, where the bridegroom was working. Christine traveled there with her mistress since the bridegroom couldn’t travel as far as Jutland on account of his many business affairs. Christine had arranged to meet her father in the town of Funder since the road went through there, and it was the closest meeting place. The two said good bye to each other there. A few words were said about it, but Ib didn’t say anything. He had become so pensive, said his old mother. He was pensive indeed, and therefore he started thinking about the three nuts that he had gotten from the gypsy woman as a child. He had given two of them to Christine. They were wishing nuts, and there had been a gold carriage with horses in one of them and the most beautiful clothes in the other. It turned out to be true! She would have all that splendor now in Copenhagen. Her wishes were fulfilled. But for Ib there was only black soil in the nut. The very best for him, the gypsy had said. Well, that also would come true. The black humus was the best for him. He understood clearly now what the woman had meant: the black earth, shelter in the grave, was the very best for him.

Years passed—not many, but long ones for Ib. The old innkeepers died, one shortly after the other. All the wealth, many thousands of dollars, passed to the son. Well, now Christine would have enough gold carriages and fine clothes.

For two long years there was no letter from Christine. When her father did finally get one, it was not about happiness and affluence. Poor Christine! Neither she nor her husband had known how to handle the money. Easy come, easy go. There was no blessing from it because they didn’t see the blessing themselves.

The heather bloomed, and the heather dried. The snow had drifted over the heath for many winters, over the lee of the ridge where Ib lived. The spring sun was shining when Ib set his plow in the ground. It hit what he thought was a flint-stone. It came up from the ground like a big black shaving, and when Ib picked it up, he saw that it was metal, and it was shiny where the plow had cut into it. It was a big, heavy bracelet of gold from prehistoric times. A burial mound had been leveled here, and Ib had discovered its precious treasure. He showed it to the pastor who told him how magnificent it was. Then Ib took it to the sheriff who reported it to Copenhagen and advised Ib to deliver the precious find himself.

“You have found the best thing you could possibly find in the earth!” said the sheriff.

“The best!” thought Ib. “The very best for me—and in the ground! So then the gypsy woman was right about me too, since this was the best!”

Ib took the boat from Aarhus to Copenhagen. It was like a trip across the ocean for him, given that he had only sailed on the Guden. Once he arrived in Copenhagen, Ib was paid the value of the gold he found. It was a large sum: six hundred dollars. And Ib from the woods by the heath walked through the winding streets of great Copenhagen.

The evening before he was to take the ship back to Aarhus, he got lost in the streets and went in an entirely wrong direction than he wanted to go. He crossed the Knippels bridge and ended up in Christian’s Harbor instead of down by the rampart at Westport. He was heading westward as he should, but not where he should have gone. There was not a soul on the street. Then a little girl came out from a humble house. Ib asked her about the street he was looking for. She started, looked up at him, and was crying. Now he asked her what was wrong. She said something that he didn’t understand, and as they were both under a streetlight, and the light shone right into her face, a funny feeling came over him. She looked just like little Christine as he remembered her from their childhood.

He went with the little girl into the humble house, up the narrow worn stairs, high up to a tiny slanting room right under the roof. The air was heavy and stuffy, and there was no light. Over in the corner someone sighed and breathed wheezily. Ib lit a match. The child’s mother was lying on the shabby bed.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” asked Ib. “The little one brought me up, but I’m a stranger in town myself. Is there a neighbor or someone I can summon?” He lifted her head.

It was Christine from the heath.

For years her name hadn’t been mentioned at home in Jutland. It would have disturbed Ib’s quiet thoughts. And what was rumored, and what was true, wasn’t good either. All the money that her husband had inherited from his parents had made him arrogant and unbalanced. He had quit his job and traveled abroad for six months, come back and gone into debt, but still lived opulently. More and more the carriage tilted, and finally it tipped over. His many cheerful friends who had partied at his table said that he deserved what he got, because he had lived like a madman! His corpse was found one morning in the canal in the castle garden.

Christine was dying. Her youngest little child, only a few weeks old, conceived in prosperity but born in squalor, was already in its grave, and now Christine was deadly ill and forsaken in this wretched little room. She might have tolerated the wretchedness in her young years on the heath, but now used to better, she felt the misery of it. It was her elder little child, also named Christine, who suffered want and hunger with her, who had brought Ib up there.

“I’m afraid I’ll die and leave my poor child!” she sighed. “What in the world will become of her!” She couldn’t say more.

Ib lit another match and found a candle stump to lighten the miserable little chamber.

Then Ib looked at the little girl and thought about Christine when she was young. For her sake he would be good to this child, whom he didn’t know. The dying woman looked at him, and her eyes grew larger and larger. Did she recognize him? He didn’t know. He didn’t hear her utter a word.

It was in the woods by the Guden, close to the heath. The air was grey, and the heather out of bloom. The storms from the west drove the yellow leaves from the woods into the river and over the heath where the sod-house stood—Strangers lived there now. Under the lee of the ridge behind high trees stood the little house, white-washed and painted. Inside in the living room a peat fire was burning in the stove. There was sunshine in the room; it shone from two childish eyes. The spring trills of the lark rolled from the red, laughing mouth. There was life and cheerfulness because little Christine was there. She sat on Ib’s knee. Ib was father and mother to her since her parents were gone, gone like a dream for the child and the grown-up. Ib sat in his neat and pleasant little house, a well-to-do man. The little girl’s mother lay in the pauper’s cemetery in Copenhagen.

They said that Ib had provided for a rainy day—gold from mold, they said, and of course, he also had little Christine.

1. Forested area in central Jutland (the peninsular continental portion of Denmark); between 1850 and 1880 nearly 200 barges were in service on the Guden River between Randers and Silkeborg.